Plying the shuttle with unwearied skill;
And labour, like a ceaseless fountain, flung
Around his rural home the green delight
Of rustic plenty. But, the light withdrawn
From those sad eyes, by slow degrees his day
Became a sleepless night, and poverty
Assailed him like an armèd man. At last
He formed the difficult resolve to save
A pittance for a journey to these shrines.
Then all was spared that nature did not need,