Of pocket money he ne'er had a store,
His needs supplied, he did not care for more;
And his step-mother oft thought fit to say
That "money burned his pockets all away."
Howe'er it was, he never had a cent
But found a _hole_, and out of that it went!
Though still close-worked, he did contrive to spare
Some precious, time to spend in rhyming ware.
He read sweet COWPER'S poems through and through--
And, more he read, the more he liked them, too;
His "Task" the most of all--an ample field--
What heart-felt pleasure it did to him yield!
Then MILTON'S lofty genius fired his soul,
Nor did he tire till he had read the whole.
Again began, and o'er the pages pored,
And drank the sweets with which they are well stored.
Then THOMPSON'S _Seasons_ with delight he read,
And YOUNG'S _Night Thoughts_ in mournful dress arrayed.
Some few sweet pieces he from BYRON drew,
And read poor BURNS with much advantage, too.
But of all poets he loved COWPER most,
For in Miltonic grandeur he was lost;
And THOMSON lacked that great variety
Which in sweet Olney's bard we clearly see.
Afflicted Poet! Thou didst well thy part,
By pouring balm into the wounded heart;
And while the world endures, thy verse will cheer
Poor down-cast souls, and bid them not to fear!

Nor did he read alone the poet's page,