The world has worn th’ unsocial crust away:
That sullen spirit now a softness wears,
And, save by fits, e’en dulness disappears:
But still the matron can the man behold,
Dull, selfish, hard, inanimate, and cold.
A Merchant passes, - “Probity and truth,
Prudence and patience, mark’d thee from thy youth.”
Thus she observes, but oft retains her fears
For him, who now with name unstain’d appears:
Nor hope relinquishes, for one who yet