X: To Charles Dickens,

Not only with the author's happiest praise
Thy work should be rewarded; 'tis akin
To deeds of men, who, scorning ease to win
A blessing for the wretched, pierce the maze
Which heedless ages spread around the ways
Where fruitful Sorrow tracks its parent Sin;
Content to listen to the wildest din
Of passion, and on dismal shapes to gaze,
So they may earn the power which intercedes
With the bright world and melts it; for within
Wan childhood's squalid haunts, where basest needs
Make tyranny more bitter, at thy call,
An angel face with patient sweetness pleads
For infant suffering to the heart of all.