And cannot hope for help before.
What fellow from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where’er I be,
The blight of life,—the ragged Coat.
Yet others wrapt in broadcloth seem,
And taste of all that I forsake!
O, may they still of transport dream,
And ne’er, at least like me, awake!
Through many a clime ’tis mine to go,