They wronged him, as themselves allow,
And thus they wrong poor Wingate now.
Yes! Wingate sweetest strains has sung,
His nerves to tenderest feeling strung
Still vibrate to the slightest touch
Of love or pain, alas, too much!
Yet he is left to strive or pine
For bread, deep in the dark, damp mine;
There doomed to crawl on hands and knees;
Or if he seek a moment’s ease,