THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Charity fhewn to worthy objets is like bread caft upon the waters, which thou fhall find after many days. ECCLESIASTES, II. 1. 1. ITY the forrows of a old PITY man, Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your flore. II. Thefe tatter'd cloaths my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; III. Yon house erected on the rifing ground, With tempting afpect drew me from my road; For plenty there a refidence has found, And grandeur a magnificient abode. Hard IV. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! V. Oh! take me to your hofpitable dome, Keen blows the wind and piercing is the cold; Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor and miferably old*. VI. Could I reveal the fources of my grief, If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be repreft. VII. Heaven fends misfortunes! why should we repine !' 'Tis Heaven that brought me to this state And your condition may be foon like mine, The child of forrow and of misery t. you fee, A little Age and poverty join'd together muft ever be deferv ing the benevolence and compaffion of the rich and great. A flate of affluence is as uncertain in its continuance, as fleeting wealth can make it. VIII. A little farm was my paternal lot, IX. My danghter once the comfort of my age, X. My tender wife fweet foother of my care! Fell ling'ring, fell a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me. XI. man, Pity the forrows of a poor old Whofe trembling limbs has borne him to your door; Whofe days are dwindled to the fhortest span, Oh! give relief and Heaven will blefs your flore. THS HER MIT. By Dr. PARNell. What the Almighty does, men know not, but they shall know hereafter. AR in a wild unknown to public view, FAR From youth to age a rev'rend Hermit grew ; So, when a smooth expanse receives, impress'd, Down In fuch retreats the Hermit fpends his days, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, Swift ruffling currents curl on ev'ry fide, The morn was wasted in the pathlefs grass, But |