The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 23

Nor longer thy half-cover'd limbs expose, To the a.s.saults of th' unpitying air; Thy fragile body sure demands repose, For numerous years have silver'd o'er thy hair.

"No home I have!" the hapless wanderer cries; Say, was thy youth to vicious courses given; That thus thy age must brave inclement skies, To fate the vengeance of offended heaven?

No guilty pa.s.sion warm'd my youthful breast, Nor foul injustice stain'd my spotless name; But once in brighter, happier prospects blest, I sacrific'd those golden views to fame.

Ardent to check Iberia's tyrant pow'r, Thro' unpropitious seas I took my way, And gain'd her coast, but, ah, unhappy hour!

How many gallant soldiers fell that day!

After long toils, and various hardships borne, Our gen'rous blood the vanquish'd foe repays; But now I droop in poverty forlorn, And mourn the triumphs of my youthful days.

Frowning the soldier told his piteous tale, Ah! what to him the humbled pride of Spain?

He help'd to conquer, what does it avail?

He now is left to poverty and pain.

Forever blessed be the bounteous heart, That may the suppliant child of woe receive, The blessings favouring fortune gave impart, To me that fortune gives but to relieve.

MATILDA.

New-York, 1775.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

TWILIGHT.

A Sonnet.

"The West yet glimm'ring with some streaks of day "Now spurs the lated traveller apace "To gain the timely inn."

_Shakespeare._

Bright Sol retiring o'er the western hills, With parting radiance gilds the village spire: In other realms his healing office fills, To other climes emits beatific fire.

The dusky shades of twilight now preside, And wrap the Hamlet in a solemn gloom; The labours of the industrious hind subside, The weary shepherd seeks his peaceful home.

At this lone hour, in contemplative mood, Near some remote and solitary wood, To calm his grief the mourning lover strays: The nightingale in sympathetic strain, Warbling its plaintive notes, relieves his pain, While gentle zephyr ev'ry sigh conveys.

ALEXIS.

New-York, July 27, 1796.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

_Lines sent to a Young Lady with an aeolian Harp._

Ye zephyrs who delighted stray O'er every grace which Flora wears, Hither direct your airy way, For worthier scenes demand your cares.

Within these strings, in soft suspense, The latest powers of music rest; Oh, draw their tendered accent hence To soothe and charm my Sally's breast.

Should sorrow ever enter there, (For merit is no shield from woe) Disperse the Demons of despair, And teach the softening tear to flow.

And e'en when rapture's maniac train, Shall wildly seize the impa.s.sion'd soul, O, let some sweetly-plaintive strain, The blissful agony control.

The feeling bosom illy bears The dire extremes of grief and joy, For anguish every sense impairs, And cruel "transports oft destroy."

And still each pensive hour to cheer, Let friendship raise her gentle voice; And when she seeks a friend sincere, Direct to me the envied choice.

MONIMIA.

New-York, May, 1796.

+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

CUPID STUNG.

Cupid wanton rogue they say, Inclin'd to rob a hive one day; Thrust his hand into the swarm, Thoughtless little thief of harm; When vext to be insulted so, A bee sprung out upon her foe; Around his fist a thousand clung, And faith the wag was soundly stung.

He shook his hand, he leap'd, he cried, And all in tears to Venus hied; Ask'd how a bee, so small a thing!

Could lodge to terrible a sting?

Venus replied, "How like my child, Are these fell bees to you?" and smil'd; "Tho' small your size, sharp is your dart, And keenly does it wound the heart."

OLIVERIUS.

New-York, August 5th, 1736.

_EPIGRAM._

Cries logical BOB to NED, if you dare, A Bet, which has most legs, a _mare_ or _no mare_, A mare to be sure, replies NED with a grin; And fifty I'll lay, for I'm certain to win; Quoth BOB, you have lost, sure as you are alive, A mare has but four legs, and _no mare_ has five.