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Smiles on the couch where pale affliction lies,

And soothes her sufferings with your kind supplies.

So when the sun its cheering beams can pour

All weak and withering on the shaded flow'r,

Its drooping blossoms and its leaves revive,

Bloom with new grace, and with new vigour thrive.

Some may object that social bonds, like these,

Render the peasant's home too much at ease

Lead him to hope your succours ever near,

And thus destroy his providence and care.*

Many well-disposed persons object to these charities as encouraging pauperism. This opinion is fallacious. The present rate of wages to a labouring man (especially if he have a family) will hardly admit of saving: if any saving shall have been made, a protracted illness will very soon consume it, and Yes-did your charity its doors unfold,

Mov'd by the language of a tale well told ;

Did it with wine the drunkard's goblet fill,

Or prompt the sluggard to be slothful still :

Far different those to whom your bounties flow

The grief-worn tenants of the house of woe.

Where death, and all its life-exhausting train,

Inflict the catalogue of human pain.

reduce him to the necessity of applying for parochial relief. Such assistance is doled with a very sparing hand, and is administered to his necessities—not to his comforts. It is in this season of affliction, which no forecast can prevent nor discretion avoid, that these institutions step in and administer many attentions and comforts, which during sickness he surely requires, and which otherwise he might not receive. The medical recommendation (an indispensable document) will at once prevent imposition and direct the best means of relief.

There, the poor infant, whom its mother knew

Her greatest care—and greatest comfort too

That babe, that once hung smiling at her breast,

So often nurtur'd, and as oft caress'd,

Writhes with the agonies of piercing pain,

And looks on her for help-but looks in vain.

There, the poor parent, whose industrious hand

Had labour'd hard to cultivate the land;

Whose sweat had daily from his temples flow'd,

To earn the little that his toil bestow'd,

Sinks—lingering sinks—beneath some slow disease,

That all his pittance--all his strength decays:

And there behold around his dying bed,

Those children friendless, whom his hands had fed,

Whilst silent tears of unaffected grief

Steal down their cheeks for pity and relief.

Alas! this perishable frame of ours,

Still frets the moth, and still the worm devours;

Pale atrophy still lingers and expires;

Fever still burns with all its wonted fires;

Hydrops o’erwhelms, and apoplex destroys

With sudden stroke life's transitory joys;

And wan consumption with a flattering tale

Still lures her thousands to the shadowy vale.

These are the objects that your hands relieve;

These the sad sufferers that your alms receive.

Will you refuse such sorrows to allay, ,

Such pains to soothe—such tears to wipe away,

And strive to check your own, dispos’d to flow,

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The genuine offsprings of another's woe?

May Heav'n forbid, and, whilst such ills demand,

Warm the cold heart, and bless the gen'rous hand.

Ye kind Supporters, may your offerings prove

The gracious fruits of Christ's unbounded love;

And may your charity, whose smiles have made

The upland happy, and the valley glad,

Pour forth its treasures from a plenteous horn,

Refreshing as the dews of summer's morn.

When pain and sickness shall afflict your home,-

(And soon, alas ! those wintry days may come);

When

you

shall need some consolation near

Some friend the dreary paths of death to cheer,-

May Heav'n unfold its everlasting doors,

And all its blessings-all its joys be yours !

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