Classic Poem

This Land for Learning and Religion fam'd
In ancient Times the Isle of Saints was nam'd.
And Heav'n-born Charity, prime Grace, once more
Shall this bless'd Title to its Sons restore.
A fitter Object Pity ne'er cou'd find,
For this divinest Virtue of the Mind,
Than honest Industry, and Worth distress'd,
And suff'ring Innocence by Fraud oppress'd,
By pale-ey'd Want, and sallow Sickness pin'd,
Within a Prison's dismal Gloom confin'd,
Where everlasting Sighs and Anguish reign,
And each sad Moment seems an Age of Pain,
'Tis yours to raise him from the dreadful Care,
To soften Anguish, and remove Despair;
The Great and Pious in the Task combine,
And glorious emulate the Power Divine;
Mercy her white Celestial Wings displays,
And to the Throne of Grace your Zeal conveys;
Whence thick as Dew from Heav'n shall Joys descend,
And endless Blessings on your Race attend.