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TO A YOUNG ASS.

ITS MOTHER BEING Tret her eld N. p. A r it".

Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race!
I love the languid Patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade 7
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery 1 thy future fate?—
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
“Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes”
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched Mother’s shortened Chain?
And truly, very piteous is her Lot–
Chained to a Log within a narrow spot
Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting Green!
Poor Ass! thy Master should have learnt to shew
Pity—best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives, like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury
How askingly its footsteps hither bend?
It seems to say, “And have I then one Friend ?"
Innocent Foal thou poor despised Forlorn
I hail thee BRoth ER—spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where ToIL shall call the charmer HEALTH his Bride,
And LAUGHTER tickle PLENTY's ribless side
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as Lamb or Kitten gay !
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh Bray of Joy would be,
Than warbled Melodies that sooth to rest
The aching of pale FAsHIon's vacant breast!

DOMESTIC PEACE.

TELL me, on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found?
Halcyon Daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of Sceptered State,
From the Rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale She dwells
Listening to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien,
love, the sire of pleasing fears,
SoRRow smiling through her tears,
And conscious of the past employ
Moxony, bosom-spring of joy.

THE SIGH.

WHEN Youth his faery reign began
Ere Sorrow had proclaimed me man;
While Peace the present hour beguiled,
And all the lovely Prospect smiled;
Then, MARY | 'mid my lightsome glee
I heaved the painless SIGH for thee.
And when, along the waves of woe,
My harassed Heart was doomed to know
The frantic Burst of Outrage keen,
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea
I heaved an anguished SIGH for thee!
But soon Reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly Hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die:
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid SIGH for thee!
And though in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,

I fain would sooth the sense of Care
And lull to sleep the Joys that were !
Thy Image may not banished be—
Still, MARY | still I sigh for thee.

June, 1794.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

ERE Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;

The opening bud to Heaven conveyed
And bade it blossom there.

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