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THE

BEGGAR'S PETITION.

ANON.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, [door,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen’d years ;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road:
For Plenty there a residence had 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 drove me from the door
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh take me to your hospitable dome!
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity c'er touch'd your breast, ,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repress’d.

Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repines
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you sce;
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:
But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot;.
My cattle died, 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 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, ling’ring fell, a victim to despair!
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, [door, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store! EPISTLE

TO

THE MOST HONOURABLE

THE MARCHIONESS GREY:

Sent with Phæbe, a Pastoral Opera.

BY J. HOADLY, LL.D.

FROM polish'd circles of the fair, '
From gilded domes and tainted air,
Where Pleasure's toilsome, Silence loud,
Retirement but from crowd to crowd ;
Where Love but drives a trade at best
(An Alley-broker He profess’d),
Not giving corresponding hearts,
But chaffering with his golden darts;
Where innocence the world amazes,
Her face scarce known in public places :
But choosing still at home--to share
One corner of St. James's Square-
Far hence permit the simple swain
To lead thee to the guiltless plain,

Where Phæbe, innocent and gay,
Dares with the dangerous passion play:
And Celia, uninstructed maid,
Stoops her pure cause herself to plead.

Nor scornfully wilt thou disdain . The shepherd's pastime, pure though plain. Thou (whose well-cultivated mind, Nor for enjoyment too refind, Nor others' woes to feel too wise, Knows all but Nature to despise) Serene shalt teach the madding train, False pleasure is but real pain ; Superior to her Siren-song, Prudent thou glidst the stream along, Not careless of the baits of youth, But steady to the pilot, Truth. With her upon the helm advanc'd, In purer joys thou sitt’st intranc’d, And seest with pity and amaze The voluntary herds, that graze

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