Page:The Village - Crabbe (1783).djvu/21

 There it abides till younger buds come on, As I, now all my fellow swains are gone; Then, from the riling 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, Slow in their gifts but hasty in their words; Wants of their own demand their care, and who Feels his own want and succours others too? A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, None need my help and none relieve my woe; Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, And men forget the wretch they would not aid"

Thus groan the old, till by disease opprest, They taste a final woe, and then they rest. Their's