555

Though pressed with hunger oft, or come-
lier clothes,
Though pinched with cold, asks never.-
Kate is crazed.

I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!

They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide

fall,

65 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes

That humor interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little
noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jassamine,

75

I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),

Could those few pleasant days again