Ah no; yon hill, where daily sweats my brow,

A thousand flocks, a thousand herds adorn ; Yon field, where late I drove the painful plough,

Feels all her acres crown'd with wavy corn.

But what avails that o'er the furrow'd soil
In Autumn's heat the yellow harvests rise,
If artificial want elude my toil,

Untasted plenty wound my craving eyes?

What profits, that at distance I behold

My wealthy neighbour's fragrant smoke ascend; If still the griping cormorants withhold

The fruits which rain and genial seasons send?

If those fell vipers of the public weal
Yet unrelenting on our bowels prey;
If still the curse of penury we feel,
And in the midst of plenty pine away ?

In every port the vessel rides secure,

That wafts our harvest to a foreign shore; While we the pangs of pressing want endure, The sons of strangers riot on our store.

O generous Chatham, stop those fatal sails,

Once more with out-stretch'd arm thy Britons save; The unheeding crew but wait for favouring gales, O stop them, ere they stem Italia's wave.

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.

Ah co; en ill were daily swears my brow, A thousand fuck tastand ends adorn; ica feld, where are some the panful plough,

Feels all rares at me,

From thee alone I hope for instant aid,

'Tis thou alone canst save my children's breath ; O deem not little of our cruel meed,

O haste to help us, for delay is death.

So may not Spleen, nor Envy blast thy name,
Nor voice profane thy patriot acts deride;
Still may'st thou stand the first in honest fame,
Unstung by Folly, Vanity, or Pride.

So may thy languid limbs with strength be brac'd,
And glowing Health support thy active soul;
With fair renown thy public virtue grac❜d,
Far as thou bad'st Britannia's thunder roll.

Then joy to thee, and to thy children peace,

The grateful hind shall drink from Plenty's horn: And while they share the cultur'd land's increase, The poor shall bless the day when Pitt was born.

H

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:

Oh! give relief-and Heaven will bless your store.

These tatter'd cloaths my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years:
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.