Leave now our streets, and in yon plain behold Those pleasant seats for the reduced and old; A merchant's gift, whose wife and children died, When he to saving all his powers applied; He wore his coat till bare was every thread, And with the meanest fare his body fed. He had a female cousin, who with care Walk'd in his steps and learn'd of him to spare; With emulation and success they strove, Improving still, still seeking to improve, 10 As if that useful knowledge they would gain-- How little food would human life sustain: No pauper came their table's crums to crave; Scraping they lived, but not a scrap they gave: When beggars saw the frugal merchant pass, It moved their pity, and they said, "Alas! Hard is thy fate, my brother," and they felt A beggar's pride as they that pity dealt: The dogs, who learn of man to scorn the poor, Bark'd him away from ev'ry decent door; 20 While they who saw him bare, but thought him rich, To show respect or scorn, they knew not which. But while our merchant seem'd so base and mean, He had his wanderings, sometimes, "not unseen;" To give in secret was a favourite act, Yet more than once they took him in the fact. To scenes of various wo he nightly went, And serious sums in healing misery spent; Oft has he cheer'd the wretched, at a rate For which he daily might have dined on plate; 30 He has been seen--his hair all silver-white, } Shaking and shining--as he stole by night, } To feed unenvied on his still delight. } A two-fold taste he had: to give and spare, Both were his duties, and had equal care; It was his joy, to sit alone and fast, Then send a widow and her boys repast. Tears in his eyes would, spite of him, appear, But he from other eyes has kept the tear: All in a wint'ry night from far he came, 40 To soothe the sorrows of a suff'ring dame; Whose husband robb'd him, and to whom he meant A ling'ring, but reforming punishment. Home then he walk'd, and found his anger rise, When fire and rush-light met his troubled eyes; But, these extinguish'd, and his prayer address'd To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to rest. His seventieth year was pass'd, and then was seen A building rising on the northern green; There was no blinding all his neighbours' eyes, 50 Or surely no one would have seen it rise. Twelve rooms contiguous stood, and six were near; There men were placed, and sober matrons here; There were behind small useful gardens made, Benches before, and trees to give them shade; In the first room were seen, above, below, Some marks of taste, a few attempts at show; The founder's picture and his arms were there (Not till he left us), and an elbow'd chair;