As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; Then, from the rising generation thrust, It falls, like me, unnoticed 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: Wants of their own demand their care; and who 220 Feels his own want and succours others too? A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, None need my help, and none relieve my wo; 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 oppress'd, They taste a final wo, and then they rest. Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, 230 And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day-- There children dwell, who know no parents' care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood fears; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot and the madman gay. Here too the sick their final doom receive, 240 Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below; Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man: Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny. Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes, 250 Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless ever-new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can cure-- How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, 260 Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between, Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day. Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 270 Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,