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L I N ES,

WRITTEN IN 1794, WHILE SUPERINTENDING SOME

PRISONERS WHO WERE MENDING THE ROADS AT
A VILLAGE NEAR ROUEN IN FRANCE.

How scowls the wind athwart yon rocky ridge,
Where scarce the martlct finds a place to rest,
The wind-worn shrub waves dreary o'er yon ledge,
Beneath whose root the owl has made her neit.
I fhelter now beneath thy low’ring form,
With foaring Fancy, trembling on the wing;
Among the phantoms of the howling storm,
I ftretch my vision, and exulting fing.
Like yon scath'd shrub, as desola and wild,
I bear the shock of dire Misfortune's blast.
On me in youth how sweetly Nature finil'd,
And dazzling sunshine glow'd within my breaft:

alas! I'm wretched and forlorr.,
Like yon poor shrub the wind drives to and fro,
With weary

Care
my

secret soul is torn, And life to me is one fad scene of woe.

E. S. J.

But now,

A SONG, WRITTEN IN FRANCE, 1794. "TWAS

was once I went out on a wild windy day,
Led by my fancy, I hummed a tune,
The sky it was lowring and bluftring away,
And rav'd through the naked, naked tree aboon.

The

The fields they were cauld, and cover'd with wiet,
The tewhits play'd wild, wild o'er the lee,
The magpies did chatter, blawn frae their feet,
And loud the storm rav'd, but it ray'd not at me;
Where under a hedge I sat and I sang,
With fancy as wild, wild as the day.
My sorrows did tremble, they blufter alang,
Then melted to calm, in calm died away.
The tempeft that rang, it thrillid through my soul,
My mind it resembl’d, my passions so rave,
My fortune was like the sharp Neety scoul,
My hopes as forlorn as the wild tumbling wave.
Yet while the bright sun gied a glent through the

cloud,
Dispersed the gloom that hung on my mind,
I check'd the gay smile-for, hark! it thuds loud,
All's dreary before, and dreary behind,
The cotter that works in yonder cauld ditch,
He whiftles and fings to the wild raving day,
His soul it is calm, nor hopes to be rich,
Nor heeds he the blufter that batters his clay.
O could I with him, with him change my lot,
And whistle like him to the wild raving sky,
I'd shelter in thatch, in a poor clayie hut,
And smile at its comforts, when day clos'd its eye.

E. S. J.

LINES,

LINES TO G. N. L.

WRITTEN WHILE SITTING ON THE SEA SIDE NEAR

HAVRE DE GRACE, THE NIGHT BEFORE ESCAPING

FROM THAT PLACE, 1794.
Toss'd like the weed by the wild ridging wave,

Is my poor fout for thee, love,
Yet fixt as the stone, as the Atone to the grave,

My soul is fixt on thee, love.
Tho' fixt as the weed unto the wild stone,

My soul is fixt on thee, love,
Wild passions drive it to and from,

But still it's fixt on thee, love, And is my foul Aill fixt on thee,

As the wild weed to the stone, love, With doubts and fears füill tearing me,

Like the wild weed from the stone, love? Yet faithful as the binding weed,

My soul is true to thee, love, Above the wave it rears its head,

And looks a smile love.
In vain the wild waves angry toil,

To tear it to the sea, love,
In vain the raging pallions boil,
To tear my soul frora thee, love.,

E. S. J.

me,

FINIS,

r

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