Scarce aiming what he felt to hide
    From other eyes, his own implor’d
    That kindness were again restor’d. 
    As generous themes engag’d my tongue
    In pleadings for the fond and young: 
    Towards his child the father leant,
    In fast-subsiding discontent: 
    I made that father’s claims be felt,
    And saw the rash, the stubborn, melt;
    Nay, once, subdued, a rebel knelt.

      “Thus skill’d, from pity’s warm excess,
    The aching spirit to caress;
    Profuse of her ideal wealth,
    And rich in happiness and health,
    An alien, class’d among the poor,
    Unheeded, from her precious store,
    Its best and dearest tribute brought;
    The zeal of high, adventurous thought,
    The tender awe in yielding aid,
    E’en of its own soft hand afraid! 
    Stealing, through shadows, forth to bless,
      Her venturous service knew no bound;
    Yet shrank, and trembled, when success
      Its earnest, fullest wishes crown’d! 
    This alien sinks, opprest with woe,
    And have you nothing to bestow? 
    No language kind, to sooth or cheer?—­
    No soften’d voice,—­no tender tear?—­
    No promise which may hope impart? 
    No fancy to beguile the heart;
    To chace those dreary thoughts away,
    And waken from this deep dismay!

      “Is it that station, power, or pride,
    Can human sympathies divide? 
    Or is she deem’d a thing of art,
    Form’d only to enact a part,
    Whose nice perceptions all belong
    To modulated thought and song,
    And, in fictitious feeling thrown,
    Lie waste or callous in her own?

      “Is it from poverty of soul;
    Or does some fear some doubt, controul? 
    So round the heart strong fibres strain,
    That it attempts to beat in vain? 
    Does palsy on your feelings hang,
    Deaden’d by some severer pang? 
    If so, behold, my eyes o’erflow! 
    For, O! that anguish well I know! 
    When once that fatal stroke is given,—­
    When once that finest nerve is riven,
    Our love, our pity, all are o’er;
    We even sooth ourselves no more!

      “Back, hurrying feelings! to the time
    I learnt to clothe my thoughts in rhyme! 
    When, climbing up my father’s knees,
    I gaily sang, secure to please! 
    Rounded his pale and wasted cheek,
    And won him, in his turn, to speak: 
    When, for reward, I closer prest,
    And whisper’d much, and much carest;
    With timorous eye, and head aside,
    Half ask’d, and laugh’d, and then denied;
    Ere I again petition made
    To hear the often-told crusade. 
    How, knowing hardship but by name,
    Misled by friendship and by fame,
    His parents’ wishes he disdain’d,
    With zeal, nor real quite, nor feign’d;
    And fought on many a famous