Who take a licence round their fields to stray,
A mongrel race! the poachers of the day. 
   And hark! the riots of the Green begin,
That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn;
What time the weekly pay was vanish’d all,
And the slow hostess scored the threat’ning wall;
What time they ask’d, their friendly feast to close,
A final cup, and that will make them foes;
When blows ensue that break the arm of toil,
And rustic battle ends the boobies’ broil. 
   Save when to yonder Hall they bend their way,
Where the grave Justice ends the grievous fray;
He who recites, to keep the poor in awe,
The law’s vast volume—­for he knows the law:  —
To him with anger or with shame repair
The injured peasant and deluded fair. 
   Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears,
Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears;
And while she stands abash’d, with conscious eye,
Some favourite female of her judge glides by,
Who views with scornful glance the strumpet’s fate,
And thanks the stars that made her keeper great: 
Near her the swain, about to bear for life
One certain evil, doubts ’twixt war and wife;
But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath,
Consents to wed, and so secures them both. 
   Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate,
Why make the Poor as guilty as the Great? 
To show the great, those mightier sons of pride,
How near in vice the lowest are allied;
Such are their natures and their passions such,
But these disguise too little, those too much: 
So shall the man of power and pleasure see
In his own slave as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxurious lord the servant find
His own low pleasures and degenerate mind: 
And each in all the kindred vices trace,
Of a poor, blind, bewilder’d erring race,
Who, a short time in varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last. 
   And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fate,
Forbear to envy those you call the Great;
And know, amid those blessings they possess,
They are, like you, the victims of distress;
While Sloth, with many a pang torments her slave,
Fear waits on guilt, and Danger shakes the brave. 
   Oh! if in life one noble chief appears,
Great in his name, while blooming in his years;
Born to enjoy whate’er delights mankind,
And yet to all you feel or fear resign’d;
Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown,
For pains and dangers greater than your own: 
If such there be, then let your murmurs cease,
Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace. 
And such there was:—­Oh! grief, that checks our pride,
Weeping we say there was, for Manners {1} died: 
Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive
That sing of Thee, and thus aspire to live. 
   As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form
An ample shade, and brave the wildest storm,
High o’er the subject wood is seen to grow,