X: To Charles Dickens,

Not only with the author's happiest praise Thy work should be rewarded; 'tis akin To deeds of men, who, scorning ease to win A blessing for the wretched, pierce the maze Which heedless ages spread around the ways Where fruitful Sorrow tracks its parent Sin; Content to listen to the wildest din Of passion, and on dismal shapes to gaze, So they may earn the power which intercedes With the bright world and melts it; for within Wan childhood's squalid haunts, where basest needs Make tyranny more bitter, at thy call, An angel face with patient sweetness pleads For infant suffering to the heart of all.