Light supernal all pervading,
They to bright perfection come
Vital coronets unfading

Flourish in eternal bloom!
Winter, summer, still returning,

Ordered are by Sovereign Power;
Griefs' sad sighs, and tears of mourning
Cease and bring the joyful hour.

Utterly averse to every degree of restraint and confinement, the thought of a poor-house, that place, where

"In one house, throughout their lives to be, The pauper-palace which they hate to see:

"That giant-building, that high bounding wall,

Those bare worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!
"That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour,
Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:
"It is a prison, with a milder name,

"Which few inhabit without dread or shame."

is almost death to him; and the horror of being confined to such a revolting abode, which continually haunts his mind, he thus pathetically des cribes :

The poor Poetaster bewails his hard fate,
Sad losses and crosses deprest him of late.

His money is spent, many friends are turn'd foes,
He's walk'd till he's weary, and worn out his clothes;
His stockings are torn, as he walks in the dirt,
And some months he has been without any shirt;
His shoes take in wet, and his neck catches cold,
And many despise him because he's so old.
As to pay for a bed he now is not able,
He sleeps on some straw, in a very cold stable.
Friends lend him a cloth to preserve him from harm,
In sharp freezing winter he scarcely lies warm.
His sufferings are griev'ous in these trying times,
Though noted for making and speaking of rhymes:
And though some friends in Suffolk still kindly behave,
Yet so poor he now grows, he this country must leave.
If providence does not some more kind friends raise,
He in a dread workhouse must finish his days,
Deprived of fresh air he must there commence spinner,
If he spins not his stint, he must then have no dinner,
Or perhaps at the whipping post then will be flagg'd,
And lest he escape too his leg must be clogg'd.
While tyrants oppress, he must still be their slave,
And cruelly used though well he behave.

'Midst swearing and brawling his days he must spend,
In sorrow and anguish his life he must end.

For many a year he has verses compos'd,
In hope to find comfort ere life should be clos'd;
But sadly requited for all labours past

He'll be, if in prison he breathes out his last.
But sure wealthy friends, when they see he is old,
And view his bare limbs, thus expos'd to the cold,
Replete with philanthrophy soon will be kind,
Impart some relief to compose his sad mind,
To procure him a dwelling place, and a good fire,
And all needful blessings this life can desire:
He then would not envy the rich, nor the great,
But here be prepar'd for a more blissful state.

In 1810 Mr. John Cordy, of Worlingworth, very kindly and humanely interested himself in behalf of the poor itinerant Poetaster, and published a statement of his case in the Ipswich Journal, which induced the late Duchess of Chandos, the Countess of Dysart, Lord Henniker, &c. to send donations to him for the use of this solitary wanderer. A plan was accordingly formed to make him stationary; but an attempt might as well have been made to hedge in the cuckoo ! A cottage was hired at Worlingworth and furnished, and his "Poems" were to have been printed for his benefit. But alas! a scene of humble comfort seemed neither grateful to his mind, nor auspicious to his muse; for after residing there a month or two, he set off on one of his peregrinations, and returned no more. Custom doubtless had wrought such a habit in his nature, that he really would have preferred the solitude of a sordid shed to the splendid enjoyment of a palace, and a bed of straw to a couch of down.

When the following lines were written he was then a wanderer about Haverhill: but about the year 1790, he suddenly quitted that place, and never afterwards returned. He is now frequently at Framlingham, in a miserable shed at the back of the town, and daily walks to Earl Soham, or some of the neighbouring villages. He is, most probably, the LAST of the Suffolk Minstrels :

"The Last of all the Bards was He-
"For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
"His tuneful brethren all were dead;
"And he, neglected and oppress'd,
"Wished to be with them, and at rest."

He is now in the 70th year of his age, and has been in the constant habit of wandering about the country, in this singular and abject condition, from the age of 16.

NEAR Yonder bridge, that strides the ripling brook,
A hut once stood, in small sequester'd nook,
Where Chambers lodg'd: though not of gipsy race,
Yet, like that tribe, he often chang'd his place.
A lonely wand'rer he, whose squalid form
Bore the rude peltings of the wintry storm:
An hapless outcast, on whose natal day
No star propitious beam'd a kindly ray;
By some malignant influence doom'd to roam

song.

The world's wide, dreary waste, and know no home.
Yet heaven, to cheer him as he pass'd along,
Infus'd in life's sour cup the sweets of
Upon his couch of straw, or bed of hay,
This poetaster tun'd th' acrostic lay;
On him an humble muse her favours shed,
And nightly musings earn'd his daily bread.
Meek, unassuming, modest shade! forgive
This frail attempt to make thy mem'ry live;
To me more grateful thus thy deeds to tell,
Than the proud task to sing how heroes fell.
Minstrel, adieu! to me thy fate's unknown;
Since last I saw thee many a year has flown:
Full oft has summer pour'd her fervid beams,
And winter's icy breath congeal'd the streams.
Perhaps, lorn wretch! unfriended and alone,
In hovel vile thou gav'st thy final groan ;

Clos'd the blear eye, ordain'd no more to weep, And sunk, unheeded sunk, in death's long sleep! O how unlike the bard of higher sphere,

Whose happier numbers charm the polish'd ear; Whose muse in academic bowers reclines,

And, cheer'd by affluence, pours her classic lines; Whose sapient brow, though angry critics frown, Boasts the green chaplet, and the laurel crown!