Page:The Emigrants.pdf/55



For bread, and scanty bread, is all he earns For him and for his household­—Should Disease, Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm, Then, thro' his patch'd and straw‐stuff'd casement, peeps The squalid figure of extremest Want; And from the Parish the reluctant dole, Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly saves The ling'ring spark of life from cold extinction: Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling bids All other animals rejoice, beholds, Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretch Attempt, with feeble effort, to resume Some heavy task, above his wasted strength, Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!) To the deserted mansion, where no more The owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides,