10
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.[1] 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 blowO'er his white locks, and bury them in snow;When rouz'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 wither'd 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, unnotic'd 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;
- ↑ A pauper who, being nearly past his labour, is employed by different masters, for a length of time proportioned to their occupations.
