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I care nọt: though this face be seen no more,
THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. PITY the forrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whofe days are dwindled to the fhortest span;
Oh! give relief-and Heav'n will bless your ttore, These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak;
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen’d vears; And inany a furrow in my grief-worni cheek
Has been the channel to a stream 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 magnificent abode.
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
To feek a shelter in an humbler sheda
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 fource of every grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repreit. Heav'n sends misfortunes-why should we repine ?
'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you fee: And your condition may be soon like mine
The child of forrow--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 dy’d, 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-fiage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ;
Oh! give relief—and Heav'n will bless your store.
THE BULWARKS OF SOCIETY.
WHAT constitutes a ftate?
Thick wall or moated gate ;
Not bays and broad arm'd ports,
Not starr'd and Spangled courts,
No :-MEN, high-minded MEN,
In foreft, brake, or den,
Men who their duties know,
These confiitute a state,
O’er thrones and globes elate,
Smit by her sacred frown,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD, . THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the gliminering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowfy tinklings lull the diftant folds ; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient lolitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where leaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hainlet neep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the liraw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share, Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the fiubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their turdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e?er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The peeling anthem fwelis the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or flattery footh-the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empires might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecfiafy the living lyre.
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;
And froze the genial current of the foul..
Full many a gem of purest ray ferene,
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the detert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Some lovely fair, whofe unaffected charms
Shone with attraction to herself unknown; Whose beauty, might have bless’da monarch's arms,
And virtue cast a luftre on the throne. That humble beauty, warm’d an honest heart,
And cheer'd the labours of a faithful (pouse; That virtue form’d for every decent part,
The healthful' offspring that adorn'd their house. Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes; Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d; Forbade to wade through laughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the mule’s flame. The thoughtless world to majesty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize success; But more to innocence their safety owe,
Than pow'r, or genius, e'er conspir’d to bless.
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;