'S there an eye that never flows
From fympathy of others woes?
Is there an ear that ftill doth fail
To tingle at a mournful tale?
When fcenes of fore diftrefs are nigh,
Hard is the heart that checks a figh.
If with neglect, or fierce disdain,
We look on others grief, or pain;
Or can fupprefs the rifing groan,
For every fuffering, not our own;
In human fhapes fuch fouls that dwell,
A hedge-hog's form would fuit as well.
By fympathifing with diftrefs,
We fhall not find our comfort lefs;
For with the anguish 'twill impart
A pleasure to the feeling heart:
How fweet the joys, the peace, and reft
That reign in every tender breast!
The meaneft in diftrefs, the wife
Will freely ferve, and not despise.
A labouring Ant, who half a league
Had dragged his load with vaft fatigue,
As trailing from a distant barn
A moft prodigious grain of corn!
Tottering beneath the burden bent,
Diffolved in fweat, his ftrength quite spent ;
As many a weary step he took,
Along the margin of a brook,
He homeward trudged through thick and thin,
But miffed a step, and tumbled in ;
The dafhing waves around him fly,
And foam and thunder to the fky!
So have I feen the planks that bear
Britannia's eager fons to war,
Rush from the flocks with fury down,
To diftant view, a falling town,
Lafh the hoarfe waves, and ftem the tide,
And o'er the billows proudly ride.
Evén fo the Ant with toil and ftrife,
Panted, and fruggled hard for life:
The waves come booming o'er his head,
His powers are gone, his hopes are fled;
He flounces, plunges, ftrives in vain!
He finks, then rifing floats again!
Refifts the stream, and holds his breath,
Defpairs of help, and waits for death!
When, lo! a Dove, with pity moved,
"For every living thing she loved,"
Beheld, with deep concern oppreffèd,
The honeft ruftic thus diftreffèd;
Juft where the faw him gasping lie,
She plucked a twig, and dropped it nigh,
He mounts, like failor on an oar,
Securely perched, and reached the fhore;
Then fhook his limbs, and raifèd his head,
And thus to his deliverer said,
To one unafked who could bestow
Such fervice! more than thanks I owe:
Receive, devoid of fkill or art,
The effufion of a grateful heart;
You may partake of all I hoard,
Sure of a welcome at my board."
The gentle Dove with fmiles replies,
And meeknefs beaming from her eyes;
"The higheft joys on earth we find,
Spring from a tender, feeling mind;
The foft fenfations rising there,
Repay with intereft all our care:
Where kindness is to others fhown,
Imparting blifs we form our own,
Sweet is the infelt joy that flows
From kind relief of others woes;
The bofom that with pity burns,
Bleffèd in itself, wants no returns."
She fpoke and mounting, spreads her wings,
And wheels aloft in airy rings,
Seeking the well known fhady grove,
To nurfe her young, and blefs her love.
When winter's fnows deformed the year,
And food was scarce, the froft severe,
The grateful Ant, who had with pain
Amaffed a monftrous load of grain ;
And as the Dove might want, he thought,
To find his benefactor fought.
Long had he roved the foreft round,
Before the gentle Dove he found;
At diftance feen, too far to hear
His voice; a sportsman much too near,
With lifted tube, and levélling eye,
The fatal lead, prepared to fly;
The trigger juft began to move,
His aim was pointed at the Dove.
With horror ftruck, the Ant beheld:
By gratitude and love impelled,
He mounts, and to his ankle clings
With all his force the fowler ftings,
That moment was his piece difcharged;
He ftarts, miffed aim; the Dove's enlarged.
Pleafed with the thought of fervice done,
The man's revenge he ftrives to fhun;
In hafte the flying Dove pursued,
As wandering through the leafless wood;
Till fettling on a tree he finds her,
And of their mutual help reminds her.
We wifely act, my worthy friend,
Says he, when we affiftance lend;
And when for that the meaneft call,
The joy refulting is not all;
It's prudent too, there's none fo low
To whom we may not favours owe:
Freedom, and life itself oft fprings
From fmall and defpicable things.
He that is wife will ne'er refuse
Others with, tendernefs to ufe:
Whene'er we lend to others aid,
We furely fhall be well repaid.
The bare worn traveller's bofom glows
For thee, midst Lapland's live-long fnows,
Or India's burning zone.
For thee, War founds her dread alarms,
And bids the hero's conqéuring arms
The vengeful weapon wield:
Infpired by thee, nought chills her breaft,
Though death in awfui terror drefléd,
Ravage the bloody field.
Ardent I feek the flowery road,
That leads to thy divine abode;
O deign to be my guide!
Waft my low bark with profperous fail,
Through every rough and boistèrous gale
That fwells life's rapid tide:
And fteer me to that happy shore,
Where no rude tempeft's fullen roar
Disturbs thy blissful reign:
There, with thy genial influence blessed,
Sweet fmiling Peace fhall fill my breast,
And Pleasure banish Pain.
'AREWEL, afpiring thoughts, no more My foul fhall leave the peaceful shore, To fail Ambition's main;
Fallacious as the harlot's kifs,
You promise me uncertain bliss,
But give me certain pain.
A beauteous prospect first you shew,
Which ere furveyed, you paint anew,
And paint it wondrous pleasant :
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