And is Will really poor?

If poverty's his crime, let mirth
From his heart be driven:
That is the deadliest sin on earth,
And never is forgiven!

Art Will himself?--It must be so--
I learn it from thy moan,
For none can feel another's wo
As deeply as his own.

Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat,
While other birds repose?
What means thy melancholy note?--
The mystery disclose!

Still "Whip poor Will!"--Art thou a sprite,
From unknown regions sent
To wander in the gloom of night,
And ask for punishment?

Is thine a conscience sore beset
With guilt?--or, what is worse,
Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt--
No money in thy purse!

If this be thy hard fate indeed,
Ah! well may'st thou repine:
The sympathy I give I need--