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BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.
Hie thee hencel thou spectre foul,
Fiend of misery extreme;
Hence! nor o'er yon dwelling scowl With blasting eye, while to thy haggard scream The midnight wolf accords his famish'd howl, And madd’ning wretches loud in agony blaspheme.
Hence!—from the artless bard keep wide aloof
Fly rather to his hated roof,
Can steel with rugged edge the soul : Plund'ring, unmov'd the orphan's cry can hear, Or from the widow'd lip the scanty morsel tear :But
pass him by, the wooer mild Of Genius, friend to all, Nature's ingenuous child.
Constant toil, and coarsest fare,
In silent apathy may bear,
Nor aims his highest wish to know
Yet, rous'd to feeling, much he mourns his lot,
When the pale visage of Disease
There, oft, unheeded on the ground,
May Sickness, Age, and Want be found,
From the damp and earthy bed
Despair hangs weeping o'er his head :
Fly, ye rich, unbidden fly,
Wipe from tears the misty eye;
Why withhold the little boon?
Seems it much, ye sons of wealth,
Glittring moths of sunny noon
Plum'd with gold of joy and health ? O think! a blast may come, yourselves may perish
Yet, different in this common state, What different care attends your happier fate !
Fading you may sure receive All wayward fancy craves, all soothing art can give:
While, with equal wants opprest, The child of Misery heaves his lab’ring breast,
Cheer'd by no kind assisting powers, Scarce with such crumbs sustain'd as hungry
Melt, in soft compassion melt,
Yet keener far, as more severely felt,
Warm'd his soul with genial flame In youth's gay spring was bid to rise,
To pant for science, thirst for fame, And hope fair Merit's golden prize.
Much he hop'd, for many a tale
Of praise was echo'd to his ear;
Foretold the wish’d-for port was near.
Awhile it blew,—then dy'd away,
Like breezes with declining day, And left him, wondring wretch! forsaken quite, In Poverty's dead calm, and Disappointment's night.
What avails th' expanded mind,
Tutor'd in the choicest lore?
Nor lets the rising spirit soar:
What avails the glowing heart,
The eye that glistens at distress; The wish all blessings to impart, Or make at least a brother's sorrow less? From Trouble's spring the deepest draught he drew, Who mourns his own hard lot, and weeps for others too..
At the sad mistaken gate When the maim'd veteran takes his suppliant stand,
Struck with the hapless warrior's state,
-'Tis empty-Seel his lids o'erflow,
Love too-for in the lowliest cell
His love-whát sorer can befall? Is doom'd to sour its sweets, and dash his cup with gall,
Before the husband's and the father's eyes
Stormy clouds in prospect rise,
These and more he makes his own-
For these the homely robe, the scanty board,
While life in toil is ling’ring on,
The drudge of science may afford :But where's the friend will cheer, when that poor life
No friend may rise, but many a foe ·
Will deck his visage with a smile,
Will hide in softest words the basest guile, And, while he soothes the most, will strike the deepest
Hence the pang, and hence the tear,
Swells into agony his fear