Imatges de pÓgina
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Christian and countryman was all with | But came not there, for sudden was his

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denied)

That in yon house for ruined age provide, And they are just; when young, we give you all,

And then for comforts in our weakness call.

Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,

To join your poor and eat the parishbread?

But yet I linger, loath with him to feed Who gains his plenty by the sons of need: He who, by contract, all your paupers took,

And gauges stomachs with an anxious look:

On some old master I could well depend; See him with joy and thank him as a friend;

But ill on him who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances who at night may die:

Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not

complain

Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew ;

Daily he placed the work house in his view!

fate,

He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly
spread

Round the bald polish of that honored head;

No more that awful glance on playful wight

Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,

To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,

Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: ..

But he is blest, and I lament no more, A wise good man contented to be poor.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

[1763-1855.]

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.

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