Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/364

280 The work of death and carnage. Yet should one, A single sufferer from the field escaped, Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet, Lift his imploring eyes,—the hero weeps; He is grown human, and capricious Pity, Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one With sympathy spontaneous:—’Tis not Virtue, Yet 'tis the weakness of a virtuous mind.