A long-lost Father found, the mystery clear'd, What mingled transports in _her_ face appear'd! The gazing _Veteran_ stood with hands uprais'd-- 'Art thou _indeed_ my Child! then, God be prais'd.' O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread: Such as fools say become not Men to shed; Past hours of bliss, regenerated charms, Rose, when he felt his Daughter in his arms: So tender was the scene, the generous Dame Wept, as she told of _Phoebe's_ virtuous fame, And the good Host, with gestures passing strange, Abstracted seem'd through fields of joy to range: Rejoicing that his favour'd Roof should prove Virtue's asylum, and the nurse of Love; Rejoicing that to him the task was given, his full Soul was mounting up to Heav'n. _The Adopted Daughter_. But now, as from a dream, his Reason sprung, And heartiest greetings dwelt upon his tongue; The sounding Kitchen floor at once receiv'd The happy group, with all their fears reliev'd: 'Soldier,' he cried, 'you've found your Girl; 'tis true: But suffer _me_ to be a Father too; For, never Child that blest a Parent's knee, Could show more duty than she has to met Strangely she came; Affliction chas'd her hard: I pitied her;--and this is my reward! Here sit you down; recount your perils o'er: Henceforth be this your home; and grieve no more: Plenty hath shower'd her dewdrops on my head; Care visits not my Table, nor my Bed. My heart's warm wishes thus then I fulfill:-- My Dame and I can live without the Mill: _George_, take the whole; I'll near you still remain To guide your judgment in the choice of Grain: _Perfect Content: hopes and prospects of Goodness_. In Virtue's path commence your prosperous life; And from my hand receive your worthy Wife. Rise, _Phoebe_; rise, my Girl!--kneel not to me; But to THAT POW'R who interpos'd for thee. Integrity hath mark'd your favourite Youth; Fair budding Honour, Constancy, and Truth: Go to his arms;--and may unsullied joys Bring smiling round me, rosy Girls and Boys! I'll love them for thy sake. And may your days Glide on, as glides the Stream that never stays; Bright as whose shingled bed, till life's decline, May all your Worth, and all your Virtues shine!' [Illustration] THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again: Companion of the lonely hour! Spring thirty times hath fed with rain And cloath'd with leaves my humble bower, Since thou hast stood In frame of wood, On Chest or Window by my side: At every Birth still thou wert near, Still spoke thine admonitions clear.-- And, when my Husband died, I've often watch'd thy streaming sand And seen the growing Mountain rise, And often found Life's hopes to stand On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes: Its conic crown Still sliding down, Again heap'd up, then down again; The sand above more hollow grew, Like days and years still filt'ring through, And mingling joy and pain.