To The Poor
Child of distress, who meet'st the bitter scorn
Of fellow men to happier prospects
born,
Doomed art and nature's various stores to see
Flow in full cups of joy,-and
not for thee,
Who seest the rich, to heaven and fate resign'd
Bear thy afflictions with a patient
mind;
Whose bursting heart disdains unjust controll,
Who feel'st oppression's iron
in thy soul,
Who drag'st the load of faint and feeble years,
Whose bread is anguish and whose
water tears-
Bear, bear thy wrongs, fulfil thy destined hour,
Bend thy meek neck beneath the
foot of power!
But when thou feel'st the great deliverer nigh,
And thy freed spirit mounting
seeks the sky,
Let no vain fears thy parting hour molest,
No whispered terrors shake thy quiet breast,
Think
not their threats can work thy future woe,
Nor deem the Lord above, like Lords below.
Safe in the bosom
of that love repose
By whom the sun gives light, the ocean flows,
Prepare to meet father undismayed,
Nor
fear the God whom priests and kings have made.
- Anna Letitia Barbauld