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SONG TO DELIA.

FORLORN I seek the silent scene,
To keep the image of my fair;
Pale o'er the fountain's brink I lean,
And view the spectre of despair.

Why should my heart forget its woe!
The virgin would have mourn'd for me-
O nymph, th' eternal tear shall flow;
The sigh unceasing breathe of thee.

Forgetful of the parted maid,
Too many an unfeeling swain
Forsakes of solitude the shade,
For pleasure's gay and wanton train.

Yet, yet of constancy they boast!

Their easy hearts their tongues belie Who loves, reveres the fair-one's ghost, And seeks a pleasure in a sigh.

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THE BLIND BEGGAR.

WELCOME, thou man of sorrows, to my door!
A willing balm thy wounded heart shall find;
And, lo! thy guiding dog my cares implore;
O haste, and shelter from the unfeeling wind!

Alas! shall mis'ry seek my cot with sighs,
And humbly sue for piteous alms my ear;
Yet disappointed go with lifted eyes,

And on my threshold leave th' upbraiding tear?

Thou bowest for the pity I bestow :

Bend not to me, because I mourn distress;
I am thy debtor-much to thee I owe,
For learn-the greatest blessing is to bless.

Thy hoary locks, and wan and pallid cheek,
And quiv'ring lip, to fancy seem to say,
"A more than common beggar we bespeak;
A form that once has known a happier day."

Thy sightless orbs, and venerable beard,

And press'd, by weight of years, thy palsied head, Though silent, speak with tongues that must be heard, Nay, must command, if virtue be not dead.

Thy shatter'd, yet thine awe-inspiring form,
Shall give the village lads the soften'd soul,
To aid the victims of life's frequent storm,
And smooth the surges that around them roll;

Teach them that poverty may mercy shroud;

And teach that virtue may from merit spring; Flame like the light'ning from the frowning cloud, That spreads on nature's smile its raven wing.

O let me own the heart which pants to bless ;
That nobly scorns to hide the useless store;
But looks around for objects of distress,

And triumphs in a sorrow for the poor!

When heav'n on man is pleas'd its wealth to show'r,
Ah, what an envied bliss does heaven bestow!
To raise pale merit in her hopeless hour,

And lead despondence from the tomb of woe!

Lo! not the little birds shall chirp in vain,
And, hovering round me, vainly court my care;
While I possess the life-preserving grain,
Welcome, ye chirping tribe, to peck your share.

How can I hear your songs at Spring's return,
And hear while Summer spreads her golden store;
Yet, when the gloom of Winter bids you mourn,
Heed not the plaintive voice that charm'd before!

Since fortune, to my cottage not unkind,
Strews with some flow'rs the road of life for me,
Ah! can humility desert my mind!

Shall I not soften the rude flint for thee?

Then welcome, Beggar, from the rains and snow, And warring elements, to warmth and peace; Nay, thy companion, too, shall comfort know, Who shiv'ring shakes away the icy fleece.

And lo! he lays him by the fire, clate ;

Now on his master turns his gladden'd eyes, Leaps up to greet him on their change of fate, Licks his lov'd hand, and then beneath him lies.

A hut is mine beneath a shelt'ring grove,
A hermit there, exalt to heav'n thy praise;
There shall the village children shew their love,
And hear from thee the tales of other days.

There shall our feather'd friend, the bird of morn,
Charm thee with orisons to op'ning day;
And there the red-breast on the leafless thorn,
At eve shall sooth thee with a simple lay.

When fate shall call thee from a world of woe, Thy friends around shall watch thy closing eyes; With tears behold thy gentle spirit go,

And wish to join its passage to the skies,

Peter Pindar.

AZID;

OR, THE SONG OF THE CAPTIVE NEGRO.

POOR Mora eye be wet wid tear,

And heart like lead sink down wid woe; She seem her mournful friends to hear, And see der eye like fountain flow.

No more she give me song so gay,
But sigh, "Adieu, dear Domahay."

No more for deck her head and hair,
Me look in stream, bright gold to find;
Nor seek de field for flow'r so fair,
Wid garland Mora hair to bind.

"Far off de stream!" I weeping say, "Far off de fields of Domahay."

But why do Azid live a slave,

And see a slave his Mora dear? Come, let we seek at once de grave, No chain, no tyrant den we fear.

Ah, me! I hear a spirit say
"Come, Azid come to Domahay."

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