“And men forget the wretch they would not aid.” Thus groan the Old, till, by disease opprest, They taste a final woe, and then they rest. Their’s is yon House that holds the Parish Poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;-- There Children dwell who know no Parents’ care; 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; 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, Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below; Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man: Whose laws indeed for ruin’d Age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride imbitters what it can’t deny. Say ye, opprest by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance 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; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despis’d, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that’s wretched pave the way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters from the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch’d, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: Here, on a matted flock, with dust o’erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; Anon, a Figure enters, quaintly neat, All pride and business, bustle and conceit; With looks unalter’d by these scenes of woe, With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go; He bids the gazing throng around him fly, And carries Fate and Physic in his eye; A potent Quack, long vers’d in human ills, Who first insults the victim whom he kills; Whose murd’rous hand a drowsy Bench protect, And whose most tender mercy is neglect.