POETRY, 
THE HUE AND CRY. 
[FRoM POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF THE VILLAGE CURATE.} 
Ovez !—My good people draw near, 
My story surpafses belief, 
‘Yet deign for a moment to hear, 
And afsist me to catch a stray thief. 
‘Have you chanc’d a fair damsel to meet, 
Adorn’d like an angel of light, 
In a robe that flow’d down to her feet, 
No snow on the mountains so white ? 
Silver flowers bespangled her thoe, 
‘Amber locks on her fhoulders were spread, 
Her waist had a girdle of blue, 
And a beaver-plum’d bat had her head. 
Her-steps an imprefsion scarce leave, 
She bounds o’er the meadows so soon; 
Her smile is like autumn’s clear eve, 
And her look as serene as the moon. 
She seems to have nothing to blame, 
Deceitlefs and meek as + dove; 
‘But there lives not a thief of such fame, 
She’has pilfer’d below and above. 
-Her cheek has the blushes of day, 
Her neck has undone the swan’s wing ;! 
Her breath has the odours of May, 
And her eye has the dews of he spring. 
She has robb’d of its crimson the rose, 
She has dar’d the carnation to strip; 
“The bee who has plunder’d them knows, 
And would fain fill his hive at her lip. 
She has stole for her forehead so even, 
All beauty by sea and by land; 
She has all the fine azure of heaven 
In the veins of her temple and hand. 
Yes, yes, fhe has ransack’d above, 
She has beggar’d both nature and art 
She has got all we honour and love, 
And from me fhe has pilfer’d my heart. 
Bring her home, honest friends, bring her home, 
And set her down safe at my door ; 
Let her once my companion become, _ 
And I swear the fhall wander no more, 
VOL, ix, 0 t 
