12.
One day! ... Whose blessing shall avert the doom?
The sacred garb must from thy limbs be torn:
The saint retire, in fancied virtue worn,
Falls down, at thy revival from the tomb.
Hadst thou reliev'd a single poor's distress,
Or clad one orphan as good nature bade thee,
Bright Seraph's wings would gently overshade thee...
But now! thou hast thy shame and nakedness!