Of all the blessings mortals crave,
And graces that they pray for,
One gift, one grace, I seek to have,
And struggle night and day for.
Each woe I fain a help would lend,
Each wound I fain would heal it,
For oh! 'tis sweet to help a friend,
And sweeter to conceal it.

Go, peal the bell — the beadle comes
To dole the parish alms out,
With noisy pomp he haws and hums,
While paupers hold their palms out:
But genial kindness cannot bend
The pauper's bell to peal it,
She feels, though sweet to help a friend,
'Tis sweeter to conceal it.

The man who kindness feigns to deal,
Proclaiming what he's dealing,
But sears the wound he feigns to heal,
And blunts each grateful feeling;
While Crime apes Want, in ways that tend
The heart 'gainst woe to steel it,
Till few have will to help a friend,
And fewer to conceal it.

We all are friends, or ought to be,
We're all on Heaven depending,
Whose gifts are numberless and free,
Unseen, yet never ending;
And while on kindness we depend,
Ought we not all to feel it,
And strive for power to help a friend,
And aim aye to conceal it?