If you are blest, ah, how more blest is he
By kinder fate shut far from tears and tea,
Who marks, replenished by his duteous hand,
Dark faces oleaginously expand;
And while you faint to see the scalding doom
Invade with stains the pride of Persia’s loom,
Happier in skins than you in silks perhaps,
Deals the bright train-oil to his little Lap’s.
LECTURE XI
WORDSWORTH
(Tuesday Evening, February 13, 1855)