To Wealth unwieldy was her prayer address’d,
Who largely gave, and she the donor bless’d: 
Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew,
And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew. 
   Then busy Vanity sustained her part,
“And much,” she said, “it moved her tender heart;
To her all kinds of man’s distress were known,
And all her heart adopted as its own.” 
Then Science came—­his talents he display’d,
And Charity with joy the dome survey’d;
Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame,
And Piety, the joy that makes no claim. 
   Patrons there are, and Governors, from, whom
The greater aid and guiding orders come;
Who voluntary cares and labours take,
The sufferers’ servants for the service’ sake;
Of these a, part I give you—­but a part, —
Some hearts are hidden, some have not a heart. 
   First let me praise—­for so I best shall paint
That pious moralist, that reasoning saint! 
Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak? 
The man is willing, but the Muse is weak; —
’Tis thine to wait on woe! to soothe! to heal! 
With learning social, and polite with zeal: 
In thy pure breast although the passions dwell,
They’re train’d by virtue, and no more rebel;
But have so long been active on her side,
That passion now might be itself the guide. 
   Law, conscience, honour, all obey’d; all give
Th’ approving voice, and make it bliss to live;
While faith, when life can nothing more supply,
Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die. 
   He preaches, speaks, and writes with manly sense,
No weak neglect, no labour’d eloquence;
Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways,
The rude revere him and the wicked praise. 
   Upon humility his virtues grow,
And tower so high because so fix’d below;
As wider spreads the oak his boughs around,
When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground. 
   By him, from ward to ward, is every aid
The sufferer needs, with every care convey’d: 
Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth,
And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth: 
Meek as the poorest Publican is he,
And strict as lives the straitest Pharisee;
Of both, in him unite the better part,
The blameless conduct and the humble heart. 
   Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wise
In carnal things, and loves to moralize: 
Others can doubt if all that Christian care
Has not its price—­there’s something he may share: 
But this and ill severer he sustains,
As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains;
When most reviled, although he feels the smart,
It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart,
As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit,
Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot. 
   A second friend we have, whose care and zeal
But few can equal—­few indeed can feel;
He lived a life obscure, and profits made
In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.