Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To cloathe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My father! throw away this tatter'd vest
That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment--use
A young man's arms! 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:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire side's recess,
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness.--
He did not so, the Galilaean mild,
Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome Sores!