O'er the black scene shall saintly Innocence

Her light display, and peaceful calms dispense?
On hov'ring wing shall soothing Hope be near;
And sounds celestial bless my closing ear?
Shall Virtue point to opening bliss above?
No, thankless traitor, these I lost for love.
For love and thee I lost them; thee, whose hate
Now scorns my mem'ry, and insults my fate:
Thy crimes, which first, so angry Heav'n ordain'd,
With guilt a breast once pure and spotless stain'd,
Blasted the promise of my opening bloom,
And crush'd these fatal beauties to the tomb,
Pursue me even here, my parting breath.
Embitter, strew with thorns the bed of death,
Blot out the prospect of the realms of day,
And tear the last sad lingering hopes away.
What pitying breast shall lenient aid impart,
To sooth the pangs that tear this breaking heart!
What anxious friend shall watch the bed of death,
Or fondly catch the last expiring breath,
The struggling soul with fond compassion cheer,
Or grace my parting spirit with a tear?
What pious hand compose with tender care
My cold remains, and decent rites prepare?
Alas, of every tie by thee bereft,
For me no home, no friends, no parents left;
On every hand, despair alone I see,

And the throng'd world a wilderness to me.
Curs'd be the hour when, by that tongue betray'd

I left the refuge of the rural shade,

And scorn'd (a victim to thy fatal charms)
The peaceful circle of a parent's arms,
Ah! cheering beams of innocence and truth,
How bright ye dawn'd upon my rising youth,

In the mild lustre of your cloudless ray,
How sweet my early moments pass'd away,
While, as I raptur'd trod the fairy ground,
Hope's brilliant landscape opened all around;
Till, rising like a noxious mist unseen,

Guilt dimm'd your light and darken'd all the scene, Then no fierce passion shook my placid breast, No gnawing care depriv'd my soul of rest, No sorrow then could dim my sparkling eye, Or force the roses of my cheeks to fly; From every balmy breeze, I courted health, While sweet contentment held the place of wealth. Joy crown'd the day, soft slumbers blest the night, For virtue wing'd each moment with delight. Alas, thrice happy! had the pitying skies Conceal'd that form for ever from my eyes; The worm of grief had spar'd my opening bloom, Nor sunk my youth to wither in the tomb. Oh love! when first thy roses wreath'd my head, And each gay hour transported pleasure led, When fancy's magic to my cheated view Drew scenes of bliss and raptures ever new, * Could my fond soul in that ecstatic hour, Blest as I thought beyond misfortune's power, Expect for these the sad reverse to prove Of wounding scorn and unrequited love? Ah no! deluded wretch, I thought too sure My joys unfading, and my bliss secure. Ev'n now, in all their former warmth confest The long-lost visions fill my glowing breast; With every charm that form again appears, Thy soft vows vibrate on my ravish'd ears; Again thy swimming eyes thy passion tell, Again enraptured on thy lips I dwell;

Again, Ah fleeting rapture! short-liv'd joy!
Far other scenes my wretched soul employ:
Rous'd from my dream of bliss, I keener know
The sad reality of waking woe.

Could this dread hour, by thy false eyes survey'd,
Present the havoc thy dark guilt has made,
Remorse and shame might wring that stony heart,
And save some other victim from thy art.

Behold my parents, how with gestures wild,
Frantic with grief, they mourn their ruin'd child;
See crush'd with sorrow, prostrate on the earth,
The venerable forms that gave me birth?
See stung by rankling woe too keen to bear,
They rend their silver locks in fierce despair;
Hark! while the drops of agony they shed,
They weary heaven with curses on thy head;
Hark, those long groans, those deep convulsive sighs,
Groans from a bursting heart, a parent dies.
Behold me, helpless, wretched, and forlorn,
The mark of infamy, the sport of scorn.
See how, by misery's with'ring grasp o'ercome,
My fading beauties hasten to the tomb;
How lost to all, no friendly aid to save,
I sink unpitied to an early grave.
Here, while deserted and unwept I die,
Here, cruel spoiler, glut thy savage eye;
Go, triumph o'er a heart by love betray'd,
And crush to dust a father's reverend head:
Go, while thy crime unpunished heaven allows,
Laugh truth to scorn, and mock thy broken vows;
And, while my breast remorse and anguish tear,
To that false bosom strain some happier fair,
Who, while her flushing cheek with rapture glows,
Enjoys my tortures and insults my woes;

But yet exult not, traitor! if the smile
Of fortune still is thine, if, for a while,
The stern unerring eye of justice sleep,
'Tis but the measure of thy crimes to heap.
Ev'n while my rival with triumphant charms
Beholds thee circled in her glowing arms,
O'er all thy soul while boundless pleasure reigns,
Thy heart beats quick, and rapture thrills thy veins,
Stern conscience may uprear her snaky crest,
And dead'ning terrors chill thy perjured breast;
Ev'n then, with horrors arm'd, remorse may stand
To dash the cup of transport from thy hand.
Insulted heaven! why sleeps the blasting storm,
Why lingers justice on that impious form!
O, great Avenger! pour thy wrath divine,
And mix his lot with bitterness like mine:
At last awak'd to rage, O haste to shed
Thy choicest, fiercest vengeance on his head;
In his own fate my suff'rings let him see,
And learn from torture how to feel for me,
Ah! idle rage, in vain my soul I arm

With all her wrongs to break the fatal charm;
While stung by poignant grief beyond controul,
In agony
of woe I pour my soul,

And my wild lips the words of madness show'r,
I feel this rebel bosom own thy pow'r.

Ev'n while the ebbing springs of life decay,
Still lingering passion keeps her wonted sway;
Still, in the arms of death, that once-lov'd name
Thrills every nerve, and wakes the fatal flame;
Shrin'd in my soul, thy image still I see,
And this deluded heart still beats for thee.
O come, ere life's expiring lamp decay,
While yet the hov'ring soul her flight delay;

Ere death's dull hand forbid my closing ear
Once more the music of that voice to hear;
O come, while yet these dying eyes can gaze,
And my arms strain thee in a last embrace;
With lenient accents mitigate my doom,
Cheer the sad prospect of the dreary tomb.
And when sustain'd by thee, content with death,
In those lov'd arms I yield my struggling breath,
And darkness tears thee from my gazing eye,
Let thy dear hands the decent rites supply,
And thou in pity, bending o'er my bier,
Grace my cold relics with a tender tear.

THE SPECULATOR, No. 8, April 20, 1790.