No farther feek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bofom of his Father and his God. REFLEXIONS ON THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE. FROM THOMSON'S SEASON S. An, little think the gay licentious proud, Ah, little think they, while they dance along, How many fink in the devouring flood, "Of cheerless poverty. How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded paffion, madness, guilt, remorse; Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, They furnish matter for the tragic muse. Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, With friendship, peace and contemplation join'd, How many, rack'd with honest paffions, droop In deep retir'd diftrefs. How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish. Thought, fond man, Of these, and all the thousand namelefs ills, That one inceffant struggle render life, One scene of toil, of fuffering and of fate, Vice in his high career would ftand appall'd, And heedlefs rambling impulfe learn to think; The conscious heart of charity would warm, And her wide with benevolence dilate; The focial tear would rife, the focial figh; And into clear perfection, gradual bliss Refining ftill, the focial paffions work. THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. PITY the forrows of a poor old man! Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh!. give relief---and Heaven-will bless your store. Thefe tatter'd cloaths my poverty bespeak, "Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road, (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Oh! take me to your hofpitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor and miferably old. Should I reveal the fource of every grief, If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, 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 forrow---and of misery; A little farm was my paternal lot, Then like the lark I fprightly hail'd the morn My daughter---once the comfort of my age! My tender wife---fweet foother of my care! 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 fhorteft fpan, Oh! give relief---and Heaven will blefs your fto. HYMN TO BENEVOLENCE. BY BLACK LOCK. HAIL! fource of transport ever new; Too vaft for little minds to know, Daughter of God! delight of man! Which ftill thy hand fuftains: By thee fweet Peace her empire fpread, Far as the pointed funbeam flies We fee its energy prevail Through being's ever-rifing scale, From nothing e'en to God. By thee infpir'd, the gen'rous breast, |