Heaven sends misfortunes: why should we repine? 25 "T is 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 hail'd the morn; 30
But, ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lured 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 soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,

Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor

old man,

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40

Whose trembling limbs have borne himto your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief; and Heaven will bless your store.

Moss.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

WEAK and irresolute is Man;

The purpose of to-day,

Woven with pains into his plan,

To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent and smart the spring, 5

Vice seems already slain,

But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart.

"T is here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view,

10

And while his tongue the charge denies, 15
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length

And dangers little known,

A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail

To reach the distant coast;

The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,

Or all the toil is lost.

20

COWPER

THE POPLAR FIELD.

THE poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed, since I last took a view 5
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade!

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, 10
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 15
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

The change both my heart and my fancy employs,-
I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys;
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 20
COWPER.

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,

Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,

Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo'

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance ev'ry night,

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10

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

COWPER.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female Fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary moss and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;

For thee the tear be duly shed;

Beloved till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.

THE CHAMELEON.

OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;

5

10

15

20

COLLINS.

Yet round the world the blade has been,

5

To see, whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before,