The poem
O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mein, of every charm bereft, Thy brow, that hope's last traces long have left, Vain Fortune's feeble sons with terror fly; Thy rugged paths with pleasure I attend; -- For Fancy, that with fairest dreams can bless; And Patience, in the Pall of Wretchedness, Sad-smiling, as the ruthless storms descend; And Piety, forgiving every wrong, And meek Content, whose griefs no more rebel; And Genius, warbling sweet her saddest song; And Pity, list'ning to the poor man's knell, Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng; With Thee, and loveliest Melancholy, dwell.