THE
POOR
MAN's
PRAYER
.
WRITTEN
1766.
ADDRESSED
TO
THE
EARL
OF
CHATHAM
.
AMIDST
the
more
important
toils
of
state
,
The
counsels
labouring
in
thy
patriot
soul
,
Tho'
Europe
from
thy
voice
expect
her
fate
,
And
thy
keen
glance
extend
from
pole
to
pole
;
O
Chatham
,
nurs'd
in
ancient
Virtue's
lore
,
To
these
sad
strains
incline
a
favouring
ear
;
Think
on
the
God
,
whom
thou
,
and
I
adore
,
Nor
turn
unpitying
from
the
poor
man's
prayer
.
Ah
me
!
how
blest
was
once
a
peasant's
life
!
No
lawless
passion
swell'd
my
even
breast
;
Far
from
the
stormy
waves
of
civil
strife
,
Sound
were
my
slumbers
,
and
my
heart
at
rest
.
I
ne'er
for
guilty
,
painful
pleasures
rov'd
,
But
taught
by
Nature
,
and
by
choice
to
wed
,
From
all
the
hamlet
cull'd
whom
best
I
lov'd
,
With
her
I
staid
my
heart
,
with
her
my
bed
.
To
gild
her
worth
I
ask'd
no
wealthy
power
,
My
toil
could
feed
her
,
and
my
arm
defend
;
In
youth
,
or
age
,
in
pain
,
or
pleasure's
hour
,
The
same
fond
husband
,
father
,
brother
,
friend
.
And
she
,
the
faithful
partner
of
my
care
,
When
ruddy
evening
streak'd
the
western
sky
,
Look'd
towards
the
uplands
,
if
her
mate
was
there
,
Or
thro'
the
beech-wood
cast
an
anxious
eye
.
Then
,
careful
matron
,
heap'd
the
maple
board
With
savoury
herbs
,
and
pick'd
the
nicer
part
From
such
plain
food
as
Nature
could
afford
,
Ere
simple
Nature
was
debauch'd
by
Art
.
While
I
,
contented
with
my
homely
cheer
,
Saw
round
my
knees
my
prattling
children
play
;
And
oft
with
pleas'd
attention
sat
to
hear
The
little
history
of
their
idle
day
.
But
ah
!
how
chang'd
the
scene
!
On
the
cold
stones
,
Where
wont
at
night
to
blaze
the
chearful
fire
,
Pale
Famine
sits
and
counts
her
naked
bones
,
Still
sighs
for
food
,
still
pines
with
vain
desire
.
My
faithful
wife
with
ever-streaming
eyes
Hangs
on
my
bosom
her
dejected
head
;
My
helpless
infants
raise
their
feeble
cries
,
And
from
their
father
claim
their
daily
bread
.
Dear
tender
pledges
of
my
honest
love
,
On
that
bare
bed
behold
your
brother
lie
;
Three
tedious
days
with
pinching
want
he
strove
,
The
fourth
,
I
saw
the
helpless
cherub
die
.
Nor
long
shall
ye
remain
.
With
visage
sour
Our
tyrant
lord
commands
us
from
our
home
;
And
arm'd
with
cruel
Law's
coercive
power
,
Bids
me
and
mine
o'er
barren
mountains
roam
.
Yet
never
,
Chatham
,
have
I
pass'd
a
day
In
Riot's
orgies
,
or
in
idle
ease
;
Ne'er
have
I
sacrific'd
to
sport
and
play
,
Or
wish'd
a
pamper'd
appetite
to
please
.
Hard
was
my
fare
,
and
constant
was
my
toil
,
Still
with
the
morning's
orient
light
I
rose
,
Fell'd
the
stout
oak
,
or
rais'd
the
lofty
pile
,
Parch'd
in
the
sun
,
in
dark
December
froze
.
Is
it
that
Nature
with
a
niggard
hand
Witholds
her
gifts
from
these
once
favour'd
plains
?
Has
God
,
in
vengeance
to
a
guilty
land
,
Sent
Dearth
and
Famine
to
her
labouring
swains
?
Ah
no
;
yon
hill
,
where
daily
sweats
my
brow
,
A
thousand
flocks
,
a
thousand
herds
adorn
;
Yon
field
,
where
late
I
drove
the
painful
plow
,
Feels
all
her
acres
crown'd
with
wavy
corn
.
But
what
avails
that
o'er
the
furrow'd
soil
In
Autumn's
heat
the
yellow
harvests
rise
,
If
artificial
want
elude
my
toil
,
Untasted
plenty
wound
my
craving
eyes
?
What
profits
,
that
at
distance
I
behold
My
wealthy
neighbour's
fragrant
smoke
ascend
,
If
still
the
griping
cormorants
withold
The
fruits
which
rain
and
genial
seasons
send
?
If
those
fell
vipers
of
the
public
weal
Yet
unrelenting
on
our
bowels
prey
;
If
still
the
curse
of
penury
we
feel
,
And
in
the
midst
of
plenty
pine
away
?
In
every
port
the
vessel
rides
secure
,
That
wasts
our
harvest
to
a
foreign
shore
;
While
we
the
pangs
of
pressing
want
endure
,
The
sons
of
strangers
riot
on
our
store
.
O
generous
Chatham
,
stop
those
fatal
sails
,
Once
more
with
out-strecth'd
arm
thy
Britons
save
;
The
unheeding
crew
but
wait
for
favouring
gales
,
O
stop
them
,
ere
they
stem
Italia's
wave
.
From
thee
alone
I
hope
for
instant
aid
,
'Tis
thou
alone
canst
save
my
childrens
breath
;
O
deem
not
little
of
our
cruel
meed
,
O
haste
to
help
us
,
for
delay
is
death
.
So
may
nor
Spleen
,
nor
Envy
blast
thy
name
,
Nor
voice
profane
thy
patriot
acts
deride
;
Still
may'st
thou
stand
the
first
in
honest
fame
,
Unstung
by
Folly
,
Vanity
,
or
Pride
.
So
may
thy
languid
limbs
with
strength
be
brac'd
,
And
glowing
Health
support
thy
active
soul
;
With
fair
renown
thy
public
virtue
grac'd
,
Far
as
thou
bad'st
Britannia's
thunder
roll
.
Then
joy
to
thee
,
and
to
thy
children
peace
,
The
grateful
hind
shall
drink
from
Plenty's
horn
:
And
while
they
share
the
cultur'd
land's
increase
,
The
poor
shall
bless
the
day
when
Pitt
was
born
.