While me of mine a careless wretch bereft,
Save a small part; yet I could joyful live,
Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give.
For this she cares not; Frances does not know
Their heartfelt joy who largely can bestow.
You, Captain Elliot, feel the pure delight, 890
That our kind acts in tender hearts excite,
When to the poor we can our alms extend,
And make the Father of all Good our friend;
And, I repeat, I could with pleasure live,