And like a monarch ruled 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; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relics of the parish poor. 340 The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care, Defers his duty till the day of prayer; And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd, To think a poor man's bones should lie unbless'd[16]. BOOK II. There are found, amid the Evils of a laborious Life, some Views of Tranquillity and Happiness--The Repose and Pleasure of a Summer Sabbath: interrupted by Intoxication and Dispute--Village Detraction--Complaints of the 'Squire--The Evening Riots--Justice--Reasons for this unpleasant View of Rustic Life: the Effect it should have upon the Lower Classes; and the Higher--These last have their peculiar Distresses: Exemplified in the Life and heroic Death of Lord Robert Manners--Concluding Address to His Grace the Duke of Rutland. No longer truth, though shown in verse, disdain, But own the Village Life a life of pain. I too must yield, that oft amid these woes Are gleams of transient mirth and hours of sweet repose, Such as you find on yonder sportive Green, The 'squire's tall gate and churchway-walk between; Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends, On a fair Sunday when the sermon ends. Then rural beaux their best attire put on, To win their nymphs, as other nymphs are won; 10 While those long wed go plain, and, by degrees, Like other husbands, quit their care to please. Some of the sermon talk, a sober crowd, And loudly praise, if it were preach'd aloud; Some on the labours of the week look round, Feel their own worth, and think their toil renown'd; While some, whose hopes to no renown extend, Are only pleased to find their labours end. Thus, as their hours glide on, with pleasure fraught, Their careful masters brood the painful thought; 20 Much in their mind they murmur and lament, That one fair day should be so idly spent; And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their store And tax their time for preachers and the poor. Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your hour, This is your portion, yet unclaim'd of power; This is Heaven's gift to weary men oppress'd, And seems the type of their expected rest. But yours, alas! are joys that soon decay; Frail joys, begun and ended with the day; 30 Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign, The village vices drive them from the plain. See the stout churl, in drunken fury great, Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate! His naked vices, rude and unrefined,