The poor or, bread. A poem. With notes And illustrations. By Mr. Pratt ... second edition |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. | PART III. |
 | The poor |  |
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III. PART III.
The fateful causes such, and such the train
Of dire effects; the remedies remain.
Yet, think not mighty maladies like these,
Which fierce and fell, the mind and body seize,
Can, without timely skill, admit a cure:
Dispatch! no more the patient can endure.
Ye state-physicians, haste, with wisest care
Your healing balms, and lenitives prepare;
Inflam'd and deep, and gangren'd is the sore,
Prescribe the caustic and the probe no more;
With mildest balms, ah! bathe the deep-mouth'd wound,
And gently wrap the softest bandage round,
By bland degrees relieve the aching sense,
And instant banish all corrosives hence.
Of dire effects; the remedies remain.
Yet, think not mighty maladies like these,
Which fierce and fell, the mind and body seize,
Can, without timely skill, admit a cure:
Dispatch! no more the patient can endure.
Ye state-physicians, haste, with wisest care
Your healing balms, and lenitives prepare;
Inflam'd and deep, and gangren'd is the sore,
Prescribe the caustic and the probe no more;
With mildest balms, ah! bathe the deep-mouth'd wound,
And gently wrap the softest bandage round,
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And instant banish all corrosives hence.
Avaunt Coercion! woo each kinder power,
And lead her smiling to the peasant's door:
Tyrant avaunt! to other regions fly,
Or to thy frozen, or thy torrid sky;
To harams, cloisters, nunneries, and caves,
Where equal beings sink to couching slaves,
And superstition's melancholy train,
Pine and decay that hypocrites may reign:
Speed baneful monster with thy hated band—
But tremble to approach fair Albion's land;
Dare not to blast Britannia's humblest flower,
A goddess arm'd, late shielded every bower;
Britannia and fair Freedom were the same,
Sacred allies that differ'd but in name.
And lead her smiling to the peasant's door:
Tyrant avaunt! to other regions fly,
Or to thy frozen, or thy torrid sky;
To harams, cloisters, nunneries, and caves,
Where equal beings sink to couching slaves,
And superstition's melancholy train,
Pine and decay that hypocrites may reign:
Speed baneful monster with thy hated band—
But tremble to approach fair Albion's land;
Dare not to blast Britannia's humblest flower,
A goddess arm'd, late shielded every bower;
Britannia and fair Freedom were the same,
Sacred allies that differ'd but in name.
Thinkst thou by vestrys, and the penal code,
The slave's correction, and the negro's rod,
Russia's fell knout, or Afric's hateful sway,
To force an English peasant to obey?
To bend his spirit, and to bow his knee,
Taught but to worship God and Liberty?
An hundred years twice told, have proved how vain
The beadle's lash, the prison, and the chain;
Compulsion's cruel system has but shewn,
The ploughman's heart is lofty as thine own;
At bonds, with pride like thine, his bosom swells,
Tis a rich touch of England that rebels;
Tis kindred honour gives the quick alarm,
When-e'er oppression lifts the tyrant arm:
Check not the virtuous principle which leads,
The brave plebeian to patrician deeds;
The hind who draws the harrow o'er the land,
May be the first to lead a warlike band;
Or on the foamy flood, or tented field,
In glory's hour, may be the last to yield;
With skill encourag'd, and with skill reprov'd,
Right may be strengthen'd, wrong may be remov'd;
But vile Coercion!—where's the honest mind,
That is by choice to tyranny resign'd?
Where the gall'd wretch that does not curse his fate,
And silent bear th'oppressor deadliest hate;
Where e'en the tyrant, 'midst his pride and pelf,
Conscious of crime, who does not scorn himself?
The slave's correction, and the negro's rod,
Russia's fell knout, or Afric's hateful sway,
To force an English peasant to obey?
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Taught but to worship God and Liberty?
An hundred years twice told, have proved how vain
The beadle's lash, the prison, and the chain;
Compulsion's cruel system has but shewn,
The ploughman's heart is lofty as thine own;
At bonds, with pride like thine, his bosom swells,
Tis a rich touch of England that rebels;
Tis kindred honour gives the quick alarm,
When-e'er oppression lifts the tyrant arm:
Check not the virtuous principle which leads,
The brave plebeian to patrician deeds;
The hind who draws the harrow o'er the land,
May be the first to lead a warlike band;
Or on the foamy flood, or tented field,
In glory's hour, may be the last to yield;
With skill encourag'd, and with skill reprov'd,
Right may be strengthen'd, wrong may be remov'd;
But vile Coercion!—where's the honest mind,
That is by choice to tyranny resign'd?
Where the gall'd wretch that does not curse his fate,
And silent bear th'oppressor deadliest hate;
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Conscious of crime, who does not scorn himself?
Ask thy own heart what most its love inspires?
What most its generous indignation fires?
Honest to nature; see the prompt reply
Glows in the smile, or struggles in the sigh;
And this great truth forever shall remain,
The mark alike of sovereign and of swain—
Choice and free-will, and kindness make the brave;
Compulsion, harshness, tyranny, the slave.
What most its generous indignation fires?
Honest to nature; see the prompt reply
Glows in the smile, or struggles in the sigh;
And this great truth forever shall remain,
The mark alike of sovereign and of swain—
Choice and free-will, and kindness make the brave;
Compulsion, harshness, tyranny, the slave.
Misdeem not of the Poor: the pendant globe,
From labour borrows its resplendent robe;
The fruits and flowers that on its surface rise,
The generous labour of the swain supplies;
The forests which now grace, now guard the land,
Owe all their pride and power to labour's hand;
The quarry'd stone, hid deep beneath the soil,
Yields but to labour's persevering toil;
The sparkling gem embowell'd late in earth,
To labour owes its honours and its birth;
Drossy and dark still had it gloom'd unknown,
Nor grac'd the beauty, nor enrich'd the throne,
Nor had the landscape charm'd the painter's eye,
But for thy aid, O patient Drudgery!
Bow'd by thy axe, the oaks stupendous fall,
And mount again Britannia's proudest wall;
Fresh from thy plough the faithful seeds arise;
Rich from thy sickle the ripe harvest lies;
Beneath thy scythe peeps forth the tender green;
Fair from thy spade expands each beauteous scene;
To thee the poet owes his favourite flower,
Science her studious walk, and love his bower;
Peace, war, and solitude, and social ease,
Pleasure and health, and sorrow and disease;
The couch's softness and the pillow's down,
From thee derive a lustre not their own.
From labour borrows its resplendent robe;
The fruits and flowers that on its surface rise,
The generous labour of the swain supplies;
The forests which now grace, now guard the land,
Owe all their pride and power to labour's hand;
The quarry'd stone, hid deep beneath the soil,
Yields but to labour's persevering toil;
The sparkling gem embowell'd late in earth,
To labour owes its honours and its birth;
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Nor grac'd the beauty, nor enrich'd the throne,
Nor had the landscape charm'd the painter's eye,
But for thy aid, O patient Drudgery!
Bow'd by thy axe, the oaks stupendous fall,
And mount again Britannia's proudest wall;
Fresh from thy plough the faithful seeds arise;
Rich from thy sickle the ripe harvest lies;
Beneath thy scythe peeps forth the tender green;
Fair from thy spade expands each beauteous scene;
To thee the poet owes his favourite flower,
Science her studious walk, and love his bower;
Peace, war, and solitude, and social ease,
Pleasure and health, and sorrow and disease;
The couch's softness and the pillow's down,
From thee derive a lustre not their own.
Ah! say, are nature's bloomy days forgot,
When powers august, were inmates of the cot;
And fix'd in rustic sheds their equal throne,
E'er cities, palaces, or courts were known;
When nature chose, and crown'd her scepter'd three,
And nam'd them Labour, Health, and Liberty;
Her own triumvirate, who awful sate,
With in-born majesty, and simple state?
When powers august, were inmates of the cot;
And fix'd in rustic sheds their equal throne,
E'er cities, palaces, or courts were known;
When nature chose, and crown'd her scepter'd three,
And nam'd them Labour, Health, and Liberty;
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With in-born majesty, and simple state?
Sweet to command, yet sweeter to obey,
When happy subjects yield to happy sway:
Rude tho' the soil, they tam'd it while they sung,
And all the echoes of their empire rung:
A forest-empire! but the lusty stroke
Repeated strong, th'umbrageous horror broke;
The vista opened, and at every fall
Of mingled trees, uprose a verdant wall:
Celestial light, a willing entrance gain'd,
Where brooding darkness in her den had reign'd;
Beside new path-ways sprung the sportive shade,
Sunbeams shot in, and with the foliage play'd;
And as by due degrees the woods were clear'd,
Labour, and Health, and Liberty were cheer'd:
Their sturdy arms and dauntless hearts engag'd
With the fierce 'pard, or tyger when enrag'd;
In native courage mail'd, unaw'd they stood,
Before the monarch-monster of the wood,
Madd'ning with passion, till their arrows sped,
Or gor'd and cow'd, the vanquish'd savage fled.
When happy subjects yield to happy sway:
Rude tho' the soil, they tam'd it while they sung,
And all the echoes of their empire rung:
A forest-empire! but the lusty stroke
Repeated strong, th'umbrageous horror broke;
The vista opened, and at every fall
Of mingled trees, uprose a verdant wall:
Celestial light, a willing entrance gain'd,
Where brooding darkness in her den had reign'd;
Beside new path-ways sprung the sportive shade,
Sunbeams shot in, and with the foliage play'd;
And as by due degrees the woods were clear'd,
Labour, and Health, and Liberty were cheer'd:
Their sturdy arms and dauntless hearts engag'd
With the fierce 'pard, or tyger when enrag'd;
In native courage mail'd, unaw'd they stood,
Before the monarch-monster of the wood,
Madd'ning with passion, till their arrows sped,
Or gor'd and cow'd, the vanquish'd savage fled.
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Triumphant chiefs! 'twas then their huts arose,
'Twas then they tasted soft and short repose;
Their sylvan foes subdu'd, they swift began
The brute to limit, and enlarge the man:
Forth came the Plough—thrice honour'd be its birth!
The friend, the tutor of maternal earth;
Cheer'd by its pow'r the barren mother smil'd,
And saw new blessings rise for every child:
From her full breast her myriad tribes were fed;
Soft on that breast those myriads found a bed;
She saw her limbs array'd in beauty's dress,
Her deserts bloom'd, her sons were taught to bless;
Till smooth'd and soften'd all her features bore
A livelier cast, the savage traits were o'er;
Huts grew to hamlets, hamlets to a town,
Illustrious Three! till London was your own.
'Twas then they tasted soft and short repose;
Their sylvan foes subdu'd, they swift began
The brute to limit, and enlarge the man:
Forth came the Plough—thrice honour'd be its birth!
The friend, the tutor of maternal earth;
Cheer'd by its pow'r the barren mother smil'd,
And saw new blessings rise for every child:
From her full breast her myriad tribes were fed;
Soft on that breast those myriads found a bed;
She saw her limbs array'd in beauty's dress,
Her deserts bloom'd, her sons were taught to bless;
Till smooth'd and soften'd all her features bore
A livelier cast, the savage traits were o'er;
Huts grew to hamlets, hamlets to a town,
Illustrious Three! till London was your own.
Then learn at length to reverence the Poor,
And weave a garland round the cottage door;
Let grateful wealth do homage to the bower,
From whose first lords came riches, ease, and power.
Yes, reverence the Poor! but ah! how wide,
The barrier stands 'twixt equity and pride!
The means of life the Poor are now refus'd,
Power, riches, ease, and plenty, all abus'd;
Yet were what appetite exacts bestow'd,
A mere sufficiency of drink and food,
Thinkst thou, O little skill'd in human kind!
The rational, who can perceive a mind
Stir as the god within, like beasts can feed,
The harness'd oxen, or the bridled steed,
And then, a pause of reason and of sense?
O be such tyrant precepts banish'd hence;
Far, far, from England be such maxims sown,
There, still may sense and reason have a throne!
The veriest carl that nature ever made,
Heir to the flail, the wallet, and the spade,
Boasts in fair freedom's isle a free-born mind,
And sighs to share the birth-right of his kind;
With daily bread, sweet liberty must come,
And happy choice, to eat that bread at home,
In his own ground, his own kind cow must graze,
On his own hearth the frugal faggot blaze;
In his own garden must his herbs have grown,
Alike the labours and rewards his own.
And weave a garland round the cottage door;
Let grateful wealth do homage to the bower,
From whose first lords came riches, ease, and power.
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The barrier stands 'twixt equity and pride!
The means of life the Poor are now refus'd,
Power, riches, ease, and plenty, all abus'd;
Yet were what appetite exacts bestow'd,
A mere sufficiency of drink and food,
Thinkst thou, O little skill'd in human kind!
The rational, who can perceive a mind
Stir as the god within, like beasts can feed,
The harness'd oxen, or the bridled steed,
And then, a pause of reason and of sense?
O be such tyrant precepts banish'd hence;
Far, far, from England be such maxims sown,
There, still may sense and reason have a throne!
The veriest carl that nature ever made,
Heir to the flail, the wallet, and the spade,
Boasts in fair freedom's isle a free-born mind,
And sighs to share the birth-right of his kind;
With daily bread, sweet liberty must come,
And happy choice, to eat that bread at home,
In his own ground, his own kind cow must graze,
On his own hearth the frugal faggot blaze;
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Alike the labours and rewards his own.
Nor think that public charities supply,
Like these, the wants of Britain's peasantry;
“The poor-house coat, 'tis true, is whole and fine,
“But ah,” exclaims the peasant, “'tis not mine!
“For some,” he cries, “such borrow'd robes may charm,
“Yet save me from that badge upon the arm!
“The work-house rooms more amply are display'd,
“But all the paupers are promiscuous laid;
“A hundred strangers in one mansion penn'd,
“Without a neighbour, and without a friend;
“Nor wife, nor child to cheer with tender power,
“The weak, the sad, and solitary hour;
“My cottage diet too more coarse and scant,
“But ate at will, and not too coarse for want;
“Let all of mine by their own hands be fed,
“And give me still my labour and my shed.”
Like these, the wants of Britain's peasantry;
“The poor-house coat, 'tis true, is whole and fine,
“But ah,” exclaims the peasant, “'tis not mine!
“For some,” he cries, “such borrow'd robes may charm,
“Yet save me from that badge upon the arm!
“The work-house rooms more amply are display'd,
“But all the paupers are promiscuous laid;
“A hundred strangers in one mansion penn'd,
“Without a neighbour, and without a friend;
“Nor wife, nor child to cheer with tender power,
“The weak, the sad, and solitary hour;
“My cottage diet too more coarse and scant,
“But ate at will, and not too coarse for want;
“Let all of mine by their own hands be fed,
“And give me still my labour and my shed.”
The Work-house too! “In pity, O forbear,”
Exclaims the mother, “to remove me there;
“In all my sickness, and in all my pain,
“Let these poor tatter'd boys and girls remain
“To share my crust, and sleep upon my bed,
“O do not steal my children from my shed;
“Respect a mother's love, a mother's pride,
“To see her sons and daughters by her side;
“Her love to view them, tho' in tatters blown;
“Her pride to think those tatters are their own.”
Exclaims the mother, “to remove me there;
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“Let these poor tatter'd boys and girls remain
“To share my crust, and sleep upon my bed,
“O do not steal my children from my shed;
“Respect a mother's love, a mother's pride,
“To see her sons and daughters by her side;
“Her love to view them, tho' in tatters blown;
“Her pride to think those tatters are their own.”
With all the burthens of a parent's care,
Such are the parent's grief, the parent's prayer;
Nor think them vain; 'tis nature that inspires
The love which sorrows, but which never tires;
The love of progeny—a sacred power!
Felt from the natal to the mortal hour.
Tho' stinted bread, and water from the well,
Were all their food and drink, no tongue can tell
What mothers feel, who see the babes they bred,
Throng to the knee, and clamour round the bed;
Cling to the bosom for their nurture dear,
And something claim each hour, to warm and cheer;
Claims that, alas! each day must multiply,
But want the means their clamours to supply.
Yet think'st thou she who knows a mother's love,
To ease her griefs, her burthens would remove;
Send from her sight the infant that has drawn
Her matron breast, in helpless childhood's dawn;
Or, from her ragged offspring e'er could part,
Without a streaming eye, an anguish'd heart?
Oh no! the more they need her fostering aid,
The more the ills of childhood's hour invade;
More eager she to spread the clasping arm;
More warm the instinct, and more strong the charm:
Nature that gives the transport, soothes the pain,
And helps her own lov'd burthens to sustain.
Avaunt then systems! barb'rous as unwise,
To move the infant from its mother's eyes;
Tho' born but yesterday, that pledge in view,
Strong the maternal power, to nature true,
And one soft pressure of its little hand,
E'er yet its tongue can lisp, its feet can stand;
Or one sweet smile upon its baby brow,
Is to a mother more than mines bestow.
Such are the parent's grief, the parent's prayer;
Nor think them vain; 'tis nature that inspires
The love which sorrows, but which never tires;
The love of progeny—a sacred power!
Felt from the natal to the mortal hour.
Tho' stinted bread, and water from the well,
Were all their food and drink, no tongue can tell
What mothers feel, who see the babes they bred,
Throng to the knee, and clamour round the bed;
Cling to the bosom for their nurture dear,
And something claim each hour, to warm and cheer;
Claims that, alas! each day must multiply,
But want the means their clamours to supply.
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To ease her griefs, her burthens would remove;
Send from her sight the infant that has drawn
Her matron breast, in helpless childhood's dawn;
Or, from her ragged offspring e'er could part,
Without a streaming eye, an anguish'd heart?
Oh no! the more they need her fostering aid,
The more the ills of childhood's hour invade;
More eager she to spread the clasping arm;
More warm the instinct, and more strong the charm:
Nature that gives the transport, soothes the pain,
And helps her own lov'd burthens to sustain.
Avaunt then systems! barb'rous as unwise,
To move the infant from its mother's eyes;
Tho' born but yesterday, that pledge in view,
Strong the maternal power, to nature true,
And one soft pressure of its little hand,
E'er yet its tongue can lisp, its feet can stand;
Or one sweet smile upon its baby brow,
Is to a mother more than mines bestow.
Again the earth with food is cover'd o'er,
Even till her matron breast can hold no more;
The heapy corn-sheaf crowns her radiant head,
And her capacious arms are fill'd with bread;
In plenty's form methinks I see her stand
The guardian genius of the burnish'd land;
Thro' plenty's horn, methinks I hear her sound
A gladsome summons to her race around,
“Prepare, prepare my progeny,” she cries,
“Lo, at your feet the gorgeous harvest lies;
“Proud to the sickle springs the ten-fold ear,
“And heav'n augments the blessings of the year;
“And favouring suns, and fostering show'rs combine,
“Bounteous to give, and make that bounty thine;
“Along the mead, and up the mountain's brow,
“Beside the stream, and down the vale below,
“Where-ever spreads my beautiful domain,
“See the ripe harvest wooes the generous swain;
“Scarcely he stoops to reap th'abundant soil,
“High to his breast it waves to court his toil.
Even till her matron breast can hold no more;
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And her capacious arms are fill'd with bread;
In plenty's form methinks I see her stand
The guardian genius of the burnish'd land;
Thro' plenty's horn, methinks I hear her sound
A gladsome summons to her race around,
“Prepare, prepare my progeny,” she cries,
“Lo, at your feet the gorgeous harvest lies;
“Proud to the sickle springs the ten-fold ear,
“And heav'n augments the blessings of the year;
“And favouring suns, and fostering show'rs combine,
“Bounteous to give, and make that bounty thine;
“Along the mead, and up the mountain's brow,
“Beside the stream, and down the vale below,
“Where-ever spreads my beautiful domain,
“See the ripe harvest wooes the generous swain;
“Scarcely he stoops to reap th'abundant soil,
“High to his breast it waves to court his toil.
Our common mother thus, her sons to chear,
Hail'd the rich promise of her golden year,
And at her bidding, while each anxious swain,
Is snatch'd from Famine, learns to hope again.
Sweet Hope! methinks I see thee from the skies,
Tint their pale cheeks, and light their languid eyes;
As from their death-beds, at the morning's break,
Along the dewy meads their course they take.
But ah! not gay as er'st they leap'd along,
When heart's were happy, and when limbs were strong;
More weak and weary now they reach the soil,
Than when in Cottage-Days they left their toil:
And yet, than sorrow stronger, Hope inspires,
The fainting matrons and the sickly sires,
And withering children, staggering try to walk,
Like frost-nipt buds that tremble on the stalk;
And, as at length they view the goodly shew,
Of full-ripe corn in rich luxuriance glow;
As with the beards the breeze begins to play,
Bright burnish'd by the orient sunny ray,
Hope comes more closely to the poor man's breast,
And smiling whispers—he shall still be blest;
Youth looks to joy, and age suspends its grief,
For who denies to smiling Hope belief?
All rally round her, and return her smile,
Tho' trembling near her stands pale Fear the while.
Hail'd the rich promise of her golden year,
And at her bidding, while each anxious swain,
Is snatch'd from Famine, learns to hope again.
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Tint their pale cheeks, and light their languid eyes;
As from their death-beds, at the morning's break,
Along the dewy meads their course they take.
But ah! not gay as er'st they leap'd along,
When heart's were happy, and when limbs were strong;
More weak and weary now they reach the soil,
Than when in Cottage-Days they left their toil:
And yet, than sorrow stronger, Hope inspires,
The fainting matrons and the sickly sires,
And withering children, staggering try to walk,
Like frost-nipt buds that tremble on the stalk;
And, as at length they view the goodly shew,
Of full-ripe corn in rich luxuriance glow;
As with the beards the breeze begins to play,
Bright burnish'd by the orient sunny ray,
Hope comes more closely to the poor man's breast,
And smiling whispers—he shall still be blest;
Youth looks to joy, and age suspends its grief,
For who denies to smiling Hope belief?
All rally round her, and return her smile,
Tho' trembling near her stands pale Fear the while.
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Yet wherefore should the peasant slaves prepare
To reap the harvest if they may not share;
Why waste the slender tide that yet remains
Of ebbing life, to fill th'oppressor's veins?
Plund'rers abhorr'd! if your dark threats portend,
Another season from the poor to rend;
Ye jobbers' vile! or by whatever name,
Ye stand recorded on the lists of shame;—
Ye who ne'er labour on the teeming plain,
But like dire locusts, only eat the grain!
Ye more than savage cannibals, who feed
Upon your kind, without the savage need;
Devour in fullness, and with tyrant art,
Suck the warm life-blood of your country's heart;
With more than demon wiles can undermine,
Gifts of the God, and make creation thine;
Its fruits increase, diminish or supply,
While captive earth shall at your mercy lie;
If all a poor man's hopes must be o'erthrown,
By yet another famine of your own;
O spare for once the long-deluded train,
Nor let them work the unrequiting plain.
Even as the groupes now rang'd before thee stand,
For once have pity and dismiss the band;
Bathe not their bosoms in a thriftless cause,
But grant to withering life, a moment's pause:
Ah! let them die upon their natal spot,
And let each victim perish in his cot.
To reap the harvest if they may not share;
Why waste the slender tide that yet remains
Of ebbing life, to fill th'oppressor's veins?
Plund'rers abhorr'd! if your dark threats portend,
Another season from the poor to rend;
Ye jobbers' vile! or by whatever name,
Ye stand recorded on the lists of shame;—
Ye who ne'er labour on the teeming plain,
But like dire locusts, only eat the grain!
Ye more than savage cannibals, who feed
Upon your kind, without the savage need;
Devour in fullness, and with tyrant art,
Suck the warm life-blood of your country's heart;
With more than demon wiles can undermine,
Gifts of the God, and make creation thine;
Its fruits increase, diminish or supply,
While captive earth shall at your mercy lie;
If all a poor man's hopes must be o'erthrown,
By yet another famine of your own;
O spare for once the long-deluded train,
Nor let them work the unrequiting plain.
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For once have pity and dismiss the band;
Bathe not their bosoms in a thriftless cause,
But grant to withering life, a moment's pause:
Ah! let them die upon their natal spot,
And let each victim perish in his cot.
Yes, wanton Locusts of a foodful isle!
Where upon Freedom, Plenty us'd to smile;
Where Plenty still supplies her utmost store,
Broad, deep, and vast, to all—but to the Poor.
If every blessing now beneath the sky,
Be doom'd to sate thy sordid gluttony;
Let thy own pamper'd hand the harvest reap,
And thy own heartless breast the toil-drops steep;
Let thy own bloated limbs, by vice unbrac'd,
Or, by thy miser's, or thy spendthrift waste;
Take from thy vassal hinds their useless trade,
The fork, the rake, the plough-share and the spade—
And let them starve; or, if thy luxury
Demand the fiend-like joy to see them die,
Pronounce their fate when they have dress'd thy grain,
And each shall sink a corpse upon the plain.
Where upon Freedom, Plenty us'd to smile;
Where Plenty still supplies her utmost store,
Broad, deep, and vast, to all—but to the Poor.
If every blessing now beneath the sky,
Be doom'd to sate thy sordid gluttony;
Let thy own pamper'd hand the harvest reap,
And thy own heartless breast the toil-drops steep;
Let thy own bloated limbs, by vice unbrac'd,
Or, by thy miser's, or thy spendthrift waste;
Take from thy vassal hinds their useless trade,
The fork, the rake, the plough-share and the spade—
And let them starve; or, if thy luxury
Demand the fiend-like joy to see them die,
Pronounce their fate when they have dress'd thy grain,
And each shall sink a corpse upon the plain.
74
Savage! behold thy triumph, yet beware!
Oft is the spider taken in her snare;
In her own subtle web has oft been found,
E'en as she threw her latent poisons round.
Hail to the Laws! the guardians of the land,
And doubly hail'd the props on which they stand;
Hail Order's fabric! by true wisdom made;
And curs'd be they who would the dome invade!
Yet laws there are, whose power each being feels,
Impress'd on every heart with Nature's seals;
Enroll'd in nature's chancery sublime,
Sanction'd by truth, and unimpair'd by time.
O Man preserve thyself in time of need!
In awful characters so stands the deed:
For this the lamb has bled, the fawn has fought,
And set the tyrant of the woods at naught;
The timid hare upon the wolf has sprung,
While deep-ton'd howlings thro' the forest rung;
And O! what has not Man atchiev'd for this,
On fortune's height, in penury's abyss?
The trembling coward, and the bending slave,
For this have felt the courage of the brave.
A fiend there is—the despot of our frame,
More fell than death—and Famine is his name!
Stung by the rav'nous principle he goes,
Furious and fierce, nor check nor fear he knows;
The strongest bonds and laws before him fall,
The laws of Famine supersede them all;
With keener energy he sweeps along
As goads the madd'ning power of hunger strong;
To bloody victim, victims still succeed,
And bed-rid parents, cradled infants bleed;
Like the gaunt lion on his prey he pours,
And his own flesh in agony devours:
But for his tyrant—foes of man beware,
Nor dare the view of famine in despair!
Oft is the spider taken in her snare;
In her own subtle web has oft been found,
E'en as she threw her latent poisons round.
Hail to the Laws! the guardians of the land,
And doubly hail'd the props on which they stand;
Hail Order's fabric! by true wisdom made;
And curs'd be they who would the dome invade!
Yet laws there are, whose power each being feels,
Impress'd on every heart with Nature's seals;
Enroll'd in nature's chancery sublime,
Sanction'd by truth, and unimpair'd by time.
O Man preserve thyself in time of need!
In awful characters so stands the deed:
For this the lamb has bled, the fawn has fought,
And set the tyrant of the woods at naught;
The timid hare upon the wolf has sprung,
While deep-ton'd howlings thro' the forest rung;
And O! what has not Man atchiev'd for this,
On fortune's height, in penury's abyss?
The trembling coward, and the bending slave,
For this have felt the courage of the brave.
75
More fell than death—and Famine is his name!
Stung by the rav'nous principle he goes,
Furious and fierce, nor check nor fear he knows;
The strongest bonds and laws before him fall,
The laws of Famine supersede them all;
With keener energy he sweeps along
As goads the madd'ning power of hunger strong;
To bloody victim, victims still succeed,
And bed-rid parents, cradled infants bleed;
Like the gaunt lion on his prey he pours,
And his own flesh in agony devours:
But for his tyrant—foes of man beware,
Nor dare the view of famine in despair!
Let trembling memory retrace the hour,
When rash rebellion rose on cruel power;
When son and sire against each other stood,
And Britons waded deep in British blood;
When ruthless murder dy'd the sanguine plain,
Stained the soft flower and clotted all the grain;
When England bled, and nature seemed to mourn,
O never, never, may those scenes return!
Yet urge not to extremities, but dread
To plunge thy country in a war of Bread!
What can be hop'd from combat or from flight,
'Gainst Famine arm'd and terrible in might?
And what are swords the fury to oppose,
When the fiend springs in vengeance on his foes?—
“For children living, and for children dead;
“For matrons starving, on a widow'd bed;
“For dire necessity, not wanton rage,”
Exclaim the Poor, “for Life the war we wage:
“We break the social, but not nature's laws,
“And heav'n itself will sure befriend our cause!
When rash rebellion rose on cruel power;
When son and sire against each other stood,
And Britons waded deep in British blood;
When ruthless murder dy'd the sanguine plain,
Stained the soft flower and clotted all the grain;
When England bled, and nature seemed to mourn,
O never, never, may those scenes return!
76
To plunge thy country in a war of Bread!
What can be hop'd from combat or from flight,
'Gainst Famine arm'd and terrible in might?
And what are swords the fury to oppose,
When the fiend springs in vengeance on his foes?—
“For children living, and for children dead;
“For matrons starving, on a widow'd bed;
“For dire necessity, not wanton rage,”
Exclaim the Poor, “for Life the war we wage:
“We break the social, but not nature's laws,
“And heav'n itself will sure befriend our cause!
Rebellion must be crush'd! the maxim's true;
But must not Tyranny be vanquish'd too?
Rebellion's treason; Tyranny is more—
That 'scapes the traitor's fate, yet robs the Poor.
Treason should suffer, Tyranny replies;
'Tis just—a traitor in each tyrant lies.
Punish all traitors; but more blest his cause,
Who helps the wretched to respect the laws;
By generous succour and by timely care,
Who rescues want from vice and from despair:
War, famine, treason, kindness may prevent,
And in their place fix comfort and content.
But must not Tyranny be vanquish'd too?
Rebellion's treason; Tyranny is more—
That 'scapes the traitor's fate, yet robs the Poor.
Treason should suffer, Tyranny replies;
'Tis just—a traitor in each tyrant lies.
Punish all traitors; but more blest his cause,
Who helps the wretched to respect the laws;
By generous succour and by timely care,
Who rescues want from vice and from despair:
77
And in their place fix comfort and content.
Such was thy bounty Way, already known
To smiling heaven, who makes the deed its own;
But let the widow and her train appear,
To speak their thanks for many a blissful year;
And lo, with twice-seven rose-cheek'd children round,
Where Suffolk spreads its unaspiring ground,
I see the dame assiduous at her churn,
While all the little hands begin to earn
The bread they take, save the fair suckling small,
And she, well pleased, is nursed in turn by all;
Shifted from arm to arm with sportive glee,
As each may pause from stronger industry,
Dandled and danced with lullabies and song,
As right the fondness as the language wrong,
And all the nurse-taught eloquence so shrill,
Of potent charm to make the bantling still;
Or draw its little eyes to sleep, and then,
Cradled and safe—all hands to work again!
To smiling heaven, who makes the deed its own;
But let the widow and her train appear,
To speak their thanks for many a blissful year;
And lo, with twice-seven rose-cheek'd children round,
Where Suffolk spreads its unaspiring ground,
I see the dame assiduous at her churn,
While all the little hands begin to earn
The bread they take, save the fair suckling small,
And she, well pleased, is nursed in turn by all;
Shifted from arm to arm with sportive glee,
As each may pause from stronger industry,
Dandled and danced with lullabies and song,
As right the fondness as the language wrong,
And all the nurse-taught eloquence so shrill,
Of potent charm to make the bantling still;
Or draw its little eyes to sleep, and then,
Cradled and safe—all hands to work again!
78
Two bounteous cows, and two green pastures fair,
Were all this widow's wealth, and all her care;
But see the power of willing toil, and prove
The force and feeling of maternal love;
Children twice seven—and fatherless—to feed,
Yet all were kept from nakedness and need;
See them beneath her care in stature grow
And their young minds with grateful duty glow:
The feeble race grew stronger by degrees,
And what at first was labour, smooth'd to ease.
No parish burthens from her cottage came,
For public alms was felt as public shame;
No little duns of hers were seen to wait,
At the throng'd cross-way, or the crowded gate;
Nor tale-taught brats beset the rich man's door;
Nor could the wealthy rank them with the poor,—
By their own labour were they cloath'd and fed;
By their own labour they maintain'd their shed.
Were all this widow's wealth, and all her care;
But see the power of willing toil, and prove
The force and feeling of maternal love;
Children twice seven—and fatherless—to feed,
Yet all were kept from nakedness and need;
See them beneath her care in stature grow
And their young minds with grateful duty glow:
The feeble race grew stronger by degrees,
And what at first was labour, smooth'd to ease.
No parish burthens from her cottage came,
For public alms was felt as public shame;
No little duns of hers were seen to wait,
At the throng'd cross-way, or the crowded gate;
Nor tale-taught brats beset the rich man's door;
Nor could the wealthy rank them with the poor,—
By their own labour were they cloath'd and fed;
By their own labour they maintain'd their shed.
Blest widow! may thy table long be crown'd
With all thy goodly plants soft-branching round;
Beneath the shadow of a vine thine own,
Thy olives flourish near thy rustic throne!
Like hers of holy fame, may grace prevail,
The meal unwasted, and the cruse ne'er fail;
Or, should a dearth—a famine of the skies,
Or, of perfidious men—in Suffolk rise;
Sky-favor'd! midst thy kinfolk may'st thou find
A Ruth unshaken, and a Boaz kind;
And if, e'er half the span of life be run,
A death-like sickness should o'ertake thy son,
O may the prophet's mantle still be given,
With power to save, or bear thy child to heaven!
With all thy goodly plants soft-branching round;
Beneath the shadow of a vine thine own,
Thy olives flourish near thy rustic throne!
79
The meal unwasted, and the cruse ne'er fail;
Or, should a dearth—a famine of the skies,
Or, of perfidious men—in Suffolk rise;
Sky-favor'd! midst thy kinfolk may'st thou find
A Ruth unshaken, and a Boaz kind;
And if, e'er half the span of life be run,
A death-like sickness should o'ertake thy son,
O may the prophet's mantle still be given,
With power to save, or bear thy child to heaven!
And may such gracious blessings be the meed,
Of all who aid the Poor Man in his need;
Of all who thus their blessings can bestow,
And the rich joy of well-plac'd bounty know:
Of noble Winchelsea who still remains
The pride and honour of his native plains;
Whom, even oblivious plenty, has not taught,
To waste the god-like power that plenty brought:
And generous Warwick, who indignant stood,
Bold and unaw'd to check corruption's flood;
When flush'd with plenty, an insulting band
Pour'd the foul tide of luxury o'er the land;
And, mad with riot, wanton'd with the store,
That might have nourish'd the defrauded poor:
Of sacred Glasse, thrice venerable man!
From youth to suffering age, still first to plan,
The rich man's good, the pauper's happiness,
Friend to the wise, and patron of distress!
When winter's icy hand benumbs the year,
His genial blaze the cottage hearth shall chear;
The shiv'ring multitude to him shall fly,
Whose generous store-shop shall their wants supply.
Illustrious sage! should such benevolence,
Pass the dim world, without its recompence;
O what rewards the inspirer has in store,
When the dim world and all its clouds are o'er;
While Durham who has made the Poor his own,
A kindred spirit! shall partake thy throne.
Of all who aid the Poor Man in his need;
Of all who thus their blessings can bestow,
And the rich joy of well-plac'd bounty know:
Of noble Winchelsea who still remains
The pride and honour of his native plains;
Whom, even oblivious plenty, has not taught,
To waste the god-like power that plenty brought:
And generous Warwick, who indignant stood,
Bold and unaw'd to check corruption's flood;
When flush'd with plenty, an insulting band
Pour'd the foul tide of luxury o'er the land;
80
That might have nourish'd the defrauded poor:
Of sacred Glasse, thrice venerable man!
From youth to suffering age, still first to plan,
The rich man's good, the pauper's happiness,
Friend to the wise, and patron of distress!
When winter's icy hand benumbs the year,
His genial blaze the cottage hearth shall chear;
The shiv'ring multitude to him shall fly,
Whose generous store-shop shall their wants supply.
Illustrious sage! should such benevolence,
Pass the dim world, without its recompence;
O what rewards the inspirer has in store,
When the dim world and all its clouds are o'er;
While Durham who has made the Poor his own,
A kindred spirit! shall partake thy throne.
And ye who share Britannia's fertile land,
What patriot-sages, such as these have plann'd,
Adopt with liberal zeal; yet check the proud,
Nor fear the whisperer base, nor boaster loud—
Vaunting he holds his thousand acres clear,
And thrice can net his thousand pounds a year;
And tells what better treats he can afford,
Than thou, his deep-tax'd and declining lord;
Yet still, tho' late, 'tis left thee to impart,
One useful lesson to his purse-proud heart:
Into ten equal parts divide thy grounds,
And let each boaster farm his hundred pounds;
Tell him, the happiest days his fathers knew,
From modest profits and possessions grew;
That calm content, with moderate gain, is wealth,
And decent joy, as moderate bulk, is health;
Peace to the mind, and to the body ease,
While overgrowth in either is disease;—
Tell him, that merit on such gain may thrive,
And industry upon a tythe can live:
So shall nine starving families be blest,
If thou in fair proportions part the rest;
So shall each rood unwonted care employ,
And fill thy coffers and thy soul with joy.
What patriot-sages, such as these have plann'd,
Adopt with liberal zeal; yet check the proud,
Nor fear the whisperer base, nor boaster loud—
Vaunting he holds his thousand acres clear,
And thrice can net his thousand pounds a year;
81
Than thou, his deep-tax'd and declining lord;
Yet still, tho' late, 'tis left thee to impart,
One useful lesson to his purse-proud heart:
Into ten equal parts divide thy grounds,
And let each boaster farm his hundred pounds;
Tell him, the happiest days his fathers knew,
From modest profits and possessions grew;
That calm content, with moderate gain, is wealth,
And decent joy, as moderate bulk, is health;
Peace to the mind, and to the body ease,
While overgrowth in either is disease;—
Tell him, that merit on such gain may thrive,
And industry upon a tythe can live:
So shall nine starving families be blest,
If thou in fair proportions part the rest;
So shall each rood unwonted care employ,
And fill thy coffers and thy soul with joy.
But to the drooping peasantry be kind,
The poor, by heav'n, are to the rich assigned;
Bequeath'd, as if in trust, their wealth to share,
In still small aids that fortune well may spare.
And ah! how oft in fortune's changeful hour,
Are riches weak, and poverty in power?
The shipwreck'd monarch, buffeting the wave,
Death full in view, the mendicant may save;
O think what varied ills around thee wait—
The viewless ministers of awful fate—
Should one of these beguile thy feet astray,
And lead thee darkling thro' some dangerous way;
Where is the clown who would not ope his shed,
And freely share his homely board and bed?
E'en had his weary eyes begun to close,
And his worn limbs to take their short repose;
What hind that heard the lonely stranger's cry,
Would not with winged speed attempt to fly?
Swift would he haste, pursue the piteous sound,
Nor heed the fiery tempest raging round:
Then as he gain'd at length his cottage door,
Hawl his last faggot from his little store;
Chafe the numb'd limbs till genial warmth return'd,
While in his breast a nobler ardour burn'd.
The poor, by heav'n, are to the rich assigned;
Bequeath'd, as if in trust, their wealth to share,
In still small aids that fortune well may spare.
82
Are riches weak, and poverty in power?
The shipwreck'd monarch, buffeting the wave,
Death full in view, the mendicant may save;
O think what varied ills around thee wait—
The viewless ministers of awful fate—
Should one of these beguile thy feet astray,
And lead thee darkling thro' some dangerous way;
Where is the clown who would not ope his shed,
And freely share his homely board and bed?
E'en had his weary eyes begun to close,
And his worn limbs to take their short repose;
What hind that heard the lonely stranger's cry,
Would not with winged speed attempt to fly?
Swift would he haste, pursue the piteous sound,
Nor heed the fiery tempest raging round:
Then as he gain'd at length his cottage door,
Hawl his last faggot from his little store;
Chafe the numb'd limbs till genial warmth return'd,
While in his breast a nobler ardour burn'd.
Lo then the spell to charm the peasant mind,
Fulfil the awful trust by Heav'n assign'd!
If thou wilt fix his magic interest there,
Soon shall his country be the Poor Man's care;
That talismanic tie, however small,
Shall bind in rosy bonds that never gall;
Like love's own fetters, shall endear the soil,
Sinew his arm and sweeten every toil;
Shall blend what only Freedom can inspire,
The labourer's patience with the patriot's fire;
That hallow'd ardour, cherish'd, nurs'd, supply'd,
And well attemper'd, is our nature's pride;
As the flame languishes, the man decays,
But strengthens as the beam of Freedom plays;
Yet, nor the dog-star's rage, nor meteor's glare,
That withers earth, and desolates the air;
But, shining clear, like the sun's steady light,
In a pure firmament, benignly bright.
Fulfil the awful trust by Heav'n assign'd!
83
Soon shall his country be the Poor Man's care;
That talismanic tie, however small,
Shall bind in rosy bonds that never gall;
Like love's own fetters, shall endear the soil,
Sinew his arm and sweeten every toil;
Shall blend what only Freedom can inspire,
The labourer's patience with the patriot's fire;
That hallow'd ardour, cherish'd, nurs'd, supply'd,
And well attemper'd, is our nature's pride;
As the flame languishes, the man decays,
But strengthens as the beam of Freedom plays;
Yet, nor the dog-star's rage, nor meteor's glare,
That withers earth, and desolates the air;
But, shining clear, like the sun's steady light,
In a pure firmament, benignly bright.
O give the heirs of poverty their cots,
Attach them fondly to their native spots;
Amidst their thorny paths entwine a flower—
Theirs soft submission, thine attemper'd power;
Force them no more like banish'd men to roam,
But give to each that balm of life—a Home!
A Home, tho' rocking on the mountain's brow,
Or plac'd obscure in woodland vales below;
If Loving-kindness smiling steps between,
A guardian visitant! to chear the scene;
If pity's boon the dreary hearth illumes,
And fashion drops one feather from her plumes,
One useless golden feather as she flies,
Compassion's tax on superfluities—
Labour, and Liberty, and radiant Health,
Shall fill the country with a country's wealth.
As the swain views his speck of property,
In the rude hut a palace shall he see;
Near it shall raise his flow'rs, and nurse his field,
And smile, tho' tempests rage, on what they yield;
From peace-crown'd dwellings of an humbler size,
Shall pleased behold more lofty mansions rise;
Shall gaze, unenvying, on the rich domain,
Yet of his own a fonder sense retain;
For ah! it stands on consecrated ground,
A charmed circle, tho' a narrow round!
Where, if he finds, in kind benevolence,
Against the beating storm, a generous fence,
In glad return for all thy bounty shewn,
The grateful rustic's hand and heart thy own.
Attach them fondly to their native spots;
Amidst their thorny paths entwine a flower—
Theirs soft submission, thine attemper'd power;
Force them no more like banish'd men to roam,
But give to each that balm of life—a Home!
84
Or plac'd obscure in woodland vales below;
If Loving-kindness smiling steps between,
A guardian visitant! to chear the scene;
If pity's boon the dreary hearth illumes,
And fashion drops one feather from her plumes,
One useless golden feather as she flies,
Compassion's tax on superfluities—
Labour, and Liberty, and radiant Health,
Shall fill the country with a country's wealth.
As the swain views his speck of property,
In the rude hut a palace shall he see;
Near it shall raise his flow'rs, and nurse his field,
And smile, tho' tempests rage, on what they yield;
From peace-crown'd dwellings of an humbler size,
Shall pleased behold more lofty mansions rise;
Shall gaze, unenvying, on the rich domain,
Yet of his own a fonder sense retain;
For ah! it stands on consecrated ground,
A charmed circle, tho' a narrow round!
Where, if he finds, in kind benevolence,
Against the beating storm, a generous fence,
85
The grateful rustic's hand and heart thy own.
Methinks I see the beauteous tribes that wait,
To crown with joy so blest a change of fate,
Content and Neatness, cottage gods! shall grace,
And Hope with Heav'ns own bloom shall mark the place;
And with them fair Frugality shall come,
And sage Œconomy resume her home;
And careful youth, like age, shall learn to hoard,
That yet a dearer guest may bless his board;
That Love himself may there a throne obtain,
When Industry the envied sum shall gain,
And honour'd Hymen shall at length advance,
Led on by Beauty in the rural dance;
'Till, in succession sweet, as time glides on,
The bliss descends enlarg'd from sire to son.
To crown with joy so blest a change of fate,
Content and Neatness, cottage gods! shall grace,
And Hope with Heav'ns own bloom shall mark the place;
And with them fair Frugality shall come,
And sage Œconomy resume her home;
And careful youth, like age, shall learn to hoard,
That yet a dearer guest may bless his board;
That Love himself may there a throne obtain,
When Industry the envied sum shall gain,
And honour'd Hymen shall at length advance,
Led on by Beauty in the rural dance;
'Till, in succession sweet, as time glides on,
The bliss descends enlarg'd from sire to son.
O days devoutly wish'd, when hinds shall feel
A generous passion for the public weal;
When uncorrupted and toil-harden'd trains,
Shall form an army of embattl'd swains;
When—should their country call them to the field,
The scythe and sickle to the sword shall yield;
When soaring high above their humble lot,
Each youth shall rise a patriot of the cot;
Confess, unforc'd, the love-excited glow—
A Cincinnatus from the British plough.
From the lorn shed that now a ruin lies,
When other Duncans, Nelsons, shall arise,
A brave, intrepid, voluntary band,
Patient to till, and bold to guard the land.
A generous passion for the public weal;
When uncorrupted and toil-harden'd trains,
Shall form an army of embattl'd swains;
86
The scythe and sickle to the sword shall yield;
When soaring high above their humble lot,
Each youth shall rise a patriot of the cot;
Confess, unforc'd, the love-excited glow—
A Cincinnatus from the British plough.
From the lorn shed that now a ruin lies,
When other Duncans, Nelsons, shall arise,
A brave, intrepid, voluntary band,
Patient to till, and bold to guard the land.
And ah! more fondly wish'd! the blissful hours,
When laurel'd labour shall devote his pow'rs
To every smiling art; when war is o'er,
And the fell trumpet asks his aid no more;
When PEACE shall spread her conquests o'er the land,
And wash the blood-spots from Britannia's hand;
When youth and age shall swell the tidings round,
And nought but PEACE and PLENTY's horn resound!
When laurel'd labour shall devote his pow'rs
To every smiling art; when war is o'er,
And the fell trumpet asks his aid no more;
When PEACE shall spread her conquests o'er the land,
And wash the blood-spots from Britannia's hand;
When youth and age shall swell the tidings round,
And nought but PEACE and PLENTY's horn resound!
And hark! those blissful hours at length appear,
That burst extatic, speaks the cherub near;
From heav'n she comes, her blessings to impart,
And twine her olive round each Briton's heart;
Nor Britons only, but the nations wide,
Whom furious enmities no more divide;
Soft'ning to social leagues, the wreathe shall share,
And earth's remotest bounds the joy declare:
While he the kingly Father! gracious bends,
To hail what heav'n by its best angel sends.
That burst extatic, speaks the cherub near;
87
And twine her olive round each Briton's heart;
Nor Britons only, but the nations wide,
Whom furious enmities no more divide;
Soft'ning to social leagues, the wreathe shall share,
And earth's remotest bounds the joy declare:
While he the kingly Father! gracious bends,
To hail what heav'n by its best angel sends.
And thou, the King of Kings! O pow'r divine,
As thine the harvest, be the homage thine!
Thine all the bounties of the laughing mead,
The suns that ripen, and the dews that feed;
Thine the favonian winds that save the grain,
And thine the show'rs that saturate the plain;
And O from THEE, now speeds the Seraph Dove,
Her mission fraught with pity and with love.
As thine the harvest, be the homage thine!
Thine all the bounties of the laughing mead,
The suns that ripen, and the dews that feed;
Thine the favonian winds that save the grain,
And thine the show'rs that saturate the plain;
And O from THEE, now speeds the Seraph Dove,
Her mission fraught with pity and with love.
Parent and sov'reign of th'obedient earth,
Who bid'st the myriad-bounties spring to birth;
Who pour'st thy brooding spirit o'er the breeze,
The balmy herbage, and the fruitful trees;
And with too vast a store now crown'st the soil,
For fraud to cover, or for waste to spoil;
Ah! while we view the blessings of the year,
Chasten the smile of joy with virtue's tear;
And as we take the heav'n-conferr'd supplies,
Let soft compassion in our bosoms rise;
Since from thy hand unsparing we receive,
O teach our hearts unsparingly to give:
With souls uplifted while the knee we bend,
May grateful incense to thy Throne ascend,
And may thy suppliants find acceptance there,
As warm with pious love, they breathe a pray'r—
With Thee may every thought begin and end,
O First and Last! Creator, Father, Friend!
Who bid'st the myriad-bounties spring to birth;
Who pour'st thy brooding spirit o'er the breeze,
The balmy herbage, and the fruitful trees;
88
For fraud to cover, or for waste to spoil;
Ah! while we view the blessings of the year,
Chasten the smile of joy with virtue's tear;
And as we take the heav'n-conferr'd supplies,
Let soft compassion in our bosoms rise;
Since from thy hand unsparing we receive,
O teach our hearts unsparingly to give:
With souls uplifted while the knee we bend,
May grateful incense to thy Throne ascend,
And may thy suppliants find acceptance there,
As warm with pious love, they breathe a pray'r—
With Thee may every thought begin and end,
O First and Last! Creator, Father, Friend!
| The poor | |