Leans o’er its humble gate, and thinks the while—
Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm!
There should my hand no stinted boon assign
To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine!—
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,
And Hope half mingles with the poor man’s prayer.
Hope! when I mourn, with sympathising mind,
The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,