'Twas then, a spark of--say not, discontent-- Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent: 470 "Kind are your laws, ('tis not to be denied,) That in yon house for ruin'd age provide, And they are just;--when young, we give you all, And for assistance in our weakness call.-- Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, To join your poor, and eat the parish-bread? But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, Who gains his plenty by the sons of need; He who, by contract, all your paupers took, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look. 480 On some old master I could well depend; See him with joy and thank him as a friend; But ill on him, who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances, who at night may die: Yet help me, Heav'n! and let me not complain Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain." Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew; Daily he placed the workhouse in his view! But came not there, for sudden was his fate: He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage-gate. 490 I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat and sigh for Isaac there: I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honoured head; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there;-- 500 But he is bless'd, and I lament no more A wise good man, contented to be poor.