Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls. Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, All pride and business, bustle and conceit; With looks unalter'd by these scenes of wo, With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, He bids the gazing throng around him fly, 280 And carries fate and physic in his eye: A potent quack, long versed in human ills, Who first insults the victim whom he kills; Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect. And whose most tender mercy is neglect. Paid by the parish for attendance here, He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer; In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies, Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes; And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, 290 Without reply, he rushes on the door. His drooping patient, long inured to pain, And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; He ceases now the feeble help to crave Of man; and silent sinks into the grave. But ere his death some pious doubts arise, Some simple fears, which "bold bad" men despise: Fain would he ask the parish-priest to prove His title certain to the joys above; For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls 300 The holy stranger to these dismal walls; And doth not he, the pious man, appear, He, "passing rich with forty pounds a year"? Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock, And far unlike him, feeds this little flock: A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task As much as God or man can fairly ask; 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, 310 To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to play. 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 e'en the pious feel? Now once again the gloomy scene explore, } Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er, } The man of many sorrows sighs no more.-- 320 } Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below; There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, And the glad parish pays the frugal fee. No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer; No more the farmer claims 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; 330 The village children now their games suspend, To see the bier that bears their ancient friend: For he was one in all their idle sport,