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L I N E S,

WRITTEN IN 1794, WHILE SUPERINTENDING SOME

PRISONERS WHO WERE MENDING THE ROADS AT
A VILLAGE NEAR ROUEN IN FRANCE.

How scowls the wind athwart yon rocky ridge,
Where scarce the martlct finds a place to rest,
The wind-worn shrub waves dreary o'er yon ledge,
Beneath whose root the owl has made her neit.
I fhelter row beneath thy low’ring form,
With soaring Fancy, trembling on the wing;
Among the phantoms of the howling storm,
I ftretch my vifion, and exulting fing.
Like

yon scath'd shrub, as desolate and wild,
I bear the shock of dire Misfortune's blaft.
On me in youth how sweetly Nature fimild,
And dazzling sunshine glow'd within my breast :
But now, alas! I'm wretched and forlorr.,
Like yon poor shrub the wind drives to and fro,

secret soul is torn, And life to me is one sad scene of woe.

E. S. J.

Care my With weary

A SONG, WRITTEN IN FRANCE, 1794. 'Twas

was once I went out on a wild windy day,
Led by my fancy, I hummed a tune,
The sky it was lowring and bluftring away,
And rav'd through the naked, naked tree aboon.

The

The fields they were cauld, and cover'd with wiet,
The tewhits play'd wild, wild o'er the lee,
The magpies did chatter, blawn frae their feet,
And loud the ftorm rav'd, but it rav'd not at me;
Where under a hedge I sat and I fang,
With fancy as wild, wild as the day.
My sorrows did tremble, they blufter alang,
Then melted to calm, in calm died away.
The tempeft that rang, it thrill'd through my soul,
My mind it resembld, my passions so rave,
My fortune was like the sharp Neety scoul,
My hopes as forlorn as the wild tumbling wave.
Yet whiles the bright fun gied a glent through the

cloud,
Dispersed the gloom that hung on my mind,
I check'd the gay smile-for, hark! it thuds loud,
All's dreary before, and dreary behind,
The cotter that works in yonder cauld ditch,
He whistles and fings to the wild raving day,
His soul it is calm, nor hopes to be rich,
Nor heeds he the blufter that batters his clay.
O could I with him, with him change my lot,
And whistle like him to the wild raving sky,
I'd shelter in thatch, in a poor clayie hut,
And smile at its comforts, when day clos'd its eye.

E. S. J.

LINES,

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LINES TO G. N. L. ·

WRITTEN WHILE SITTING ON THE SEA SIDE NEAR

HAVRE DE GRACE, THE NIGHT BEFORE ESCAPING

FROM THAT PLACE, 1794.
Toss'd like the weed by the wild ridging wave,

Is my poor soul for thee, love,
Yet fixt as the stone, as the stone to the grave,

My soul is fixt on thee, love.
Tho' fixt as the weed unto the wild stone,

My soul is fixt on thee, love,
Wild passions drive it to and from,

But still it's fixt on thee, love, Ånd is my foul Atill fixt on thee,

As the wild weed to the stone, love, With doubts and fears still tearing me,

Like the wild weed from the stone, love? Yet faithful as the binding weed,

My soul is true to thee, love,
Above the wave it rears its head,

And looks a smile
In vain the wild waves angry toil,

To tear it to the sea, love;
In vain the raging pagions boil,
To tear my soul frora thee, love.,

E. S. J.

me, love.

FINIS

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