If so much virtue yet remain That he would feel the sting and pain, That virtue is a reason why The Muse her sting should not apply. If no such Virtue yet survive, What is your angry Satire worth, But to arouse the sleeping hive, And send the raging Passions forth, 30 In bold, vindictive, angry flight, To sting wherever they alight? [THE NEW SAMARITAN.] A weary Traveller walk’d his way, With grief and want and pain opprest. His looks were sad, his locks were grey; He sought for food, he sigh’d for rest. A wealthy grazier pass’d—“Attend,” The sufferer cried—“some aid allow!”— “Thou art not of my parish, Friend; Nor am I in mine office now.” He dropt, and more impatient pray’d— A mild adviser heard the word: 10 “Be patient, Friend!” he kindly said, “And wait the leisure of the Lord.” Another comes!—“Turn, stranger, turn!” “Not so!” replied a voice: “I mean “The candle of the Lord to burn With mine own flock on Save-all Green; “To war with Satan, thrust for thrust; To gain my lamb he led astray; The Spirit drives me: on I must— Yea, woe is me, if I delay!” 20 But WOMAN came! by Heaven design’d To ease the heart that throbs with pain— She gave relief—abundant—kind— And bade him go in peace again. BELVOIR CASTLE. (Written at the request of the Duchess Dowager of Rutland, and inscribed in her Album, 1812.)