THE

DYING PROSTITUTÉ.

COLD blew the blast, the eastern wind,
And dreary was the night,
In which the hail ungenial dropt,
Diffusing baleful blight.

'Twas then beside the common path,
Her head on earth reclin'd,
The poor deserted Lucy lay,
And shiver'd to the wind.

No house had she, sad wretch forlorn,
Wherein to shield that head;
And hunger, cold, and fell disease,
And guilt, upon her prey'd.

Like rav'ning eagles void of food,
They fasten'd to her corse;
They lacerated all her heart,
And drank of life the source.

A fierce and withering disease,
By Heav'n in terror sent,
Of unconfin'd unhallow'd love

As the dread punishment,

The apostle formerly said, "Then when Lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth Sin; and Sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth Death." But since the prevalence of a certain disease, which has been called Flagitium Dei contra scortatores, the words seem to bear more force and emphasis. A surgeon of great eminence and skill in London lately said, that when women were fully upon the town, they lived, upon an average, but a very few years. The dis order killed them in a manner, that to enter into the detail would be shocking to human delicacy and sensibility. It is said of the prostitutes of London, in a valuable work (entitled "Pietas Londinensis: the history, design, and present state of the public cha rities in and near London. By A. Highmore, Esq.") that "in the space of thirteen years, from eighty thousand to one hundred thousand died, the wretched martyrs of seduction from innocence." Page 237 This Mr. Highmore gives as the assertion of the cele brated Mr. Colquhoun, "whose magisterial authority has enabled him to sp ak with more certainty than other writers." At any rate, the number of prostitutes in London, and of prostitutes who perish there in consequence of their course of life, must be very

Her full delicious hair had mow'd,
Her breath had fetid made,

Had ravag'd her most beauteous form,
Where youthful loves once play'd.

Ah! how unlike to what she was,
Of virtue when approv'd,

When in her father's house she dwelt,
By all her village lov'd!

The lily which luxuriant grows,

In some sequester'd vale,

Near some pure stream, and shelter'd round
From ev'ry ruder gale;

Which Nature's fragrant fav'rite blooms,
Scenting the ambient air ;-

That lily was not sweeter then,
And was not half so fair.

Nor was that most unhappy sire,
Whom his lov'd child's disgrace
To death had immaturely giv❜n,
Of an ignoble race.

But now no pois'nous weed obscene,
Of curs'd malignant growth,
Could torture more the aching sense,
And cause it more to loath.

And, as the wretched outcast lay
Upon the cold damp earth,
In lowly sounds she falt'ring breath'd
These plaintive accents forth:

Daughters of Virtue! I will own,
Here while I grieve in dust,

Your indignation to be wise,

Your censure to be just.

considerable, from the enormous magnitude of the metropolis. Mr. Lambert, who has lately published his "Travels through Lower Canada and the United States of North America," says, there are more prostitutes, in proportion to its size, in New York (and probably this is the case in regard to many other cities in the world), than in London.

"I mourn the loss of virtuous fame,
As for blithe rose-cheek'd health
Languish the sick, or famish'd poor
For comfort-giving wealth.
"Ah! how improperly the name
Of Pleasure we receive!
Women of Pain is the sad style
That truth to us should give.

“Ah! how I rue my hapless fall!
How curse the black-wing'd day,
Which gave me (ah! could Hell do worse?)
A prostitute to stray !

"Yet, did your mild ingenuous hearts
Our various mis'ries know,

Our lonesome days, the grinning scorn
Which mocks where'er we go;

"Though ye would still detest th' offence, Yet o'er th' offender's head,

Soft Pity (for it dwells with you)
A tear would make you shed.
"But men are unrelenting, harsh :
Night wolves which hunt for prey,
Through long-corroding hunger wild,
Are scarce more fierce than they."
As thus she spak e, a churlish watch,
Who her lamenting heard,
With many a sharp and brutal taunt,
Her ghastly form uprear'd:

Which unto prison as he dragg'd,

Through pain and woe out-tir'd,

From his rude grasp she fell, and groan'd,
And at his feet expir'd.

The gen'rous bard, thou gloomy shade!
Who married wast to woe,

Gives, while he reprobates thy fault,
A tear for thee to flow.

For many a dark flagitious scheme,
And many a treach❜rous art,
Did thy seducer practise, ere
He lur'd thy gentle heart:

Then flush'd with youth, and Fortune's smile,
Thy fall and ruin'd fame,
As if it wreath'd his brow with bay,
Dar'd wantonly proclaim.

But Heav'n his ill-weav'd happiness,
In ire arous'd, shall blast;
And on his head in warning wrath,
Its vengeance-bolt shall cast.
O Chastity, salubrious gift,

Sent from the Pow'r above,
As guardian of our sweetest bliss,
The bliss of wedded love!

The woman who thy law contemns,
What feral ills annoy!

Thou spare and icy-bosom'd nurse
Of hallow'd love and joy.

For though she 'scape the cruel woes
The pensive Muse has sung,
Yet shall her grace decay through grief,
And her mid-heart be wrung.

But the unspotted virgin pure,

Whom thou vouchsaf'st t' inspire, Who checks, ere it dilates, each spark Of Love's unhallow'd fire;

Laments in exquisite remorse,

No rude pernicious care,

Which makes, e'en in the spring of youth,

The leaf of beauty sear.

To her in purity refin❜d,

Alone to live 'tis giv'n,

That she from all distraction free,

May form herself for heav'n,

Or by her lover, with delight,

To marriage she is led;

With deathless wreaths of laughing flow'rs
He decks the genial bed.

A train of fair-eyed pleasures wait,
In beautiful array;

And smiling hours with pinions white
Succeed th' auspicious day.

And the glad sire, in th' eve of life,
When cheerful joys are few,
Feels at her bliss those transports warm,
Which in blithe youth he knew.

AUGUSTUS AND SOPHRONIA;

OR,

THE MARRIED LOVERS.

Sævumque arcte complexa dolorem,
Perfruitur lachrymis, et amat pro conjuge luctum.

In ev'ry varied posture, place, and hour,

Lucan.

How widow'd ev'ry thought, of ev'ry joy! Young.

BLESSING and blest in one another's arms,
He with whatever man receiv'd of Fate,
And she in all the bloom of woman's charms,
Augustus and Sophronia flourish'd late.

Like their large bounty was their princely wealth,
As ample as their never-failing love;

Theirs were the comforts of unvaried health,
And friends sincere whom int'rest could not move.
Two beauteous children grac'd their faithful bed:
A boy, the abstract of his manly sire,
Whose little accents lisp'd the words he said,
And sparkled whose fair eyes with half his fire.