Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
 To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs
 Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest
 That mocks thy shivering! take my garment—use
 A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child:
 And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess,
 Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness—
He did not so, the Galilaean mild,
 Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors
 And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores!