Fear has to do with sacred things,
And more than all from Pity springs.
Two school-girls once—the time is past,
But ever will the memory last—
This moral to my fancy drew,
In colours brilliant, deep, and true.

Mute, blooming, one all-wondering stands,

The elder kisses oft her hands,

Bends o'er with fainting, fond caress,

And languishes in strong distress.

Clings to her shoulder, were it meet,

Seems wishing to embrace her feet;

Like one impatient to implore,

Who dreads the time is nearly o'er,

To ask or to receive a boon,

Which must be known and granted soon.

A boon with life itself entwin'd,

One that her lips refus'd to name,

However oft the impulse came.

Such was the picture—but her mind

Forgetting self—could not arise,

To look in those unconscious eyes!

The zeal that prompted, were she free

To serve her friend on bended knee,

Shrunk from the orphan's gaze, just hurl'd,

Lonely and poor upon the world—

Unknowing yet her loss, endeared,

By its excess, and therefore fear'd!

Thus has it ever seem'd to me,
That Pity made a Deity
Of Mortal Suffering—that her ray
Melted all blame, all scorn away!
That when her arms the dying fold,
When her pure hands the loathsome hold,
Disgust and Dread, their power forego,
The Aegis drops from Human Woe,
Whose false and cruel glare alone
Turned other living hearts to stone.