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VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
[THE following lines are extracted from the " Town ECLOGUE," a poem published in Edinburgh upwards of twenty years ago. Distinguished alike for sterling poetry and for brutal satire, its appearance excited a hubbub not short of that more recently occasioned by the Chaldee Manuscript. It is now become exceedingly rare. The Editor of this volume might have given it entire, had he not been swayed by just feelings of respect for individuals yet alive, venerable in talents as in years, and for the survivors of others now no more, the objects of its satire. Again to point the finger of malice at such characters, might to them be perfectly innocuous. It is, however, but an unworthy purpose to pander to those who are more prone to indulge their appetite for slander, than to appreciate talents and virtues exalted above the level of their own.]
D. HAST thou not learned poor hapless Anna's fate!
O, will not heaven its arm of vengeance bare!
Who first entrapt, then left her in the snare!
Her parent's* darling, till a spoiler came,
* He held a small farm under the seducer of his only child.
Soon as her destiny appear'd too clear,
R. Did not the neighbours, knowing what was done,
Expel the poison she had rashly quaff'd,
D. In stupid apathy they staring stood, No head conceiv'd, no hand attempted good; Unmoved they heard these words-" I must depart, "For I have broke a tender father's heart; "Ah! why on earth one moment should I stay, "When all I love thereon is fled away? "Ah! little thought I WILLIAM could betray." She ceas'd-a torpor seized each polish'd limb, Her eyes, once brilliant, waxing dull and dim, The potent drug congealing ev'ry grace, Blasting the roses of her lovely face,
Till stretch'd she lay, when fled her latest breath, A beauteous statue for the fane of death.
R. Did not the rigid censurers of vice,
And hoot the monster from the haunts of men?
D. Ah, no! he boldly drives his mad career,
R. If rich, ne'er mind what conscience saith within, Here poverty alone is all the sin;
If at a tavern you can pay your stake,
What if each day you each commandment break.
They train their offspring for a villain's hand;
They slight the mental beauties of their race;
From modest delicacy's chaste reserve.
But mark the lounge of fashionable fools,
There coxcombs, hir'd to teach the tender fair
The wanton attitude, the wanton air,
Brush the fresh bloom from off the rip'ning plumb
And leave it mellow for the time to come.
STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.
AND it hath gone into the grave of time-
That solemn sound—the midnight's mournful chime,
Low in the church-yard cell-cold-dark-and silently.
Strange time for mirth-when round the leafless
The wild winds of the winter moan and sigh,
Seeking the domeless wall-the turret's hoary height:
And yet with Nature, sooth, we need not grieve;
And the poor bark no resting-place can find ;
And friends on shore shall weep-and weep in vain, For, to the ruthless elements consign'd,
The seaman's corpse is drifting through the main, Ne'er to be seen by them-nor heard of e'er again!
Now o'er the skies the orbs of light are spread,
How still-how soft and yet how dread is all
Surely there is a language in the sky-