Page:Poems (Crabbe).djvu/88

 One morn they call'd him, Richard answered not. They doom'd him hanging, and in time forgot,— Yet miss'd him long, as each, throughout the clan Found he "had better spar'd a better man."
 * Now Richard's talents for the world were fit,

He'd no small cunning and had some small wit; Had that calm look that seem'd to all assent. And that complacent speech, that nothing meant; He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide, How best for Richard Monday to provide; Steel, through opposing plates the Magnet draws, And steelly atoms culls from dust and straws; And thus our Hero, to his Interest true, Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew; But still more sure about the world to go. This Fortune's child, had neither friend nor foe.
 * Long lost to us, at last our man we trace.

Sir Richard Monday, died at Monday-place; His Lady's worth, his Daughter's we peruse. And find his Grandsons all as rich as Jews; He gave reforming Charities a sum, And bought the blessings of the blind and dumb; Bequeath'd to missions, money from the stocks, And Bibles issued from his private box; But to his native place, severely just, He left a pittance bound in rigid trust; Two paltry pounds on every quarter's-day (At church produc'd) for forty loaves should pay; A stinted gift, that to the parish shows, He kept in mind their bounty and their blows.