'Mid noise and dirt, and stench, and play, and prate,
He calmly cuts the pen or views the slate.
But Leonard!—yes, for Leonard's fate I grieve,
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Who loathes the station which he dares not leave;
He cannot dig, he will not beg his bread;
All his dependence rests upon his head;
And, deeply skill'd in sciences and arts,
On vulgar lads he wastes superior parts.
Alas! what grief that feeling mind sustains,