1799.] 
No weekly profits now were told, 
And poor became his lot ; 
His implements of trade were fold ; 
’ And cuftomers forgot. 
The favings of his former days 
Were all expended foon ; 
No maintenance he then could raife, 
And craved the Parifh boon. 
But now, what fain I would not tell, 
My ftory muft unfold— 
Te Owen Parfet what befel, 
When he grew faint and old. 
His fifter, on a fummer’s day, 
Remov’d him from his bed ; 
And placed him near the public way, 
Faft by his humble thed. 
There in his chair, at nine o’clock, 
The morning bright and clear, 
Did Owen fit ;—while kindly flock 
His old acquaintance near. 
They fpeak him fair, but little reck 
Neyer to fee him more : 
Departing then, their bufinefs feek, 
And leave him at the door. 
But there, poor Owen didnot ftay ;—« 
Yet how he went, or whither, 
No mortal, ever, from that day, 
By fearch or wit could gather. 
The alarm is fpread both far and near, 
The townfmen ftand aghatt ; 
In vain they feek,—and pale with fear, 
Believe that day, the laft. 
His fate, they ponder’d with concern, 
Themfelves from earth might fever 5 
Again they feek—but home return 
At night, as wife as ever. 
They drain next day each pond and well, 
Each nook and corner {py ;— 
They ranfack thicket, brake, anddell, 
And long on Owencry. 
The bufy fearch next day they plied, 
Thro’ town and hamlet near 5 
And ten miles round the neighbours ride, 
Nor tale nor tidings hear. 
*Twere ludicrous, I fear, to tell 
What all the town {aid then ; . 
How he was borne, by wicked fpell, 
To fome infernal den, 
Juft as he vanith’d, fome declare, 
As gaping crouds ftand round— 
They heard a tumult in the air, 
And wonder’d at the found. 
Some dreamt of late ftrange things at night, 
But others grew more bold ; 
And Owen faw, they faid out-right, 
Fait in a demon’s hold. 
But fome this vile afperfion quick, 
Indignantly withftood ; 
And faid, that Owen, for old Nk, 
Was certainly too good. 
Montrury Mags. No. xtvi. 
Original Poetry. 
ASt 
More like they faid, fome hand unfeen 
Had loofed each mortal fetter ; 
And kindly whipp’d him off this fcene, 
To place him in a better. 
Let thofe that will, at Owen’s cof, 
Be wickedly diverted 5 
Yet, that he thus was ftrangely loft, 
Remains uncontroverted. 
To tell his fate, ve no pretence; = 
Conjeéture none I make ;— 
But if the D 1 took him hence, 
He made a great miftake. 

ee TER 
. MARY QUEEN OF SCOT’S FAREWELL TO 
FRANCE. 
(See Robertfon’s Hift. of Scotland, Vol, 1.) 
STAY, cruel breeze! rude ocean ftill thy 
roar, [thore ! 
Too fwift ye bear me from yon happy 
Mutt I the fmiles, the hearts, that once were 
mine, 
Mutt I thy homage, gen’rous France, refign ? 
Your Mary’s feftive, halcyon days are o’er ; 
Your pride, your favorite, and your queen, 
no more. 
To other climes, to other hearts fhe goes, 
Nor what to fear, but much to tear, fhe 
knows-—— [caft, 
France! the long radiance friendly morning 
Fades on thy finking hills; this look my 
lait! 
Thy mifty mountain forms no more I view, 
Dear France! belov’d retreating land, adieu! 
Ne. 
ee 
INSCRIPTION FOR 4 RILL. 
H! notin vain we filver rills 
From mo/fly fountains flow ; 
Who brawling down the vocal hills, 
Leave morals as we go. 
Piétur’d in us, may mortals fee, 
In our incefiant ftrife, 
The toils of drcar obfcurity, 
The toils of mortal life. 
Faft, faft we run, ne’er to return, 
_ Like time that ever flies ; 
Thy fate with us, O man! then mourn, 
And mourning be thou wife. 
Through fretting on oyr eourfe we gain, 
Like poor contentious pride, 
Yet all our toil is not in vain, 
We fwell the river’s tide. 
From us, lone trav’llers of the dale, 
O be it underftood, 
How e’en the lowlieft in life’s vale 
May aid the common good. 
Plymouth. 
3Q 
J. Biptaxs 
