Who could not dine if he disgraced the room. 
It shock’d his spirit to be esteem’d unfit
With an own brother and his wife to sit;
He grew rebellious—­at the vestry spoke
For weekly aid—­they heard it as a joke: 
“So kind a brother, and so wealthy—­you
Apply to us?—­No! this will never do: 
Good neighbour Fletcher,” said the Overseer,
“We are engaged—­you can have nothing here!”
   George mutter’d something in despairing tone,
Then sought his loft, to think and grieve alone;
Neglected, slighted, restless on his bed,
With heart half broken, and with scraps ill fed;
Yet was he pleased that hours for play design’d
Were given to ease his ever-troubled mind;
The child still listen’d with increasing joy,
And he was sooth’d by the attentive boy. 
   At length he sicken’d, and this duteous child
Watch’d o’er his sickness, and his pains beguiled;
The mother bade him from the loft refrain,
But, though with caution, yet he went again;
And now his tales the Sailor feebly told,
His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold: 
The tender boy came often to entreat
His good kind friend would of his presents eat;
Purloin’d or purchased, for he saw, with shame,
The food untouch’d that to his uncle came;
Who, sick in body and in mind, received
The boy’s indulgence, gratified and grieved. 
   “Uncle will die!” said George:  —­the piteous wife
Exclaim’d, “she saw no value in his life;
But, sick or well, to my commands attend,
And go no more to your complaining friend.” 
The boy was vex’d, he felt his heart reprove
The stern decree.—­What! punish’d for his love! 
No! he would go, but softly, to the room,
Stealing in silence—­for he knew his doom. 
   Once in a week the father came to say,
“George, are you ill?” and hurried him away;
Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell,
And often cry, “Do use my brother well:” 
And something kind, no question, Isaac meant,
Who took vast credit for the vague intent. 
   But, truly kind, the gentle boy essay’d
To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid;
But now the father caught him at the door,
And, swearing—­yes, the man in office swore,
And cried, “Away!  How!  Brother, I’m surprised
That one so old can be so ill advised: 
Let him not dare to visit you again,
Your cursed stories will disturb his brain;
Is it not vile to court a foolish boy,
Your own absurd narrations to enjoy? 
What! sullen!—­ha, George Fletcher! you shall see,
Proud as you are, your bread depends on me!”
   He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went,
Then cool’d and felt some qualms of discontent: 
And thought on times when he compell’d his son
To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one;
But the wife’s wrath o’ercame the brother’s pain,
And shame was felt, and conscience rose, in vain. 
   George yet stole up; he saw his