Pale misery waits on dim decay?
If talents rare no more can claim
Than idle transitory fame?
'Twas thine, poor Tom! in life's decline,
In sad reverse and want to pine;
Till Pity came, with angel-pow'r,
To soothe thee at thy latest hour.[10]
(Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,
And sweetest in a queenly breast.)
But rest thee well! nor let us grieve