Page:The Village - Crabbe (1783).djvu/19

 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, propt on that rude staff, looks up to see The 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 straitest 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