He at the Lordly gate were seen,
Prostrate, and humbly forc’d to crave
A shelter, for an Indian Slave.
XI.
The noon-tide Sun, now flaming wide,
No cloud its fierce beam shadow’d o’er,
But what could worse to him betide
Than begging, at the proud man’s door?
For clos’d and lofty was the gate,
And there, in all the pride of State,