Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seem’d offended, yet forbore to blame
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the trav’ller’s face:
Within, the Father, who from fences nigh
Had brought the fuel for the fire’s supply,
Watch’d now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by.
On ragged rug, just borrow’d from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dress’d,