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I care nọt: though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before.
Bright'as before the day-itar will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor florms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth, nor portents in the air ;
Unknown and filent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet fome there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whose breasts I wilh my tomb to raise :
Lov'd in my life, lamented in my end,
Their praise would crown me as their precepts mend:
To them may these fond lines my name endear,
Not from tlie poet, but the friend fincere.


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.
(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)

Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial forc'd me from the door,

To feek a shelter in an humbler sheda
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 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.
My tender wife-sweet foother of my care!

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell-ling’ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

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.

door ;


WHAT constitutes a ftate?
Not high-rais'd battlement, or labour'd mound,

Thick wall or moated gate ;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd;

Not bays and broad arm'd ports,
Where, laughing at the fiorm, rich navies ride ;

Not starr'd and Spangled courts,
Where low-brow'd bareness wafts perfume to pride;

No :-MEN, high-minded MEN,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued.

In foreft, brake, or den,
As beatis excel cold rocks and brambles rude;

Men who their duties know,
But know their RIGHTS, and knowing, dare main-

Prevent the long-aim'd blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain

These confiitute a state,
And sovereign LAW, that states colle&ted will,

O’er thrones and globes elate,
Sits emprefs, crowning good, represling ill;

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend ÖPPRESSION, like a vapour finks,

And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.,

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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.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;
Chill penury repress’d their noble rage,

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.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble firife,

Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way,


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