Now to his Grave, was _Roger Cuff_ convey’d, And strong Resentment’s lingering Spirit laid. Shipwreck’d in Youth, he home return’d and found, His Brethren three,--and thrice they wish’d him drown’d. “Is this a Landman’s Love? Be certain then, “We part for ever!”--and they cried, ‘Amen!’ His Words were Truth’s:--Some forty Summers fled, His Brethren died; his Kin suppos’d him dead: Three Nephews these, one sprightly Niece, and one, Less near in Blood; they call’d him _surly John_; He work’d in Woods apart from all his Kind, Fierce were his Looks and moody was his Mind. For Home, the _Sailor_ now began to sigh;-- “The Dogs are dead and I’ll return and die; “When all I have, my Gains, in Years of Care, “The younger _Cuffs_ with kinder Souls shall share;-- “Yet hold! I’m rich;--with one consent they’ll say, “‘You’re welcome, Uncle, as the Flowers in May.’ “No; I’ll disguise me, be in Tatters dress’d, “And best befriend the Lads who treat me best.” Now all his Kindred,--neither rich nor poor, Kept the Wolf Want some distance from the Door. In piteous plight he knock’d at _George_’s Gate, And begg’d for Aid, as he describ’d his State:-- But stern was _George_:--‘Let them who had thee Strong, ‘Help thee to drag thy weaken’d Frame along; ‘To us a Stranger, while your Limbs would move; ‘From us depart and try a Stranger’s Love:”-- ‘Ha! do’st thou murmur?’--for, in _Roger_’s throat, Was “_Rascal!_” rising with disdainful note. To pious _James_ he then his Prayer address’d;-- ‘Good-lack,’ quoth _James_, ‘thy Sorrows pierce my breast; ‘And, had I Wealth, as have my Brethren twain, ‘One Board should feed us and one Roof contain: ‘But plead I will thy Cause and I will pray: ‘And so farewell! Heaven help thee on thy Way!’ “Scoundrel!” said _Roger_, (but apart);--and told His Case to _Peter_;--_Peter_ too was cold:-- ‘The Rates are high; we have a-many Poor; ‘But I will think,----’ he said, and shut the Door. Then the gay _Niece_, the seeming Pauper press’d;-- “Turn, _Nancy_, turn, and view this Form distrest; “Akin to thine is this declining Frame, “And this poor Beggar claims an _Uncle_’s Name.” ‘Avaunt! begone! (the courteous Maiden said,) ‘Thou vile Impostor! Uncle _Roger_’s dead; ‘I hate thee. Beast! thy Look, my spirit shocks; ‘Oh! that I saw thee starving in the Stocks!’ “My gentle Niece!” he said;--and sought the Wood.-- “I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me Food!” ‘Give! am I rich? This Hatchet take and try ‘Thy proper Strength, nor give those Limbs the lie; ‘Work, feed thyself, to thine own Powers appeal, ‘Nor whine out Woes, thine own Right-hand can heal: ‘And while that Hand is thine and thine a Leg, ‘Scorn, of the Proud or of the Base to beg.’ “Come, surly _John_, thy wealthy Kinsman view;”