O thou Bliss! to riches known, Stranger to the poor alone; Giving most where none’s requir’d, Leaving none where most’s desir’d; Who, sworn friend to miser, keeps Adding to his useless heaps Gifts on gifts, profusely stor’d, Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard: While poor, shatter’d Poverty, To advantage seen in me, With his rags, his wants, and pain, Waking pity but in vain, Bowing, cringing at thy side, Begs his mite, and is denied. O, thou blessing! let not me Tell, as vain, my wants to thee; Thou, by name of Plenty stil’d Fortune’s heir, her favourite child. ’Tis a maxim--hunger feed, Give the needy when they need; He, whom all profess to serve, The same maxim did observe: Their obedience here, how well, Modern times will plainly tell. Hear my wants, nor deem me bold, Not without occasion told: Hear one wish; nor fail to give; Use me well, and bid me live. ’Tis not great, what I solicit: Was it more, thou couldst not miss it: Now the cutting Winter’s come, ’Tis but just to find a home, In some shelter, dry and warm, That will shield me from the storm. Toiling in the naked fields, Where no bush a shelter yields, Needy Labour dithering stands, Beats and blows his numbing hands; And upon the crumping snows Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes. Leaves are fled, that once had power To resist a summer shower; And the wind so piercing blows, Winnowing small the drifting snows, The summer shade of loaded bough Would vainly boast a shelter now: Piercing snows so searching fall, They sift a passage through them all. Though all’s vain to keep him warm, Poverty must brave the storm. Friendship none, its aid to lend: Health alone his only friend; Granting leave to live in pain, Giving strength to toil in vain; To be, while winter’s horrors last, The sport of every pelting blast. Oh, sad sons of Poverty! Victims doom’d to misery; Who can paint what pain prevails O’er that heart which Want assails? Modest Shame the pain conceals: No one knows, but he who feels. O thou charm which Plenty crowns: Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns: Cast around a pitying eye! Feed the hungry, ere they die. Think, oh! think upon the poor, Nor against them shut thy door: Freely let thy bounty flow, On the sons of Want and Woe.