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He, kindling from within, requires no flame;
He glories in a Baftard's glowing name.

Born to himself, by no poffeffion led,
In freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed;
Nor guides, nor rules, his fov'reign choice control,
His body independent as his foul;
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Loos'd to the world's wide range—enjoin’d no aim,
Prefcrib'd no duty, and affign'd no name:
Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone,
His heart unbiafs'd, and his mind his own.

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O Mother, yet no Mother!-'tis to you, My thanks for fuch diftinguifh'd claims are due. You, unenЛlav'd to Nature's narrow laws, Warm championefs for freedom's facred-caufe, From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, 25 From ties maternal, moral and divine, Discharg'd my grafping foul; push'd me from shore, And launch'd me into life without an oar.

What had I loft, if conjugally kind, By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd, Untaught the matrimonial bands to flight, And coldly conscious of a husband's right, You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, A lawful lump of life by force your own! Then, while your backward will retrench'd defire, And unconcurring fpirits lent no fire,

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I had been born your dull, domestic heir,
Load of your life, and motive of your care;

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Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great,
The flave of pomp, a cypher in the state;
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And flumb'ring in a feat, by chance my own.
Far nobler bleffings wait the Baftard's lot;
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
Strong as neceffity, he ftarts away,
Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day,
Thus unprophetic, lately misinfpir'd,

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I fung gay flutt'ring hope, my fancy fir'd;
Inly fecure, thro' confcious fcorn of ill,
Nor taught by wisdom, how to ballance will, 50
Rafhly deceiv'd, I faw no pits to fhun,

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But thought to purpose and to act were one; Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; But now expos'd, and shrinking from diftress, 55 I fly to fhelter, while the tempests press; My Mufe to grief refigns the varying tone, The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. O memory! thou foul of joy and pain! Thou actor of our paffions o'er again! Why doft thou aggravate the wretch's woe? Why add continuous fmart to ev'ry blow? Few are my joys; alas! how foon forgot! On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not: While fharp, and numberless my forrows fall; 65 Yet thou repeat'ft, and multiply'st 'em all!

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Is chance a guilt? that my difaft'rous heart, For mischief never meant, must ever smart ? * Can felf-defence be fin?-Ah, plead no more! What tho' no purpos'd malice ftain'd thee o'er? Had heav'n befriended thy unhappy fide, Thou had'ft not been provok'd-or thou had❜ft died.

Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all On whom, unfought, embroiling dangers fall! Still the pale Dead revives, and lives to me, 75 To me! thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to fee. Remembrance veils his rage, but fwells his fate; Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, What ripening virtues might have made their way! He might have liv'd, till folly died in shame, 81 Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd; Both happy, gen'rous, candid and belov❜d. He might have fav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall;

And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.
O fate of late repentance! always vain:
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.

Where fhall my hopes find rest?—No Mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with pray'r: 99

* In a fudden broil at a coffee-house the author had killed a man; for whofe murder he had been tryed, convicted, and fentenced; but, on the queens intercession, had obtained his pardon.

No Father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to fnatch fome pow'rful arm,
First to advance, then fkreen from future harm?
Am I return'd from death, to live in pain ? 95
Or wou'd Imperial Pity fave in vain ?
Distrust it not-What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?

Mother, mifcall'd, farewell-of foul fevere,*
This fad reflection yet may force one tear:
All I was wretched by to you I ow'd,
Alone from strangers ev'ry comfort flow'd!

Loft to the life you gave, your Son no more,
And now adopted, who was doom❜d before,
New-born, I may a nobler Mother claim, 115
But dare not whisper her immortal name;
Supremely lovely, and ferenely great!
Majestic Mother of a kneeling State!

QUEEN of a People's hearts, who ne'er before
Agreed-yet now with one confent adore!
One contest yet remains in this defire,
Who most shall give applause, where all admire.

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* This "wretch, who had without fcruple proclaimed berfelf an adulteress, had firft endeavoured to ftarve her fon, then to transport him, and afterwards to hang him." Sea the authors Life admirably written by Dr. Johnson.

EPITAPH

ON A YOUNG LADY,

BY THE SAME.

CLOS'D are thofe eyes, that beam'd feraphic fire; Cold is that breast, which gave the world defire; Mute is the voice where winning softness warm'd, Where mufic melted, and where wisdom charm'd, And lively wit, which decently confin'd, 5 No prude e'er thought impure, no friend unkind,

Çou'd modest knowledge, fair untrifling youth, Perfuafive reason and endearing truth,

Cou'd honour, fhewn in friendships most refin'd,
And fenfe, that shields th' attempted virtuous mind
The focial temper never known to ftrife,
The height'ning graces that embellish life;
Could thefe have e'er the darts of death defied,
Never, ah! never had Melinda died;

Nor can she die—ev'n now survives her name, 15
Immortaliz'd by friendship, love, and fame,

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