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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 !

my care!



FRIEND to the wretch whose bosom knows no joy!
Parent of bliss, beyond the reach of fate!

Celestial Hope! thon gift divine !
Sweet balm of grief! O fill be mine!

When pains torment and cares annoy,

Thou only canft their force abate,
And gild the gloom which thades this mortal state,

Though oft thy joys are false and vain,
Though anxious doubts attend thy train,
Though disappointment mock thy care,

And point the way to fell despair,
Yet still my secret soul thall own thy pow'r,
In sorrow's bitterest pang, in pleasure's gayest hour.
For from the date of Reason's birth

That wond'rous power was given,
To soften 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,

varied scene it points to future joy.

In every

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Fancy, wave thy airy pinions,

Bid the soft ideas rise,
Spread o'er all thy wide dominions

Vernal sweets and cloudless skies.
And lo! on yonder verdant plain,

A lovely youthful Train appear,
Their gentle hearts have felt no pain,

Their guiltless bosoms know no fear :
In cach gay scene some new delight they find,
Yet fancy gayer prospects still behind.
Where are the soft delusions fled ?

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 ;
Far other thoughts must now the soul employ,
It glows with other hopes, it pants for other joy.

Hark! the sprightly voice of pleasure

Calls to yonder rosy bow'r,
There she scatters all her treasure,

There exerts her magic pow'r.
Liften to the pleasing call,
Follow, mortals, follow all ;
Lead the dance, and spread the feast,
Crown with roses every guest :
Now the sprightly minstrels found,

Picafure's voice is heard around,
And Pleasure's fprightly voice the hills and dales resound.
Whence arose that fecret figh-

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.

Are these, O Hope! the glories of thy reign ?

The airy dreams of fancy and of youth !
Must all thy boasted pleasures lead to pain ;

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,
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 ligh to leave that bliss he ne'er enjoy'd ?

Rise, heavenly visions, rife!

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,
And light the weary pilgrim on his way:

For not in vain did Heav'n inspire

That active spark of sacred fire
Which still with restless ardour glows :
In pain, in pleasure still the same,

It seeks that heaven from whence it came,
And scorns all meaner joys, all transient woes.

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.

Still unmov'd, let Hope remain

Fix'd on true fubftantial joy ;
Dangers tben (hall threat in vain,

Pains torment, or cares annoy:

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