And need and misery, vice and danger bind,
In sad alliance each degraded mind. 
   That window view!—­oil’d paper and old glass
Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,
And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,
The conquer’d sunshine’s melancholy gloom;
When all those western rays, without so bright,
Within become a ghastly glimmering light,
As pale and faint upon the floor they fall,
Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall: 
That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned,
Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain’d;
That wall once whiten’d, now an odious sight,
Stain’d with all hues, except its ancient white;
The only door is fasten’d by a pin,
Or stubborn bar that none may hurry in: 
For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,
At times contains what prudent men would hide. 
   Where’er the floor allows an even space,
Chalking and marks of various games have place;
Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing;
On a fix’d hook men cast a flying ring;
While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,
And the black beverage in the fractured ware. 
   On swinging shelf are things incongruous stored, —
Scraps of their food,—­the cards and cribbage-board, —
With pipes and pouches; while on peg below,
Hang a lost member’s fiddle and its bow;
That still reminds them how he’d dance and play,
Ere sent untimely to the Convicts’ Bay. 
   Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,
Are various beds conceal’d, but none with care;
Where some by day and some by night, as best
Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest;
The drowsy children at their pleasure creep
To the known crib, and there securely sleep. 
   Each end contains a grate, and these beside
Are hung utensils for their boil’d and fried —
All used at any hour, by night, by day,
As suit the purse, the person, or the prey. 
   Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains
Of china-ware some poor unmatched remains;
There many a tea-cup’s gaudy fragment stands,
All placed by vanity’s unwearied hands;
For here she lives, e’en here she looks about,
To find some small consoling objects out: 
Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, not sit
’Mid cares domestic,—­they nor sew nor knit;
But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars,
With arm’d authorities, their ’scapes and scars: 
These lead to present evils, and a cup,
If fortune grant it, winds description up. 
   High hung at either end, and next the wall,
Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,
In all their force;—­these aid them in their dress,
But with the good, the evils too express,
Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.

LETTER XIX.

THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

Nam dives qui fieri vult,
Et cito vult fieri; sed quae reverentia legum,
Quis metus, aut pudor est unquam properantis avari? 
                                Juvenal, Satire xiv.