With former deeds, extenuate the last:

Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine,
Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight,
Should in her bosom bid thy head recline,
And waft thee onward to the realms of light.

And, oh! could human intercession plead,
Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore,
What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed,
Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour.

Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell,
Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined;
Impartial, with expansive bounty fell,
Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind.

Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped,
While Want, with hard inexorable band,
Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed,
And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand.

By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd,
Encountering fate with perseverance vain;
The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd,
Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main.

GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread,
Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb;
Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed,