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Patron or intercessor none appear'd,
Father, thy word is past, Man shall find grace; And shall not Grace find means, that finds her way, The speediest of thy winged messengers, To visit all thy creatures, and to all Comes unprevented, unimplor'd, unsought. Happy for man, so coming, he her aid Can never seek, once dead in sins and lost; Atonement for himself or offering meet, Indebted and undone, hath none to bring : Behold me then; me for him, life for life I offer; on me let thine anger Account me man; I for his sake will leave Thy bosom, and this glory next to thee Freely put off, and for him lastly die Well pleas’d; on me let Death wreak all his
rage : Under his gloomy power I shall not long Lie vanquish'd ; thou hast given me to possess Life in myself for ever ; by thee I live
Though now to Death I yield, and am his due,
ATTENDANT ON POVERTY. Pity the sorrows of a poor
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 every 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 your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot,
There, like the lark, I sprightly haild the morn; But, ah! Oppression 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 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.
C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer,