THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. ANON. PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, [door, Whose trembling 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, road: Yon house, erected on the rising ground, Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! Oh take me to your hospitable dome! Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! 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? 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, My tender wife, sweet soother of my care! Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, [door, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store! EPISTLE то THE MOST HONOURABLE THE MARCHIONESS GREY: Sent with Phoebe, a Pastoral Opera. BY J. HOADLY, LL.D. FROM polish'd circles of the fair, From gilded domes and tainted air, To lead thee to the guiltless plain, Where Phoebe, innocent and gay, Dares with the dangerous passion play: Stoops her pure cause herself to plead. Nor scornfully wilt thou disdain The shepherd's pastime, pure though plain. Thou (whose well-cultivated mind, Nor for enjoyment too refin'd, Nor others' woes to feel too wise, Knows all but Nature to despise) Serene shalt teach the madding train, Superior to her Siren-song, Prudent thou glid'st the stream along, |