One that her lips refus'd to name,
However oft the impulse came.
Such was the picture--but her mind
Forgetting self--could not arise,
To look in those unconscious eyes!
The zeal that prompted, were she free
To serve her friend on bended knee,
Shrunk from the orphan's gaze, just hurl'd,
Lonely and poor upon the world--
Unknowing yet her loss, endeared,
By its excess, and therefore fear'd!

Thus has it ever seem'd to me,
That Pity made a Deity
Of Mortal Suffering--that her ray
Melted all blame, all scorn away!
That when her arms the dying fold,
When her pure hands the loathsome hold,
Disgust and Dread, their power forego,
The Aegis drops from Human Woe,
Whose false and cruel glare alone
Turned other living hearts to stone.




XXVI.


ELEGY ON EDWARD BETHAM,