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And not lament while they from hovels rise Or shall the pomp of pleasure, pride of dress Remind them not of their own wretchedness? I know of many much inclin'd to say Philosophy such ills as these allay? But 'tis a Lesson not more trite than vain She steels our breast, but never sooths our pain. For no misfortune she could ever heal Of those who still retain'd the pow'r to feel Is such the cure of pains for Man forlorn From out the breast must then the heart be torn? No rather let me live amid distress; If such my fate, I would not feel it less. No my dear dear Babe, while thus I kiss thy hand Which want uplift, my heart you shall command; For not a pause of toil, or fond desire Will I e'er know, while you one aid require. Shall I thy infant charms contented view Blighted by want, assume pale famines hue Shall I observe thy Infant sense expand Only to find distress in either hand? And must thy reason dawn, Alas! to know What I would hide ---- thy wretched fate of woe? Oh blest pastime that can the mind disert And heal the sorrows
