Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest 5 That mocks thy shivering! take my garment--use A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child: And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess, 10 Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness-- He did not so, the Galilaean mild, Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores! ? 1795. FOOTNOTES: [93:1] First published in 1796: included in _Selection of Sonnets_, _Poems_ 1796, in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. LINENOTES: Title] Effusion xvi. 1796 (_Contents_--To an Old Man): Sonnet vi. 1797: Sonnet v. 1803: Sonnet x. 1828, 1829, 1834: Charity 1893. [7] arm] arms 1796, 1828. [12-14] He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild, Who met the Lazar turn'd from rich man's doors, And call'd him Friend, and wept upon his sores. 1797, 1803. [13] men's] man's 1796, Selection of Sonnets, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829. TO THE NIGHTINGALE[93:2] Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel! How many Bards in city garret pent, While at their window they with downward eye Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud, And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen 5 (Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of Time!), How many wretched Bards address _thy_ name, And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines above. But I _do_ hear thee, and the high bough mark, Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid 10 Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. O! I have listened, till my working soul, Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies, Absorb'd hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft, I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight 15 Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon! 'Most musical, most melancholy' Bird! That all thy soft diversities of tone, Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs That vibrate from a white-arm'd Lady's harp, 20 What time the languishment of lonely love Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow, Are not so sweet as is the voice of her, My Sara--best beloved of human kind! When breathing the pure soul of tenderness, 25 She thrills me with the Husband's promis'd name! 1795. FOOTNOTES: [93:2] First published in 1796: included in 1803 and in _Lit. Rem._, i. 38. First collected in 1844. LINENOTES: Title] Effusion xxiii. To the, &c. 1796. [12] O have I 1796. LINES[94:1] COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY 1795