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Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store. “ 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. “ 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!

There 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. “ Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?

'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you And your condition may

be foon 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 drove me from my cot,

My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,

Lir'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide sage,

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. “ My'tender wife, sweet foother of

my care, Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, lingʻring, fell a vi&tim to despair!

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

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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 Heav’n will bless your ftore." “ Enter, my aged friend!" reply'd the hoft

,
“ Enter my humble mansion—child of woe!
No pompous grandeur does my table boait-

Such as I have I freely will beftow."
With grateful tears the suppliant bow'd his head,

With steps enliven’d trod the winding stair-
The wholesome viands, hospitably spread,

Cheer'd his old heart, and soften'd all his care.

Hail, genial warmer of the human heart!

Hail, Hospitality! thou flame divine !

Whether at feftive board thy bounties shine, Or to the woe-worn breast thou doft impart. The weary traveller thy value knows;

Sorrow is foothid-affliction, too, made light:

Through thee misfortune's cloud appeareth bright,
And pining want with grateful feeling glows.
Thy mansion's bless’d in blessings to mankind,-

Bestowing thus as Heav'n at first decreed

Thine all the pleasures of the godlike deed
Exalted, pure, congenial, and refin'd.
Hail, Hospitality! thou flame divine !
The heart joys of self-complacency are thine.

EPITAPH for ALGERNON SIDNEY.

BOOTHBY.

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

T'
That bright example may inspire thy breast?
Arrest thy ktep: here Sidney's alhes rest.

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Does the found vibrate through thy throbbing heart?
Glows thy warm cheek, do tears indignant start?
The omens hail : they mark thy ftrenuous mind;
The honest guardian of thy race design’d.
Approach; contemplate this immortal name;
Swear on this shrine to emulate his fame;
To dare, like him, e'en to thy latest breath ;
Contemning chains, and poverty, and death.
Then
go:

and dauntless in thy country's caufe,
Assert her rights, and liberties and laws;
Unfading honours be thy glorious doom ;
And tears, like those thou shedd’A, bedew thy tombe
But if this sacred name awake no zeal,
No gen'rous ardour for the public weal;
Pursue thy way, nor vainly loiter here;
Thy tearless eye profanes the patriot's bier.

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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE GRAVE OF HOWARD.

BOWLES.

SPARATE

PIRIT of Death! whose outstretch'd pennons dread

Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow fpread,
Who darkly speedest on thy destin'd way,
'Mid shrieks, and cries, and sounds 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,
Liftning to Mis’ry's universal moan;
He who, sustain'd by virtue's arm sublime,
Tended the sick and poor from clime to clime ;
Low in the dust is laid thy nobleft spoil!
And Mercy ceases from her awful toil !

'Twas where the pestilence at thy command
Arose to desolate the sick’ning land,
When many a mingled cry and dying pray'r
Resounded to the lif’ning midnight air,
When deep dismay heard not the frequent knello,
And the wan carcase fefter'd as it fell:
'Twas there, with holy virtue's awful mien,
Amid the sad fights of that fearful scene,
Calm he was found: the dews of death he dry'd;
He spoke of comfort to the poor that cry'd;
He watch'd the fading eye, the flagging breath,
Ere

yet the languid lense was loft in death; And, with that look protecting angels wear, Hung o'er the dismal couch of pale despair !

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-Friend of mankind! thy righteous task is o'er;
The heart that throbb’d with piły, beats no more.

Around the limits of this rolling sphere,
Where'er the just and good thy tale Ihall hear,
A tear shall fall :-alone, amidst the gloom
Of the ftill 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 wasting breath
On the forsaken silent bed of death,
Rememb’ring thy last look, and anxious eye,
Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die !
Friend of mankind, farewell !--these tears we fhed,
So nature dictates, o'er thy earthly bed;'
Yet we forget not it was his high will,
Who saw thee virtue's arduous task fulfil,
Thy spirit from its toil at last should reft:
So wills thy God, and what he wills is best!

Thou hast encounter'd dark disease's train,
Thou hast convers’d with poverty and pain,
Thou haft beheld the dreariest forms of woe,
That through this mournful vale unfriended go;
And, pale with sympathy, hast pausid to hear
The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear.
Go then, the task fulfill'd, the trial o'er,
Where sickness, want, and pain are known no more!

HOWARD! it matters not, that far away
From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay,
Him it might please, by whose fustaining hand
Thy fteps were led through many a diftant land,
Thy long and last abode should there be found,
Where many a savage nation prowls around;
That Virtue from the hallow'd spot might rise,
And, pointing to the finish'd sacrifice,
Teach, to the roving Tartaros savage clan,
Lessons of love, and higher aims of man.

Nor vain the thought, that fairer hence may rise
New views of life, and wider charities.
Far from the bleak Riphčan mountains hoar,
From the cold Don, and Wolga's wand'ring shore,

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