THE PARISH POOR HOUSE. BEHOLD yon house that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours flagging play, And the dull wheel hums doleful thro' the day : There children dwell who know no parent's care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; Heart-broken matrons on their joy less bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood fears! The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve: Where the loud groans from fome fad chamber flow, Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below ;. Here forrowing they each kindred forrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man : Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a ligh, And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the floping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For hiin no hand the cordial cup applies, . Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;


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No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Nor promise hope till sickness wears a sinile.


But ere his death some pious doubts arise,
Some simple fears which “ hold bæl” men despise;
Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys abové;
For this he fends the murmuring nurse, who calls”
The holy ftranger to these dismal walls;
And doth not he, the pious man appear,
He,“ passing rich with forty pounds a year?".
Ah no! a shepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little Aock;
A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task
As much as God or man can fairly ask;:
The rest he gives to loves and labours light,
To fields the morning, and to featts the night;
None better fkill'd the noisy pack to guide,
To urge their chace, to cheer them, or to chide ;
Sure in his shot, his game he feldom miss’d,
And seldom fail'd to win his


at whift ;
Then, while such honours bloom around his head,
Shall he fit fadly by the fick man's bed,
To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that ev'n the pious feel? CRADBE,




Are these the messengers, whofe warning voice
Should call from vanity to works of life,

And honestly.“ reprove exhort, admonish ?”
Fearless of pride, and deaf to pleasure's call
And lucre's sophistry, who pure should walk.
And by example point the way to Heaven?
No, they are traitors in the camp of Christ,
Who come with plausible and faithless lips
Into his presence to profess allegiance,
Then turn their backs and give the hand to Mammon.
In pleasure's. tumult who more oft than they?
To Dura's golden idol who will bend
With humbler front? The frown of wealthy vice
They fear, and, heedless of the threaten'd woe,
Bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter put,* * Ifa.v. 90..
And thus adulterate the breadof life.
Yes, fpirit of Cowper, I obey and list
Thy harp with holy indignation fir'd,
Pour forth, these strains, not more severe than just ::

“ Loose in morals, and in manners vain,
In conversation frivolous, in dress.
Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse;
Frequent in park, with lady at their fide,
Ambling and prauling scandal as they go,
But rare at home, and never at their books,
Or with their pen, fave when they scrawl'a card;
Constant at routs, familiar with a round
Of ladyships--but strangers to the poor;
Ambitious of preferment for its gold,
And well-prepar'd, by ignorance and floth,
By infidelity and love of the world,
To make God's work a finecure; firm slaves
To their own pleasures and their patron's pride :
Who mount the sacred roftrum with a skip,
And then skip down again; pronounce a text;
Cry-hem; and, reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,

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