Sonnet V.

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor old man! and thy gray hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tattered vest
That mocks thy shiv'ring! 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 fire-side's recess,
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.--
He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild,
Who met the Lazar turned from rich man's doors,
And called him Friend, and wept upon his sores!