34 CONCHOLOGY. 



LXVI. 



You frown not on the widow poor. 

 Who seeks your hospitable door, 



But pity and relieve ; 

 Touch'd by her suppUcating mein, 

 Her look that tells where grief has been. 

 You buy her far-sought stores marine, 

 And bid her cease to grieve. 



XLVII. 



For bread she left her cheerless home, 

 For bread alas ! impell'd to roam. 



O'er marsh, and moor, and plain. 

 Collecting shells from sod and sand, — 

 Oh ! let your gen'rous hearts expand. 

 Freely extend the liberal hand, 



And bid her come again. 



