Who to this world, at least, with equal care, Brought them its changes, good and ill, to share. Now to his grave was Roger Cuff conveyed, 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 landsman'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 supposed 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 described 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! dost 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 distress'd: 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," Old Roger said;--"thy words are brave and true; Come, live with me: we'll vex those scoundrel-boys, And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys. - Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share,