Pity

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled

       &nbspTo see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs

       &nbspHoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares

To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.

My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest

       &nbspThat mocks thy shivering! take my garment—use

       &nbspA young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews

That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.

My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child:

       &nbspAnd thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess,

       &nbspOf purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness—

He did not so, the Galilaean mild,

       &nbspWho met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors

       &nbspAnd call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores!