Philanthropy
Alas! this poor philanthropy that springs
From Intellect that talks, not Heart that gives,
Avails me little — to its object brings
Pity, but not relieves.
It pinches thought; it cramps the poet's line;
Gives upward flight a weakness in the wing;
And that which almost reaches the divine,
Falls back, a mortal thing.
But he, if such there be in modern days,
With whom to see a duty is to do,
Grows by his acts, and all he does or says
Takes an immortal hue.
From Intellect that talks, not Heart that gives,
Avails me little — to its object brings
Pity, but not relieves.
It pinches thought; it cramps the poet's line;
Gives upward flight a weakness in the wing;
And that which almost reaches the divine,
Falls back, a mortal thing.
But he, if such there be in modern days,
With whom to see a duty is to do,
Grows by his acts, and all he does or says
Takes an immortal hue.
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