Lo! yonder Widow, reft of sight,
A Mother, who ne'er knew
The joys which Parents' eyes delight
When first their Babes they view.
Close to her breast, with cherub smile,
The cherish'd Infant lies;
And t'wards those darkened orbs the while
Lifts its unconscious eyes.
Then, Stranger, pause, and yield a gift
To Misery's Children due;
Lo! e'en yon grasping Miser's thrift
Now drops like hallowed dew.