Who begged—to bury the dead;

The naked, alas, that I might have clad,

The famish'd I might have fed!

"The sorrow I might have sooth'd,

And the unregarded tears;

For many a thronging shape was there,

From long-forgotten years,

Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,

Who raised my childish fears!

"Each pleading look, that long ago