But ah, how quick the change -the morning gleam,
That cheer'd my fancy with her magic ray,
Fled like the gairish pageant of a dream,
And sorrow clos'd the evening of my day.

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.

In evil hour, to specious wiles a prey,

I trusted :-(who from faults is always free ?) And the short progress of one fatal day

Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty.

Where could I seek for comfort, or for aid?
To whom the ruins of my state commend?
Left to myself, abandon'd, and betray'd,

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, And left my child in solitude to mourn.

Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand

To guard the sacred wreaths that Hymen wove, While pale-eyed Avarice, from his sordid stand, Scowl'd o'er the ruins of neglected love.

Though deeply hurt, yet sway'd by decent pride,
She hush'd her sorrows with becoming art,
And faintly strove with sickly smiles to hide
The canker-worm that prey'd upon her heart.

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!
O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom;
Let not the hand of comfortless despair

Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb!

'ELEGY X.

THE

POOR MAN'S PRAYER.

BY THE REV. DR. ROBerts,

OF ETON.

ADDRESSED TO THE LATE EARL OF CHATHAM.

AMIDST the more important toils of state,
The counsels labouring in thy patriot soul,
Tho' Europe from thy voice expect her fate,
And thy keen glance extend from pole to pole;

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!
No lawless passion swell'd my even breast:
Far from the stormy waves of civil strife,
Sound were my slumbers, and my heart at rest.

I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasures rov'd,

But taught by Nature, and by choice to wed, From all the hamlet cull'd whom best I lov'd, With her I staid my heart, with her my bed.

To gild her worth I ask'd no wealthy power,
My toil could feed her, and my arm defend ;
In youth, or age, in pain, or pleasure's hour,
The same fond husband, father, brother, friend.

And she, the faithful partner of my care,

When ruddy evening streak'd the western sky, Look'd towards the uplands, if her mate was there, Or thro' the beech-wood cast an anxious eye.

Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board
With savory herbs, and pick'd the nicer part
From such plain food as Nature could afford,

Ere simple Nature was debauch'd by Art.

While I, contented with my homely cheer,
Saw round my knees my prattling children play;
And oft with pleas'd attention sat to hear

The little history of their idle day.

But ah! how chang'd the scene! On the cold stones,
Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,
Pale Famine sits and counts her naked bones,
Still sighs for food, still pines with vain desire.

My faithful wife with ever-streaming eyes
Hangs on my bosom her dejected head :
My helpless infants raise their feeble cries,
And from their father claim their daily bread.

Dear tender pledges of my honest love,

On that bare bed behold your brother lie: Three tedious days with pinching want he strove, The fourth, I saw the helpless cherub die.

Nor long shall ye remain. With visage sour
Our tyrant lord commands us from our home;
And arm'd with cruel Law's coercive power,
Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains roam.

Yet never, Chatham, have I pass'd a day
In Riot's orgies, or in idle ease;

Ne'er have I sacrific'd to sport and play,
Or wish'd a pamper'd appetite to please.

Hard was my fare, and constant was my toil,
Still with the morning's orient light I rose,
Fell'd the stout oak, or rais'd the lofty pile,
Parch'd in the sun, in dark December froze.

Is it that Nature with a niggard hand

Withholds her gifts from these once-favor'd plains?

Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land,

Sent Dearth and Famine to her labouring swains?

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