XV.

The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, Was all the offspring of this humble pair; His birth no oracle or seer foretold; No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare. You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth; The parent's transport, and the parent's care; The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer day of indolence and mirth.