He paw'd him with his hard-worn foot, He lick'd him with his scarce warm tongue; His cold nose strove to catch his breath, As to his clos'd lips close it clung. But not a sign of lurking life, Thro' all his frame he found to creep; For still had he his slumbers watch'd, And well his brain remember'd yet, He never patter'd tow'rds his bed; Or lodg'd his long face on his cheek, But straight he stirr'd, or rais'd his head. Yes, he remember'd, and with tears, When dumbly he contriv'd to say, The cock has crow'd, my master rise!' But now the paw, the scratch, the whine, The sufferings of instinctive love, When fruitless prov'd its simple spell. Great grief assail'd his untaught heart, O READER! whosoe'er thou art, That o'er these lines shalt cast thine eye; If chance they sink into thine heart, If sympathy thy bosom owns, When sorrow tells her artless tale; Or indignation fires thy breast, When deeds of cruelty prevail; Oh cherish still the generous guests, The world's neglected scenes explore; SUCCOUR THE ORPHAN IN DISTRESS, AND SPURN THE OPPRESSOR FROM THY DOOR. THE OLD WOMAN'S PETITION. A PARODY. THE sorrows of a woman, old and weak, Whose tottering limbs scarce bear their meagre load, Oh, learn to pity, as my woes I speak, Nor let me die upon the common road! These tatters that my shrivell'd flesh embrace, There, where 'Squire Hardy, low in yonder vale Ah! little do the great, the affluent care, Or by what means that little we procure. But you, whom frowning fate has taught to feel, Nor need I tell each various source of woe, But wherefore shou'd my suffering soul repine, Bless'd was my humble lot, and hail'd the morn, Wrung were our hearts, and scarce interr'd the boy, Close by the son, the father's corpse to lay, |