 | Malvern Hills |  |
SONNET IV. TO POVERTY.
LOW in a barren vale I see thee sitCowering, while Winter blows his shivering blast,
Over thy reedy fire — pale, comfortless!
Blest independence, with elastic foot,
Spurns thy low dwelling, whilst the sons of joy
Turn from thy clouded brow, or, with a scowl,
Contemptuous, mark thee. At thy elbow stand
Famine and wan disease! two meagre forms,
Thy only visitants, who, though repelled,
Officious tend thee — wretched eremite!
Around thy cell, ah! wherefore see I graved
The sacred names of genius? Spenser here
Found his last refuge! Otway! Butler, too!
And Scotia's last, not least, heroic bard!
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