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BY MRS. LÆTITIA PILKINGTON.
While funk in deepest solitude and woe,
My streaming eyes with ceaseless forrow flow,
While anguish wears the sleepless night away,
And fresher grief awaits returning day ; 5
Encompass'd round with ruin, want and shame,
Undone in fortune, blasted in my fame;
Loft to the soft endearing ties of life,
And tender names of daughter, mother, wife
Can no receis from calumny be found ?
And yet can fate inflict a deeper wound ! IO
As one who, in a dreadful tempeft toss'd,
If thrown by chance upon some desert coast,
Calmly a while surveys the fatal shore,
And hopes that fortune can inflict no more ;
Till some fell ferpent makes the wretch his prey, 15
Who 'scaped in vain the dangers of the fea;
So I, who hardly 'scap'd domestic rage,
Born with eternal forrows to engage,
Now feel the pois’nous force of fland'rous tongues,
Who daily wound me with envenom'd wrongs. 20
Shed then a ray divine, all gracious heav'n, Pardon the soul that sues to be forgiv'n. * Born 1712; dyed 17. Her maiden name was Van Lerver,
Tho' cruel humankind relentless prove,
And least resemble thee in acts of love;
Tho’ friends, who fou'd administer relief,
Add pain to woe, and misery to grief,
And oft, too oft! with hypocritic air,
Condemn those faults in which they deeply share :
Yet thou, who doft our various frailties know,
And see'it each spring from whence our actions flow,
Shalt, while for mercy to thy throne I fly,
Regard the lifted hand, and streaming eye.
Thou didit the jarring elements compose, When this harmonious universe arose; O speak the tempef of the soul to peace, 35 Bid the tumultuous war of passion cease; Receive me to thy kind paternal care, And guard me from the horrors of despair. And since no more I boast a mother's name, Norin
children can a portion claim, The helpless babes to thy protection take, Nor punish for their hapless mother's fake.
Thus the poor bird, when frighted from her neft, With agonizing love, and grief distress’d, Still fondly hovers o'er the much-lov’à place, 45 Tho' strengthless, to protect her tender race; La piercing notes the movingly complains, And tells the unattending woods her pains. Vol. 11.
• And thou, once my soul's fondest, dearest part, Who schem'd my ruin with such cruel art, 50 From human laws no longer seek to find A pow'r to loofe that knot which god has join'd. The props of life are rudely pull'd away, And the frail building falling to decay ; My death shall give thee thy desir'd release, 55 And lay me down in everlasting peace.
* My huband, who was then suing for a divorce.
MARY LEAPOR. *
IMPRIMIS--- My departed shade I trust
To heav'n---My body to the filent duft ;
My name to publick censure I submit,
To be dispos’d of as the world thinks fit;
My vice and folly let oblivion close,
The world already is o'erstock'd with those;
My wit I give, as misers give their store,
To those who think they had enough before.
Bestow my patience to compose the lives
Of Nighted virgins and neglected wives ;
To modifh lovers I resign my truth,
My cool reflexion to unthinking youth ;
And some good-nature give ('tis my defire)
To furly husbands, as their needs require ;
And first discharge my funeral---and then 15
To the small poets I bequeath my pen.
Let a small sprig (true emblem of my ryhme)
Of blasted laurel on my hearse recline ;
Let some grave wight, that struggles for renown,
By chanting dirges through a market-town,
With gentle step precede the folemn train:
A broken fute upon his arm ina!l lean.
Six comick poets may the corse furround,
And all free-holders, if they can be found :
Then follow next the melancholy throng, 25
As shrewd instructors, who themselves are wrong,
The virtuoso, rich in fun-dry'd weeds,
The politican, whom no mortal heeds,
The filent lawyer, chamber'd all the day,
And the stern soldier that receives no pay. 30
But stay---the mourners hould be first our care,
Let the freed prentice lead the miser's heir;
Let the young relict wipe her mournful eye,
And widow'd husbands o'er their garlick cry.
All this let my executors fulfil,
And rest aflur'd that this is Mira's will,
Who was, when the these legacies design'd,
In body healthy, and compos’d in mind.
'Twas when the fields had shed their golden grain,
And burning suns had fear'd the ruffet plain;
No more the rose nor hyacinth were seen,
Nor yellow cowslip on the tufted green: