tears;
A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex’d
With wants and woes—­by daily cares perplex’d;
No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,
But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid. 
   A kind physician, and without a fee,
Gave his opinion—­“Send her to the sea.” 
“Alas!” the good man answer’d, “can I send
A friendless woman?  Can I find a friend? 
No; I must with her, in her need, repair
To that new place; the poor lie everywhere; —
Some priest will pay me for my pious pains:”  —
He said, he came, and here he yet remains. 
   Behold his dwelling! this poor hut he hires,
Where he from view, though not from want, retires;
Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons,
Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns;
All join their efforts, and in patience learn
To want the comforts they aspire to earn;
For the sick mother something they’d obtain,
To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;
For the sad father something they’d procure
To ease the burden they themselves endure. 
   Virtues like these at once delight and press
On the fond father with a proud distress;
On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved to behold, but happy to approve. 
   Then from his care, his love, his grief, he steals,
And by himself an Author’s pleasure feels: 
Each line detains him; he omits not one,
And all the sorrows of his state are gone. —
Alas! even then, in that delicious hour,
He feels his fortune, and laments its power. 
   Some Tradesman’s bill his wandering eyes engage,
Some scrawl for payment thrust ’twixt page and page;
Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,
Some surly message he has heard before,
Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor. 
   An angry Dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,
Thinks of his bill, and, passing, raps aloud;
The elder daughter meekly makes him way —
“I want my money, and I cannot stay: 
My mill is stopp’d; what, Miss!  I cannot grind;
Go tell your father he must raise the wind:” 
Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid
Says, “Sir! my father!”—­and then stops afraid: 
E’en his hard heart is soften’d, and he hears
Her voice with pity; he respects her tears;
His stubborn features half admit a smile,
And his tone softens—­“Well!  I’ll wait awhile.” 
Pity! a man so good, so mild, so meek,
At such an age, should have his bread to seek;
And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread. 
That are more harrowing than the want of bread;
Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace! 
And say that want and insolence shall cease? 
   “But why not publish?”—­those who know too well,
Dealers in Greek, are fearful ’twill not sell;
Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,
Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show;
The hope of fame may in his heart have place,
But he has dread and horror of disgrace;