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LINE S,

WRITTEN IN 1794, WHILE SUPERINTENDING SOME PRISONERS WHO WERE MENDING THE ROADS AT

A VILLAGE NEAR ROUEN IN FRANCE.

How fcowls the wind athwart yon rocky ridge,
Where fcarce the martlet finds a place to reft,
The wind-worn fhrub waves dreary o'er yon ledge,
Beneath whofe root the owl has made her nest.

I fhelter now beneath thy low'ring form,
With foaring Fancy, trembling on the wing;
Among the phantoms of the howling ftorm,
I ftretch my vifion, and exulting fing.

Like

yon fcath'd fhrub, as defolate and wild, I bear the fhock of dire Misfortune's blaft. On me in youth how fweetly Nature fil'd, And dazzling funfhine glow'd within my breaft: alas! I'm wretched and forlorn, Like yon poor fhrub the wind drives to and fro, With weary Care my fecret foul is torn,

But now,

And life to me is one fad fcene of woe.

E. S. J.

A SONG, WRITTEN IN FRANCE, 1794.

'Twas once I went out on a wild windy day,
Led by my fancy, I hummed a tune,

The fky 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 ftorm rav'd, but it rav'd not at me;
Where under a hedge I fat and I fang,

With fancy as wild, wild as the day.

My forrows did tremble, they blufter alang,
Then melted to calm, in calm died away.

The tempeft that rang, it thrill'd through my foul,
My mind it resembl'd, my paffions so rave,

My fortune was like the sharp fleety fcoul,

My hopes as forlorn as the wild tumbling wave. Yet whiles the bright fun gied a glent through the cloud,

Difperfed the gloom that hung on my mind,

I check'd the gay fmile-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 foul 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 whiftle like him to the wild raving sky,
I'd fhelter 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 foul for thee, love,

Yet fixt as the ftone, as the ftone to the grave,
My foul is fixt on thee, love,

Tho' fixt as the weed unto the wild ftone,
My foul is fixt on thee, love,

Wild paffions drive it to and from,
But ftill it's fixt on thee, love.

And is my foul ftill fixt on thee,

As the wild weed to the ftone, love,

With doubts and fears fill tearing me,
Like the wild weed from the ftone, love?

Yet faithful as the binding weed,
My foul is true to thee, love,
Above the wave it rears its head,
And looks a fmile me, love.

In vain the wild waves angry toil,
To tear it to the fea, love;

In vain the raging passions boil,
To tear my foul from thee, love.,

E. S. J.

FINIS.

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