Nor own'd a call; but he confess'd the need.
His acquiescent speech, his gracious look,
That pure attention, when the brethren spoke,
Was all contrition,—he had felt the wound,
And with confession would again be sound.
True, Swallow's board had still the sumptuous treat;
But could they blame? the warmest zealots eat.
350
He drank—'twas needful his poor nerves to brace;
He swore—'twas habit; he was grieved—'twas grace.