Sonnet V.

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor old man! and thy gray hairs Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tattered vest That mocks thy shiv'ring! 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 fire-side's recess, Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.-- He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild, Who met the Lazar turned from rich man's doors, And called him Friend, and wept upon his sores!