She faid her father was at home,
And he lay fick a-bed;
And therefore was it fhe was fent,
Abroad to beg for bread.
We faw a woman fitting down
Upon a ftone, to reft;
She had a baby at her back,
And another at her breast;
I ask'd her why the loiter'd there,
When the wind it was fo chill;
She turn'd her head, and bade the child,
That fcream'd behind, be still.
She told us that her husband ferv'd,
A foldier far away;
And therefore to her parish, the
Was begging back her way.
We met a girl, her dress was loose,
And funken was her eye;
Who, with the wanton's hollow voice,
Addrefs'd the paffers by;
I afk'd her what there was in guilt,
That could her heart allure;
To fhame, difeafe, and late remorse?
She anfwer'd fhe was poor.
I turn'd me to the RICH MAN then,
For filently stood he;
You afk'd me why the POOR complain?
And these have answer'd thee *.
Whoever reads this beautiful little piece cannot, we hope, eafily forget the poor at this inclement feafon of the vear.-Editor.
On the much lamented Death of MR. GEORGE WICHE, who, in the Thirty-first Year of his Age, was cut off by the Yellow Fever, August 23, 1799, at Philadelphia, being on his Way to join a beloved Friend in Kentucky.
O hero of the ocean, field, or gown,
Our worthy friend fought not the
And noify fame, which, at the price of blood,
Or confcience, fome acquire. He, throughout
His active courfe in focial manner
Taught-justice, mercy, and humility;
But found not in the multitude his kind.
He journey'd-thirfting for his distant friend,
His kindred foul; when lo! on speedy wing
Brought down, fome FRIEND CELESTIAL caught him!
ADDRESSED TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ. BY ANTI
RAY, PETER PINDAR, hold your roar,
Your scandal hurts not HANNAH MORE;
Nor yet the prelate, whom you'd drub,
With hand profane and great hubbub.
Secundum artem, make a pill,
And, as of old, employ your skill;
Think that a puke, or, naufeous stuff,
May bring you money quite enough;
But do not laugh and play the fool,
For fimpletons to take your rule;
Catch and turn a fordid penny,
At the cost of tagtails funny;
Will your fcoff elude all shame,
And with fuccefs the best defame?
The mufes blush, when you would say,
That the emits no lucid ray;
That genius, through fome deviation,
Owns her not as a relation:
Now PETER, how shall folk be mute?
Behold your muse a prostitute.
I know you think her wond'rous fine,
Altho' a leering concubine;
Explore the bottom of her hill,
What once she was that he is ftill-
An infidel, in deep disguise,
And from her lips come winged lies.
Oh! the charming, fprightly PETER,
You are reckon'd fafe in fatyr;
But let me warn you of her woe,
When you a fair one would undo;
"Drags the vile whifp'rer from his dark abode,
"'Till all the dæmon ftarts up from the toad.”
FAREWELL TO SUMMER.
AREWELL to fummer's fruitful reign,
Its pleasing beautics are all fled;
Zephyrs no more sport o'er the plain,
Nor wanton on the turfy bed.
Farewell, ye flowers, whofe varied bloom
Did once delight the roving eye;
Whose fragrance did the air perfume,
Ye, now unheeded, wither'd lie.
Farewell, ye fields, where golden grain
Repaid the sturdy ploughman's care;
Farewell, ye groves, where each fond swain,
With pleasure leads the blooming fair.
In verdure ye no more appear,
With plenty ye no longer wave;
No more, ye groves, your foilage bear,
Nor nature's fmiling liv'ry have.
Ye fongfters of the wood, adieu,
No more your cheerful notes we hear,
Farewell the walk, the pleafing view,
Your beauties now no more appear;
But whistling winds drive o'er the heath,
And scatter devastation rude,
And Boreas, with his freezing breath,
Afferts his pow'r on ev'ry side.
THE PHILOSOPHER ADDRESSING THE SUN IN SEARCH OF KNOWLEDGE.
HOU eye, that distant worlds furvey,
Oh tell us what thy beams display;
Yea, all the fecrets thou haft found
In globes that thee encircle round?
Of what compos'd, and how sustain❜d,
Or natives what, and how they're fram'd;
Or how they live, on what exift,
In what they dwell, and how they reft?
Their paffions what, and fex declare,
And what their great achievements are ?
Their bleffings what, in great or small,
Confin'd to fome, or free for all?
Say what their laws, and how they're made,
If they are broke, or strict obey'd;
And if their natives all are free,
From fin, pain, death, and mifery!
Then our requests shall have an end,
And never more to thee afcend!
ALAS, vain man! waft thou to know the whole
That I difcern in globes that round me roll,
It would make thee appear like filthy duft,
Compar'd to worlds fo glorious and auguft;
Whose peaceful climes in sweet harmonious lays,
Confpire to join in concord, love, and praise!
Therefore raise not thyfelf, but humbly fall
Before thy Maker, who is Lord of all;
And afk no more of globes, their natives what
And formed how-to thee it matters not,
Their grand employ, their food and raiment too,
Are not to be reveal'd in time to you;
Their dwellings what, and where, and how they
reft,
Are things too curious for thee to request;
Or what their paffion, fex, or skill to thee,
Or bleffings what, though great or small they be ;
Neither their laws nor great commands were made,
For thee to know, nor be by thee obey'd.
TO A LADY ON HER BIRTH DAY, BY A LOVER.
NSKILL'D in fong, whofe aid fhall I implore,
That I may celebrate, in worthy strains,
This happy day; returning now, with health
To you, on whom my foul hath long been fix'd
In all the fondness of fincereft love?
Thee let me hail, Great Parent of mankind!
Thou everlasting Source of Life and Joy!
O! let thy goodness be my grateful theme,
And teach me how to praife, what thou haft fav'd,
And ftill preferv'ft, a precious bloom of life;
Dearest to me, of all thy earthly gifts!
Unite our hearts in love to thee supreme !
Our sweetest friendship with thy blessing crown!
Give us to make the trueft estimate
Of life on earth! and, as our years revolve,
(Number'd out as thou feeft beft) advance us
Nearer unto thyfelf, in all those graces
Which, here, yield peace, and ripen fouls for heav'n! Maidflone.
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