Page:Poems on Various Subjects - Coleridge (1796).djvu/81



WEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor ! and thy gray hairs Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares To cloathe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment—use A young man's arms! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My too shall tend thee, like a Child: And thou shalt talk, in our fire side's recess, Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness.— He did not so, the mild, Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich man's doors, And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome Sores!