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"A more than common BEGGAR we bespeak;
Thy fightless orbs and venerable beard,
And, prefs'd by weight of years, thy palfy'd head,
Thy fhatter'd, yet thine awe-inspiring form
Teach them that POVERTY may MERIT fhroud;
O let me own the heart which pants to blefs;
And triumphs in a forrow for the poor!
When Heav'n on man is pleas'd its wealth to fhow'r,
And lead DESPONDENCE from the tomb of WOE!
Lo! not the little birds fhall chirp in vain,
And, hov'ring round me, vainly court my care; While I poffefs the life-preferving grain,
Welcome, ye chirping tribe, to peck your share.
How can I hear your fongs at SPRING's return,
And hear while SUMMER fpreads her golden ftore; Yet, when the gloom of WINTER bids ye mourn, Heed not the plaintive voice that charm'd before!
Since FORTUNE, to my cottage not unkind,
Shall I not foften the rude flint for thee?
Then welcome, BEGGAR, from the rains and fnow,
Nay, thy companion, too, fhall comfort know,
And lo! he lays him by the fire, elate;
A Hermit there, exalt to Heav'n thy praise;
When Fate fhall call thee from a world of woe,
And wish to join its passage to the skies.
The YOUNG FLY and OLD SPIDER.
BY THE SAME.
RESH was the breath of morn-the busy breeze, As Poets tell us, whisper'd through the trees, And swept the dew-clad blooms with wing fo light: Phoebus got up, and made a blazing fire, That gilded every country house and fpire, And, fmiling, put on his best looks fo bright. On this fair morn, a SPIDER who had fet, To catch a breakfast, his old waving net, With curious art, upon a fpangled thorn; At length, with gravely-fquinting, longing eye, Near him efpy'd a pretty, plump, young fly, Humming her little orifons to morn.
"Good morrow, dear Mifs Fly," quoth gallant Grim--"Good morrow, Sir," reply'd Mils Fly to him
"Walk in, Mifs, pray, and fee what I'm about."
"I'm much obliged t'ye, Sir," Mifs Fly rejoin'd, My eyes are both fo very good, I find,
"That I can plainly see the whole, without." "Fine weather, Mifs"-" Yes, very, very fine," Quoth Mifs-" prodigious fine indeed :"
"But why fo coy ?" quoth Grim, "that you decline "To put within my bow'r
your pretty head ?"
""Tis fimply this,"
Quoth cautious Mifs,
"I fear you'd like my pretty head fo well,
"Poh, poh, child, pray difmifs your
idle dread; "I would not hurt a hair of that fweet head"Well, then, with one kind kifs of friendship meet
"La, Sir," quoth Mifs, with feeming artless tongue, "I fear our falutation would be long;
"So loving, too, I fear that you would eat me.” So faying, with a smile fhe left the rogue, To weave more lines of death, and plan for
TO THE MEMORY OF
DR. STONEHOUSE'S LADY.
BY MISS MORE.
OME, Refignation! wipe the human tear,
Bid felfifh forrow hufh the fond complaint,
Truth, meeknefs, patience, honour'd shade! were thine,
And holy hope, and charity divine:
Though these thy forfeit being could not fave,
Thy faith fubdu'd the terrors of the grave.
Oh! if thy living excellence could teach,
A PRAYER on the PROSPECT of DEATH.
THOU unknown Almighty Caufe
In whofe dread presence, ere an hour
If I have wander'd in those paths
As fomething loudly in my breast
Thou know'ft that Thou haft formed me
Where human weakness has come short,
Do Thou, all good! for fuch Thou art,
Where with intention I have err'd,
But Thou art good; and goodness ftill
H! tarry, gentle traveller
now at fetting day;
Nor hafte to leave this lowly vale
Oh! tell me what has tempted thee
Say, haft thou not a partner dear,
Who's conftant to thy love, and kind?
Yon fun that gilds the village fpire,
Does mad ambition lure thy fteps
For life is like yon crimson beam