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THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Pity
the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose tremhling limbs have borne hiin to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest ipan ;
Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store! These tatter'd clothes my poverty helpeak,
These 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 house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a niagnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !
Here, as I crav'd a moriel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To seek a thelter in a humbler Thed. Oh, take me to your hospitable dome!
Keen blou's the wind, and piercing is the cold ! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and milerably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repress'd,
Heaven sends misfortunes ; why should we repine ?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see ; And your condition may be soon like mine,
The Child of Sorrow and of Misery. A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly haild the morn; But, ah! Oppression 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 cast abandon’d on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife, sweet foother of
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows 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 !
Celestial Hope! thon gift divine !
When pains torment and cares annoy,
Thou only canft their force abate,
Though oft thy joys are false and vain,
And point the way to fell despair,
That wond'rous power was given,
And wing its flight to heav'n.
varied scene it points to future joy.
Bid the soft ideas rise,
Vernal sweets and cloudless skies.
A lovely youthful Train appear,
Their guiltless bosoms know no fear :
Must Wisdom teach the soul to mourn ?
Return, ye days of ignorance, return ! Before my eyes your fairy visions spread !
Alas! those fairy visions charm no more,
The pleasing dream of youth is o'er ;
Calls to yonder rosy bow'r,
There exerts her magic pow'r.
Picafure's voice is heard around,
What sudden 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 store;
The confcious fpirit ftill aspires,
Still pursues fome new desires, And, every with obtain'd, it sighs and pants for more.
The airy dreams of fancy and of youth !
Thy joys all vanish at the light of truth? Must wretched man, led by a meteor fire,
To distant blessings fiill aspire ;
Still with ardour strive to gain
Joys he oft pursues in vain,
And every vain delusive fear controul; Let real glory charm my wond'ring eyes,
And real happiness enchant my soul ! Hail, glorious dawn of everlasting day,
Though faintly seen!
Thy beams the finking heart can cheer,
For not in vain did Heav'n inspire
That active spark of sacred fire
It seeks that heaven from whence it came,
The foul, for perfect bliss design’d,
Strives in vain that bliss to find, 'Till wing'd by Hope, at length it flies Beyond the narrow bounds of earth, and air, and skies.
Fix'd on true fubftantial joy ;
Pains torment, or cares annoy: