That not a widow in the Borough sigh’d;
Great were his gifts, his mighty heart I own,
But why describe what all the world has known? 
   The rest is petty pride, the useless art
Of a vain mind to hide a swelling heart: 
Small was his private room:  men found him there
By a plain table, on a paltry chair;
A wretched floor-cloth, and some prints around,
The easy purchase of a single pound: 
These humble trifles and that study small
Make a strong contrast with the servants’ hall;
There barely comfort, here a proud excess,
The pompous seat of pamper’d idleness,
Where the sleek rogues with one consent declare,
They would not live upon his honour’s fare;
He daily took but one half hour to dine,
On one poor dish and some three sips of wine;
Then he’d abuse them for their sumptuous feasts,
And say, “My friends! you make yourselves like beasts;
One dish suffices any man to dine,
But you are greedy as a herd of swine;
Learn to be temperate.”—­Had they dared t’obey,
He would have praised and turn’d them all away. 
   Friends met Sir Denys riding in his ground,
And there the meekness of his spirit found: 
For that gray coat, not new for many a year,
Hides all that would like decent dress appear;
An old brown pony ’twas his will to ride,
Who shuffled onward, and from side to side;
A five-pound purchase, but so fat and sleek,
His very plenty made the creature weak. 
   “Sir Denys Brand! and on so poor a steed!”
“Poor! it may be—­such things I never heed:” 
And who that youth behind, of pleasant mien,
Equipped as one who wishes to be seen,
Upon a horse, twice victor for a plate,
A noble hunter, bought at dearest rate? —
Him the lad fearing yet resolved to guide,
He curbs his spirit while he strokes his pride. 
   “A handsome youth, Sir Denys; and a horse
Of finer figure never trod the course, —
Yours, without question?”—­“Yes!  I think a groom
Bought me the beast; I cannot say the sum
I ride him not; it is a foolish pride
Men have in cattle—­but my people ride;
The boy is—­hark ye, sirrah! what’s your name? 
Ay, Jacob, yes!  I recollect—­the same;
As I bethink me now, a tenant’s son —
I think a tenant,—­is your father one?”
   There was an idle boy who ran about,
And found his master’s humble spirit out;
He would at awful distance snatch a look,
Then run away and hide him in some nook;
“For oh!” quoth he, “I dare not fix my sight
On him, his grandeur puts me in a fright;
Oh!  Mister Jacob, when you wait on him,
Do you not quake and tremble every limb?”
   The Steward soon had orders—­“Summers, see
That Sam be clothed, and let him wait on me.”