To all things noble, generous and refin’d;
Above the low-born Cares of Life to dwell;
To be more blest than human tongue can tell;
With golden Hope, that soothes all Care the while, 10
And construes every Look and every Smile—
And all at once the golden Vision fled,
To find cold Truth and feel the want of Bread!
[THE CURATE’S PROGRESS.]
Near forty years with all my Care and Skill,
Dear Flock, I fed you, as I feed you still.