There stood as in the Centre of the Town
An Altar sacred to the Poor alone;
Here gentle Clemency has fix'd her Seat:
And none but Wretches hallow the Retreat.
A Train of Votaries she never wants:
And all Requests and Suits, impartial, grants.
Whoe'er implore, a speedy Audience gain;
And open Night and Day her Gates remain:
That Misery might ever find Access
And by Complaints alone obtain Redress.
Nor costly are her Rites: no Blood she claims
From slaughter'd Victims, nor odorous Flames;
Her Altars sweat with Tears; and Wreaths of Woe,
Her Suitors, tearing from their Hair, bestow,
Or Garments in her Fane are left behind,
When Fortune shifts the Scene, to her resign'd.
A Grove surrounds it, where in shadowy Rows
The Laurel Tree and suppliant Olive grows.
No well-wrought Effigy her Likeness bears,
Her imag'd Form no sculptur'd Metal wears:
In human Breasts resides the Pow'r divine,
A constant Levee trembling at her Shrine.