Here to return--and die at home at last. O bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine! How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try-- And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep, No surly porter stands, in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves, to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend-- Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While resignation gently slopes the way-- And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be pass'd. [Illustration: To spurn imploring famine from the gate] Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below: The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind-- These all in sweet confusion sought the shade And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled-- All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring, She, wretched matron--forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn-- She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain! Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild-- There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear; And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place; Unpractic'd he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour. Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize-- More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain: The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd.