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No farther feek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bofom of his Father and his God.

REFLEXIONS

ON THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.

FROM THOMSON'S SEASON S.

An, little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence furround;
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;

Ah, little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death
And all the fad variety of pain.

How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame. How many bleed,
By fhameful variance betwixt man and man.
How many pine in want, and dungeon gloom,
Shut from the common air, and common ufe
Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of mifery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many fhrink into the fordid hut.

"Of cheerless poverty. How many shake

With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded paffion, madness, guilt, remorse; Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, They furnish matter for the tragic muse. Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, With friendship, peace and contemplation join'd, How many, rack'd with honest paffions, droop In deep retir'd diftrefs. How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish. Thought, fond man, Of these, and all the thousand namelefs ills, That one inceffant struggle render life, One scene of toil, of fuffering and of fate, Vice in his high career would ftand appall'd, And heedlefs rambling impulfe learn to think; The conscious heart of charity would warm, And her wide with benevolence dilate; The focial tear would rife, the focial figh; And into clear perfection, gradual bliss Refining ftill, the focial paffions work.

THE

BEGGAR'S PETITION.

PITY the forrows of a poor old man!

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh!. give relief---and Heaven-will bless your store.

Thefe tatter'd cloaths 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 refidence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morfel of their bread,
A pamper'd menìal fórc'd me from the door,
To feek a fhelter in an humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hofpitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!

Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,

For I am poor and miferably old.

Should I reveal the fource of every grief,

If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not with-hold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be represt.

Heaven fends misfortunes---why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the ftate you fee; And your condition may be foon like mine, ---The child of forrow---and of misery;

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark I fprightly hail'd the morn
But ah! oppreffion forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter---once the comfort of my age!
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is caft abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in fcanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife---fweet foother of my care!
Struck with fad anguifh at the ftern decree,
Fell---ling'ring fell a victim to defpair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the forrows of a poor old man!

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the fhorteft fpan,

Oh! give relief---and Heaven will blefs your fto.

HYMN TO BENEVOLENCE.

BY BLACK LOCK.

HAIL! fource of transport ever new;
While I thy ftrong impulfe purfue,
I taste a joy fincere;

Too vaft for little minds to know,
Who on themselves alone beftow
Their wishes and their care.

Daughter of God! delight of man!
From thee felicity began;

Which ftill thy hand fuftains:

By thee fweet Peace her empire fpread,
Fair Science rais'd her laurell'd head,
And Difcord gnafh'd in chains.

Far as the pointed funbeam flies
Through peopled earth and starry skies,
All nature owns thy nod;

We fee its energy prevail

Through being's ever-rifing scale,

From nothing e'en to God.

By thee infpir'd, the gen'rous breast,
In bleffing others only bleft;

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