Classic Poem

Let Stoicks with stern Apathy disdain
The Pangs that on Mortality attend;
Be deaf alike to Pleasure, and to Pain,
And smile upon the Sorrows of a Friend .

But with Compassion let my Bosom move,
Nor for an Enemy with Rancour burn;
And let the Signature of Social L OVE
Grace me thro' Life, and decorate my Urn. —

Come then, sweet Pity , from the Throne of God,
And bring a thousand Comforts in thy Train;
With me for ever be thy calm Abode,
And chear me with the Blessings of thy Reign.

Swift shall my Food the hungry Belly fill,
And Vigor to the feeble Knees bestow —
Like the pure Stream that issues from yon Hill,
And spreads Refreshment thro' the Vale below.

In some 'tis plain that Nature's plastic Hand
Form'd them at first of a more callous Frame;
But still to all she whispers her Command,
And Nature's Master teaches them the same.

The poor, and wretched whom the proud despise,
To whom no comfortable Boon is giv'n,
Haply are dearer in their Maker's Eyes,
And will enjoy a loftier Seat in Heav'n.

If Sense refin'd be thy superior Boast,
Oh! think from whence the Emanation flow'd;
Think — that the Particle may soon be lost,
And was for noblest Purposes bestow'd.

If Grandeur spreads her Glitter on thy Board,
And Plenty pours the Bounty of her Horn,
Soon may'st thou quit th' accumulated Hoard,
And be the Child of Poverty, and Scorn.

Shou'd'st thou unmov'd a wretched Object see,
And pour no lenient Oil into his Wound,
From what kind Source wou'd Pity flow to thee
If in the same Distress thou shou'd'st be found?

When Storms arise , and Floods of Grief descend ,
When blighting Gales of adverse Fortune blow,
Free from Alloy, and gen'rous is the Friend,
Whose willing Hand is open to bestow.

Can'st thou obdurate see Almeria's Fate
When Chance directs thee to her mean Abode?
Art thou forgetful of her happier State
Tho' lab'ring now beneath Affliction's Load?
Hence then no more let Reason be thy Boast,
To Reason, and to Nature a Disgrace;
Better for thee to fly to Afric's Coast,
And prowl for ever with thy kindred Race.

True social Love is ever unconfin'd —
So thought an Emperor of high Renown;
Hence was he styled the Darling of Mankind ,
And was an Emperor without his Crown.

The Man that swells with arrogant Disdain,
Enslav'd by Av'rice, and a vicious Heart,
Whose Ear is deafen'd to the Plaints of Pain,
Feels not the Joys Compassion can impart.

Didst thou, Lorenzo , listen to her Voice,
Surely thou woud'st not butcher my good Name,
Thou woud'st not at my Mis'ry rejoice,
Nor triumph at the Ruins of my Fame.

Woud'st thou, Lorenzo , with alluring Bait
Draw credulous Melissa to thy Arms?
Then leave her mourning (but alas! too late,)
Her Stain of Honor, and her Blast of Charms.

Thus the hard Rock with feeble flatt'ring Pow'r,
(For what can stony Barrenness avail?)
Yields transient Nurture to the sickly Flow'r,
Then strews it wither'd on the northern Gale.

Shew me the Man of Pity — and you'll find
Unnumber'd Virtues harbour in his Breast;
Smooth flow his Passions — tranquil is his Mind,
And sacred Honor is his constant Guest.

True is his Heart — unmeaning to deceive,
With him securely I can walk thro' Life,
Nor shou'd my Property a Wrong receive,
My virgin Daughter — or my faithful Wife —

He draws the modest from their lonely Cells,
To crying Orphans lends a pitying Ear,
The wintry Cold from Nakedness repells,
And stops the Flowing of the Widow's Tear.

He draws the modest from their lonely Cells,
To crying Orphans lends a pitying Ear,
The wintry Cold from Nakedness repells,
And stops the Flowing of the Widow's Tear.

Shou'd some Apelles touch with magic Pow'r,
The doleful Scene of Innocence distrest ,
Cou'd he restrain the sympathetic Show'r?
Or cou'd the Sigh of Pity be represt?

If in the Fever of delirious Youth
Thro' Folly's Circle 'tis my Choice to rove:
The Man of Pity draws the Line of Truth,
And hides my Foibles with the Veil of Love.

Tho' oft embarrass'd with domestic Cares,
How slow to blame, how eager to commend!
His very Brute his fost'ring Kindness shares,
And with Affection owns him for a Friend.

Yet trace his Actions thro' the martial Field; —
Here , tho' tenacious of the gentlest Laws,
He nobly scorns ingloriously to yield,
But dies intrepid in his Country's Cause.

" Oh for Compassion! thro' the Storms of Life
" To steer my little Vessel to the Shore,
" Where I am rescu'd from the Din of Strife,
" And Disappointments shall torment no more.

" When Sickness shall my tott'ring Frame invade,
" And feeble Nature a Support requires;
" Let me receive the salutary Aid
" From him — whom soft Humanity inspires.
" Such be the Arm in that tremendous Hour,
" In Sympathy to raise my sinking Head,
" To fan Devotion's languid Flame — and pour
" The cordial Balm of Comfort round my Bed.

" Shou'd Friendship's Bosom feel for my Distress,
" And heave a Sigh responsive to my Grief,
" Methinks the Pang of Sorrow-would be less,
" And agonizing Pains wou'd find Relief.

" But when Disease has brought me to the Grave,
" Thus let Affection greet my last Abode: —
" When Justice call'd how prone was he to save!
" May he receive that Mercy which he shew'd."