And others, shadows of the first,
From slanderous charnel-houses burst,
Pursuing, cry, Thou art accurst!
Dear, feeble voices ask for bread;
The dross, for which he bowed his head
So long, has taken wings and fled.
The strong resources of his health
Have softly slipt away by stealth:
No future toil may bring him wealth.
Dreading the shadow of his shame,