The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker/To Miss Ten Eyck

Dear Kitty, while you rove thro' sylvan bow'rs, Inhaling fragrance from salubrious flow'rs, Or view your blushes mant'ling in the stream, When Luna gilds it with her amber beam; The brazen voice of war awakes our fears, Impearling every damask cheek with tears.

The savage, rushing down the echoing vales, Frights the poor hind with ill portending yells; A livid white his consort's cheeks invest; She drops her blooming infant from her breast; She tries to fly, but quick recoiling fees The painted Indian issuing from the trees; Then life suspensive sinks her on the plain, Till dire explosions wake her up again. Oh horrid sight! her partner is no more; Pale is his corse, or only ting'd with gore;

Her playful babe is dash'd against the stones, Its scalp torn off, and fractur'd all its bones. Where are the dimpling smiles it lately wore? Ghastly in agony it smiles no more! Dumb with amaze, and stupify'd with grief, The captur'd wretch must now attend her chief: Reluctantly she quits the scene of blood, When lo! a sudden light illumes the wood: She turns, and sees the rising fires expand, And conflagration roll thro' half the land; The western flames to orient skies are driv'n, And change the azure to a sable heav'n.

Such are our woes, my dear, and be it known Many still suffer what I tell of one: No more Albania's sons in slumber lie, When Cynthia's crescent gleams along the sky; But every street patrole, and thro' the night Their beamy arms reflect a dreadful light.

Excuse, dear girl, for once this plaintive strain; I must conclude, lest I transgress again.