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Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse ; and with them go
The summer-friend, the flatt'ring foe;
By vain prosperity receiv’d,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.

Wisdom in sable garb array’d,

Immers’d in rapt’rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend;
Warm Charity, the general friend,

With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,

Dread Goddess, lay thy chastning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band,

(As by the impious thou art seen) With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien, With screaming Horror's fun'ral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear,

Thy milder influence impart;
Thy philosophic train be there

To soften, not to wound, my heart
The gen’rous spark extinct revive;
Teach me to love, and to forgive; to

Exact my own defects to scan;
What others are, to feel; and know myself a man.;

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TO HER GRACE

THE DUCHESS OF ROXBURGH.

BY PETER PINDAR.

Dear LADY Duchess, when d'ye go
To view the Academic show;

That is to say, the Painting Exhibition ? Where pictures, join’d with pictures, blazeBlues, scarlets, yellows, rival rays,

Somewhat like Pitt's and Fox's Coalition.

Few sparks of Genius shine, I'm told-
The forms unanimated, cold;

Tame attitudes, and very lifeless faces :-
And dead indeed must Art appear,
When, Duchess, you know who is there,

Displaying all the life of NATURE's graces.

THE

BEGGAR'S PETITION.

ANON.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, [door, Whose treinbling limbs have borne him to your Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years ;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel 10 a flood of tears.

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

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To seek a shelter in a 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.

Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
"Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon 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 forc'd me from my cot;
My cattle died, 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.

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