TIlE WEAVEE'S BOY 73 While, at thy side, eternal Memory still Mocks each vain effort of the baffled will, Haunts every waking hour with new distress, Ev'n from short slumber steals forgetfulness, And, still untir'd by time or change, whete'er Turns the sick soul, presents her mirror there. Thus to the guilty man too surely came Th' appointed hour, which wrapt his heart in flame. Deep ineradicable habits lurk Within his breast; he will not, cannot work. The nearer ruin, still the less he thinks, Sells all hemhas, spends all he can, and drinks. Now, since the fatal day, a year had past; One solitary shilling--'twas his last. "Well, I will spend it merrily at.l?east; What griefs by grieving ever were decreas'd ? To-morrow, with no better chance for pelf, Apistol charg'd for others--or myself." Then, hemming off th' involuntary sigh, He sought the scene of vulgar revelry, And, with his old compa?uions, madly quaff'd The tempting poison, and as madly langh'd. The market-clock night's deepest hour had told, A sWrm had risen, and the thunder ro!l'd. Yet, still unaw'd, ca?ous'd the harden'd crew; "If heav'n is noisy, we'll be noisy too. ......... ?Google
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