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THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.
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;
Yon houfe, erected on the rifing ground,
Oh, take me to your hofpitable dome!
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
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;
Struck with fad anguifh at the ftern decree,
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,
And gild the gloom which fhades this mortal state.
That wond'rous power was given,
To raise the foul from thoughtless mirth,
Nor pain nor pleasure can its force destroy,
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.
Their guiltless bofoms know no fear:
Where are the foft delufions fled ?
Muft Wisdom teach the foul to mourn?
Alas! thofe fairy vifions charm no more,
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,
Lead the dance, and fpread the feaft,
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?
Still with ardour strive to gain
And when at length the fatal hour is come,
Rife, heavenly visions, rife!
And every vain delufive fear controul;
Thy beams the finking heart can cheer,
It feeks that heaven from whence it came,
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: