[ 21 ]
The rest he gives to loves and labours light,
To fields the morning and to feasts the night;
None better skill'd, the noisy pack to guide,
To urge their chace, to cheer them or to chide;
Sure in his shot, his game he seldom mist,
And seldom fail'd to win his game at whist;
Then, while such honours bloom around his head,
Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed
To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that ev'n the pious feel?
Now once again the gloomy scene explore,
Left gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er,
The man of many sorrows sighs no more.
Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow
The bier moves winding from the vale below;
There
