And, mark the wretch, whose wand'rings never knew
The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue,
Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore,
But found not pity when it err'd no more.
Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye
Th' unfeeling proud one looks — and passes by,
Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam,
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home —
Ev'n he, at evening, should he chance to stray
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,
Where round the cot's romantic glade, are seen
The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green,
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while —
Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form,
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm;
There should my hand no stinted boon assign
To wretched hearts with sorrows such as mine; —
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,
And Hope half mingles with the poor man's pray'r.