 | Alfred |  |
Oh, charity! while fame, with lightning car,
Flashes brief splendor o'er the hero's grave,
Thou sitt'st upon thy rock, amid the wave,
Calm as the silver moon, and evening star,
That o'er the billows cast their image far,
Like them unmoved by storms that round thee rave.
Ah! from thine eye I mark the tear descend!
Thou thinkest of the foes that man dismay;
Upon the crowd who have no home or friend,
Upon the orphan—worn by want away,—
The lonely widow—lingering out her day,
And tho' too poor to succour, thou dost send
The look benign, that oft has care beguiled—
Soothing in silence sorrow's drooping child.
Flashes brief splendor o'er the hero's grave,
Thou sitt'st upon thy rock, amid the wave,
Calm as the silver moon, and evening star,
That o'er the billows cast their image far,
Like them unmoved by storms that round thee rave.
Ah! from thine eye I mark the tear descend!
Thou thinkest of the foes that man dismay;
Upon the crowd who have no home or friend,
Upon the orphan—worn by want away,—
The lonely widow—lingering out her day,
And tho' too poor to succour, thou dost send
The look benign, that oft has care beguiled—
Soothing in silence sorrow's drooping child.
| Alfred | |