Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled br To see thee, poor old man! and thy gray hairs br Hoar with the snowy blast; while no one cares br To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. br My Father! throw away this tattered vest br That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment--use br A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews br That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. br My Sara, too, shall tend thee, like a child: br And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, br Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.