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To the neighbours he went,—all were free with their money;
For his hive had so long been replenished with honey
That they dreamt not of dearth—He continued his rounds,
Knocked here—and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.
He paid what he could of his ill-gotten pelf,
And something, it might be, reserved for himself:
Then, (what is too true,) without hinting a word,
Turned his back on the Country; and off like a Bird.
You lift up your eyes!—and I guess that you frame
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;
In him it was scarcely a business of art,
For this he did all in the ease of his heart.
To London—a sad emigration I ween—
With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green;
And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands,
As lonely he stood as a Crow on the sands.
All trades, as, needs was, did old Adam assume,—
Served as Stable-boy, Errand-boy, Porter, and Groom;
But nature is gracious, necessity kind,
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,
