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!