That cause for grieving they shall seldom know. 
   Your Plan I love not; with a number you
Have placed your poor, your pitiable few: 
There, in one house, throughout their lives to be,
The pauper-palace which they hate to see: 
That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,
Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund’ring hall,
That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour,
Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power;
It is a prison, with a milder name,
Which few inhabit without dread or shame. 
Be it agreed—­the Poor who hither come
Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;
That airy rooms and decent beds are meant
To give the poor by day, by night, content;
That none are frighten’d, once admitted here,
By the stern looks of lordly Overseer: 
Grant that the Guardians of the place attend,
And ready ear to each petition lend;
That they desire the grieving poor to show
What ills they feel, what partial acts they know;
Not without promise, nay desire to heal
Each wrong they suffer, and each woe they feel. 
   Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;
They’ve much to suffer, but have nought to tell;
They have no evil in the place to state,
And dare not say it is the house they hate: 
They own there’s granted all such place can give,
But live repining, for ’tis there they live. 
   Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,
No more must nurse upon the trembling knee,
The lost loved daughter’s infant progeny: 
Like death’s dread mansion, this allows not place
For joyful meetings of a kindred race. 
   Is not the matron there, to whom the son
Was wont at each declining day to run? 
He (when his toil was over) gave delight,
By lifting up the latch, and one “Good night.” 
Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door
The son, still lab’ring, can return no more. 
Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;
Yet all that grief within the humble shed
Was soften’d, softened in the humble bed: 
But here, in all its force, remains the grief,
And not one softening object for relief. 
   Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet? 
Who learn the story current in the street? 
Who to the long-known intimate impart
Facts they have learn’d or feelings of the heart? 
They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend,
Or seek companions at their journey’s end? 
   Here are not those whom they when infants knew;
Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;
Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;
Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;
Whom time and custom so familiar made,
That looks the meaning in the mind convey’d: 
But here to strangers, words nor looks impart
The various movements of the suffering heart;
Nor will that heart with those alliance own,
To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.