| |
| THEIRS is yon house that holds the parish poor, | |
| Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; | |
| There, where the putrid vapors flagging play, | |
| And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; | |
| There children dwell who know no parents’ care; | 5 |
| Parents, who know no children’s love, dwell there; | |
| Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, | |
| Forsaken wives and mothers never wed; | |
| Dejected widows with unheeded tears, | |
| And crippled age with more than childhood-fears; | 10 |
| The lame, the blind, and—far the happiest they!— | |
| The moping idiot and the madman gay. | |
| |
| Here too the sick their final doom receive, | |
| Here brought amid the scenes of grief to grieve, | |
| Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, | 15 |
| Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below; | |
| Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, | |
| And the cold charities of man to man: | |
| Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, | |
| And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride, | 20 |
| But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, | |
| And pride imbitters what it can’t deny. | |
| |
| Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes, | |
| Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; | |
| Who press the downy couch while slaves advance | 25 |
| With timid eye, to read the distant glance; | |
| Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, | |
| To name the nameless ever-new disease; | |
| Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, | |
| Which real pain and that alone can cure: | 30 |
| How would ye bear in real pain to lie, | |
| Despised, neglected, left alone to die? | |
| How would ye bear to draw your latest breath | |
| Where all that’s wretched paves the way for death? | |
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