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 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 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 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 Yet never, Chatham, have I pass'd a day Ne'er have I sacrific'd to sport and play, 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, So may thy languid limbs with strength be brac'd, 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, Yon house, erected on the rising ground, |