Sacred to Mirth let this Day be;
Let Music's sweetest Melody
Re-echo thro' the Vales
That gave Humanity's kind Son,
Array'd in Laurels he had won,
Safe wafted by the Gales.

See now the Sun shine on his Cot,
Whose Life has been Misfortune's Lot,
Reduc'd to Wretchedness.
The little Prattlers round him play,
And lisp that on this happy Day
The Friend came of Distress.

The woe-worn Wretch, from distant Shores,
Before thee out his Sufferings pours,
Thou hear'st his piteous Tale:
Thy ready Hand his Wants supply,
And Tears of Joy bedew his Eye,
Whilst Sympathy prevail.