His stubborn features half admit a smile,
And his tone softens—"Well! I'll wait awhile."
Pity, a man so good, so mild, so meek,
At such an age, should have his bread to seek;
And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread,
That are more harrowing than the want of bread;
Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace,
270
And say that want and insolence shall cease?
"But why not publish?"—those who know too well,