Classic Poem

Ye swains, that, bending o'er the smooth-worn share,
Through the moist glebe, that glitters to the sun,
Wind your slow way; and where fresh rivers run
With pensive murmur, free from noise and care
To fragrant pastures lead your peaceful kine,
Sweet-breathing, while no trumpet's echoing rage
Shakes your calm rest; till hoary-headed Age
Steal you from life with unperceiv'd decline,
And lay you slumb'ring on the turf's green bed:
O how I envy your delightful day!
For ill does Knowledge, ill does Wealth repay
The sleep, that hovers o'er the poor man's head,
Which soothes him, when his ev'ning labours cease,
And at cool day-spring leaves him full of peace.