HIS table beside in the thick-crowded street,
His form bent with years, and with poverty meagre,
A vender of trinkets, in unshaded seat,
Of sun-glare regardless, sat patiently eager.
In tones of entreaty at times he besought
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In return for his trifles their value so trifling:
Unheard his appeals, and his wares were unbought,
His face plainly showed what distress he was stifling.
The hurrying multitude crowded along,
In business absorbed or intent upon pleasure;
But none in this teeming, self-occupied throng
For poverty's troubles had money or leisure.
None? said I. Yes, one; with delight I espy
What well was designed to be seen con amore:
What stirred my emotion and moistened mine eye?
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