Night caught him on the unshelter’d hill;

Fatigu’d he fell; no help came nigh;

His faithful dog alone was by;

Who, as he fondly lick’d his cheek,

Heard his expiring master speak.

“Heap not for me thy cottage-fire;

“Cold grows my heart, unhappy sire!

“But turn to my unfinish’d loom,

“And weave the web, and bear it home!

“Prepare not, dame, my evening meal;