O, in return for such surpassing grace,
    Poor, blind, and naked, what canst thou impart? 
  Canst thou no offering on his altar place? 
    Yes, lowly mourner; give him all thy heart: 
  That simple offering he will not disown,—­
  That living incense may approach his throne.

[Footnote 77:  A gentleman of fortune and literary culture; a life-long resident in the country, in his native State, New Jersey.]

* * * * *

=_William Clifton, 1772-1790._= (Manual, p. 512.)

From lines “To Fancy.”

=_321._= PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION.

  Is my lonely pittance past? 
  Fleeting good too light to last? 
  Lifts my friend the latch no more? 
  Fancy, thou canst all restore;
  Thou canst, with thy airy shell,
  To a palace raise my cell.

* * * * *

  With thee to guide my steps, I’ll creep
  In some old haunted nook to sleep,
  Lulled by the dreary night-bird’s scream,
  That flits along the wizard stream,
  And there, till morning ’gins appear,
  The tales of troubled spirits hear.

  Sweet’s the dawn’s ambiguous light,
  Quiet pause ’tween day and night,
  When afar the mellow horn
  Chides the tardy gaited morn,
  And asleep is yet the gale
  On sea-beat mount, and rivered vale. 
  But the morn, though sweet and fair;
  Sweeter is when thou art there;
  Hymning stars successive fade,
  Fairies hurtle through the shade,
  Lovelorn flowers I weeping see,
  If the scene is touched by thee.

       * * * * *
  Thus through life with thee I’ll glide,
  Happy still what’er betide,
  And while plodding sots complain
  Of ceaseless toil and slender gain,
  Every passing hour shall be
  Worth a golden age to me.

* * * * *

=_Robert Treat Paine, 1773-1811._= (Manual, p. 512.)

From “The Ruling Passion.”

=_322._= THE MISER.

  Next comes the miser; palsied, jealous, lean,
  He looks the very skeleton of Spleen! 
  ’Mid forests drear, he haunts, in spectred gloom,
  Some desert abbey or some druid’s tomb;
  Where hearsed in earth, his occult riches lay,
  Fleeced from the world, and buried from the day. 
  With crutch in hand, he points his mineral rod,
  Limps to the spot, and turns the well-known sod. 
  While there, involved in night, he counts his store
  By the soft tinklings of the golden ore,
  He shakes with terror lest the moon should spy,
  And the breeze whisper, where his treasures lie.