When guilty Pomp the drawn sword seesHung o'er her, richest feasts in vainStrain their sweet juice her taste to please;No lutes, no singing birds againWill bring her sleep. Sleep knows no pride;It scorns not cots of village hinds,Nor shadow-trembling river-side,Nor Tempe, stirr'd by western winds.Who, having competence, has all,The tumult of the sea defies,Nor fears Arcturus' angry fall,Nor fears the Kid-star's sullen rise,Though hail-storms on the vineyard beat,Though crops deceive, though trees complain,One while of showers, one while of heat,One while of winter's barbarous reign.Fish feel the narrowing of the mainFrom sunken piles, while on the strandContractors with their busy trainLet down huge stones, and lords of land