ITY the forrows of a poor old man,
Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your
door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shorteft fpan,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will blefs your ftore.
Thefe tatter'd cloaths my poverty befpeak,
Thefe hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting afpect 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, 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 fhed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the fources 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 repreft.
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 Sorrow, and of Mifery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly 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 ftage,
And doom'd in scanty Poverty to roam.
My tender wife, fweet foother of my care!
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
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 shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will blefs your ftore..
Translation of Hanmer's Epitaph.
HOU who furvey'ft thefe walls with curious eye, Pause at this tomb, where Hanmer's afhes lie; His various worth through varied life attend, And learn his virtues while thou mourn'ft his end.
His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, join'd with each endearing art,
Charm'd ev'ry ear, and gain'd on ev'ry heart.
Thus early wife, th' endanger'd realm to aid,
His country call'd him from the ftudious fhade;
In life's firft bloom his public toils began,
At once commenc'd the fenator and man.
In bufinefs dext'rous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In every speech perfuafive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd;
Sufpended faction ceas'd from rage and ftrife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Refistless merit fix'd the Senate's choice, Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. Illuftrious age! how bright thy glories fhone, When Hanmer fill'd the chair-and Anne the throne!
Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, The Moderator firmly mild appear'd
Beheld with love-with veneration heard.
This task perform'd-he fought no gainful post,
Nor wifh'd to glitter at his country's coft;
Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye,
With temperate zeal and wife anxiety;
Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lur'd afide,
To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure or of pride.
Her gifts defpis'd, Corruption blush'd and fled,
And Fame purfu'd him where Conviction led.
Age call'd at length his active mind to rest,
With honours fated, and with cares oppreft;
To letter'd ease retir'd and honest mirth,
To rural grandeur and domestic worth:
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm Confcience, then, his former life survey'd,
And recollected toils endear'd the shade,
Till Nature call'd him to the general doom,
And Virtue's forrow dignify'd his tomb.
The Great John, Duke of Marlborough, built a fuperb Arch over a gutter in Blenheim Park, which gave occafion to a wit of that period to write the following characteristic diftich on the occafion.
HE arch, the height of his ambition shows,
The ftream*, the emblem of his bounty flows.
* Whoever remembers the character of the Duke of Marlborough, will not be at a loss to reconcile the contrast of the arch and the stream.
The Superannuated Horse to his Master,
Who had sentenced him to die at the End of the Summer, on Account of his being unable, from extreme old Age, to live through the Winter.
ND must thou fix my doom, fweet master, fay,
And wilt thou kill thy fervant old and poor
A little longer let me live, I pray,
A little longer hobble round thy door.
For much it glads me to behold this place,
And house within this hospitable shed;
It glads me more to see my master's face,
And linger near the spot where I was bred.
For, ah! to think of what we both enjoy'd
In my life's prime, ere I was old and poor,
When from the jocund morn to eve employ'd,
My gracious master on this back I bore.
Thrice told ten years have danc'd on down along,
Since first these way-worn limbs to thee I gave,
Sweet-fmiling years! when both of us were young,
The kindest master, and the happiest slave.
Ah, years sweet-fmiling! now for ever flown!
Ten years, thrice told, alas, are but a day!
Yet, as together we are aged grown,
Together let us wear our age away.
For ftill the times behind are dear to thought,
And rapture mark'd each minute as it flew;
To the light heart all-changing feasons brought
Pains that were foft, or pleasures that were new.
Ah! call to mind, how oft near Scarning's stream
My steps were bent to yonder Mufe-trod grove,
There, the who lov'd thee was thy tender theme,
And I the chofen meffenger of love.
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