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651. MODERN REPUBLICS. Where are the republics of modern times, which cluster'd round immortal Italy? Venice, and Genoa exist, but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave and peaceful Swiss, in their native fastnesses; but the guaranty of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the valleys are not easily retained. When the invader comes, he moves like an avalanche, carrying destruction in his path. The peasantry sink before him. The country is too poor for plunder; and too rough for valuable conquest. Nature presents her eternal barriers, on every side, to check the wantonness of ambition; and Switzerland remains, with her simple institutions, a military road to fairer climates, scarcely worth a permanent possession.

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it, under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked, by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices, or luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning; simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government, and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us, and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary, than for the people to preserve, what they themselves have created?

Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France, and the lowlands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany, and the North, and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days.

Can it be, that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? that she is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins ís-"They were, but they are not." Forbid it, my countrymen; forbid it, Heaven!-Story.

652. RAZOR SELLER.

A fellow, in a market-town,

Most musical, cried razors, up and down, And offered twelve-for eighteen-pence;

Wh, certainly, seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap, That every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard; Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush, stuck beneath his nose. With cheerfulness, the eighteen-pence he paid, And, proudly, to himself, in whispers saidThis rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter, if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize."

So home the clown, with his good fortune went,
Smiling,--in heart and soul content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered, from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began, with grinning pain, to grub→
Just like a hedger, cutting furze :

"Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he tried; All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen-pence was in my purse." In vain, to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut and dug, and whined, and stamp'd, and swore;

Bro't blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd and made wry
And curs'd each razor's body,o'er and o'er.[faces,
His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it—laughing at the steel, and suds.
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst veng'nce, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.

"Razors! a vile, confounded dog!-
Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him-and begun, "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue! to you, 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal! for an hour, have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors, just like oyster-knives.

Sirrah! I tell you, you 're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave."
"Friend," quoth the razor man, "I'm not a knave;
As for the razors you have bought,--
Upon my soul, I never thought

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«What were they made for then, you dog?” he cries. And voice, not much unlike an Indian yell, "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile, " to sell." 653. UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. I speak-in the spirit-of the British law, which makes liberty- commensurate with, and inseparable from, the British soil,-which proclaims, even to the stranger and the sojourner, the moment he sets his foot upon British earth, that the ground on which he treads-is holy, and consecrated-by the genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION. matter in what language-his doom may have been pronounced; no matter what complexion-incompatible with freedom, an Indian, or an African sun may have burnt upon him; no matter in what disastrous battle-his liberty may have been cloven down; no matter with what solemnities-he may have been devoted-upon the altar of slavery; the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar, and the god, sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains, that burst from around him, disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION.-Grattan. When breezes are soft, and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away-to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green; As if the bright fringe-of herbs on its brink Had given their stain, to the wave they drink.

654. GINEVRA; OR LOST BRIDE. If ever you should come to Modena, Stop at a palace, near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in, of old, by one of the Donati. Its noble gardens, terrace, above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you--but before you go, Enter the house-forget it not, I pray youAnd look awhile upon a picture there 'Tis of a lady, in her earliest youth, The last, of that illustrious family; Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not. He, who observes it-ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes, and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away. She sits, inclining forward, as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold, Broidered with flowers, and clasp'd from head to An emerald stone, in every golden clasp; [foot, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowing-of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs,
Over a mouldering heir-loom; its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved, by Antony of Trent,
With scripture-stories, from the life of Christ;
A chest, that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes-of some old ancestors--
That, by the way-it may be true, or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale, they told me there.
She was an only child-her name-Ginevra,
The joy, the pride-of an indulgent father;
And, in her fifteenth year, became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate, from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there, in her bridal dress,
She was; all gentleness, all gayety;

Her pranks, the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now, the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but, at the nuptial feast, [ing.
When all sat down, the bride herself was want-
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest-the panic spread.
"Twas but that instant-she had left Francesco,
Laughing, and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth-imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor, from that hour, could anything be guessed,
But, that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco-flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it
away, in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived-and long might you have seen
An old man, wandering-as in quest of something,

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That mouldering chest was noticed; and, 'twas
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
"Twas done, as soon as said; but, on the way,
It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton!
With here and there a pearl, and emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished--save a wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both-
"Ginevra."

There, then, had she found a grave!
Within that chest, had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down forever!--Rogers.

THE NEEDLE.

The gay belles of fashion, may boast of excelling,
In waltz, or cotillion, at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration, by vauntingly telling-
Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill;
But give me the fair one, in country or city,
Whose home, and its duties, are dear to her heart;
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,
While plying the needle, with exquisite art;
The bright little needle, the swift flying needle,
The needle-directed by beauty, and art.
If LOVE has a potent, a magical token,
A talisman, ever resistless, and true,
A charm, that is never evaded or broken,

A witchery, certain the heart to subdue,
'Tis THIS, and his armory-never has furnished,
So keen, and unerring, or polish'd a dart,
(Let beauty direct it,) so pointed, and burnish'd,
And, oh! it is certain-of touching the heart,
The bright little needle, the swift flying needle,
The needle-directed by beauty, and art.
Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration,
By dressing-for conquest, and flirting-with all;
You never, whate'er be your fortune, or station,
Appear half so lovely, at rout, or at ball,
As-gaily conven'd at the work-covered table,
Each-cheerfully active, and playing her part,
Beguiling the task, with a song, or a fable,

And plying the needle-with exquisite art; The bright little needle,-the long darning needle, The swift knitting needle, the needle, directed by BEAUTY and ART.-- Woodworth.

In

parts superior, what advantage lies? Tell, (for you can) what is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known; To see all others' faults, and feel our own; Condemn'd in business, or in arts to drudge, Without a second, or without a judge. Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land; All fear, none aid you, and few-understand. Even from the body's purity, the mind Receives a secret sympathetic aid. Not rural sight alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirits.

655. ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. They have gone to the companions of their cares, of their foils. It is well with them. The treasures of America are now in Heaven. How long the list of our good, and wise, and brave, assembled there! how few remain with us! There is our Washington; and those who followed him in their country's confidence, are now met together with him, and all that illustrious company.

The faithful marble may preserve their image; the engraven brass may proclaim their worth; but the humblest sod of independent America, with nothing but the dewdrops of the morning to gild it, is a prouder mausoleum than kings or conquerors can boast. The country is their monument. Its independence is their epitaph.

But not to their country is their praise limited. The whole earth is the monument of illustrious men. Wherever an agonizing people shall perish, in a generous convulsion, for want of a valiant arm and a fearless heart, they will cry, in the last accents of despair, Oh, for a Washington, an Adams, a Jefferson! Wherever a regenerated nation, starting up in its might, shall burst the links of steel that enchain it, the praise of our fathers shall be the prelude of their triumphal

song.

The contemporary and successive generations of men will disappear. In the long lapse of ages, the tribes of America, like those of Greece and Rome, may pass away. The fabric of American freedom, like all things human, however firm and fair, may crumble into dust. But the cause in which these our fathers shone is immortal. They did that, to which no age, no people of reasoning men, can be indifferent.

Their eulogy will be uttered in other languages, when those we speak, like us who speak them, shall all be forgotten. And when the great account of humanity shall be closed at the throne of God, in the bright list of his children, who best adorned and served it, shall be found the names of our Adams and our Jefferson.-Everett.

Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,
In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore !
But alas! in a far distant land I awaken, [more!
And sigh for the friends, who can meet me no
O, hard, cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me,
In a mansion of peace,where no peri! can chase me?
Ah! never, again, shall my brother enibrace me,
They died to defend me, or live-to ueplore !
But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers, ERIN GO BRAGH!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo-
O, ERIN MA VORNEEN, ERIN GO BRAGH!
657. THE HYPOCRITE.

He was a man,

[tion,

Who stole the livery of the court of heaven,
To serve the devil in; in virtue's guise,
Devoured the widow's house, and orphan's bread;
In holy phrase, transacted villanies,
That common sinners-durst not meddle with.
At sacred feast, he sat among the saints,
And with his guilty hands-touched holiest things..
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed
More deeply, or with graver countenance,
Or longer prayer, wept o'er the dying man,.
Whose infant children, at the moment, he
Planned how to rob. In sermon-style he bought,
And sold, and lied; and salutation made,
In scripture terms. He prayed, by quantity,
And with his repetitions, long and loud,
All knees were weary. With one hand, he put
A penny-in the urn of poverty,
And with the other-took a shilling out.
On charitable lists,-those trumps, which told
The public ear, who had, in secret, done
The poor a benefit, and half the alms
They told of, took themselves to keep them sound-
He blazed his name, more pleased to have it there,
Than in the book of life. Seest thou the man!
A serpent with an angel's voice! a grave, [ceiv'd
With flowers bestrewed! and yet, few were de-

656. EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach-a poor exile of Erin,
The dew, on his thin robe, hung heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight repair-His virtues, being over-done, his face,
To wander alone, by the wind-beaten hill: [ing,
But the day-star-attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose-on his own native Isle of the Ocean,
Where once, in the glow of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold anthem-of ERIN GO BRAGH!
O, sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf, to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge-from famine, or danger,

A home, and a country-remain not for me;
Ah! never, again, in the green sunny bow'rs, [hours,
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet
Or cover my harp, with the wild woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers--of ERIN Go Bragh!
O,where is my cottage, that stood by the wild wood?
Sisters and sires, did ye weep for its fall? [hood,
O, where is the mother, that watch'd o'er my child-
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure,
O, why did it doat-on a fast fading treasure-
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall, without mea-
But rapture, and beauty, they cannot recall! [sure,

[ing,

'Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities,
Too pompously attended, and his speech,
Larded too frequently, and out of time,
With serious phraseology,-were rents,
That in his garments opened, in spite of him,
Thro' which, the well accustomed eye, could see
The rottenness of his heart. None deeper blush'd,
As in the all-piercing light he stood, exposed,
No longer herding-with the holy ones.
Yet still he tried to bring his countenance-
To sanctimonious seeming; but, meanwhile,
The shame within, now visible to all,
His purpose balk'd. The righteous smil'd, and even
Despair itself, some signs of laughter gave,
As, ineffectually, he strove to wipe
His brow, that inward guiltiness defiled.
Detected wretch! of all the reprobate,
None seem'd more mature-for the flames of hell;
Where still his face, from ancient custom, wears.
A holy air, which says to all that pass
Him by, "I was a hypocrite on earth."-Pollock.

658. PARRHASIUS AND CAPTIVE. "Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with

Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse

extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then
about to paint tm's Anat. of Mel.

There stood unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-haired and majestical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
Twas evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipped with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed.
The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes, magical they lay.
Parrhasius stood, gazing, forgetfully,
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye,
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip [flight.
Were like the winged God's, breathing from his
"Bring me the captive now!

My hands feel skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens-around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

Ha! bind him on his back!
Look-as Prometheus in my picture here!

Quick or he faints! stand with the cordial near!
Now-bend him to the rack!

Press down the poison'd links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
So let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
"Pity" thee! So I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar--
But does the rob'd priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine-
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

Yet there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn-
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

Ay-though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first;
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild-
All-I would do it all-

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot-
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!

O heavens-but I appal

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint?-rack him till he revives!

Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye

Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath-
Another Wilt thou never come, oh, Death!
Look! how his temples flutter!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders, gasps, Jove help him! so, he's dead.
How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unreigned ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought,
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget
The thirst of which we perish!

O, if earth be all, and Heaven nothing,
What thrice mocked fools we are!-Willis.
NATURAL HISTORY OF LOVE,
Addressed to Dr. Moyce by the ladies.
Dear doctor, let it not transpire,
How much your lectures we admire;
How, at your eloquence we wonder,
When you explain the cause of thunder,
Of lightning, and electricity,
With so much plainness, and simplicity;
The origin of rocks, and mountains,
Of seas, and rivers, lakes, and fountains;
Of rain, and hail, and frost, and snow,
And all the storms, and winds that blow;
Besides a hundred wonders more,

Of which we never heard before.
But now, dear doctor, not to flatter,
There is a most important matter,

A matter which our thoughts run much on,
A matter, which you never touch on,
A subject, if we right conjecture,
That well deserves a long, long lecture,
Which all the ladies would approve,-
The natural history of love!
Deny us not, dear doctor Moyace!
Oh, list to our entreating voice!
Tell us why our poor, tender hearts,
So easily admit love's darts.

Teach us the marks-of love's beginning,
What makes us think a beau so winning;
What makes us think a coxcomb, witty,
A black coat, wise, a red coat-pretty!
Why we believe such horrid lies,
That we are angels, from the skies,
Our teeth like pearl, our cheeks like roses,
Our eyes like stars-such charming noses!
Explain our dreams, awake, and sleeping,
Explain our blushing, laughing, weeping.
Teach us, dear doctor, if you can,
To humble that proud creature, man;
To turn the wise ones into fools,
The proud and insolent to tools;
To make them all run, helter-skelter,
Their necks-into the marriage-halter:
Then leave us to ourselves with these;
We'll turn and rule them as we please.
Dear doctor, if you grant our wishes,
We promise you-five-hundred kisses;
And, rather than the affair be blundered,
We'll give you-six-score to the hundred.

[filled

659. SPEECH OF BELIAL, DISSUADING WAR. I should be much for open war, oh peers, As not behind in hate, if what were urged, Main reason to persuade immediate war, Did not dissuade me more, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole success; When he, who most excels in tact of arms, In what he counsels, and in what excels, Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair, And utter dissolution as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge?-The towers of heaven are With armed watch, that render all access Impregnable: oft, on the bordering deep, Encamp their legions: or with obscure wing, Scout far and wide, into the realms of night, Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way By force, and at our heels, all hell should rise, With blackest insurrection, to confound Heaven's purest light; yet our great enemy, All incorruptible, would, on his throne, Sit, unpolluted; and the etherial mold, Incapable of stain, would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hopeIs flat despair; we must exasperate The almighty victor-to spend all his rage, And that must end us; that-must be our cure,To be no more.-Sad cure!-for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts, that wander through eternity,To perish rather, swallowed up, and lost, In the wide tomb of uncreated night, Devoid of sense, and motion?--And who knows (Let this be good) whether our angry foe Can give it, or will ever? How he can, Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure. Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, Belike through impotence, or unawares, To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger, whom his anger saves To punish endless?" Wherefore cease ye then?" Say they, who counsel war; "we are decreed, Reserved, and destined-to eternal wo: Whatever doing,-what can we suffer more, What can we suffer worse?" Is this then worst, Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What, when we fled amain, pursued and struck With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The deep to shelter us? this hell, then, seemed A refuge from those wounds! or, when we lay, Chained on the burning lake? that sure was worse. What if the breath, that kindled those grim fires, Awaked, should blow them into seven-fold rage, And plunge us in the flames? or, from above, Should intermitted vengeance-arm again His red right hand to plague us? what if all Her stores were opened, and this firmament Of hell-should spout her cataracts of fire, Impending horrors, threatening hideous fall, One day upon our heads; while we, perhaps, Designing, or exhorting glorious war, Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey Of racking whirlwinds; or, for ever sunk Under yon boiling ocean, wrapped in chains; There to converse-with everlasting groans,

| Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,
Ages-of hopeless end?-this would be worse.
War, therefore, open and concealed, alike
My voice dissuades.-Milton.

POMPEII. HOW serenely slept the star-light on that lovely city! how breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their security! how softly rippled the dark, green waves beyond! how cloudless spread aloft and blue the dreaming Campanian skies! Yet this was the last night for the gay Pompeii! the colony of the hoar Chaldean! the fabled city of Hercules! the delight of the voluptuous Roman! Age after age had rolled indestructive, unheeded, over its head; and now the last ray quivered on the dial plate of its doom!

[door;

660. THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. 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 Heav'n 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 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 represt. Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine? 'Tis Heav'n has bro't 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.
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 Heav'n will bless your store.
Canst thou administer-to a mind diseased?
Pluck-from the memory-a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles-of the brain:
And with some sweet-oblivious antidote-
Cleanse the stuffed bosom-of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs-upon the heart?

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