v. 99. Village Girls....The poor distracted young Woman.

Then close consulting, each his talent lends
To plan fresh sports when tedious service ends.
Hither at times, with cheerfulness of soul,

Sweet village Maids from neighbouring hamlets stroll,
That like the light-heel'd does o'er lawns that rove,
Look shyly curious; rip'ning into love;

For love's their errand: hence the tints that glow
On either cheek, a heighten'd lustre know:
When, conscious of their charms, e'en Age looks sly,
And rapture beams from Youth's observant eye.
THE PRIDE of such a party, Nature's pride,
Was lovely POLL*; who innocently try'd,
With hat of airy shape and ribbons gay,
Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way:
But, ere her twentieth Summer could expand,
Or youth was render'd happy with her hand,
Her mind's serenity, her peace was gone,
Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone:

* The Author has since conversed with this unfortunate woman, and finds that her name is not Mary, but Ann Rayner, of Ixworth Thorp: she is very much recovered, and appears to have a true sense of her past calamity.

The Subject continued.

v. 117.

Yet causeless seem'd her grief; for quick restrain'd,
Mirth follow'd loud; or indignation reign'd:
Whims wild and simple led her from her home,
The heath, the common, or the fields to roam :
Terror and Joy alternate rul'd her hours;
Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flow'rs;
Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough,
To whip the hov'ring demons from her brow.
Ill-fated Maid! thy guiding spark is fled,
And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed....
Thy bed of straw! for mark, where even now
O'er their lost child afflicted parents bow;
Their woe she knows not, but perversely coy,
Inverted customs yield her sullen joy;

Her midnight meals in secrecy she takes,

Low mutt'ring to the moon, that rising breaks

Thro' night's dark gloom:...oh how much more forlora

Her night, that knows of no returning morn!...

Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat,
O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat;
Quitting the cot's warm walls, unhous’d to lie,
Or share the swine's impure and narrow sty;
The damp night air her shiv'ring limbs assails;
In dreams she moans, and fancied wrongs bewails.
When morning wakes, none earlier rous'd than she,
When pendent drops fall glitt'ring from the tree;
But nought her rayless melancholy cheers,

Or sooths her breast, or stops her streaming tears,
Her matted locks unornamented flow;

Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro;...

Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide ;... A piteous mourner by the pathway side.

Some tufted molehill through the livelong day

She calls her throne; there weeps her life away : And oft the gaily-passing stranger stays

His well-tim'd step, and takes a silent

gaze,