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Poetics

Or, a series of poems, and disquisitions on poetry. By George Dyer

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ODE VII. HYMN TO CHARITY.
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ODE VII. HYMN TO CHARITY.

Oh! Thou, whose eye of smiling love,
Outshines the light of early day,
Whose bosom no rude tempests move,
Whose face no pencil can portray:
So bright thine eye, thy face so fair,
Beauty itself seems station'd there.
Hail, Charity! so prompt of aid,
Adorn'd with Virtue's modest crown;
And wont, in simplest garb array'd,
To beam with lustre all thine own;—
Still let thy breast with rapture glow;
But spare a sigh for human woe.
Softer thy breath, than gales that play,
Where summer-flowers their odours fling;
Nor is so clear the voice of May,
With all her choir of tuneful spring.

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The smile that on thy cheek is seen,
Bespeaks a paradise within.
Oh! still thy fostering wing outspread;
—Distress near thee shall shelter find—
And, like yon sun, thine influence shed
Thro' the vast race of human kind;
And let thine open hand impart
Rich emblems of a generous heart.
And not so warm in Mithra's praise,
The Persian, crown'd with conquest, glows,
When call'd the choral song to raise,
For sabres sheath'd and vanquish'd foes,
As nations kindling with thy ray,
Shall upward spring to new-born day.
Then shall the Fury-Passions sleep;
Then Conquest quench her flaming sword;
No captive fair in silence weep,
Nor laurels grace her tyrant-lord;
No face shall wear the form of woe:
Nor wreath be worn but th'olive bough.