University of Virginia Library



Verse 3.—And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.

Though the rich produce of my worldly store
In alms profuse, I lavish on the poor,
Yet all unmov'd their mournful tales can hear,
Nor for their sufferings drop one silent tear;
If ne'er from god-like pity's sacred source
My bounty flow, nor heav'n direct its course,


If vanity provoke the generous deed—
Mean is the gift, and small will be its meed;
Though to a martyr's glory I aspire,
And seek my triumphs in the torturing fire,
Firm and undaunted to my latest breath
Brave the slow flame, and court the ling'ring death;
If thy sweet virtues from my soul depart,
Thy Christian love be foreign from my heart,
He best can tell, who all our thoughts surveys,
How vain the boast, the profit, and the praise.