Though now to Death I yield, and am his due, I through the ample air in triumph high, INCIDENTAL MISERIES ATTENDANT ON POVERTY. 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; your store! Yon house, erected on a rising ground, Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! O 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 source of ev'ry grief, If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be represt. Heaven sends misfortunes, why should we repine? "Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see; And condition may your be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot, There, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn ; My daughter, once the comfort of my age, My tender wife, sweet soother of my care, And left the world to wretchedness and me. FINIS. C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer, Dean Street, Fetter Lane. |