Page:The Village - Crabbe (1783).djvu/28

 There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, And the glad parish pays the frugal fee; No more, oh! Death, thy victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer; No more the farmer gets his humble bow, Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!

Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb; The village children now their games suspend, To see the bier that bears their antient friend; For he was one in all their idle sport, And like a monarch rul'd their little court; The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball, The bat, the wicket, were his labours all; Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; Rh