Rhapsodies :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bear hence the gold-strung lyre,
Whose strains my soul inspire
To deeds of martial fire;
Bring the tender breathing flute;
Bring the silv'ry chorded lute,
From whose soft string,
On zephyr's wing,
Tender strains in concord float;
My song shall join the dulcet note;
For 'tis Heaven-born Charity
Wakes the soul to harmony;
Her touch the feelings of my breast control;
The dew-glaz'd eye,
The pitying sigh,
To thrilling sadness melt th' enraptur'd soul.

I'll sigh more soft than youthful Love,
And sweeter sing than widow'd dove,

Or milk-hu'd swan, whose dying strain
Moans plaintive o'er the liquid plain.
From dew-sprinkled rosy bed,
Waving light its blushing head;
From a bank, where violet's bloom
Wafts the breeze of rich perfume,
Mingling odours with my lay,
Scented breath of genial May;
Oh! join my song,
Ye heavenly throng,
I chant the praise of Charity,
Lov'd daughter of the Deity,
Mother of Christianity.

Her form in robes of lily hue,
Bedeck'd with Pity's glist'ning dew,
Her mien, where majesty and sweetness shine,
Is stamp'd with every lineament divine:
Hither see she comes along,
Follow'd by the countless throng;
At either breast
An infant's press'd,
Whose dimpled smile,
Devoid of guile,

Uprais'd, its mother's visage meets:
Hark! the widow's joyous cry,
Sorrow's liquid gem is dry,
Calm content beams from her eye,
And joy my rapt attention greets.

Silver fronted age appears,
Bow'd beneath the weight of years;
No more the youth's oppress'd with grief;
The woe-worn damsel finds relief,
The wounded vet'ran of the plain,
The crippled tar sav'd from the main,
No longer breathe their plaints in vain;
Thy pitying breast
Lulls woe to rest;
Thy melting soul can feel,
Thy bounteous hand will heal;
Heav'n create! one gleam impart,
Let thy radiance warm my heart;
Be thou my guide, blest Charity!
Lead me to immortality.