Thus the meek fage my rash resolve repreft,
Whilst tears of pity bath'd his hoary breast.
Oh! had I liften'd to his wife alarms,
Then had I died at home in Friendship's arms.
Twelve tedious weeks we plough'd the wintry
And hop'd the port, but hop'd alas in vain,
Till left of heaven, and prefs'd for daily bread,
Each gaz'd at each, and hung the fickly head.
Two little fons, my hope, my humble pride,
Too weak to combat, languish'd, wail'd, and died.
Stretch'd on the deck the breathless cherbus lay,
As buds put forth in April's ftormy day.
Not EMMA's felf remain'd my woes to cheer,
Borne with her babes upon a watery bier.
Five days the struggled with the fever's fire,
The fixth fad morn beheld my faint expire.
These trembling lips her lips convulfive preft,
These trembling hands sustain'd her sinking breast ;
These trembling hands difcharg'd each mournful
Sooth'd her last pang, and feal'd her dying fight.
To the fame deep their dear remains were given,
Their mingled spirits wing'd their flight to heaven.
One only daughter, in life's vernal pride,
Surviv'd the wreck that whelm'd my all befide.
Snatch'd from the peace of death, and loathing day,
On bleak Henlopen's coast the mourner lay.
These aged arms her languid body bore
Through the rude breakers to that ruder fhore.
Mercy, fweet heaven! and did the pitying storm
Spare but for deeper ills that angel form!
Bleft had we funk unheeded in the wave,
́And mine and Lucy's been one common grave,
But I am loft, a worn-out, ruin'd man,
And fiends complete what tyranny began.
Much had I heard, from men unus'd to feign,
Of this New World, and Freedom's gentle reign.
'Twas fam'd that here, by no proud mafter fpurn'd,
The poor man ate fecure the bread he earn'd;
That verdant vales were fed by brighter streams
Than my own Medway, or the filver Thames;
Fields without bounds fpontaneous fruitage bore,
And peace and virtue bless'd the favour'd shore.
Such were the hopes which once beguil'd my care,
Hopes form'd in dreams, and baseless as the air.
Is this, O dire reverse, is this the land, WhereNature fway'd,and peaceful Worthies plann'd! Where injur'd Freedom, through the world impell'd, Her hallow'd feat, her last asylum held!
Ye glittering towns that crown th' Atlantic deep,
Witness the change, and as ye witness weep.
Mourn all ye streams, and all ye fields deplore
Your flaughter'd fons, your verdure stain'd with gore.
Time was, blest time, to weeping thousands dear,
When all that poets picture flourish'd here.
Then War was not, Religion fmil'd and spread,
Arts, Manners, Learning rear'd their polish'd head;
Commerce, her fails to every breeze unfurl'd,
Pour'd on their coafts the treasures of the world.
Paft are thofe halcyon days. The very land
Droops a weak mourner, wither'd and unmann'd.
Brothers against brothers rife in vengeful strife,
The parent's weapon drinks the children's life;
Sons, leagued with foes, unfheath their impious
fword,
And gore the nurturing breaft they late ador'd.
How vain my fearch to find some lowly bower, Far from thofe fcenes of death, this rage for power; Some quiet fpot, conceal'd from every eye, In which to paufe from woe, and calmly die." No fuch retreat these boundless shades embrace, But man with beat divides the bloody chace. What tho' fome cottage rife amid the gloom, In vain its pastures fpring, its orchards bloom; Far, far away the wretched owners roam, Exiles like me, the world their only home.
Here, as I trace my melancholy way, The prowling INDIAN fnuffs his wonted prey. Ha-should I meet him in his dusky roundLate in these woods I heard his murderous foundStill the deep war-whoop vibrates on mine ear, And still I hear his tread, or seem to hear. Hark, the leaves ruftle! what a shriek was there! 'Tis he! 'tis he! his triumphs rend the air. Hold, coward heart, I'll answer to the yell, And chace the murderer to his gory cell. Savage!-but oh! I rave-o'er yonder wild, E'en at this hour he drives my only child; She, the dear fource and foother of my pain, My tender daughter, drags the captive chain.
Ah my poor Luey! in whofe face, whose breast,
My long-loft EMMA liv'd again confest,
Thus robb'd of thee, and every comfort fled,
Soon fhall the turf infold this wearied head;
Soon fhall my spirit reach that peaceful fhore,
Where bleeding friends unite, to part no more.
Then fhall I ceafe to rue the fatal morn
When first from AUBURN's vale I roam'd forlorn
He fpoke-and frantic with the fad review, Prone on the shore his tottering limbs he threw. Life's crimson ftrings were burfting round his heart, And his torn foul was throbbing to depart;
No pitying friend, no meek-ey'd stranger near
To tend his throes, or calm them with a tear.
Angels of grace, your golden pinions spread,
Temper the winds, and fhield his houfelefs head,
Let no rude founds difturb life's awful close,
And guard his relicks from inhuman foes.
O hafte, and waft him to those radiant plains,
Where fiends torment no more, and love eternal reigns.
ON THROWING BY AN OLD BLACK COAT.
OLD friend, farewel, with whom full many a day,
In varied mirth and grief, hath roll'd away.
No more thy form retains its fable dye,
But, like grey beauty, palls upon the eye:
Yet fhall the grateful mufe her offering pay,
Torn tho' thou art, and haft'ning to decay.
'Tis hers the old coat's fnecring foes to face,
Recall its worth, and dignify disgrace.
Health to the man, unmov'd by vulgar ends,
Who, rais'd himself, forgets not antient friends.
Such PAUL wer't thou, who, midst a venal age,
Plac'd high thy cloke in truth's immortal page;
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