Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped, While Want, with hard inexorable band, Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed, And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand.
By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd, Encountering fate with perseverance vain; The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd, Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main.
GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread, Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb; Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed, And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom.
Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end, Suspends the noblest functions of the soul; Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends, Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll.
And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind, From self's mean source the liberal current flows; While Ostentation, insolently kind, Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows.
But thy free bounty, undebased by pride, Prompt to anticipate the meek request, Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied, And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast.
Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright, When dark Adversity her eclipse spread, And veil'd its splendours in petrific night!
Did those, thy benefits had placed on high, Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray; Did those impatient to thy succour fly, Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay?
Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round, Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour? On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour?
If thy distress such aggravation knew, Thy first reverse could such perdition wait; Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue, And Desperation close the scene of fate.
Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire, Rose not, at Nature's interposed command, The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire, To win the weapon from thy lifted hand?
Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er, Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced, What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore, Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced?
Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate, That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless; That dreadful scene what language can relate, What words describe that exquisite distress.