Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store, And circling smoke obscures his little door; Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields, And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields. On whitethorns tow'ring, and the leafless rose, A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows: Where clust'ring sloes in glossy order rise, He crops the loaded branch; a cumb'rous prize; And o'er the flame the sputt'ring fruit he rests, Placing green sods to seat his coming guests; His guests by promise; playmates young and gay:... BUT AH! _fresh pastimes_ lure their steps away! He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, Till feeling _Disappointment's_ cruel pain, His fairy revels are exchang'd for rage, His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage. The field becomes his prison, till on high Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly. Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be? If fields are prisons, where is Liberty? Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll; But disappointed hope untunes the soul: Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow, When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow. Look then from trivial up to greater woes; From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes, To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh; Where not one cheering sun-beam meets his eye. Though ineffectual pity thine may be, No wealth, no pow'r, to set the captive free; Though _only_ to thy ravish'd _sight_ is given The golden path that HOWARD trod to heaven; Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn, And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn. Say not, "I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell With news of dearest friends; how good, how well: I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:" Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part, To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim, And waste the precious hour that's due to him. In mercy spare the base unmanly blow: Where can he turn, to whom complain of you? Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray; Trace and retrace the beaten worn-out way, The rankling injury will pierce his breast, And curses on thee break his midnight rest. Bereft of song, and ever cheering green, The soft endearments of the Summer scene, New harmony pervades the solemn wood, Dear to the soul, and healthful to the blood: For bold exertion follows on the sound Of distant sportsmen, and the chiding hound; First heard from kennel bursting, mad with joy, Where smiling EUSTON boasts her good FITZROY, Lord of pure alms, and gifts that wide extend; The farmer's patron, and the poor man's friend: Whose mansion glitt'ring with the eastern ray, Whose elevated temple, points the way, O'er slopes and lawns, the park's extensive pride, To where the victims of the chace reside, Ingulf'd in earth, in conscious safety warm, Till lo! a plot portends their coming harm.