Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, 190 One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains; Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again.-- Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, And every step with cautious terror makes; 200 For not alone that infant in her arms, But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. With water burthen'd, then she picks her way, Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay; Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground; Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, While hope the mind, as strength the frame, forsakes: For, when so full the cup of sorrow grows, Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. 210 And now her path, but not her peace, she gains, Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, And, placing first her infant on the floor, She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, And sobbing struggles with the rising fits. In vain, they come; she feels th'inflating grief, That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; That speaks in feeble cries a soul distressed, Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd. 220 The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies With all the aid her poverty supplies; Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys, Not led by profit, nor allured by praise; And, waiting long, till these contentions cease, She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid, She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. But who this child of weakness, want, and care? 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair; 230 Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies. Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: And then his prayers! they would a savage move, And win the coldest of the sex to love. But ah! too soon his looks success declared, Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired; The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, A captious tyrant or a noisy sot: 240 If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd; If absent, spending what their labours gain'd; Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. Then fly temptation, youth; resist, refrain! Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!