Reply to a Pastoral Poet

Tell us not of bygone days!
Tell us not of forward times!
What's the future--what's the past--
Save to fashion rhymes?
Show us that the corn doth thrive!
Show us there's no wintry weather!
Show us we may laugh and live--
(Those who love--together.)

Senses have we for sweet blossoms--
Eyes, which could admire the sun--
Passions blazing in our bosoms--
Hearts, that may be won!
But Labour doth for ever press us,
And Famine grins upon our board;
And none will help us, none will bless us,
With one gentle word!

None, none! our birthright or our fate,
Is hunger and inclement air--
Perpetual toil--the rich man's hate--
Want, scorn--the pauper's fare:
We fain would gaze upon the sky,
Lie pensive by the running springs;
But if we stay to gaze or sigh,
We starve--though the cuckoo sings!

The moon casts cold on us below;
The sun is not our own;
The very winds which fragrance blow,
But blanch us to the bone;
The rose for us ne'er shows its bloom,
The violet its blue eye;
From cradle murmuring to the tomb,
We feel no beauty, no perfume,
But only toil--and die!
PAUPER.