O THOU Bliss! to riches known,
Stranger to the poor alone;
Giving most where none’s requir’d,
Leaving none where most’s desir’d;
Who, sworn friend to miser, keeps
Adding to his useless heaps
Gifts on gifts, profusely stor’d,
Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard:
While poor, shatter’d Poverty,
To advantage seen in me,
With his rags, his wants, and pain,
Waking pity but in vain,
Bowing, cringing at thy side,
Begs his mite, and is denied.
O, thou blessing! let not me
Tell, as vain, my wants to thee;
Thou, by name of Plenty stil’d
Fortune’s heir, her favourite child.
’Tis a maxim—hunger feed,
Give the needy when they need;
He, whom all profess to serve,
The same maxim did observe:
Their obedience here, how well,
Modern times will plainly tell.
Hear my wants, nor deem me bold,
Not without occasion told:
Hear one wish; nor fail to give;
Use me well, and bid me live.

’Tis not great, what I solicit:
Was it more, thou couldst not miss it:
Now the cutting Winter’s come,
’Tis but just to find a home,
In some shelter, dry and warm,
That will shield me from the storm.
Toiling in the naked fields,
Where no bush a shelter yields,
Needy Labour dithering stands,
Beats and blows his numbing hands;
And upon the crumping snows
Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes.
Leaves are fled, that once had power
To resist a summer shower;
And the wind so piercing blows,
Winnowing small the drifting snows,
The summer shade of loaded bough
Would vainly boast a shelter now:
Piercing snows so searching fall,
They sift a passage through them all.
Though all’s vain to keep him warm,
Poverty must brave the storm.
Friendship none, its aid to lend:
Health alone his only friend;
Granting leave to live in pain,
Giving strength to toil in vain;
To be, while winter’s horrors last,
The sport of every pelting blast.

Oh, sad sons of Poverty!
Victims doom’d to misery;
Who can paint what pain prevails
O’er that heart which Want assails?
Modest Shame the pain conceals:
No one knows, but he who feels.
O thou charm which Plenty crowns:
Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns:
Cast around a pitying eye!
Feed the hungry, ere they die.
Think, oh! think upon the poor,
Nor against them shut thy door:
Freely let thy bounty flow,
On the sons of Want and Woe.

Hills and dales no more are seen
In their dress of pleasing green;
Summer’s robes are all thrown by,
For the clothing of the sky;
Snows on snows in heaps combine,
Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine,
And at distance rising proud,
Each appears a fleecy cloud.
Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;
Exit bid to every woe:
Take me in, shut out the blast,
Make the doors and windows fast;
Place me in some corner, where,
Lolling in an elbow chair,
Happy, blest to my desire,
I may find a rouzing fire;
While in chimney-corner nigh,
Coal or wood, a fresh supply,
Ready stands for laying on,
Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone.
Now and then, as taste decreed
In a book a page I’d read;
And, inquiry to amuse,
Peep at something in the news;
See who’s married, and who’s dead,
And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread:
While on hob, or table nigh,
Just to drink before I’m dry,
A pitcher at my side should stand,
With the barrel nigh at hand,
Always ready as I will’d,
When ’twas empty, to be fill’d;
And, to be possess’d of all,
A corner cupboard in the wall,
With store of victuals lin’d complete,
That when hungry I might eat.
Then would I, in Plenty’s lap,
For the first time take a nap;
Falling back in easy lair,
Sweetly slumbering in my chair;
With no reflective thoughts to wake
Pains that cause my heart to ache,
Of contracted debts, long made,
In no prospect to be paid;
And, to Want, sad news severe,
Of provisions getting dear:
While the Winter, shocking sight,
Constant freezes day and night,
Deep and deeper falls the snow,
Labour’s slack, and wages low.
These, and more, the poor can tell,
Known, alas, by them too well,
Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,
Never more should trouble me.
Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,
Soft and smooth as flows the tide,
Where no stones or choaking grass
Force a curve ere it can pass:
And as happy, and as blest,
As beasts drop them down to rest,
When in pastures, at their will,
They have roam’d and eat their fill;
Soft as nights in summer creep,
So should I then fall asleep;
While sweet visions of delight,
So enchanting to the sight,
Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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