To every heart in pity's language speak ;
E'en the rough sexton can't withhold the tear,
That steals unnotic'd down his furrow'd cheek.
Who but is griev'd to see the Fatherless
Stroll with their rags unnotic'd through the street?
What eye but moistens at their sad distress,
And sheds compassion's tear whene'er they meet?
Yon Workhouse stands as their asylum now.
The place where Poverty demands to live;
Where parish Bounty scowls his scornful brow,
And grudges the scant fare he's forc'd to give.
Oh, may I die before I'm doom'd to seek
That last resource of hope, but ill supplied ;
To claim the humble pittance once a week,
Which justice forces from disdainful pride! —
AVhere the lost Orphan, lowly bending, weeps,
Unnotic'd by the heedless as they pass.
There the grave closes where a Mother sleeps.
With brambles platted on the tufted grass.