POEMS.
109
With aches and anguish rack each quivering limb,
Crush this poor frame, and rob these orbs of sight;
Bid Slander's breath my fame's pure mirror dim,
And freezing want hope's lovely harvest blight.
Crush this poor frame, and rob these orbs of sight;
Bid Slander's breath my fame's pure mirror dim,
And freezing want hope's lovely harvest blight.
Make me, of all who drink Heaven's vital air,
The poorest, lowliest, vilest, saddest thing!—
My load of griefs with patience still I'll bear,
And thank my God, I was not born a King!
The poorest, lowliest, vilest, saddest thing!—
My load of griefs with patience still I'll bear,
And thank my God, I was not born a King!
THE END.
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