And many a heart, yielding, that festive day, To Nature's impulses of hope and joy, Confiding, blessed thee! Queen! if thou delay To help thy Poor -- if thou, thyself, destroy The promise of that time, and harsh alloy Of blame with memory of our joy now blend -- What marvel? Hopes, that do the heart upbuoy, Turned to despair by sufferings slighted, rend All gentle feelings in their way to some dire end. |