Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
       &nbspTo see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs
       &nbspHoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest
       &nbspThat mocks thy shivering! take my garment—use
       &nbspA young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child:
       &nbspAnd thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess,
       &nbspOf purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness—
He did not so, the Galilaean mild,
       &nbspWho met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors
       &nbspAnd call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores!