And rich in happiness and health,
An alien, class'd among the poor,
Unheeded, from her precious store,
Its best and dearest tribute brought;
The zeal of high, adventurous thought,
The tender awe in yielding aid,
E'en of its own soft hand afraid!
Stealing, through shadows, forth to bless,
Her venturous service knew no bound;
Yet shrank, and trembled, when success
Its earnest, fullest wishes crown'd!
This alien sinks, opprest with woe,
And have you nothing to bestow?
No language kind, to sooth or cheer?--
No soften'd voice,--no tender tear?--
No promise which may hope impart?
No fancy to beguile the heart;
To chace those dreary thoughts away,
And waken from this deep dismay!

"Is it that station, power, or pride,
Can human sympathies divide?
Or is she deem'd a thing of art,
Form'd only to enact a part,
Whose nice perceptions all belong
To modulated thought and song,
And, in fictitious feeling thrown,
Lie waste or callous in her own?

"Is it from poverty of soul;