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AN ODE, FOR THE CENTENARY OF THE CHARITY-SCHOOL OF ST. JOHN, WAPPING.
O Thou! to suffering mortals giv'n,
Whom the Almighty Father calls his own,
And plac'd Thee near his everlasting Throne,
Amongst the best belov'd of Heav'n!
Whom the Almighty Father calls his own,
And plac'd Thee near his everlasting Throne,
Amongst the best belov'd of Heav'n!
Sister of Pity and of Love,
O Charity! supremely fair,
Now, in thy native realms above,
Receive, receive our tributary prayer!
O Charity! supremely fair,
Now, in thy native realms above,
Receive, receive our tributary prayer!
For now the blessed hour appears,
After the Sun his hundred years
Hath on thy temple shone with light divine;
And now thy chosen Bands,
With ready and obedient hands,
Would pour their incense o'er thy hallow'd shrine;
Their free-will offering now would pay,
More bright and beauteous than the ray
That Sun in His centenary could dart—
The sacred Incense of a grateful Heart!
After the Sun his hundred years
Hath on thy temple shone with light divine;
And now thy chosen Bands,
With ready and obedient hands,
Would pour their incense o'er thy hallow'd shrine;
Their free-will offering now would pay,
More bright and beauteous than the ray
That Sun in His centenary could dart—
The sacred Incense of a grateful Heart!
Say, can the beam of orient Morn
So gem, with lucid light, the Thorn
On whose fresh bud the dew-drops shine,—
Can these with the rich crystal vie
That glows in cherub Pity's eye,
Or, gentle Gratitude! with thine?
Say, can that orient Morn itself display
So pure a tribute, or so soft a ray?
So gem, with lucid light, the Thorn
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Can these with the rich crystal vie
That glows in cherub Pity's eye,
Or, gentle Gratitude! with thine?
Say, can that orient Morn itself display
So pure a tribute, or so soft a ray?
To that the noon-tide Orb is pale;
And faint, Arabia's boasted gale
To the sweet sigh the widow'd Mother heaves,
Or smile of orphan'd Babe, whom Charity relieves.
Zephyrs of Paradise were rude
To thy soft breath, O Gratitude!
And faint, Arabia's boasted gale
To the sweet sigh the widow'd Mother heaves,
Or smile of orphan'd Babe, whom Charity relieves.
Zephyrs of Paradise were rude
To thy soft breath, O Gratitude!
And, hark! responsive to the mingled sound,
While Music spreads the breathing charm around,
With folded hands and flowing eyes,
What suppliant, tender Forms arise!
What bosoms taught by Thee to know
Of Gratitude th'enraptur'd glow!
In every voice we hear it speak,
We see it bloom on every cheek;
We see it in each smile and tear,
That hails, O Charity! thy votive Year:
While Music spreads the breathing charm around,
With folded hands and flowing eyes,
What suppliant, tender Forms arise!
What bosoms taught by Thee to know
Of Gratitude th'enraptur'd glow!
In every voice we hear it speak,
We see it bloom on every cheek;
We see it in each smile and tear,
That hails, O Charity! thy votive Year:
And while thy tender Mercies we proclaim,
Catch a bright portion of thy heav'nly flame;
Fill'd with thy Spirit, feel the spark divine,
And learn to make our Treasures blest as thine.
Catch a bright portion of thy heav'nly flame;
Fill'd with thy Spirit, feel the spark divine,
And learn to make our Treasures blest as thine.
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