And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom.

Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end,
Suspends the noblest functions of the soul;
Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends,
Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll.

And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind,
From self's mean source the liberal current flows;
While Ostentation, insolently kind,
Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows.

But thy free bounty, undebased by pride,
Prompt to anticipate the meek request,
Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied,
And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast.

Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head
Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright,
When dark Adversity her eclipse spread,
And veil'd its splendours in petrific night!

Did those, thy benefits had placed on high,
Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray;
Did those impatient to thy succour fly,
Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay?

Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round,
Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour?
On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound