Poor outcast, whither cans't thou turn?
Thy future fate adds pangs to mine:
I must my own offences mourn,

And fear, devoted babe, for thine!

For all thou canst from me receive
Is but a legacy of shame;
And, shouldst thou up to manhood live,
Thou❜lt learn to curse thy father's name!

But while my guilt's to thee unknown,
Come, let me press thee to my breast,
Thou treasure without crime-my son-
Thou only wealth I e'er possess'd.

Thou pledge of pure and faithful loves,
Image of one I still deplore;
Yet now her death a blessing proves-
She lives not, to behold this hour!

But from my arms, ah, wherefore fly?
Why do I court thy kiss in vain ?

Whence spring those tears? what means that cry?
Ah me!-thou fear'st my clanking chain !

Till now I felt not all its weight;

But soon they'll come, my limbs to free :When I am summon'd to my fate,

My arms unchain'd may close on thee!

Then welcome, bitter hour of death:
Thou❜lt be of some keen pangs beguil❜d;

For, ere I yield my forfeit breath,
I closely may embrace my child!

And see, they come to take me hence!
My injur'd, precious boy, adieu !
O, cruel world, for this offence,

Wilt thou this child with horror view?

Ah yes-with me his hopes must die;
For who will take him to their care?-
The prudent e'en his sight will fly,

Lest with my blood, my guilt he share!

And soon to vice and misery driven,

Unknown, or else disdain'd by worth; Untaught, my child, the way to heaven, Thou❜lt yet be deem❜d unfit for earth!

What words are these, that to my soul
A feeling like delight impart?

That fear and agony controul,

And bind an almost broken heart?

They say a generous few have join'd
(The pride of these enlightened times)
Poor outcast, orphan babes to find,

And save them from their parents' crimes.

To them instruction's page they ope,
Teach them to toil for honest fame,
And by their own good actions hope
To wipe away their parents' shame.

Blest men, a dying culprit's prayer
Now seeks for you the heavenly throne,
For making thus our babes your care,
May heaven reward you in your own!

FATHERLESS FANNY.

A BALLAD.

BY MRS. OPIE.

KEEN and cold is the blast loudly whistling around, As cold as the lips that once smiled upon me, And unyielding, alas! as this hard frozen ground, The arms once so ready my shelter to be.

Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast,
But few to console and to love me, if any,

And my gains are so small, a bare pittance almost
Repays the exertions of fatherless Fanny.

Once, indeed, I with pleasure and patience could toil,
But 'twas when my parents sat by and approved!
Then my laces to sell I went out with a smile,

Because my fatigue fed the parents I loved.

And at night, when I brought them my hardly-earned gains,

Though small they might be, still my comforts were

many;

For my mother's fond blessing rewarded my pains,
My father stood watching to welcome his Fanny.

But, ah! now that I work by their presence uncheered,
I feel 'tis a hardship, indeed, to be poor;
While I shrink from fatigue, now no longer endeared,
And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man's door.

Then, alas! when at night I return to my home,
No longer I boast that my comforts are many;
To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,

Where no one exclaims "Thou art welcome, my "Fanny !"

That, that is the pang! want and toil would impart No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see; For the wealth I require is that of the heart,

The smiles of affection are riches to me.

Then, in pity, ye rich, when to you I apply

To purchase my goods, though you do not buy any, With the accents of kindness O deign to deny,

You'll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny.

ZERBINETTE.

DEAR youth, for whom I pining mourn
For whom the lonely night I weep,
Haste to thy Zerbinette forlorn,

And fly the dangers of the deep.
Why should the cruel faithless sea
Detain so long my love from me!

The gentle groves, where oft we stray'd,
Seem all in grief since thou art gone;
Their little birds droop in the shade,

Their breezes, slowly-passing, moan:
And what is flower, or spring, or tree,
Without the kindly sight of thee!

When sleep descends, an angel guest,
To steal from tears these weeping eyes,
All lovely in my troubled rest

I see thy blooming form arise;

I start-it vanishes in air,

And leaves me-leaves me to despair!

Off when the moon, so cold and clear,
Shines o'er the gray mist-colour'd sea,
I watch, and hope thy sails are near,
While all are sunk in sleep but me.
Yet still thy whitening sails forget
To cheer thy poor, poor Zerbinette.'

O winds, and waves, be hush'd to peace;
Peace too, ye stormy tides of fear;
You frightful terrors round me, cease,
Soon shall my lingering love be near,
Soon shall he come without delay,
And kiss this burning tear away.

O no-the tempest shakes the sky-
Hark how it rustles in the grove!
The billows tuntble mountain high-
Ah!-give me give me back my love!