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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 : Ob!give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
Unhappy close of life.
Elegy to pity.
When fancy paints the scene of deep distress i
When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless. Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey
From flow'ry meals, can with that sight compare'; Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray,
Seem pear so beauteous as that falling tear. Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play ;
Emblem of peace, the dove before thee fies; No blood-stain'd traces mark thy blameless way;
Beneatb tby feet oo hapless insect dies.
Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me,
To spring the partridge from the guileful foe ; From secret spares the struggling bird to free;
And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow.
And nature droops beneath the conqu’ring gleam,
To me thy sympathetic gifts impart;
And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart.
With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; To mis’ry's moving cries to yield relief ;
And be the sure resource of drooping age. So when the genial spring of life shall fade,
And sinking nature own the dread decay, Some soul congenial then may lend its aid,
And gild the close of life's eventful day.
Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during
My right there is none to dispute ;
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
That sages have seen in thy face?
Than reign in this horrible place.
I must finish my journey alone ;
I start at the sound of my own.
My form with indifference see:
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Religion' what treasure untold .
Resides in that heavenly word!
Or all that this earth can afford.
These vallies and rocks never heard ; Ne’er sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smild when a sabhath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore,
Of a land I shall visit no more.
A wish or a thought after me?
Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind !
Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there : But, alas ! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place;
And mercy-encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.-COWPER. SECTION VI.
My rising soul surveys,
In wonder, love, and praise.
The gratitude declare,
But ihou canst read it there.
And all my wants redrest,
And hung upon the breast.
Thy mercy lent an ear,
To form themselves in pray’r.
Thy tender care bestow'd, Before my infant heart conceiv'd
From whom those comforts flow'd.
With heedless steps, I ran,
And led me up to man.
It gently cleard my way; And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear'd than they. When worn with sickness, oft hast thou
With health renew'd my face ; And when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Reviv'd my soul with grace. Thy bounteous hand, with worldly bliss,
Has made my cup run o'er ;
Has doubled all my store.
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart
That tastes those gifts with joy.
Thy goodness I'll pursue;
The glorious theme renew.
Divide thy works no more,
Thy mercy shall adore.
A joyful song I'll raise,
raised on the miseries of life. As thus the snows arise ; and foul and fierce, All winter drives along the darken'd air; In his own loose-revolving field, the swain Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills aseend, Of unknown joyless brow i and other scenes, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on, From hill to dale, still more and more astray : Impatience fleuncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what bòrror fills his heart! When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track, and blest abode of man; While round him night resistless closes fast, And ev'ry tempest howling o'er bis head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pite, unfathomably deep, A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of frost ! Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,