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Whilſt ſweet Contentment lent her magic power,
Soften'd the gales, and warm'd the frozen ſhower.
Still ſad remembrance fondly calls to view
The field were once the branching poplar grew.
'Twas there when ſpring renew'd the ploughman's toil
My long-drawn furrow turn'd the rugged ſoil;
There, with my ſickle, thro' long ſummer days
I work'd, regardleſs of the noontide blaze;
And there the labouring band, as leiſure ſway'd,
The bough-crown'd reaper, and the village maid,
Led up the ſports along the bord'ring green,
Whilſt age look'd on, and bleſs'd the harmleſs ſcene.
Such were my toils, in days too bright to laſt,
Such joys were mine, but all thoſe joys were paſt!
Mean tho' I was, and circled too with care,
Yet, bleſt with little, I had ſtill to ſpare.
No neighbour's ſorrows but aſſail'd my breaſt,
No poorer brother left my door unbleſt.
To all my mite, to ſome, more ſingly dear,
I gave the tender tribute of a tear.
Oft times, returning from the taſk of day,
I hail'd the weary trav'ller on his way,
Remark'd the hour of reſt was nearly come,
And preſs'd the ſtranger to my ſocial home.
Heedleſs of future ills, the playful train,
To meet their fire, came ſhouting o'er the plain,
With eager joy their little news convey'd,
Or round the green their mimic dance diſplay'd.
Perhaps, ſome neighb'ring ſwain of genial ſoul
Would lift the latch, and join our ſober bowl;
And, whilſt his ſoothing tales engag'd the gueſt,
Of ſlighted love, or modeſt worth diſtreſt,
Whate'er our dairy, or our fields afford,
