 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects
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An Address to Poverty.
My gaunt attendant here below,
I judge thee still my greatest foe:
Thou bar accursed to every pleasure
I'm teased by thee beyond all measure:
Acquaintance with thee gains no love,
I here protest by all above.
Hope once half-promised time would be
That I should bid adieu to thee;
Yet still I see thy haggard face,
And, spurning, feel thy cold embrace.
Hope is an ignis fatuus bright
That oft has lured me, by her light,
Onward to castles built on sand,
Through many a visionary land;
And, after all her roamings vain,
Me left on want's blank arid plain.
Nought now avails my grief to cure—
Fate's roll me dooms a weaver poor.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects
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