Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the foor.
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,
And sobbing struggies with the rising fits:
In vain, they come, she feels the indating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feebie eries a soul distress'd,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies
With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, not allured by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid,
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.
But who this child of weakness, want, and care?
'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair:
Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes,
Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies:
Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart,
For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart:
“And then his prayers! they would a savage move,
"And win the coldest of the sex to love :'
But ah! too soon his looks success declared,
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd;
The faithless flerer then his vows forgot,
A captious ty ra noisy sot: