Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back—

Meagre and livid, and screaming its wretchedness.

Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,

As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,

Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face.

Thy husband will never return from the war again;

Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity—

Cold are thy famished babes—God help thee, widowed one!]

1795.

[19]. [“Walked to the Old Bailey to see David Isaac Eaton in the pillory. The mob was decidedly friendly to him. His having published Paine’s Age of Reason was not an intelligible offence to them.”—Crabb Robinson’s Diary, i. 386.