56
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.
