Yet can my heart, with all the truth of prayer,
With all the fervour of fincere defire,
Looking at Thee, thou love of God and man!-
Yet can my heart in life or death implore,
"Father, forgive them, as Thou pitieft me!"
Oh where's the wonder, when thy crofs is feen!
Oh, where's the wonder, when thy voice is heard;
Harmonious interceffion! Son of God.

Oh, where's the wonder-or the merit where,
Or what's the talk to love-attuned fouls-
Poor fellow-creatures pitying, to implore
Forgiveness for them? Oh forgive my foes!
Belt friends, perchance, for they may bring to Thee!
-Complete forgiveness on them, God of grace;
Complete forgiveness, in the dreadful hour,
When most they need forgiveness! And oh fuch
As, in that dreadful hour, my poor heart wants,
And trufts, great Father, to receive from Thee,
Such full forgiveness grant,-and my glad foul
Shall fold them then, my brethren, in thy house!
Thus do I footh, and while away with song
My lonely hours, in drear confinement past,
Like thee, oh gallant Raleigh!—or like thee,
My hapless ancestor, fam'd Overbury!—
But Oh, in this how different is our fate!
Thou, to a vengeful woman's fubtle wiles
A hapless victim fall'ft; while my deep gloom,
Brighten'd by female virtue and the light
Of conjugal affection-leads me oft,
Like the poor prifon'd linnet, to forget
Freedom, and tuneful friends, and ruffet health,
Vocal with native melody; to fwell

The feeble throat and chaunt the lowly ftrain;
As in the feafon, when from spray to spray
Flew liberty on light elastic wing,

She flies no more:- -Be mute, my plantive lyre!
March 15, 1777.

END OF THE SECOND WEEK.

WEEK

WEEK THE THIRD.
Public Punishment.-March 18, 1777.

VAIN are thy generous efforts, worthy Bull*,
Thy kind compaffion's vain! The hour is come:
Stern fate demands compliance: I muft pafs
Thro' various deaths, keen torturing, to arrive
At that my heart fo fervently implores;

Yet fruitless. Ah! why hides he his fell front
From woe, from wretchedness, that with glad smiles
Would welcome his approach; and tyrant-like,
Delights to dafh the joucund rofeate cup
From the full hand of gaudy luxury

And unfufpecting cafe-Far worse than death
That prifon's entrance, whofe idea chills,
With freezing horror all my curdling blood;
Whofe very name, ftamping with infamy,
Makes my foul frighted start, in phrenzy whirl'd,
And verging near to madness! See, they ope
Their iron jaws! See the vaft gates expand,
Gate after gate-and in an instant twang,
Clos'd by their growling keepers :—When again,
Myfterious powers!-oh when to ope on me?
Mercy, fweet Heaven, fupport my faltering steps,
Support my fickning heart! My full eyes fwim:
O'er all my frame diftils a cold damp fweat.
Hark-what a rattling din; On every fide
The congregated chains clank frightful: Throngs
Tumultuous prefs around, to view, to gaze
Upon the wretched ftranger; fcarce believ'd
Other than vifitor within fuch walls,
With mercy and with freedom in his hands.
Alas, how chang'd!—Sons of confinement, fee
No pitying deliverer, but a wretch

O'erwhelm'd with mifery, more hapless far
Than the most haplefs 'mongft ye; loaded hard
With guilt's oppreffive irons! His are chains

Frederick Bull Efq. Alderman of London; to whofe kindness and humanity the Author has expreffed the highest obligations.

No time can loofen, and no hand unbind :
Fetters which gore the foul. Oh horror, horror!
Ye maffive bolts, give way: ye fullen doors,
Ah, open quick, and from this clamorous rout,
Cloie in my difmal, lone, allotted room

Shrowd me;-for ever throwd from hurnan fight,
And make it, if 'tis poffible, my grave!

How truly welcome, then! Then would I greet
With hallow'd joy the drear, but blest abode;
And deem it far the happieft I have known
The best I e'er inhabited. But, alas!
There's no fuch mercy for me. I muft run
Mifery's extremeft round; and this must be
A while my living grave; the doleful tomb,
Sad founding with my unremitted groans,
And moiften'd with the bitterness of tears!
Ah, mournful dwelling! deftin'd ne'er to fee
The human face divine in placid fmiles,
And innocent gladnefs cloth'd: deftin'd to hear
No found of genial, heart-reviving joy!
The fons of forrows only are thy guests,
And thine the only mufic of their fighs,
Thick fobbing from the tempeft of their breafts!
Ah, mournful dwelling! never haft thou feen,
Amidft the numerous wretched ones immur'd
Within thy ftone-girt compafs, wretch fo funk,
So loft, fo ruin'd, as the man who falls
Thus, in deep anguifh, on the ruthless floor,
And bathes it with the torrent of his tears!
And can it be? or is it all a dream?

A vapour of the mind?I fcarce believe
Myfelf awake or acting. Sudden thus
Am I-fo compafs'd round with comforts late.
Health, fredom, peace, torn, torn from all, and loft!
A prifoner in-Impoffible!I fleep:

'Tis fancy's coinage; 'tis a dream's delufion.

Vain dream! vain fancy! Quickly am I rous'd To all the dire reality's diftrefs:

I tremble, ftart, and feel myself awake,

Dreadfully by awake to all my woes? and roll From

From wave to wave on Sorrow's ocean toft!
Oh for a moment's paufe,-a moment's rest,
Tó calm my hurried fpirits! to recall
Reflection's ftaggering pilot to the helm,
And ftill the maddening whirlwind in my foul!
-It cannot be! The din increases round:
Rough voices rage difcordant; dreadful shrieks!
Hoarte imprecations dare the thunderer's ire,
And call down fwift damnation! thoufand chains
In difmal notes clink, mirthful! Roaring burts
Of loud obftreperous laughter, and strange choirs
Of gutturals, diffonant and rueful, vex

E'en the dull ear of Midnight! Neither reft,
Nor peaceful calm, nor filence of the mind,
Refreshment fweet, nor interval or paufe
From morn to eve, from eve to morn is found
Amidst the furges of this troubled sea * !

So, from the Leman Lake th' impetuous Rhone
His blue waves pushes rapid, and bears down
(Furiate to meet Saone's pellucid ftream,
With roar tremendous, thro' the craggy ftreights
Of Alpine rocks) his freight of waters wild
Still rufhing in perturbed eddies on ;

And ftill, from hour to hour, from age to age,
In conflux vaft and unremitting, pours
His boisterous flood to old Lugdunim's wall!
Oh my rack'd brain-oh my distracted heart!
The tumult thickens: wild diforder grows
More painfully confus'd!--And can it be?
Is this the manfion-this the house ordain'd
For recollection's folemn purpofe ;--this
The place from whence full many a flitting foul
(The work of deep repentance-mighty work,
Still, ftill to be perform'd) must mount to God,
And give its dread account! Is this the place

It is but a juft tribute to Mr. Akerman the keeper of this difmal place, to obferve that all the evils here enumerated are the immediate confequences of promiscuous confinement, and no way chargeable to Mr. A's account. It is from the strictest obiervation, I am perfuaded, that no man could do more in the prefent circumfances. His attention is great,and his kindness and humanity to thofe in fickness or affliction, peculiarly pleafing. I can bear teftimony to many fignal inftances, which I have remarked fince my fad confinement.

D 2

Ordain'd

Ordain'd by juftice, to confine a while
The foe to civil order, and return
Reform'd and moraliz'd to social life!
This den of drear confufion, wild uproar,
Of mingled riot and unblushing vice!
This fchool of infamy! from whence, improv'd
In every hardy villany, returns

More harden'd, more a foe to God and man,
The mifcreant, nurs'd in its infectious lap;
All cover'd with its peftilential fpots,
And breathing death and poifon wherefo'er
He talks contagious! from the lion's den
A lion more ferocious as confin'd!

Britons, while failing in the golden barge
Of giddy diffipation, on the ftream,
Smooth filver ftream of gorgeous luxury,
Boaft gaily and for ages may they boast,
And truly for through ages we may trust
'Twill interpofe between our crimes and God,
And turn away his just avenging fcourge➡
"The national Humanity!" Hither then,
Ye fons of pity, and ye fons of thought!—
Whether by public zeal and patriot love,
Or by Compaffion's gentle ftirrings wrought,
Oh hither come, and find fufficient fcope
For all the patriot's, all the chriftian's fearch!
Some great, fome falutary plan to frame,
Turning confinement's curfes into good;
And, like the God who but rebukes to fave,
Extracting comfort from correction's stroke!
Why do we punish? Why do penal laws
Coercive, by tremendous fanctions bind
Offending mortals?-Juftice on her throne
Rigid on this hand to example points;
More mild to reformation upan that:
-She balances, and finds no ends but thefe.
Crowd then, along with yonder revel-rout,
To exemplary punishment, and mark
The language of the multitude, obscene,