 | A collection of original poems and translations |  |
As he each Morn the rising Sun beheld,
E'er yet the moving Square with Crouds was fill'd,
On one same Spot, as still he look'd around,
One solitary Wretch he always found;
A Porter's Garb declar'd his present Yoke,
But his whole Mien a Birth far diff'rent spoke.
In his swoln Breasts, Sighs, spite of Shame, wou'd rise,
And Tears, kept back, flow'd faster from his Eyes,
Which with the knotted Rope he wip'd away,
Sad Ensign of his Fortune's deep decay!
E'er yet the moving Square with Crouds was fill'd,
4
One solitary Wretch he always found;
A Porter's Garb declar'd his present Yoke,
But his whole Mien a Birth far diff'rent spoke.
In his swoln Breasts, Sighs, spite of Shame, wou'd rise,
And Tears, kept back, flow'd faster from his Eyes,
Which with the knotted Rope he wip'd away,
Sad Ensign of his Fortune's deep decay!
| A collection of original poems and translations | |