To the Poor
Anna Lætitia Barbauld
1743 to 1825
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Child of distress, who meet’st the bitter scorn
Of fellow-men to happier prospects born,
Doomed Art and Nature’s various to see
Flow in full cups of joy—and not thee;
Who seest the rich, to heaven and fate resigned,
Bear thy afflictions with a patient mind;
Whose bursting disdains unjust control,
Who feel’st oppression’s iron in thy soul,
Who dragg’st the load of faint and feeble years,
bread is anguish, and whose water tears;
Bear, bear wrongs—fulfill thy destined hour,
Bend thy meek neck beneath foot of Power;
But when thou feel’st the great nigh,
And thy freed spirit mounting seeks the sky,
no vain fears thy parting hour molest,
No whispered shake thy quiet breast:
Think not their threats can thy future woe,
Nor deem the Lord above like below;—
Safe in the bosom of that love
By whom the sun gives light, the ocean flows;
to meet a Father undismayed,
Nor fear the God priests and kings have made.