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THE RUINED ORPHAN.
BY LAURA SOPHIA TEMPLE,
The Wizard of Winter is rouz'd from his sleep,
fowl retires to her desolate hume,
my callous bosom he never can bruise; And I have no soul-valued treasures to lose. 'Tis the morning of Summer that wakes me to pain; 'Tis the soft song of pleasure that maddens my brain; For Summer may come in the pride of her bloom, May give to the woodlands their wonted perfume, And the vallies
of delight, And unmark'd the moments pursue their gay fight; Yet Summer to me shall no image present But the image of bliss that was long ago spent.
may echo with songs
For, often has Nature her vestments renew'd,
my soul plung’d aghast ’mid the darkness of night.
of despair, As tho' the foul Fiend of Infection dwelt there. Yet once there were eyes that would smile upon mine, But the Angel of Death has forbade them to shine ; There were lips that could chace from my bosom her woe, And the purest of kisses were wont to bestow; There were arms to whose shelter I fled when opprest, That were always my home, and my haven of rest: But quickly from Joy's narrow door I was thrust ;-The best and the loveliest now moulders in dust. Yet blest to escape the dark whirlwind's rude swell Would have rent thy proud soul when my innocence fell; Yes;-blest to the earth's darkling womb to return, Ere thy cheek had been taught by my follies to burn; Ere the whispers of Rumour had poison'd thine ear With the tale of my ruin,—the source of my tear; Ere the glare of conviction had taught thee to prove That the foe of thy peace was the hild of thy love
Oh, scenes of my childhood ! I view you once more;
with lover's fond eye on your charms ;
of life, To drown in oblivion its turmoil and strife; Şince no tear of pity for me would be shed; Forgotten by all, I should sleep with the dead; No sorrowing parent would hang o'er my grave, Where the tall bearded thistle should mournfully wave. Yet, No! I will bow to the rigours of fate, For
peace yet awaits me,-nor distant the date. Repentance is mine, and behold, from on high, Faith beckons my Auttering soul to the sky: She tells me to call on the God of my youth, She bids me to trust to his mercy and truth, And whispers, " These words are recorded in Heav'nam “ Poor wand'rer look up, for thy sins are forgiv'n.”
EXETER, FEB. 9, 1806,
BY MR. SHAW.
Ye lofty woods, that proudly sweep
Along the hill, along the plain,
And fields enrich'd with golden grain:
Of hill and vale ye proudly sweep; Nor yet for me your groves embrace
Rich fields and pastures white with sheep. Yet let me praise you, not in vain That your
dark solitudes among I may of fate unkind complain,
And love's reward delay'd too long:
smooth trees the name engrave Of her from whom so far I stray,
To wayward destinies a slave.
These woods and fields, and pastures fall, How long to you
alone her care Shall Fortune lend, deaf to my call ? Still busy for your state and power,
Fair lands, proud mansions to provide; When will she rear my humble bower, When will she give to me my
DESCRIPTION OF ALCINA.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF ARIOSTO.
Her form with richer charms was blest
Beneath, with every charm bespread,