GCO.IV

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose worn-out limbs have borne him to your door;
My case is dwindled to the shortest span—
Oh! let me in, and I will ask no more?

These clothes, though tatter'd, former grandeur speak;
Those locks grown grey, proclaim my lengthen'd years,
And all these blotches, in each bloated cheek,
Are marks of Curacóa—but not of tears.

Your house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For goodness here a residence has found,
A nation's pride,—at length a plain abode.

Hard is my lot, for I'm infirm and poor,
Deep sunk in want, and begging for my bread;
The menial servant waiting at your door,
Is happier far beneath his humble shed.

Oh! take me to your enviable home—
Keen is Opinion's wind, and bitter cold;

My name is gone—I've nothing but a tomb
To hold my form, so shatter'd and so old!

Whence the misfortune which I now repine?
My vice has brought me to the state you see;

And your condition's noble—vile is mine,—
The child of joy are you, but I of mis'ry!

If I relate the sources of my grief,
Though soft humanity ne'er touch'd my breast;

Your hands will not withhold the kind relief,
Your tears of pity will not be supprest.

An honest name was my paternal lot;
Once, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the day,
But now reflection drives me from my cot,
An humble supplicant to thee I pray.

Oh wife! sweet soother of my care,
Kill not with anguish by your stern decree;

I ling'ring fall a victim to despair,
Scorn'd by the World, by Justice, and by Thee.

Your name shall live in ev'ry feeling heart,
When mine to dark oblivion is hurl'd;
Your fame resound through ev'ry distant part;
Your cause is now the cause of all the world!

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Untimely driv'n from her native home,
For realms of bliss has left the world's wide stage,
While I in silent poverty must roam.

What then is left me? nothing but my woe,
Not e'en repentance—that is now too late,

Each outward friend is now a secret foe;
My only hope,—an entrance at your gate.

Mankind despise me, treat me with their scorn;
All my high dignity for ever's flown—

Curse! curse the day in which I e'er was born,
And curse that people who a king disown!

Have pity then on such a vile old man,
Whose limbs though late, have borne him to your door;

My honor's dwindled, and my life's a span—
Forgive me then, and I'll do so no more.

London: Published by J. DAWSON, Camden Town;
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