22

ITY the sorrows of a poor old man

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my 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 pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an 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.

THOMAS MOSS (The Beggar).

S

23

WEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray
hairs

Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tattered vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-

use

A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.

My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess,

Of purple pride that scowls on wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilean mild,

Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's

doors,

And called them Friends, and healed their noisome

sores!

COLERIDGE.

24

H ye! who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfied keen nature's clamorous call,

Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While, through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress:
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!

BURNS (A Winter Night).

A

25

H! bleak and barren was the moor,
Ahi loud

Ah! loud and piercing was the storm

The cottage roof was sheltered sure,

The cottage hearth was bright and warm.

An orphan-boy the lattice passed,

And, as he marked its cheerful glow, Felt doubly keen the midnight blast,

And doubly cold the fallen snow.

They marked him as he onward pressed,
With fainting heart and weary limb;
Kind voices bade him turn and rest,
And gentle faces welcomed him.
The dawn is up-the guest is gone,
The cottage hearth is blazing still:
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone!
Hark to the wind upon the hill!

THACKERAY.

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