COMPASSION.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whole trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whole days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief and heav'n will bless your store,
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
You 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, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove 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.
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 represt.
Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
'Tis heav'n 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,
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,
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.
Pity 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 heav'n will bless your store.
ADVANTAGES OF PEACE.
Oh, first of human blessings and supreme,
Fair Peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou!
By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men,
brothers live, in amity combin'd,
And unsuspicious faith: while honest toil
Gives ev'ry joy; and, to those joys, a right,
Which idle barbarous rapine but usurps.
Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood,
Nought, save the sweetness of indulgent show'rs,
Trickling, distils into the vernant glebe;
Instead of mangled carcases, sad scene!
When the blythe sheaves lie scatter'd o'er the field;
When only shining shares, the crooked knife,
And hooks imprint the vegetable wound;
When the land blushes with the rose alone,
The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine.
Oh! peace! then source and soul of social life!
Beneath whose calm inspiring influence,
Science his views enlarges, art refines,
And swelling commerce opens all her ports—
Bless'd be the man divine, who gives us thee!
Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang,
Nor blow the giddy nations into rage;
Who sheathes the murd'rous blade; the deadly gun
Into the well-pil'd armory returns;
And, ev'ry vigour from the work of death
To grateful industry converting, makes
The country flourish, and the city smile!
Unviolated, him the virgin sings;
And him, the smiling mother, to her train.
Of him, the Shepherd, in the peaceful dale,
Chaunts; and the treasures of his labour sure,
The husbandman, of him, as at the plough,
Or team, he toils. With him, the Tailor soothes,
Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave;
And the full city, warm, from street to street,
And shop to shop, responsive rings of him.
Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends,
Far as the sun rolls the diffusive day;
Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace;
Till all the happy nations catch the song.
PROGRESS OF LIFE.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts;
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation,
Ev'n in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd;
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age foists
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side.
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes.
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.