"Of conjugal endearment round the neck
"Of thy lost husband ?—Fate, exact thy worst;
"The bitterness is past."-Idea vain!
To tenfold bitterness drench'd in my deep cup
Of gall the morning rifes? Statue like,
Inanimate, half dead, and fainting half,
To ftand a fpectacle !-the præter ftern
Denying to my pleading tears one pang
Of human fympathy! Conducted forth,
Amidft th' unfeeling populace; pursued
Like fome deer, which from the hunter's aim
Hath ta'en its deadly hurt; and glad to find-
Panting with woe,-my refuge in a gaol!
Can mifery stretch more tight the torturing cord?
But hence this foftnefs! Wherefore thus lament
These petty, poor efcutcheons of thy fate,
When lies-all worthy of thyself and life,
Cold in the hearse of ruin ?-Rather turn
Grateful thine eyes, and raise, tho' red with tears,
To his high throne who looks on thy distress
With fatherly compaffion; kindly throws
Sweet comfort's mixture in thy cup, and soothes
With Gilead's balm thy death-wound. He it is
Who, 'midft the fhock difrupting, holds in health
Thy fhatter'd frame, and keeps thy reafon clear;
He, He it is, whofe pitying power fupports
Thy humbled foul, deep humbled in the duft,
Beneath the fenfe of guilt; the mournful fenfe
Of deep tranfgreffion 'gainst thy fellow-men,
Of fad offence 'gainft Him, thy Father God;
Who, lavish in his bounties, woo'd thy heart
With each paternal bleffing;-ah ingrate,
And worthless! Yet-(His mercies who can count,
Or truly speak his praise !)--Yet thro' this gloom
Of felf-conviction, lowly He vouchfafes

To dart a ray of comfort, like the Sun's,
All-cheering thro' a fummer's evening shower!
Arch'd in his gorgeous sky, I view the Bow,
Of grace fix'd emblem! 'Tis that grace alone

Which gives my foul its firmness; builds my hope
Beyond the grave; and bids me fpurn the earth!
First of all bleffings, hail! Yet Thou, from whom
Both first and laft, both great and small proceed;
Exhauftlefs fource of every good to man,

Accept for all, the tribute of my praise ;
For all are thine!-Thine the ingenuous friends,
Who folace with compaffion fweet my woe;
Mingle with mine their fympathetic tears;
Inceffant and difinterested toil

To work my weal; and, delicately kind,
Watch every keener fenfibility

That lives about my foul. Oh, more than friends,
In tenderness my children!-Thine are too

The very keepers of the rugged jail,

-Ill school to learn humanity's foft lore !---
Yet here humanity their duty pays,
Refpectably affecting! Whilft they tend
My little wants, officious in their zeal,

They turn away, and fain would hide the tear
That gushes all unbidden to their

eye,

And fanctifies their fervice.-On their heads
Thy bleffing, Lord of Bounty!

-But, of all,
All thy choice comforts in this drear diftrefs,
God of our firft young love! Thine is the Wife,
Who with affiduous care, from night to morn,
From morn to night, watches my every need
And, as in brighteft days of peace and joy,
Smiles on my anguifh, while her own peor
Is full almoft to bursting! Proftrate, Lord,
Before thy footstool-Thou, whofe highest style
On earth, in heaven, is love!-Thou, who haft breath'd
Thro' human hearts the tender charities,

The focial fond affections which unite
In bonds of sweetest amity thole hearts,

breaft

And guide to every good!-Thou, whofe kind eye
Complacent must behold the rich, ripe fruit,
Mature and mellow'd on the generous stock

of

Of thy own careful planting!-Low on earth,
And mingled with my native duft, I cry ;
With all the Husband's anxious fondness cry;
With all the friend's folicitude and truth;
With all the teacher's fervour," God of Love,
"Vouchsafe thy choiceft comforts on her head!
"Be thine my fate's decifion: To thy will
"With angel-refignation, lo! we bend !"

But hark! what sound, wounding the night's dull ear,
Burfts fudden on my fenfe, and makes more horrible
These midnight horrors?'Tis the folemn bell,
Alarum to the prisoners of death* !—
Hark! what a groan, refponfive from the cells
Of condemnation, calls upon my heart,
My thrilling heart, for interceffion ftrong,
And pleadings in the sufferer's behalf-
My fellow-fufferers, and my fellow-men!
Cease then awhile the strain, my plaintive soul,
And veil thy face of forrow! Lonely hours
Soon will return thee to thy midnight task,
For much remains to fing, fad themes, unfung,
As deem'd perchance too mournful;-yet, what else
Than themes like these can fuit a mufe like mine!
-And might it be, that while ingenuous woe
Bleeds thro' my verfe; while the fucceeding page
Weaving with my fad ftory the detail

Of crimes, of punishments, of prifons drear,
Of préfent life and future,fad difcourfe
And ferious fhall contain; Oh might it be,
That human hearts may liften and improve;
O might it be, that benefit to fouls

Flow from the weeping tablet; tho' the Man
In torture die,—the Painter fhall rejoice!

Sunday, March 2, 1777.

END OF THE FIRST WEEK.

This alludes to a very friking and awful circumftance. The Bellman of St. Sepulchre's near the prifon, is by long and pious cuftom appointed to anBounce at midnight to the condemned criminals in their cells, that the hour of their departure is at hand

WEEK

WEEK THE SECOND.

The Retrofpect.-Sunday, March 2, 1777.

OH, not that thou goeft hence-fweet drooping flower,
Surcharg'd with Sorrow's dew!-Not that thou quitt'f
This pent and feverish gloom, which beams with light,
With health, with comfort, by thy prefence cheer'd,
Companion of my life, and of my woes

Bleft foother! not that thou goeft hence to drink
A purer air, and gather from the breath
Of balmy fpring new fuccour, to recruit
Thy wanning health, and aid thee to sustain,
With more than manly fortitude, thy own
And my afflictive trials! Not that here,
Amidst the glories of this genial day,
Immur'd, thro' iron bars I peep at Heaven,
With dim, lack luftre eye!—Oh, 'tis not this
That drives the poifon'd point of torturous thought
Deep to my fpring of life! It is not this

That proftrate lays me weeping in the duft,
And draws in fobs the life blood from

my heart! Well could I bear thy abfence: well, full well;

Tho' angel-comforts in thy converse smile,
And make my dungeon Paradife !-Full well
Could I fuftain thro' iron bars to view

The golden Sun, in bridegroom majefty
Taking benignant nature to his love,

And decking her with bounties! Well, very well
Could I forego the delicate delight

Of tracing nature's germens, as they bud;
Of viewing fpring's first children, as they rise
In innocent fweetness, or beneath the thorn
In rural privacy; or on gay parterre
More artful, lefs enchanting!-Well, very well
Could I forego to liften,-in this house
Of unremitted din,—and nought complain;
To liften, as I oft have ftood with thee
Liftening in fond endearment to the voice
Of stock-dove, thro' the filence of the wood

Hoarfe

Hoarfe murmuring :—Well, oh could I forego
These innocent, tho' exquifite delights,
Still new, and to my bofom still attun'd
In moral, mental melody!-Sweet Spring!
Well could I bear this fad exile from Thee,
Nor drop one tear reluctant : for my foul,
Strong to fuperior feelings, foars aloft
To eminence of mifery!-Confin'd

On this blefs'd day-the Sabbath of my God!
-Not from his House alone, not from the power
Of joyful worship with affembling crowds *,
But from the labours once fo amply mine,
The labours of his love. Now, laid afide,
Cover'd my head with ignominious duft,
My voice is stopp'd! and, had I e'en the power,
Strong fhame, and stronger grief would to that voice
Forbid all utterance !-Ah, thrice hapless voice,
By Heaven's own finger all indulgent tuned
To touch the heart, and win th' attentive foul
To love of truth divine, how useless now,
How diffonant, unftrung!-Like Salem' harps
Once fraught with richest harmony of praise,
Hung in fad filence by Euphrates' ftream,
Upon the mournful willows! There they wept,
Thy captive people wept, O God!-when thought
To bitter memory recall'd the fongs,
The dulcet fongs of Sion! Oh bleft songs,
Transporting chorus of united hearts,
In cheerful music mounting to the praise
Of Sion's King of Glory !-Oh the joy
Tranfcendant, of petitions wing'd aloft
With fervour irrefiftible from throngs
Affembled in thy earthly courts, dread King
Of all-dependant nature!-looking up
For all to Thee, as do the fervants eyes
Up to their foftering Mafter! Joy of joys,
Amidst fuch throng'd affemblies to stand forth,
To blow the Silver Trumpet of thy Grace;