Shall we the less her soft’ning influence feel, 580
Because the weak are objects of our zeal?
Because the poor—the sick—the suffering, plead
Through her, to us, in this their hour of need?
Ye!—in whose softer bosoms ought to move
The tranquil whispers of a purer love; 585
Ye!—to whose gentler fost’ring hand ’tis given
To shield the plant whose native clime is heaven;
Its tender shoots to bind with sweet control,
And for its future Eden fit the soul;