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:

"

CONTRAST BETWEEN THE SEAPORT

AND INLAND SCENES

DESCRIBE the Borough"--though our idle tribe
May love description, can we so describe,
That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,
And all that gives distinction to a place?
This cannot be; yet, moved by your request,
A part I paint-let Fancy form the rest.

Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,
Require the pencil; they defy the pen :
Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet,
So well have sung of alley, lane, or street?
Can measured lines these various buildings show,
The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row ?
Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,
And lengthen out my lays from door to door?

Then let thy Fancy aid me-I repair From this tall mansion of our last-year's Mayor, Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach, And these half-buried buildings next the beach; Where hang at open doors the net and cork, While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work; Till comes the hour, when fishing through the tide, The weary husband throws his freight aside;