In decent dress, and coarsely clean, The pious matron next was seen-- Clasp’d in her hand a godly book was borne, By use and daily meditation worn; That decent dress, this holy guide, Augusta’s care had well supplied. “And, ah!” she cries, all woe-begone, “What now remains for me? Oh! where shall weeping want repair, To ask for charity? Too late in life for me to ask, And shame prevents the deed; And tardy, tardy are the times To succour, should I need. But all my wants, before I spoke, Were to my Mistress known; She still reliev’d, nor sought for praise, Contented with her own. But every day her name I’ll bless-- My morning prayer, my evening song; I’ll praise her while my life shall last, A life that cannot last me long.” _Song.--By a_ WOMAN. Each day, each hour, her name I’ll bless, My morning and my evening song; And when in death my vows shall cease, My children shall the note prolong. MAN _Speaker._ The hardy veteran, after struck the sight, Scarr’d, mangled, maim’d in every part; Lopp’d of his limbs in many a gallant fight, In nought entire--except his heart; Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest, At last the impetuous sorrow fir’d his breast: “Wild is the whirlwind rolling O’er Afric’s sandy plain, And wild the tempest howling Along the billow’d main; But every danger felt before-- The raging deep, the whirlwind’s roar-- Less dreadful struck me with dismay, Than what I feel this fatal day. Oh! let me fly a land that spurns the brave-- Oswego’s dreary shores shall be my grave; I’ll seek that less inhospitable coast, And lay my body where my limbs were lost.” _Song.--By a_ MAN. Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Crécy’s laurell’d field, To do thy memory right; For thine and Britain’s wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel, And wish the avenging fight. WOMAN _Speaker_. In innocence and youth complaining, Next appear’d a lovely maid-- Affliction o’er each feature reigning, Kindly came in beauty’s aid; Every grace that grief dispenses, Every glance that warms the soul, In sweet succession charm’d the senses, While pity harmoniz’d the whole. “The garland of beauty”--’tis thus she would say-- “No more shall my crook or my temples adorn; I’ll not wear a garland--Augusta’s away, I’ll not wear a garland until she return. “But, alas! that return I never shall see, The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim; There promis’d a lover to come--but, O me! ’Twas death--’twas the death of my Mistress that came. “But ever, for ever, her image shall last, I’ll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom; On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.” _Song._--_By a_ WOMAN.--_Pastorale._