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"A more than common BEGGAR we bespeak;
"A form that once has known a happier day."

Thy fightless orbs and venerable beard,

And, prefs'd by weight of years, thy palfy'd head,
Though filent, speak with tongues that must be heard,
Nay, muft command, if VIRTUE be not dead.

Thy fhatter'd, yet thine awe-inspiring form
Shall give the village-lads the soften❜d foul,
To aid the victims of LIFE's frequent ftorm,
And smooth the furges that around them roll;

Teach them that POVERTY may MERIT fhroud;
And teach that VIRTUE may from Mis'RY fpring;
Flame like the lightning from the frowning cloud,
That spreads on NATURE'S fmile its raven wing.

O let me own the heart which pants to blefs;
That nobly fcorns to hide the useless flore;
But looks around for objects of diftrefs,

And triumphs in a forrow for the poor!

When Heav'n on man is pleas'd its wealth to fhow'r,
Ah, what an envy'd blifs doth Heav'n bestow!
To raise pale MERIT in her hopeless hour,

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,
Strews with fome flow'rs the road of life for me,
Ah! can HUMANITY defert my mind?

Shall I not foften the rude flint for thee?

Then welcome, BEGGAR, from the rains and fnow,
And warring elements, to warmth and peace;

Nay, thy companion, too, fhall comfort know,
Who fhiv'ring shakes away the icy fleece.

And lo! he lays him by the fire, elate;
Now on his mafter turns his gladden'd eyes;
Leaps up to greet him on their change of fate,
Licks his lov'd hand, and then beneath him lies.
A hut is mine, amidst a shelt'ring grove:

A Hermit there, exalt to Heav'n thy praise;
There shall the village children show their love,
And hear from thee the tales of other days.
There fhall our feather'd friend, the bird of morn,
Charm thee with orisons to op'ning day;
And there the red-breast, on the leafless thorn,
At eve fhall footh thee with a fimple lay.

When Fate fhall call thee from a world of woe,
Thy friends around fhall watch thy clofing eyes;
With tears, behold thy gentle spirit go,

And wish to join its passage to the skies.




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,

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"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,
"You'd keep it for yourself, Sir,-who can tell ?"
"Then let me squeeze your lovely hand, my dear,
"And prove that all your dread is foolish, vain."
"I've a fore finger, Sir, nay more, I fear,
"You really would not let it go again.”

"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





OME, Refignation! wipe the human tear,

Bid felfifh forrow hufh the fond complaint,
Nor from the God fhe lov'd detain the faint.

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,
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech:
In death thy laft, best lesson still impart,
And write, prepare to die! on ev'ry heart.



THOU unknown Almighty Caufe
Of all my hope and fear!

In whofe dread presence, ere an hour
Perhaps, I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to fhun,

As fomething loudly in my breast
Remonftrates I have done;

Thou know'ft that Thou haft formed me
With paffions wild and ftrong;
And lift'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stepp'd aside,

Do Thou, all good! for fuch Thou art,
In fhades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But Thou art good; and goodness ftill
Delighteth to forgive.

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H! tarry, gentle traveller


now at fetting day;

Nor hafte to leave this lowly vale
For lofty mountains far away.

Oh! tell me what has tempted thee
Through woods and dreary wilds to roam ;
Oh! tell me what has tempted thee
To quit thy lot and peaceful home..

Say, haft thou not a partner dear,

Who's conftant to thy love, and kind?
And wilt thou leave her faithful fide,
Nor caft one forr'wing look behind?

Yon fun that gilds the village fpire,
And gayly sheds his parting ray,
Say fmiles he not as fweetly o'er
Thy native village far away?

Does mad ambition lure thy fteps
To wander in the paths of ftrife?
Ah! think how fwift thy minutes fly!
Ah! think how fhort thy fpan of life !'

For life is like yon crimson beam
That trembles in the western skies;

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