Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven; And should all bounty, that is clothed with power, Be deemed unworthy?-Far be such a thought! Even when the rich bestow, there are sure tests Of genuine charity: Yes, yes, let wealth Give other alms than silver or than gold,Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness, Exposure to disease;-yes, let the rich Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof; Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart, And hopes of health, the melancholy range Of couches in the public wards of woe: There let them often bless the sick man's bed, With kind assurances that all is well At home; that plenty smiles upon the board,The while the hand, that earned the frugal meal, Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks. Above all duties, let the rich man search Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime. they which have cast into the treasury: For all they did cast in of their abundance, but she of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living."-MARK, xii. 41–44. 5 Ye blessed with wealth! (another name for power Of doing good) O would ye but devote A little portion of each seventh day, O Health! thou sun of life, without whose beam In lowering skies, when through the murky rack : O Music! still vouchsafe to tranquillize soothes; And mournful ay are thy most beauteous lays, Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs,The autumn of the spring. Enchanting power! Who, by thy airy spell, canst whirl the mind Far from the busy haunts of men to vales Where TWEED OF YARROW flows; or, spurning time, Recall red FLODDEN field; or suddenly Transport, with altered strain, the deafened ear TO LINDEN'S plain!-But what the pastoral lay, The melting dirge, the battle's trumpet-peal, Compared to notes with sacred numbers linked In union, solemn, grand! O then the spirit, Upborne on pinions of celestial sound, Soars to the throne of God, and ravished hears Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise In halleluias, voices, that erewhile Were feebly tuned perhaps to low-breathed hymns Of solace in the chambers of the poor,-The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick. Blest be the female votaries, whose days Of pain and poverty! Blest be the hands, That mix the cup medicinal, that bind The wounds, which ruthless warfare and disease Fierce Superstition of the mitred king! Almost I could forget thy torch and stake, When I this blessed sisterhood survey,Compassion's priestesses, disciples true Of Him, whose touch was health, whose single word Electrified with life the palsied arm,Of him, who said, Take up thy bed, and walk, Of him, who cried to Lazarus, Come forth. And he who cried to Lazarus, Come forth, Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song, |