192 THE LITTLE HAND.
And weave those tender, tuneful lays, That beauty wins from love ?
Old Coke's or Blackstone's mighty tome, With patient toil turn o'er ?
Or trim the lamp in classic dome, Till midnight's watch is o'er ?
Well skilled, the pulse of sickness press ?
Or such high honour gain As, o'er the pulpit, raised, to bless
A pious listening train ?
Say, shall it find the cherished grasp Of friendship's fervour cold ?
Or, shuddering, feel the envenomed clasp Of treachery's serpent-fold ?
Yet, O ! may that Almighty Friend, From whom existence came,
That dear and powerless hand defend From deeds of guilt and shame.
Grant it to dry the tear of woe, Bold folly's course restrain,
The alms of sympathy bestow, The righteous cause maintain
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