Their toil gave them strength, and their diligence wealth.
But these sons of misery, disfranchis'd by fate,
Resemble a group at an hospital gate,
All huddled together in one little clan,
To display the calamities common to man.
Yet deaf, blind, or lame, we must trust to their choice;
Sans ears, eyes, or hands,—each may have a good voice.
And—gasping for breath,—it deserves special note,
The expiring Elector is deem'd a dead vote."—E.