Though now to Death I yield, and am his due,
All that of me can die; yet that debt paid,
Thou wilt not leave me in the loathsome grave
His prey, nor suffer my unspotted soul
For ever with corruption there to dwell;
But I shall rise victorious, and subdue
My vanquisher, spoil'd of his vaunted spoil;
Death his death's wound shall then receive, and stoop
Inglorious, of his mortal sting disarm'd,

I through the ample air in triumph high,
Shall lead hell captive, maugre hell, and shew
The powers of darkness bound. Thou at the sight
Pleas'd, out of Heaven shalt look down and smile;
While by thee rais'd, I ruin all my foes,
Death last, and with his carcass glut the grave;
Then with the multitude of my redeem'd
Shall enter Heaven long absent, and return,
Father, to see thy face, wherein no cloud
Of anger shall remain, but peace assur'd
And reconcilement; wrath shall be no more
Thenceforth, but in thy presence joy entire.

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;
O give relief, and Heaven will bless

your store!
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my length of years!
And many a furrow in this grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel of a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on a rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from the road,
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial forc'd me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.

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 ;
But, ah! Oppression fore'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 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.

FINIS.

C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer,

Dean Street, Fetter Lane.