For this I turn from pleasure’s scenes, to weep with those that weep;
To strive their sufferings to assuage, their confidence to keep.
Though on them glows the copper tint, though African their race,
What matters these distinctions of their nation, lot, or place?
For oh! the highest joy of earth is comfort to impart
To those who lie ’neath fortune’s frowns, with sad and suffering heart.
Though hidden from the public view, unseen your acts of love,
If heart and hand be clean and pure, their record lives above.
Let me thus seek my neighbor’s good, thus helpless sufferers raise;
Be this the glory of my fame; be deeds of love my praise.