Poems. George Crabbe
torpid and devoutly dumb; The Village Children now their games suspend, To see the Bier that bears their ancient Friend; For he was one in all their idle sport, And like a Monarch rul’d their little Court; The pliant Bow he form’d, the flying Ball, The Bat, the Wicket, were his labours all; Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relicks of the Parish Poor: The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; The busy Priest, detain’d by weightier care, Defers his duty till the day of prayer; And waiting long, the crowd retire distrest, To think a Poor Man’s bones should lie unblest[5].
BOOK II.
ARGUMENT.
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