THE
BEGGAR’S PETITION,
BY Dr. PERCIVAL.
WITH ADDITIONS
BY F. J. GUION,
TEACHER OF ELOCUTION.
I.
Bereav'd of friends, inheritance, and rest,
An aged mortal, plaintive, begg’d his way;
And spurn’d by grandeur, when he made request.
Thus, at the door of worth was heard to say,
II.
“Pity the sorrows of a poor' old man,
“Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
“Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
“Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
III.
“Those tatter’d clothes my poverty bespeak,
“Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen’d years;
“And ev’ry furrow, in my grief-worn cheek
“Has been the channel to a flood of tears!
IV.
“Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
"With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
“For plenty there a residence has found,
“And grandeur a magnificent abode!
V.
“Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
“There as I crav’d a morsel of their bread,
“A pamper’d menial drove me from the door,
“To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.
VI.
“Oh! take me to your hospitable dome:
“Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
“Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
“For I am poor and miserably old.
VII.
“Shou’d I reveal the sources of my grief,
“If soft humanity e’er touch’d your breast,
“Your hands wou’d not withhold the kind relief,
“And tears of pity wou’d not be represt.
VIII.
“Heav’n sends misfortunes: why shou’d we repine?
“’Tis Heaven has brought me to this state you see,
“And your condition may me be soon like mine,
“The child of sorrow and of misery!
IX.
“A little farm was my paternal lot,
“Then like the lark, I sprightly hail’d the morn!
“But, ah! oppression drove me from my cot,
“My cattle dy’d, and blighted was my corn!
X.
“My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
“Lur’d by a villain from her native home;
“Is call abandon’d on the world’s wide stage,
“And doom’d in scanty poverty to roam.
XI.
“My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
“Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
“Fell, ling’ring fell, a victim to despair!
“And left the world to wretchedness and me.
XII.
“Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
“Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
“Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
“Oh! give relief, and Heav’n will bless your store.”
XIII.
“Enter, my aged friend!” reply’d the host.
"Enter my humble mansion—child of wo!
“No pompous grandeur does my table boast—
“Such as I have, I freely will bestow—”
XIV.
With grateful tears, the suppliant bow’d his head,
With steps enliven’d, trod the winding stair—
The wholesome viands, hospitably spread,
Chear’d his old heart, and soften’d all his care.
