(_For the Mirror_.)
Oh! poverty, thou tyrant of the mind,
How eager would I shun thy cold embrace,
And try some hospitable shore to find!
Some welcome refuge; some more happy place.
But ah! the stars shone adverse at my birth,
Tho' boyish pleasures all my youth beguil'd,
And little thought amidst those scenes of mirth,
That I was doom'd to be misfortune's child.
At last the haggard wretch is come; and I,
Like some poor hark, toss'd by the mighty wave,
Am solitary left, nor have wherewith to fly
Her dread embrace, save to man's friend--the grave.
No hope, alas! possesses now my mind,
Plung'd in the deepest gulf of penury;
No earthly friend, to pity none inclined;
To soothe the bitter pang of misery.
'Tis hope that raises us to heaven,
While pure affection breathes no other love,
And makes to those to whom it's given
A something like a paradise above.
Alas! for me no earthly paradise awaits;
No true affection nor no friendly tear;
Spurn'd at by _friends_, and scorned at by the _great_;
And all that poverty can bring is here.
Then hail thou grateful visitant, oh death,
And stop the troubled ocean of my breast:
Lull the rude waves; nor let my parting breath
E'er cause a sigh, or break one moment's rest.
Then when my clay-cold form shall bid adieu,
Hid in its parent's bosom, kindred earth,
Let not the errors e'er appear in view,
But turn from them, and only speak his worth.