SONNET XIII. TO A POOR BOY.
Thrice happy they who sleep in humble life,
Beneath the storm Ambition blows.
Young.
Meek child of Want! I pity thy distress,
For I have learn'd to feel another's woe;
Yes,—my heart pants to make thy sorrows less,
And dry the tear which Mis'ry bids to flow.
Ye, whom nor cold nor pining hunger press,
Nor frowning Poverty's sad anguish know,
What boots it that ye shine like insects gay,
The vain, unthinking parasites of pow'r!
How oft doth syren Vice lead you astray,
How oft embitter Pleasure's gayest hour!
Tho' never thou enjoy'st the plenteous meal,
Tho' tatter'd thy coarse weeds, yet, poor forlorn!
Sooner thy keenest sorrows would I feel,
Than be the son of Wealth that mocks thy woes with scorn!
