He needed now no more to earn his bread
By joining us wig-makers while we plied—
My sister and myself—our father’s trade.
The church that had dismiss’d him, when from change
It could now keep that voice, whose tones, of yore,
Had touch’d my father so that heart and house
Had both sprung open that the sweet-voiced boy
Might find a home,—the church had called him back
To aid again, but in the orchestra,
The fresher singing of his younger mates.