Man were a grinding Niggard, lean and hoar
Even in his youth, and in his riches poor,
Didst Thou ne’er leave thy Blessing at his door!
If not from Thee, whence were there balm to cure
The scornful injuries lowly hearts endure
From pampered Privilege? Thou art the core
Of Wisdom’s social aim, who, all the more
Fierce Error threatens, toils to hold Thee sure.
On thy maternal bosom many a time
I lay my head, to dream that yet thy reign
In its perfected influence every Clime
Shall sweeten; and, as o’er some torrid plain
Fresh airs breathe vigour, quicken Man to gain
Capacity for Love’s millennian prime.
Other works by Charles Harpur...
