A "Samaritan" Ode,
Addressed to everybody.
["We regret to learn that poor old Tom Cribb is extremely ill at the house of his son, at Woolwioh."—Vide Bell's Life, Jan. 30, 1848.]
Go, gaze on the Champion! look at him now,
With that pale sunken cheek, and the damp on his brow;
Compare what he was with what now meets your view—
It'll show what "old age" and long illness can do.
Where now is the "giant-like" power of his arm,
That fill'd all the men of his day with alarm?
Where, where is the muscle that gave that arm strength
To make the huge Molineux measure his length?
All, all are departed; the spirit alone
Survives all his physical energies, gone.
There, beaten at last, lies the gamest and best
That ever the "fistic arena" possessed—
Tom Cribb (for 'tis you), there 's a charm in thy name,
If true British courage and unsullied fame
Be passport to old English sympathy—then
Not useless shall prove this appeal from my pen.
Neglect shall not chill, nor stem Want ever come,
With their withering effect, to the poor "old man's home."
Shall we suffer an honest, brave creature like this
One essential to need, or one comfort to miss?
No! with hands ever open, and hearts prone to feel.
All true men their shoulders will put to the wheel.
