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Are light in sport. Her wandering eye
Has rais’d the tear, and forc'd the sigh, .
And redder lips were never seen,
With rows of speckless pearls between.
When Amy reach'd her eighteenth year,
She, sickly, droop'd her head:
Her mother ask'd, " What ails my dear? :
o Why is her colour fled ?”
She only answer'd, “ I don't know;
“ You love poor Amy; so does Joe!”
And this the simple girl would say .
A hundred times in every day.
Now often she refus'd her food,
And oft complain’d of pain;
Her mother, in a sorrowing mood,
Her questions urg'd again :
The idiot smild, the idiot cry'd,
And press'd her hand upon her side;
While ever the same words would flow,
“ You love poor Amy; so does Joe !"
Joe was a neighbouring farmer's son,
The rustics call'd him wild ;
In folly's path he oft would run;
A disobedient child :
And Martin's wife had been his nurse,
When grown a man, his father's curse
She bade him shun, if e'er by Heaven
He hop'd to have his sins forgiven.
Joe on a summer's blushing eve
Would sit at Hannah's door,
And sometimes wish'd her to believe
His vices all were o'er;
But now he seldom thither came,
Though Amy hourly breath'd his name,
And talk'd in such an idle strain,
As almost craz'd her mother's brain.
Suspicion, horror, doubt, and dread,
By turns possess'd her mind;
The wandering spirits of the dead
As much repose could find: VOL. II.
She watch'd her girl, with burning tears,
And in her breast her monstrous fears
Conceal'd: but soon, in accents wild,
She shriek’d—“My child! oh, God! my child!"
Quick flew the clouds, the moon was pale,
Sharp blew the hurrying wind;
When homeward, down his native vale,
With thoughts to vice inclin'd, -
He went. But ere he reach'd the farm,
A hand, convulsive, grasp'd his arm;
He lookid-'twas Hannah, haggard, wild :
Again she shriek’d, “Oh, God! my child!"
Appalld and trembling, faint at heart,
With superstition cold;
He now forgot his boasted art,
Nor try'd to break her hold;
But, at the fearful name of God,
The rebel sank upon the sod,
While conscience stripp'd the adder's nest,
And plung’d the reptiles in his breast.
“ Hast thou a heart that e'er could feel?
Hast thou no dread of Heaven?
Enough! Thy looks thy crimes reveal ;
Thou ne'er canst be forgiven !
A fouler act was never done;
And when thy wicked race is run,
When life but glimmers in thine eye,
How great must be thy fear to die .
“ She was my sole, my only joy;
Oh, my poor idiot child!
How couldst thou, then, my peace destroy,
And turn my senses wild?
How couldst thou, monster, dare to think
The righteous eye of God would wink
Upon the crime that stains thy name,
And covers thee with endless shame?
" I thought not that a wretch so vile
E’er liv'd beneath the skies;
No friend shall on thee dare to smile,
But vengeance soon will rise :
Oh, thou wilt feel a mighty rod,
Despis’d by man, abhorr'd by God;
Condemn’d by all, by none excus'd,
And every prayer by Heaven refus'd !"
“Oh, mercy!” then the sinner cried,
While torture rent his breast;
Poor Hannah fainted by his side,
And found a moment's rest.
He rose, and hurried to depart,
But terror press'd his shrinking heart,
For idiot Amy then was there,
With half-clad limbs, and streaming hair.
He groan'd, he fled in wild affright,
His brain was whirling round;
He saw the river clear and bright,
Where Martin had been drown'd.
And there the lost man seemed to rise,
With anger in his horrid eyes,
While a loud awful curse he heav'd;
Or so the frantic wretch believ'd.
Who is that man with locks so grey,
Bent with a weight of years,
Who treads this patb each sabbath-day,
And sheds a flood of tears? .
Oh, father of a wayward son,
Thy rące of life is nearly done ;
Not long the sorrowing stream shall flow
Upon the grave of guilty Joe.
And who is she, whose silent grief
Must ever pity claim?
Alas! her cares are past relief,
And Hannah is her name.
Not only on a Sabbath-day
She towards the church-yard bends her way,
But duly every morn and eve
O’er yonder turf she's seen to grieve.
The bones of Amy there repose,
There Amy's infant lies;
Ah, woman, could I cure the woes
That fret thine aged eyes!
But nought thy mangled heart can heal;
Ye proud ones, for the humble feel;
Sure it would make a savage mild,
To hear her say,"my idiot child !"
BY MARIANNE MEGGET *.
GENIUS of verse! my prayer approve,
O lead me to the scenes I love;
Where many a stream meandering flows,
And many a weed, and many a rose
Luxuriant blooms. Where gloomy woods,
And verdant lawns, and dashing floods,
And silent glens where echo sleeps,
And cloud-topt mountains' frightful steeps,
Combine to form one beauteous whole,
And fill with ecstasy the soul.
Genius of verse ! if thou my prayer approve,
O lead me to these scenes, for 'tis such scenes I love
Bear me on rapid wings on high,
And let me view the starry sky;
Let me behold the queen of night,
- And mark the clouds' majestic flight,
Watch the first dawning of the morn,
And sip the dew that gems the thorn ;
Till nature, bursting from the sober grey,
Blazes around, and pours a flood of day.
Then lead me to the shady bower,
Guarded by the sombre power,
Sweet solitude; where oft at night
Angels rob’d in purest white,
As poets tell, will often deign
To wander and converse with men; * This and some other pieces which will appear in the future numbers of the Enquirer, under this signature, were written by a young lady at the early age of seventeen. They are presented to the public in the unfinished state which they were left in by their amiable authoress.
O take me to thy bless'd abode,
And let my soul converse with God. Benignant power! do thou my prayer approve, And let me lonely wander through the scenes I love.
IMITATION OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY.
TO MIE VERIE DERE SISTERRE JAYNE, ON HER BIRTHE DAYE
HAPPENYNG THE THIRTIE FYRSTE OF JANUARYE. LOKING abrode upon the darke browne mede
I saw no flouretts sweete to decke thie haire, And musing sadly to myselfe I saide,
Thys daie wyll passe withouten tribute faire ; Botte no! on lyttel songe nie voyce schall dare,
Poore paie, ah me! for rosie crowne I ween,
And yett bie thatte affectionne wyll be seene, Bette thann bie kynge-coppes, or a wreathe moe rare;
Albeytte they be woven curiouslie,
The swotest floures wylle fade upon the grene,
Botte love, trew love, canne never never die.
Gyff that the warmest wysh that e'er
Soughte heavenlie bower thro' fieldes of aire, ·
Can bringe thee moe thann Cresus' wealthe,
I wis the blush of roddy healthe:
Gyff thatt the ferveyn’st balliest sighe
Seyucte breathed aye yn watchet skie;
Canne win fayre Peace wyth gentil swaie,
To crowne for thee eche passante daie :
Gyff the bryghte force of dewie teare
Sik as shulde drop froe eyne of fiere
For selyness of sisterre deare,
Canne blount the thorne of foul annoye,
And gilde Lyfe's littel hour with Joye:
Thatte wysh, thatte sighe, thatte teare ys myne,
And Healthè, Peace, Joye, dere Jayne, be thyne.