40 Though she, whose beauty's all-enchanting pow'r Far from these dreary scenes for ever torn, No more shall animate each rapturous strain, Now sweetly smiling, now with looks of scorn, Hiding her heart, that sunk at giving pain : Yet when emerging from the giddy throng, Here while the scenes of former bliss arise, (Sad source from whence these tears of anguish flow) Far from the sneering fool, or censuring wise, I nurse in solitude the seeds of woe -Deaf to the voice of pleasure, or of fame, Yet not from pity's milder influence free, E'en then, not unregardful of thy name, This aching breast shall heave one sigh for thee. ELEGY IX. THE DEBTOR. By the Same. CHILDREN of Affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r! Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb! Unus'd Compassion's tribute to demand, With clamorous din wake Charity's dull ear, Wring the slow aid from Pity's loitering hand, Weave the feign'd tale, or drop the ready tear. Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours, And every blessing hail'd my youthful morn. 10 σ But ah, how quick the change !—the morning gleam, Such is the lot of human bliss below! Fond hope awhile the trembling flow'ret rears; 'Till unforeseen descends the blight of woe, And withers in an hour the pride of years. 20 In evil hour, to specious wiles a prey, I trusted :-(who from faults is always free ?) Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty. Where could I seek for comfort, or for aid? Too late I found the wretched have no friend! E'en he amid the rest, the favor'd youth, Whose vows had met the tenderest warm return, Forgot his oaths of constancy and truth, 30 Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand Though deeply hurt, yet sway'd by decent pride, And faintly strove with sickly smiles to hide Nor blam'd his cruelty-nor wish'd to hate Whom once she lov'd-but pitied, and forgave : Then unrepining yielded to her fate, And sunk in silent anguish to the grave. Children of affluence, hear a poor man's prayer! Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb! ELEGY X. THE POOR MAN'S PRAYER. BY THE REV. DR. ROBERTS, OF EION. ADDRESSED TO THE LATE EARL OF CHATHAM. AMIDST the more important toils of state, O Chatham, nurs'd in ancient Virtue's lore, To these sad strains incline a favouring ear; Think on the God, whom thou, and I adore, Nor turn unpitying from the poor man's prayer. Ah me! how blest was once a peasant's life! Sound were my slumbers, and my heart at rest. |