Imatges de pàgina
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He paw'd him with his hard-worn foot,

He lick'd him with his scarce warm tongue;

His cold nose strove to catch his breath,

As to his clos'd lips close it clung.

But not a sign of lurking life,

Thro' all his frame he found to creep;
He knew not what it was to die,
But knew his master did not sleep.

For still had he his slumbers watch'd,
Through many a long and dismal night ;
And rous'd him from his pallet hard,
To meet his toil e'er morning light.

And well his brain remember'd yet,

He never patter'd tow'rds his bed; Or lodg'd his long face on his cheek,

But straight he stirr'd, or rais'd his head.

Yes, he remember'd, and with tears,
His loving master's kind replies;

When dumbly he contriv'd to say,

The cock has crow'd, my master rise!'

But now the paw, the scratch, the whine,
To howlings chang'd, alone can tell

The sufferings of instinctive love,

When fruitless prov'd its simple spell.

Great grief assail'd his untaught heart,
And quickly laid its victim low!
His master's cheek, his pillow cold,
Their common bed the colder SNOW!

O READER! whosoe'er thou art,

That o'er these lines shalt cast thine eye;

If chance they sink into thine heart,
And start a tear, or force a sigh:

If sympathy thy bosom owns,

When sorrow tells her artless tale; Or indignation fires thy breast, When deeds of cruelty prevail;

Oh cherish still the generous guests,

The world's neglected scenes explore; SUCCOUR THE ORPHAN IN DISTRESS,

AND SPURN THE OPPRESSOR FROM THY DOOR.

THE

OLD WOMAN'S PETITION.

A PARODY.

THE

sorrows of a woman, old and weak, Whose tottering limbs scarce bear their meagre load, Oh, learn to pity, as my woes I speak,

Nor let me die upon the common road!

These tatters that my shrivell'd flesh embrace,
These cheeks all furrow'd o'er with age and grief,
Mark but too well, my sad, my piteous case,
And point me out an object of relief.

There, where 'Squire Hardy, low in yonder vale
In ease and plenty revels out the day;
There did I crawl, there told my simple tale,
But oh! unsuccour'd was I sent away.

Ah! little do the great, the affluent care,
What wretches, like my wretched self, endure;,
How low we lie, how scanty is our fare,

Or by what means that little we procure.

But you, whom frowning fate has taught to feel,
Will not, unmov'd, my sickening sorrows see,
Will not your generous hearts unpitying steel,
But ope your doors to miserable me.

Nor need I tell each various source of woe,
To move that pity which I now implore:
Whate'er the source from whence my sorrows flow,
There's none more wretched, if there's one so poor.

But wherefore shou'd my suffering soul repine,
Or question Heav'ns severely just decree?
Full many an aching heart now throbs like mine,
And many a tear-dimm'd eye streams misery.

Bless'd was my humble lot, and hail'd the morn,
Whilst a fond son his parents wants supplied;
But soon from him and every comfort torn,
The prospects blacken'd and our dear child died.

Wrung were our hearts, and scarce interr'd the boy,
To do which pious act our bed we sold,
Than my poor husband, 'reft of every joy,
Fell-worn with grief, and miserably old.

Close by the son, the father's corpse to lay,
I pledg'd and parted with my little all;
Then wandered forth, unknowing where to stray,
Or yet how far my woes might let me crawl..

"The sorrows of a woman, old and weak,

Whose tottering limbs scarce bear their meagre load, With silent pity you have heard me speak,

NOR SHALL I die upon the common road!"

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