Dost never thy race in their miseries see?
To the charm of thy music we ever would yield,
By thee would be borne to Elysium’s field,
And forgetful that wrong or that wo were on earth,
Forever would list to thine angel-like mirth.
But the heart fraught with sympathies true, must embrace
The lowest as well as the stars of our race—
Round the poor and the wretched in bitterness twine—
On devotion’s wings rise to where pure seraphs shine;—
In our pathway to Heaven we encounter the thorn,