So come along, no more we'll part:” HYMN TO HUMANITY. BY DR. LANGHORNE. 1. Parent of virtue, if thine ear Attend not now to sorrow's cry; If now the pity-streaming tear Should haply on thy cheek be dry; Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity! 2. Come, ever welcome, to my breast ! A tender, but a cheerful guest; Nor always in the gloomy cell Of life-consuming sorrow dwell; For sorrow, long indulg'd and slow, Is to Humanity a foe; And grief, that makes the heart its prey, Wears sensibility away: Then come, sweet nymplı, instead of thee, The gloomy fiend, Stupidity. 3. O may that fiend be banish'd far, Though passions hold eternal war! Nor ever let me cease to know The pulse that throbs at joy or woe; Nor let my vacant cheek be dry, When sorrow fills a brother's eye; Nor may the tear that frequent flows From private or from social woes, E'er make this pleasing sense depart? Ye Cares, O harden not my heart! 4. If the fair star of fortune smile, Let not its flattering power beguile, Nor, borne along the fav’ring tide, My full sails swell with floating pride. Let me from wealth but hope content, Remembering still it was but lent; To modest merit spread my store, Unbar my hospitable door; Nor feed, with pomp, an idle train, While Want unpitied pines in vain. 5. And for the due bread of the day, 6, Howe'er exalted or deprest, Be ever mine the feeling breast. From me remove the stagnant mind Of languid indolence, reclin'd; The soul that one long sabbath keeps And through the sun's whole circle sleeps; Dull peace, that dwells in folly's eye, And self-attending vanity. Alike the foolish and the vain Are strangers to the sense humane. 7. O for that sympathetic glow Which taught the holy tear to flow, When the prophetic eye survey'd Sion in future ashes laid! Or, rais'd to heaven, implor'd the bread, That thousands in the desert fed! Or, when the heart o'er friendship’s grave Sigh'd and forgot its pow'r to save. O for that sympathetic glow Which taught the holy tear to fow! 8. It comes: it fills my labouring breast; I feel my beating heart opprest. Oh! hear that lonely widow's wail! See her dim eye! her aspect pale! To heaven she turns in deep despair, Her infants wonder at her prayer, And, mingling tears they know not why, Lift up their little hands and cry. O God! their moving sorrows see! Support them, sweet Humanity! 9. you that agonizing throe? 10. Parent of Virtue, if thine ear, Attend not now to sorrow's cry; If now the pity-streaming tear Should haply on thy cheek be dry; Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity! c2 THE NIGHTINGALE. BY POPE. As Phoebus darted forth his milder ray, |
