His good Qualities, which are very numerous, ought the more to be esteem'd and cherish'd, because he owes them to himself only: Without the Advantage of Friends, Fortune or Education, he wants neither Knowledge nor Politeness, to deserve a _Mother's_ Blessing, and adorn, rather than disgrace her.----I am strongly perswaded, from the Character, which upon all Occasions, he has taken Pleasure to give of the Lady's Humanity, with regard to the rest of the World, that nothing but her having, much too long, already been a Stranger to such a Son, could make her satisfy'd to continue so.----It is impossible, at least, that she should not distinguish him, by some kind Notice, some little Mark of her returning Tenderness, if, without Regard to his Merit, she knew but his Manner of thinking of her: Which is, itself, a shining Merit! and a surprising Instance of Generosity! if consider'd against those Reasons, which might excuse a different Treatment of her. He writ the following Copy of Verses, and several others, on the same Subject, at a Time, when, I know not, which was most to be wonder'd at; That he should be serene enough for _Poetry_, under the Extremity of Ill Fortune!----Or, that his _Subject_ should be the Praise of her, to whom he ow'd a Life of Misery! _Hopeless, abandon'd, aimless, and oppress'd,_ _Lost to Delight, and, every way, distress'd:_ _Cross his cold Bed, in wild Disorder, thrown,_ _Thus, sigh'd_ Alexis, _Friendless, and alone_-- _Why do I breathe?--What_ Joy _can_ Being _give_, _When she, who gave me Life, forgets I live!_ _Feels not those Wintry Blasts;--nor heeds my Smart._ _But shuts me from the Shelter of her Heart!_ _Saw me expos'd, to Want! to Shame! to Scorn!_ _To Ills!--which make it_ Misery, _to be_ born! _Cast me, regardless on the World's bleak Wild:_ _And bad me, be a_ Wretch, _while yet, a Child!_ _Where can he hope for Pity, Peace, or Rest,_ _Who moves no Softness in a_ Mother's _Breast_? _Custom, Law, Reason_, All! _my Cause forsake_, _And_ Nature sleeps, _to keep my Woes_ awake! _Crimes, which the_ Cruel _scarce believe, can be_, _The_ Kind _are guilty of, to ruin_ me! _Even She, who bore me, blasts me, with her Hate,_ _And_, meant _my_ Fortune, makes _herself my Fate_! _Yet has this sweet Neglecter of my Woes,_ _The softest, tend'rest, Breast, that_ Pity _knows_! _Her Eyes shed Mercy, wheresoe'er they shine;_ _And her Soul_ melts, _at every Woe--but mine_. _Sure, then! some secret Fate, for Guilt, unwill'd,_ _Some Sentence, pre-ordain'd to be fulfill'd!_ _Plung'd me, thus deep, in Sorrow's searching Flood:_ _And wash'd me from the Mem'ry of her Blood._ _But, Oh! whatever Cause has mov'd her Hate,_ _Let me but sigh, in silence, at my Fate._ _The God_, within, _perhaps, may_ touch _her Breast_: _And, when she_ pities, _who can be distress'd_?