The Deserted Village

To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,

Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return – and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine:
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour 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;