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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, suchAs 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 their's that offspring round their feeble fire;Or her's that matron pale, whose trembling handTurns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand. Nor yet can time itself obtain for theseLife's latest comforts, due respect and ease;For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age,Can with no cares except its own engage;Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to seeThe bare arms broken from the withering tree;On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough,Then his 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 proudTo find the triumphs of his youth allow'd;A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes,He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs:
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