“Oh, sir! it grieves me”—for we need not dwell On introduction: all was kind and well— Oh, sir! it grieves, it shocks us both to hear } What has, with selfish purpose, gain’d your ear— } Our very flesh and blood, and, as you know, how dear. } Doubtless they came your noble mind t’ impress With strange descriptions of their own distress; But I would to the Doctor’s face declare, } That he has more to spend and more to spare, 880} With all his craft, than we with all our care. } “And for our Sister, all she has she spends Upon herself; herself alone befriends. She has the portion that our father left, While me of mine a careless wretch bereft, Save a small part; yet I could joyful live, Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give. For this she cares not; Frances does not know Their heartfelt joy who largely can bestow. You, Captain Elliot, feel the pure delight, 890 That our kind acts in tender hearts excite, When to the poor we can our alms extend, And make the Father of all Good our friend; And, I repeat, I could with pleasure live, Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give. “We speak not thus, dear Sir, with vile intent, Our nearest friends to wrong or circumvent; But that our Uncle, worthy man! should know How best his wealth, Heaven’s blessing, to bestow: What widows need, and chiefly those who feel 900 For all the sufferings which they cannot heal; And men in trade, with numbers in their pay, Who must be ready for the reckoning-day, Or gain or lose!”— —“Thank Heaven,” said James, “as yet I’ve not been troubled by a dun or debt.” —The Widow sigh’d, convinced that men so weak Will ever hurt the cause for which they speak; However tempted to deceive, still they Are ever blundering to the broad high-way Of very truth.—But Martha pass’d it by 910 With a slight frown, and half-distinguish’d sigh.— “Say to our Uncle, sir, how much I long To see him sit his kindred race among; To hear his brave exploits, to nurse his age, And cheer him in his evening’s pilgrimage. How were I blest to guide him in the way Where the religious poor in secret pray; To be the humble means by which his heart And liberal hand might peace and joy impart! But now, farewell!”—and slowly, softly fell 920 The tender accents as she said “farewell!” The Merchant stretch’d his hand, his leave to take, And gave the Captain’s a familiar shake; Yet seem’d to doubt if this was not too free; But, gaining courage, said, “Remember me.” Some days elaps’d; the Captain did not write, But still was pleased the party to invite; And, as he walk’d, his custom every day, A tall pale stripling met him on his way, Who made some efforts, but they proved too weak, 930 And only show’d he was inclined to speak. “What would’st thou, lad?” the Captain ask’d, and gave