SONG TO DELIA. FORLORN I seek the silent scene, Why should my heart forget its woe! Forgetful of the parted maid, 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. THE BLIND BEGGAR. WELCOME, thou man of sorrows, to my door! Alas! shall mis'ry seek my cot with sighs, And on my threshold leave th' upbraiding tear? Thou bowest for the pity I bestow : Bend not to me, because I mourn distress; Thy hoary locks, and wan and pallid cheek, 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, 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 ; And triumphs in a sorrow for the poor! When heav'n on man is pleas'd its wealth to show'r, And lead despondence from the tomb of woe! Lo! not the little birds shall chirp in vain, How can I hear your songs at Spring's return, Since fortune, to my cottage not unkind, 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, There shall our feather'd friend, the bird of morn, 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, No more for deck her head and hair, "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 |