Our little lot denies; but Heaven decrees INSCRIPTION FOR THE BLIND ASYLUM, LIVERPOOL STRANGER, pause; for thee the day Yet for them has genius kind THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, 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 stream of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect, drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence has 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 an 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 e'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 repine! 'Tis Heav'n 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, But ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. Lur'd by a villain from her native home, And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. 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, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. VERSES Written on a blank leaf of Cowper's Poems, presented to a Lady on her marriage. Rev. Archdeacon J. Jebb. LADY, were Cowper's spirit here, That sainted spirit sure would breathe A fervent wish, a vow sincere, And twine them with thy bridal wreath, He would not of thy goodness tell, For purest virtue courts the shade ; He would not on thy features dwell, For beauty's short-lived flower must fade. No, lady !-Cease thy modest fears; More pleased his artless Muse would feel To consecrate the filial tears, Which from thy trembling eye-lids steal : To cherish, on this joyful day, The glistning tribute of thy heart, For years of mild paternal sway, For cares that made thee-what thou art. Then would he pray—that white-robed truth, And purest peace and joy serene, (Blest guardians of thy vernal youth) May shield thee thro' life's various scene. But Cowper lives in realms of light, Where kindred seraphs ceaseless sing; Far other hands this wreath unite! Far other hands this off'ring bring!. Yet, lady, wilt thou kindly deign, ('Tis all th' unpractis'd Muse can give) Accept this rudely-warbled strain, And let it, bound with Cowper's, live. These volumes, too, I fondly ween, May, for their author's sake, be priz'd, When thine own hearth shall match the scene By Weston's bard immortaliz'd. For, sure, thou lov'st domestic joys, And hours of intimate delight: And days retir'd from vulgar noise, And converse bland, that cheats the night. Such joys be thine, be his! and still In heart united, as in hands, Blessing and blest, may each fulfil The glorious task your place demands. Lights of the world, may each dispense New lustre through your ample sphere; And very late be summon'd hence To shine thro' Heaven's eternal year. LINES Written when going abroad for recovery of health. J. Bowdler, Jun. TRANQUIL and blest my years have flow'd, By no rude fortune tried ; What wiser Heaven denied. my brow, Lead Darkness, Want, and Fear, And mourn the ruin'd year? Around the darkness roll, Shall reach my fainting soul: |