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PITY the forrows of a poor old man,

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh, give relief, and Heaven will blefs your store!

These tatter'd clothes my poverty hespeak,

Thefe hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon houfe, erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting afpect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a refidence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To feek a thelter in a humbler thed.

Oh, take me to your hofpitable dome!

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miferably old.

Should I reveal the fources of my grief,

If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be reprefs'd.

Heaven fends misfortunes; why should we repine?

'Tis Heaven has brought me to the ftate you fee; And your condition may be foon like mine, The Child of Sorrow and of Mifery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I fprightly hail'd the morn;
But, ah! Oppreffion forc'd me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is caft abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in fcanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet foother of my care!

Struck with fad anguifh at the ftern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the forrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span! Oh, give relief, and heaven will bless your store!




FRIEND to the wretch whose bofom knows no joy!

Parent of bliss, beyond the reach of fate!

Celestial HOPE! thou gift divine!

Sweet balm of grief! O ftill be mine!

When pains torment and cares annoy,
Thou only canft their force abate,

And gild the gloom which fhades this mortal state.
Though oft thy joys are falfe and vain,
Though anxious doubts attend thy train,
Though difappointment mock thy care,
And point the way to fell despair,
Yet ftill my fecret foul fhall own thy pow'r,
In forrow's bitterest pang, in pleasure's gayeft hour.
For from the date of Reason's birth

That wond'rous power was given,
To foften every grief on earth,

To raise the foul from thoughtless mirth,
And wing its flight to heav'n.

Nor pain nor pleasure can its force destroy,

In every

varied fcene it points to future joy.


Fancy, wave thy airy pinions,

Bid the foft ideas rife,

Spread o'er all thy wide dominions

Vernal fweets and cloudlefs fkies.
And lo! on yonder verdant plain,
A lovely youthful train appear,
Their gentle hearts have felt no pain,

Their guiltless bofoms know no fear:
In cach gay scene fome new delight they find,
Yet fancy gayer profpects still behind.

Where are the foft delufions fled ?

Muft Wisdom teach the foul to mourn?
Return, ye days of ignorance, return!
Before my eyes your fairy visions spread!

Alas! thofe fairy vifions charm no more,
The pleafing dream of youth is o'er;
Far other thoughts must now the foul employ,
It glows with other hopes, it pants for other joy.


Hark! the fprightly voice of pleasure

Calls to yonder rofy bow'r, There the scatters all her treasure,

There exerts her magic pow'r.

Liften to the pleafing call,
Follow, mortals, follow all ;

Lead the dance, and fpread the feaft,
Crown with roses every gueft:

Now the fprightly minftrels found,

Pleafure's voice is heard around,

And Pleasure's fprightly voice the hills and dales refound. Whence arofe that fecret figh

What fudden gloom o'erclouds thy cheerful brow?

Say, does not every pleasure wait thee now,

That e'er could charm the ear, or court the eye?

In vain does Nature lavish all her ftore;

The confcious fpirit ftill afpires,

Still pursues fome new defires,

And, every with obtain'd, it fighs and pants for more.


Are thefe, O Hope! the glories of thy reign?
The airy dreams of fancy and of youth!
Muft all thy boafted pleasures lead to pain;
Thy joys all vanish at the light of truth?
Muft wretched man, led by a meteor fire,
To diftant bleffings ftill afpire;

Still with ardour strive to gain
Joys he oft pursues in vain,
Joys which quickly must expire;

And when at length the fatal hour is come,
And death prepares the irrevocable doom,
Mourn all his darling hopes at once destroy'd,
And figh to leave that blifs he ne'er enjoy'd?

Rife, heavenly visions, rife!

And every vain delufive fear controul;
Let real glory charm my wond'ring eyes,
And real happiness enchant my foul !
Hail, glorious dawn of everlafting day,
Though faintly seen!

Thy beams the finking heart can cheer,
And light the weary pilgrim on his way:
For not in vain did Heav'n inspire
That active fpark of facred fire
Which still with restless ardour glows:
In pain, in pleasure still the fame,

It feeks that heaven from whence it came,
And fcorns all meaner joys, all tranfient woes.

The foul, for perfect bliss design'd,

Strives in vain that blifs to find,

'Till wing'd by Hope, at length it flies

Beyond the narrow bounds of earth, and air, and skies.


Still unmov'd, let Hope remain

Fix'd on true fubstantial joy : Dangers then hall threat in vain,

Pains torment, or cares annoy:

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