at George’s gate,
And begg’d for aid, as he described his state:-
But stern was George;—­“Let them who had thee strong,
Help thee to drag thy weaken’d frame along;
To us a stranger, while your limbs would move,
From us depart, and try a stranger’s love:-
“Ha! dost thou murmur?”—­for, in Roger’s throat,
Was “Rascal!” rising with disdainful note. 
   To pious James he then his prayer address’d; —
“Good-lack,” quoth James, “thy sorrows pierce my breast
And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain,
One board should feed us and one roof contain: 
But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray: 
And so farewell!  Heaven help thee on thy way!”
“Scoundrel!” said Roger (but apart);—­and told
His case to Peter;—­Peter too was cold;
“The rates are high; we have a-many poor;
But I will think,”—­he said, and shut the door. 
   Then the gay niece the seeming pauper press’d; —
“Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress’d: 
Akin to thine is this declining frame,
And this poor beggar claims an Uncle’s name.” 
   “Avaunt! begone!” the courteous maiden said,
“Thou vile impostor!  Uncle Roger’s dead: 
I hate thee, beast; thy look my spirit shocks;
Oh! that I saw thee starving in the stocks!”
   “My gentle niece!” he said—­and sought the wood,
“I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me food!”
   “Give! am I rich?  This hatchet take, and try
Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie;
Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal,
Nor whine out woes thine own right-hand can heal;
And while that hand is thine, and thine a leg,
Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg.” 
   “Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view,”
Old Roger said;—­“thy words are brave and true;
Come, live with me:  we’ll vex those scoundrel-boys,
And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys. —
Tobacco’s glorious fume all day we’ll share,
With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care;
We’ll beer and biscuit on our table heap,
And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep.” 
   Such was their life; but when the woodman died,
His grieving kin for Roger’s smiles applied —
In vain; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door,
And dying, built a refuge for the poor,
With this restriction, That no Cuff should share
One meal, or shelter for one moment there. 
   My Record ends:- But hark! e’en now I hear
The bell of death, and know not whose to fear: 
Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well;
In no man’s cottage danger seem’d to dwell:  —
Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes,
For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times,
   “Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose days are sped? —
What! he, himself!- and is old Dibble dead?”
His eightieth year he reach’d, still undecay d,
And rectors five to one close vault convey’d:-
But he is gone; his care and skill I lose,
And gain a mournful subject for my Muse: