Or at the pipe, or at the tabor:
Nor has he hope ’twill e’er be o’er
Till landed on some kinder shore;
Some more propitious star, whose rays
Benign, may cheer his future days.
Ah, think for rest how he must pant
Whose life’s the summer of an ant!
With grief o’erwhelm’d, the wretched Abel[15]
Is dumb as architect of Babel.
—Three months of sullen silence—seem