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Not for them the heart is seen
Speaking through th' expressive mien;
Nor for them are pictur'd there
Friendship, pity, love sincere.
Helpless, as they slowly stray,
Childhood points their cheerless way;
“Or the wand exploring guides
Falt'ring steps, where fear presides.
Yet for them has genius kind
Humble pleasure here design'd;
Here, with unexpected ray,
Reach'd the soul that felt no day.
Lonely blindness here can meet
Kindred woes, and converse sweet;
Torpid once, can learn to smile
Proudly o'er its useful toil.
Pify the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your
Whose days are dwindled to the shortes span;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven willbless 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.
Yom 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 ike 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,
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.
On hearing the word “SAINT’’ scornfully applied.—Rev. John Marriott.
A SAINT | Oh would that I could claim
The privileg'd, the honour'd name,
And confidently take my stand,
Though lowest in the saintly band 1
Would, though it were in scorn applied,
That term the test of truth could bide 1
Like kingly salutations giv'n
In mock’ry to the KING of HEAv'N.
A Saint! And what imports the name
Thus bandied in derision's game *
“Holy, and separate from sin;
“To good, nay, ev'n to GoD akin.”
Is such the meaning of a name,
From which a Christian shrinks with shame *
Yes, dazzled with the glorious sight,
He owns his crown is all too bright.
And ill might son of Adam dare
Alone such honour's weight to bear;
But fearlessly he takes the load,
United to the SoN of GoD.
A Saint Oh! give me but some sign,
Some seal to prove the title mine,
And warmer thanks thou shalt command,
Than bringing kingdoms in thine hand.
Oh! for an int’rest in that name,
When hell shall ope its jaws of flame,
And scorners to their doom be hurl’d,
While scorned Saints “shall judge the world !”
How shall the name of Saint be priz'd,
Tho' now neglected and despis'd,
When truth shall witness to the word,
That none but “Saints shall see the Lord l’”
THE BALLOON.—Rev. John Marriott.
O ! for that mounting Spirit ! for that air,
Pure, buoyant, and ethereal; to raise
The soul above these grosser elements,
And teach it to look down upon the world !
Then would earth's low concerns at once assume
Their due dimensions, less'ning to a point
Scarce visible, and, thus diminish'd, lose
Their hold upon the heart; its glittering gauds
Dazzle the sense no more, and warp the bent
Of true ambition; and its promis'd joys
To thin and unsubstantial shadows melt,
Their real essence. Then the voice of man
No longer with seductive influence
Would reach the ear, nor the united shouts
Of erring multitudes appal the soul,
And make firm Virtue from its centre reel,
Drowning the still small voice that speaks within.
Is such the wish yon rising ball inspires 2
Then why not with the silent Eremite
Wander in pathless deserts * Why not court
Unnatural seclusion in the cells,
' Where the bare foot-fall is the loudest sound
That breaks the stillness of monastic gloom *
Wish rather for the privilege to live “ Unspotted from the world.” Wish for the gif . To breathe unhurt the dense and tainted air, Ordained by love and wisdom infinite,