Their Furrow oft the stubborn Glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their Team afield!
How bow’d the Woods beneath their sturdy Stroke!
8Let not Ambition mock their useful Toil,
Their homely Joys and Destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful Smile
The short and simple Annals of the Poor.
9The Boast of Heraldry, the Pomp of Power,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable Hour.