In moorland cot—or hovel by the road,
Rest the poor Peasant and his shiv’ring boy,
—And theirs we deem Contentment’s blest abode,
Where Fancy riots in ideal joy!—
Shall this bar charity—when spare and thin5
The curling smoke o’ertops the winter snow?
Go—cheer decrepitude, that shrinks within,
And bid the eye of palsied age o’erflow.


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