When droops the hapless child of woe,
Oppressed with want, disease, and care,
What hand shall healing balm bestow?
What voice shall soothe the deep despair?
When anguish wakes the widow's tear,
And rends the air the orphan's cry,
Is no protecting angel near,
To chase the gloom, and hush the sigh?
Yes, mercy's gentle sprite is given
To lull the throes of keen distress;
Her voice, the music breathed from heaven,
Her smile, the ecstatic wish to bless.
She leans on pity's softened breast,
Love, hope, devotion, grace her shrine;
But most she loves a home of rest,
Where dwell the charities divine.
To each his sufferings fate ordains,
Untimely falls the opening flower;
O'er wit and genius ruin reigns,
They bloom, they perish in an hour.
Since all are doomed to feel the blow,
Let all indulge the social grief;
The heart, that bleeds for human woe,
In turn shall find its kind relief.
What tho the joys of life depart,
And age and sorrow bow the soul;
These tenderer sympathies impart
A charm, that lives beyond control.
Sweet is the fame, that waits the good,
For them the sainted prayer shall rise,
The silent praise of gratitude,
The bright reward of happier skies.
July 11, 1804.