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ftore.

Whole days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will blefs your
"These tatter'd clothes my poverty befpeak;
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And ev'ry furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been a channel to a flood of tears.

my road;

"Yon house, erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting afpect, drew me from
For plenty there a refidence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
"Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
There as I crav'd a morfel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove 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 fources of my grief,
If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breaft,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be reprefs'd.

"Heav'n fends misfortunes; why should we repine? 'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state

And

your condition may be foon like mine,

The child of forrow and of mifery.

"A little farm was my paternal lot,

you

fee;

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

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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 ftage,
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 wretchednefs and me.

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Pity the forrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; Whose days are dwindled to the fhortest span;

Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your flore."

"Enter, my aged friend!" reply'd the hoft,
"Enter my humble manfion-child of woe!
No pompous grandeur does my table boast-
Such as I have I freely will beftow."

With grateful tears the fuppliant bow'd his head,
With fteps enliven'd trod the winding stair-
The wholefome viands, hofpitably spread,
Cheer'd his old heart, and foften'd all his care.

Hail, genial warmer of the human heart!
Hail, Hofpitality! thou flame divine!
Whether at feftive board thy bounties fhine,
Or to the woe-worn breast thou dost impart.
The weary traveller thy value knows ;

Sorrow is footh'd-affliction, too, made light:
Through thee misfortune's cloud appeareth bright,
And pining want with grateful feeling glows.
Thy manfion's blefs'd in bleffings to mankind,-
Beflowing thus as Heav'n at firft decreed-
Thine all the pleafures of the godlike deed-
Exalted, pure, congenial, and refin'd.
Hail, Hofpitality! thou flame divine!
The heart joys of self-complacency are thine.

EPITAPH for ALGERNON SIDNEY.

BOOTHBY.

NOMS'T thou, brave youth! by kindred virtue led,

the dead,

That bright example may infpire thy breast?
Arreft thy ftep: here Sidney's afhes rest.

Does the found vibrate through thy throbbing heart?
Glows thy warm cheek, do tears indignant ftart?
The omens hail: they mark thy ftrenuous mind;
The honeft guardian of thy race defign'd.

Approach; contemplate this immortal name;
Swear on this fhrine to emulate his fame;
To dare, like him, e'en to thy lateft breath;
Contemning chains, and poverty, and death.

Then go:

and dauntless in thy country's caufe,
Affert her rights, and liberties and laws;
Unfading honours be thy glorious doom;
And tears, like those thou fhedd'ft, bedew thy tomb.

But if this facred name awake no zeal,
No gen'rous ardour for the public weal;
Purfue thy way, nor vainly loiter here;
Thy tearlefs eye profanes the patriot's bier.

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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

SPIRIT

THE GRAVE OF HOWARD.

BOWLES.

PIRIT of Death! whofe outstretch'd pennons dread
Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread,

Who darkly fpeedeft on thy deftin'd way,

'Mid fhrieks, and cries, and founds of dire dismay;
Spirit! behold thy victory-affume

A form more terrible, an ampler plume;
For he who wander'd o'er the world alone,
Lift'ning to Mis'ry's univerfal moan;

He who, fuftain'd by virtue's arm fublime,
Tended the fick and poor from clime to clime;
Low in the duft is laid-thy nobleft spoil!
And Mercy ceases from her awful toîÎ!

'Twas where the peftilence at thy command-
Arofe to defolate the fick'ning land,
When many a mingled cry and dying pray'r
Refounded to the lift'ning midnight air,

When deep difmay heard not the frequent knell,.
And the wan carcafe fefter'd as it fell:
'Twas there, with holy virtue's awful mien,
Amid the fad fights of that fearful scene,
Calm he was found: the dews of death he dry'd;
He fpoke of comfort to the poor that cry'd;
He watch'd the fading eye, the flagging breath,
Ere yet the languid fenfe was loft in death;
And, with that look protecting angels wear,
Hung o'er the difmal couch of pale despair!

Friend of mankind! thy righteous tafk is o'er;
The heart that throbb'd with pity, beats no more.

Around the limits of this rolling sphere,
Where'er the juft and good thy tale fhall hear,
A tear fhall fall:-alone, amidst the gloom
Of the fill dungeon, his long forrow's tomb,
The captive, mourning, o'er his chain shall bend,
To think the cold earth holds his only friend!-
He who with labour draws his wafting breath
On the forfaken filent bed of death,

Rememb'ring thy laft look, and anxious eye,
Shall gaze around, unvifited, and die!

Friend of mankind, farewell!—these tears we shed,
So nature dictates, o'er thy earthly bed;
Yet we forget not it was his high will,
Who faw thee virtue's arduous task fulfil,
Thy fpirit from its toil at last should reft:
So wills thy God, and what he wills is best!

Thou haft encounter'd dark disease's train,
Thou haft convers'd with poverty and pain,
Thou haft beheld the drearieft forms of woe,
That through this mournful vale unfriended go;
And, pale with fympathy, haft paus'd to hear
The faddeft plaints e'er told to human ear.
Go then, the task fulfill'd, the trial o'er,
Where fickness, want, and pain are known no more!
HOWARD! it matters not, that far away
From Albion's peaceful fhore thy bones decay.
Him it might please, by whofe fuftaining hand
Thy fteps were led through many a diftant land,
Thy long and laft abode fhould there be found,
Where many a favage nation prowls around;
That Virtue from the hallow'd spot might rise,
And, pointing to the finish'd facrifice,
Teach, to the roving Tartar's favage clan,
Leffons of love, and higher aims of man.

Nor vain the thought, that fairer hence may rife New views of life, and wider charities.

Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar,
From the cold Don, and Wolga's wand'ring fhore,

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