Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power; It is a prison, with a milder name, Which few inhabit without dread or shame. Be it agreed--the Poor who hither come Partake of plenty, seldom found at home; That airy rooms and decent beds are meant To give the poor by day, by night, content; That none are frighten'd, once admitted here, By the stern looks of lordly Overseer: Grant that the Guardians of the place attend, And ready ear to each petition lend; That they desire the grieving poor to show What ills they feel, what partial acts they know; Not without promise, nay desire to heal Each wrong they suffer, and each woe they feel. Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell; They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell; They have no evil in the place to state, And dare not say it is the house they hate: They own there's granted all such place can give, But live repining, for 'tis there they live. Grandsires are there, who now no more must see, No more must nurse upon the trembling knee, The lost loved daughter's infant progeny: Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place For joyful meetings of a kindred race. Is not the matron there, to whom the son Was wont at each declining day to run? He (when his toil was over) gave delight, By lifting up the latch, and one "Good night." Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door The son, still lab'ring, can return no more. Widows are here, who in their huts were left, Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft; Yet all that grief within the humble shed Was soften'd, softened in the humble bed: But here, in all its force, remains the grief, And not one softening object for relief. Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet? Who learn the story current in the street? Who to the long-known intimate impart Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart? They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend, Or seek companions at their journey's end? Here are not those whom they when infants knew; Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew; Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived; Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived; Whom time and custom so familiar made, That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd: But here to strangers, words nor looks impart The various movements of the suffering heart; Nor will that heart with those alliance own, To whom its views and hopes are all unknown. What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy, Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy? 'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view, With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new; Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep, - The day itself is, like the night, asleep; Or on the sameness if a break be made, 'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd; By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told, News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old; By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell, Or justice come to see that all goes well; Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl