Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. Are these thy serious thoughts?-Ah, turn thine eyes And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. |