Oh! view  lot, my soul, nor more repine
To bear those evils Fate has fix'd on mine;
Content, though many a grief my bosom wrings,
If still that bosom owns no conscious stings,
If still I know for others wounds to feel,
With pity view them, and with pleasure heal,
And still those pangs which cause so keen a smart,
Nor sour my temper, nor deprave my heart.
Yes! though by fate with heaviest sorrows curst,
From my pale lips no murmuring breath should burst,
If still my hand had power to raise the opprest,
And, though unblest myself, make others blest!