Hymn on Charity.

Nor faith, nor hope, whate'er their force,

Can aught avail the soul,

Should charity not guide its course

To glory's heavenly goal.

The songs of wisdom, tho’ they soar

To notes that seraphs swell,

If she be wanting, are no more

Than folly's tinkling bell.

A thousand shapes, as bright as morn,

Sweet Charity assumes,

And all the hues of Heaven adorn

Her variegated plumes.

‘ Tis she with consolation's voice

That stills affliction's storm,

She bids despairing want rejoice

In bounty's radiant form.

But with what semblance is she seen,

That more her power endears,

Than when with mild instruction's mien

Her infant train she rears?

Then she the earth-bound spirit lifts

Above the valley's clod,

Then gives the richest of her gifts,

The knowledge of her God.