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And then a tear or two, which sting his pride;
These he will dash indignantly aside,

And splice his tale;—now take him from his cot,
And for some cleaner birth exchange his lot,
How will he all that cruel aid deplore?

His heart will break, and he will fight no more.
Here is the poor old merchant: he declined,
And, as they say, is not in perfect mind;
In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend,
Quiet he paces to his journey's end.

Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail’d;
Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd ;
His spirits low and his exertions small,
He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall :
Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he,
But downward sank with sad alacrity.
A borough-place we gain'd him—in disgrace
For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place;
But still he kept a kind of sullen pride,
Striving his wants to hinder or to hide :
At length, compell'd by very need, in grief
He wrote a proud petition for relief.

"He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove “Of force to wake their sympathy and love; "Would make them feel the changes all may know,

“And stir them up a new regard to show."

His suit was granted;-to an ancient maid, Relieved herself, relief for him was paid: Here they together (meet companions) dwell, And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell:

""Twas not a world for them, God help them! they "Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray;

"But there's a happy change, a scene to come,

“And they, God help them! shall be soon at home." If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain,

Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain;
They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain.
The poor will grieve, the
will weep and sigh,

poor

Both when they know, and when they know not why;

But we our bounty with such care bestow,

That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.
Your plan I love not ;—with a number you
Have placed your poor, your pitiable few;
There, in one house, throughout their lives to be,
The pauper-palace which they hate to see:
That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,
Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!
That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour,
Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:
It is a prison, with a milder name,

Which few inhabit without dread or shame.
Be it agreed-the poor who hither come
Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;

That airy rooms and decent beds are meant
To give the poor by day, by night, content;
That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,
By the stern looks of lordly overseer :

Grant that the guardians of the place attend,
And ready ear to each petition lend;

That they desire the grieving poor to show
What ills they feel, what partial acts they know,
Not without promise, nay desire to heal

Each

wrong they suffer and each wo they feel. Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell; They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell; They have no evil in the place to state,

And dare not say, it is the house they hate:
They own there's granted all such place can give,
But live repining, for 'tis there they live.

Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,
No more must nurse upon the trembling knee
The lost loved daughter's infant progeny:
Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place
For joyful meetings of a kindred race.

Is not the matron there, to whom the son
Was wont at each declining day to run;
He (when his toil was over) gave delight,

By lifting up the latch, and one "good night ?"
Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door

The

son, still lab'ring, can return no more.

Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;
Yet all that grief within the humble shed
Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed :
But here, in all its force, remains the grief,
And not one soft'ning object for relief.

Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?
Who learn the story current in the street?
Who to the long-known intimate impart

Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?—
They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend,
Or seek companions at their journey's end?

Here are not those whom they, when infants, knew;
Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;
Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;
Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;
Whom time and custom so familiar made,
That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd :
But here to strangers, words nor looks impart
The various movements of the suffering heart;
Nor will that heart with those alliance own,
To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.
What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,

Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy ?
"Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,
With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;

Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep,—
The day itself is, like the night, asleep :

Or on the sameness if a break be made,
'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;
By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,
News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;
By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,
Or justice come to see that all goes well;
Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl
On the black footway winding with the wall,
Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.
Here too the mother sees her children train'd,
Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd:
Who govern here, by general rules must move,
Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.
Nations we know have nature's law transgress'd,
And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast ;
But still for public good the boy was train'd,
The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd:
Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid;
The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.

Then too I own, it grieves me to behold
Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,
By all for care and industry approved,
For truth respected, and for temper loved;
And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,
Gave want its worth and poverty its pride:

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