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A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
T> seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
Oh! take me to y mr 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,
Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
A little farm was my paternal lot,
My daughter , once, thcfcomfort of my age ,
My tender wife , sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree ,
Fell, ling'rfng fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ,
Whose trembling limbs have bome him to your
door , "Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Ob^iive relief, and Heav'n will bless your store. Chap. IV.
Elegy on the Death of an infortunate Lady.
Hat beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight
Invites ray steps , and points to yonder glade!
Why bade ye else , ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Fate snatcb'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits llow , And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its, congenial place, Nor Left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good , , Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath , These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before .
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
"What can atone ( oh , ever injuc-'d shade ! ) Thy fate unpkyrd and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaiot, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful biers By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs cempos'd; By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honoui'd, and by strangers mournTd. What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour , perhaps , then mourn a year i, And bear about the mockery of Woe To midnight dances , and the public show; What th >' no' weeping Loves thy ashes grace , Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face; What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room', Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb; Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dresfr, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow ,t There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground now sacred by thy relics made.
So peaceful rests , without a stone , a name, What once had beauty, titles , wealth and fame. How lov'd, how honoured once, avails thee not f To whom related , or by whom begot; A heap of dost alone remains of t'ltee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be I
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the praisrd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays f Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart. Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
I Hesk are thy glorious works, Parent of Good $
fall'st. Moon , that now meets the orient sunt, now fly'st With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies And ye five other wand'ring fires , that move
In mystic dance not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements, the«lder birth
Ol Nature's womb, that in quaternion run.
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix ,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or streaming Like, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold ,
In honour to the world's great Author rise ,
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky.
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise , ye winJs, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, yepinesi
With every plant in sign of worship -wave.
Fountains , and ye that warble as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices all, ye living souls ; ye birds ,
That singing up to heav'n gate ascend ,
Bear on your -wings, and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep J
Witness if I be silent, morn or even ,
To hill or valley fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song , and taught his praise.
Hnil, universal Lord ! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd ought of evil, or conceal'd ,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
thou that, with surpassing glory crown'd