Classic Poem

BY THE SAME .

The charms of fair Benevolence I sing,
For her the muse shall wake the hallow'd lyre;
Soft as the dews of heav'n, and mild as spring,
Bright emanation of her heav'nly Sire.

Far from the pomp of courts she loves to dwell:
Offspring of Pity, whither art thou fled?
To the dark dungeon or the gloomy cell,
To raise some hapless mortal's drooping head!

For, thou canst wipe the tear from Sorrow's eye,
The joys of bright prosperity renew;
To thee, angelic maid, the struggling sigh,
Warm from the breast of gratitude, is due.

Ah! did the wealthy vicious few but feel
The bliss resulting from one well-spent hour;
Did they but know the tender task to heal
The soul just sinking 'neath affliction's show'r!

But thou, Benevolence, wast form'd to save;
To thee the art of succouring want was giv'n;
Thy hand can snatch her from the yawning grave,
And pluck the thorns that bar her way to heaven.