Our little lot denies; but Heaven decrees Beyond all flatt'ry, and all praise above; The taunting word suppress'd as soon as thought: On these Heaven bade the sweets of life depend, And crush'd ill-fortune when she gave a friend. Small slights, contempt, neglect, unmixt with hate, Make up in number what they want in weight: These, and a thousand griefs minute as these, Corrode our comforts, and destroy our peace. INSCRIPTION FOR THE BLIND ASYLUM, LIVERPOOL. STRANGER, pause; for thee the day Spreads the lawn and rears the bower, Not for them the joy to trace Not for them the heart is seen Helpless, as they slowly stray, Yet for them has genius kind Lonely blindness here can meet He, who deign'd for us to die, 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; Yon house, erected on the rising ground, (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Here as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, Oh! take me to your hospitable dome, 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! 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, 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, No, lady!-Cease thy modest fears; Which from thy trembling eye-lids steal: To cherish, on this joyful day, The glist'ning 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, Yet, lady, wilt thou kindly deign, These volumes, too, I fondly ween, For, sure, thou lov'st domestic joys, And days retir'd from vulgar noise, And converse bland, that cheats the night. Such joys be thine, be his! and still The glorious task your place demands. 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; For life was young, and Hope bestow'd Then shall I shrink or murmur now, Then let the low'ring storm increase, Some wand'ring gleam of joy and peace. 'Mid the deep shade, the roaring wind |