Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway
  Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;
  When the sad tenant weeps from door to door,
  And begs a poor protection from the poor!’

  But these are scenes where Nature’s niggard hand
  Gave a spare portion to the famished land;
  Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain
  Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain;
  But yet in other scenes more fair in view,
  Where Plenty smiles—­alas! she smiles for few—­
  And those who taste not, yet behold her store,
  Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore—­
  The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. 
  Or will you deem them amply paid in health,
  Labour’s fair child, that languishes with wealth? 
  Go, then! and see them rising with the sun,
  Through a long course of daily toil to run;
  See them beneath the Dog-star’s raging heat,
  When the knees tremble and the temples beat;
  Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o’er
  The labour past, and toils to come explore;
  See them alternate suns and showers engage,
  And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;
  Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue,
  When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;
  Then own that labour may as fatal be
  To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.

  Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride
  Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide;
  There may you see the youth of slender frame
  Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame;
  Yet, urged along, and proudly both to yield,
  He strives to join his fellows of the field;
  Till long-contending, nature droops at last,
  Declining health rejects his poor repast,
  His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
  And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.

  Yet grant them health, ’tis not for us to tell,
  Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;
  Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,
  Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share!

  Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,
  Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;
  Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such
  As you who praise, would never deign to touch.

  Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,
  Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please;
  Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,
  Go look within, and ask if peace be there;
  If peace be his, that drooping weary sire;
  Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;
  Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand
  Turns on the wretched hearth th’ expiring brand,

  Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these
  Life’s latest comforts, due respect and ease;
  For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age
  Can with no cares except its own engage;
  Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see
  The bare arms broken from the withering tree,
  On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough,
  Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.