BALLAD. (An infant defenceless, of succour bereft)

An infant defenceless, of succour bereft, On this rude barren wild was I thrown, My sole ray of comfort I had not been left, To brood o'er my sorrows alone:

To see cataracts falling, and hear lions roar, Or the awful loud war on the deep, Is the fate poor Flametta was born to deplore, Which she oft would wish kinder, and weep.

To all this assemblage of horrors enured, What yet greater ills could one prove, Could one think for a heart which had so much endured, Fate should store up a torment like love.

'Tis too much, I've decided, and who shall relate When her and her miseries sleep, The tale of Flametta, will sure wish her fate, Poor wretch, had been kinder, and weep.