STANZAS.

(For the Mirror.)

Oh! poverty, thou tyrant of the mind,

How eager would I shun thy cold embrace,

And try some hospitable shore to find!

Some welcome refuge; some more happy place.

But ah! the stars shone adverse at my birth,

Tho' boyish pleasures all my youth beguil'd,

And little thought amidst those scenes of mirth,

That I was doom'd to be misfortune's child.

At last the haggard wretch is come; and I,

Like some poor hark, toss'd by the mighty wave,

Am solitary left, nor have wherewith to fly

Her dread embrace, save to man's friend—the grave.

No hope, alas! possesses now my mind,

Plung'd in the deepest gulf of penury;

No earthly friend, to pity none inclined;

To soothe the bitter pang of misery.

'Tis hope that raises us to heaven,

While pure affection breathes no other love,

And makes to those to whom it's given

A something like a paradise above.

Alas! for me no earthly paradise awaits;

No true affection nor no friendly tear;

Spurn'd at by friends, and scorned at by the great;

And all that poverty can bring is here.

Then hail thou grateful visitant, oh death,

And stop the troubled ocean of my breast:

Lull the rude waves; nor let my parting breath

E'er cause a sigh, or break one moment's rest.

Then when my clay-cold form shall bid adieu,

Hid in its parent's bosom, kindred earth,

Let not the errors e'er appear in view,

But turn from them, and only speak his worth.