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.           

            

            

       XXVI.     

       ELEGY ON EDWARD BETHAM,     

 Lost in the Duchess of Gordon East Indiaman, off the Cape of Good Hope.     

             Lovely as are the wide and sudden calms Upon a lake, when all the waters rise, To smooth each undulation, and present A plain of molten silver—is the hope, Dear Edward, of thy safety—which now comes To fill, expand, and elevate my heart—             String every nerve, and give to every vein, A warmer and a sweeter sense of life!           

                        

             Welcome, oh! welcome, that most healing hope, Pouring abroad an efficacious ray Into the aching bosom!—Tidings sweet Those of such prompt return, with wisdom gain'd By suffering, but with all thy innocence, All thy accustomed gaiety of heart, And all thy deep, quick sensibilities! Those gems of virtue, which concentre still In narrow limits, stores of moral wealth Beyond all estimate—whose value known, The dealer sells his other merchandize; His ivory and curious workmanship, The silkworm's product and the cloth of gold, To purchase that 

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