To Charity

Delightful sovereign of the cheerful smile! (Save when thy eye pours forth the streaming tear Compassionate, as oft it doth, when Want In pensive mood, and tatter'd garb appears) Where shall I find thee? for thy sacred step The power of secrecy attends and guards. O fortune! fortune! wherefore not to me Devolves thy golden tide! to me, whose hand Would turn thy flood into a thousand rills. Why on the barren rock, and niggard heath, Plays thy favonian breeze? why shines thy sun To tip the dunghill with a beam of gold? Why dost thou stretch thy treasure-laden hand To those of no desert? you sordid wretch Of narrow soul behold, on whom thy gifts Are lavish'd bountiful; behold, and blush! He shuts them from the light, nor heeds the cry Of helpless orphans, as before his door They kneel imploring, with distressful tears Softening the rude, hard flint. His harder heart Feels no emotion for another's woe. If in the world to come severest pangs Spontaneous crimes await, how much will mourn Beings unsocial, unbenevolent! This principle allies us to the stars. Its non-exertion, where the power is given, Looks hateful to divine and human view. And yet how dances yonder miser's heart Ignoble! what from Charity he holds He deems oeconomy, and hugs the thought Of posthumous applause, if by his will He gives the public what he cannot keep. Oh! vanity of fame! I'd rather lie Tomb'd in oblivion, ere I'd have my name Engrav'd immortal on so low a base. Wretch! as thou art—'tis ostentation all, A pride, which gnaws thy vitals up, and turns " The milk of human kindness" into gall. Queen of the liberal, vast, extensive thought, Sweet Charity! oh! lead me to the cell Where haggard famine o'er her dying race Sits weeping, while, on her uncover'd breast, The cold rain beats—there let me see thy hand Raise her dejected head, and give the means Of present comfort to her sobbing soul. So shall my tears convince thee, that my heart Is prone to pity, tho' I can't relieve.