Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence, The reign of genuine _charity_ commence. Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears, She still is kind and still she perseveres; The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, ’Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream; The danger they discern not, they deny; Laugh at their only remedy, and die. But still a soul thus touch’d can never cease, Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace. Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild, Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child: She makes excuses where she might condemn, Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them; Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast, The worst suggested, she believes the best; Not soon provoked, however stung and teazed, And if perhaps made angry, soon appeased, She rather waives than will dispute her right, And, injured, makes forgiveness her delight. _Cowper._ Man is dear to man; the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life, When they can know and feel what they have been; Themselves the fathers and the dealers out Of some small blessings, have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause That we have all of us one human heart. Such pleasure is to one kind being known, My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week Duly as Friday comes, though press’d herself By all her wants, she from her store of meal Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip Of this old mendicant, and from her door Returning with exhilarated heart, Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. _Wordsworth._ Gentle reader, see in me, An emblem of true _charity_; That while my bounty I bestow, I’m neither heard nor seen to flow; And I have fresh supplies from heaven For every cup of water given. _Bishop Hoadly, on a Spring._ Were we as rich in _charity_ of deed As gold--what rock would bloom not with the seed? We give our alms, and cry “What can we more?” One hour of time were worth a load of ore! Give to the ignorant our wisdom!--give Sorrow our comfort!--lend to those who live In crime, the counsels of our virtue!--share With souls our souls, and Satan shall despair! Alas! what converts one man, who would take The cross, and staff, and house with Guilt, could make! * * * * * Search the material tribes of earth, sea, air, And the fierce SELF, which strives and slays, is there; What but that SELF to man doth Nature teach? Where the charmed link that binds the all to each? Where the sweet law, (doth Nature boast its birth?) “Good will to man, and _charity_ on earth?” _Sir E. B. Lytton._