The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Welcome, thou man of sorrows, to my door!
A willing balm thy wounded heart shall find;
And lo, thy guiding dog my care implores!
O haste, and shelter from th' unfeeling wind.

Alas! shall Mis'ry seek my cot with sighs,
And humbly sue for piteous alms my ear;
Yet disappointed go with lifted eyes,
And on my threshold leave th' upbraiding tear?

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Thou bowest for the pity I bestow:
Bend not to me, because I mourn distress;
I am thy debtor—much to thee I owe;
For learn—the greatest blessing is to bless.

Thy hoary locks, and wan and pallid cheek,
And quiv'ring lip to fancy seem to say,
‘A more than common beggar we bespeak;
A form that once has known a happier day.’

Thy sightless orbs, and venerable beard,
And press'd by weight of years, thy palsied head,
Though silent, speak with tongues that must be heard,
Nay, must command, if virtue be not dead.

Thy shatter'd, yet thine awe-inspiring form,
Shall give the village-lads the soften'd soul,
To aid the victims of life's frequent storm,
And smooth the surges that around them roll;

Teach them, that poverty may merit shroud;
And teach, that virtue may from misery spring!
Flame like the lightning from the frowning cloud,
That spreads on Nature's smile its raven wing.

O let me own the heart which pants to bless;
That nobly scorns to hide the useless store;
But looks around for objects of distress,
And triumphs in a sorrow for the poor!

When Heaven on man is pleas'd its wealth to show'r,
Ah, what an envied bliss doth Heaven bestow!
To raise pale Merit in her hopeless hour,
And lead Despondence from the tomb of Woe!

Lo, not the little birds shall chirp in vain,
And, hov'ring round me, vainly court my care;
While I possess the life-preserving grain,
Welcome ye chirping tribe to peck your share.

How can I hear your songs at spring's return,
And hear while summer spreads her golden store;

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Yet, when the gloom of winter bids ye mourn,
Heed not the plaintive voice that charm'd before!

Since Fortune, to my cottage not unkind,
Strews with some flow'rs the road of life for me,
Ah! can humanity desert my mind?
Shall I not soften the rude flint for thee?

Then welcome, beggar, from the rains and snow,
And warring elements, to warmth and peace;
Nay, thy companion too shall comfort know,
Who shiv'ring shakes away the icy fleece.

And lo, he lays him by the fire, elate;
Now on his master turns his gladden'd eyes;
Leaps up to greet him on their change of fate,
Licks his lov'd hand, and then beneath him lies.

A hut is mine, amidst a shelt'ring grove:
A hermit there, exalt to Heav'n thy praise;
There shall the village children show their love,
And hear from thee the tales of other days.

There shall our feather'd friend, the bird of morn,
Charm thee with orisons to opening day;
And there the red-breast, on the leafless thorn,
At eve shall sooth thee with a simple lay.

When fate shall call thee from a world of woe,
Thy friends around shall watch thy closing eyes;
With tears, behold thy gentle spirit go,
And wish to join its passage to the skies.