The Village and The Newspaper | Page 3

first joy, but his
sad emblem now.
He once was chief in all the rustic trade;
His steady hand the
straightest furrow made;
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud

To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd;
A transient pleasure
sparkles in his eyes,
He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs:

For now he journeys to his grave in pain;
The rich disdain him; nay
the poor disdain:
Alternate masters now their slave command,
Urge
the weak efforts of his feeble hand,
And, when his age attempts its
task in vain,
With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain.
Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep,
His winter charge,
beneath the hillock weep;
Oft hear him murmur to the winds that
blow
O'er his white locks and bury them in snow,
When, rous'd by
rage and muttering in the morn,
He mends the broken hedge with icy
thorn: -
"Why do I live, when I desire to be
At once from life and
life's long labour free?
Like leaves in spring, the young are blown
away,
Without the sorrows of a slow decay;
I, like yon withered
leaf remain behind,
Nipt by the frost, and shivering in the wind;

There it abides till younger buds come on
As I, now all my
fellow-swains are gone,
Then from the rising generation thrust,
It
falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust.
"These fruitful fields, these
numerous flocks I see,
Are others' gain, but killing cares to me;
To
me the children of my youth are lords,
Cool in their looks, but hasty
in their words:
Wants of their own demand their care; and who

Feels his own want and succours others too?
A lonely, wretched man,
in pain I go,
None need my help, and none relieve my woe;

Then let
my bones beneath the turf be laid,
And men forget the wretch they
would not aid."
Thus groan the old, till by disease oppress'd,
They taste a final woe,

and then they rest.
Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud
scarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapours,
flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;-

There children dwell who know no parents' care;
Parents, who know
no children's love, dwell there!
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless
bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows
with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood
fears;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping
idiot, and the madman gay.
Here too the sick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the
scenes of grief, to grieve,
Where the loud groans from some sad
chamber flow,
Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below;
Here,
sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of
man to man:
Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And strong
compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But still that scrap is bought
with many a sigh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.
Say, ye,
opprest by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your
repose;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance
With
timid eye to read the distant glance;
Who with sad prayers the weary
doctor tease,
To name the nameless ever new disease;
Who with
mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone
can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected,
left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath

Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters
form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are
seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between;
Save one dull pane,
that, coarsely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes
the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping
wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup

applies,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with
soft discourse his pain beguile,
Or promise hope, till sickness wears a
smile.
But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and
echoes round the walls;
Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All
pride and business, bustle and conceit;
With looks unalter'd by these
scenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go,
He
bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in
his eye:
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults
the victim whom he kills;
Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench
protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.
Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his
sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies,

Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries
hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door:
His drooping
patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance
vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man; and silent
sinks into the grave.
But ere his death some pious doubts arise,
Some simple fears, which
"bold bad" men despise;
Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove

His title certain to the joys above:
For this he sends the