THE VILLAGE.

There are found amid the Evils of a Laborious Life, some Views of Tranquillity and Happiness.—The Repose and Pleasure of a Summer Sabbath: interrupted by Intoxication and Dispute.—Village Detraction.—Complaints of the Squire.—The Evening Riots.—Justice.—Reasons for this unpleasant View of Rustic Life: the Effect it should have upon the Lower Classes; and the Higher.—These last have their peculiar Distresses: Exemplified in the Life and heroic Death of Lord Robert Manners.—Concluding Address to his Grace the Duke of Rutland.

Nolonger Truth, though shewn in Verse, disdain,But own the Village Life a life of pain;I too must yield, that oft amid these woesAre gleams of transient Mirth and hours of sweet Repose,Such as you find on yonder sportive Green,The ‘Squire’s tall gate and Churchway-walk between;Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends,On a fair Sunday when the Sermon ends:Then Rural Beaux their best attire put on,To win their Nymphs, as other Nymphs are won;While those long wed go plain, and by degrees,Like other Husbands quit their care to please.Some of the Sermon talk, a sober crowd,And loudly praise, if it were preach’d aloud;Some on the Labours of the Week look round,Feel their own worth, and think their toil renown’d;While some, whose hopes to no renown extend,Are only pleas’d to find their Labours end.Thus, as their hours glide on with pleasure fraught,Their careful Masters brood the painful thought;Much in their mind they murmur and lament,That one fair day should be so idly spent;And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their storeAnd tax their Time for Preachers and the Poor.Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your Hour,This is your Portion, yet unclaim’d of Power;This is Heaven’s gift to weary men opprest,And seems the type of their expected Rest:But yours, alas! are joys that soon decay;Frail joys, begun and ended with the Day;Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign,The Village vices drive them from the plain.See the stout Churl, in drunken fury great,Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate!His naked vices, rude and unrefin’d,Exert their open empire o’er the mind;But can we less the senseless rage despise,Because the savage acts without disguise?Yet here Disguise, the City’s vice, is seen,And Slander steals along and taints the Green.At her approach domestic Peace is gone,Domestic Broils at her approach come on;She to the Wife the Husband’s crime conveys,She tells the Husband when his Consort strays;Her busy tongue, through all the little state,Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate;Peace, tim’rous Goddess! quits her old domain,In Sentiment and Song content to reign.Nor are the Nymphs that breathe the Rural airSo fair as Cynthia’s, nor so chaste as fair;These to the Town afford each fresher face,And the Clown’s trull receives the Peer’s embrace;From whom, should chance again convey her down,The Peer’s disease in turn attacks the Clown.Here too the ’Squire, or ’squire-like Farmer, talk,How round their regions nightly pilferers walk;How from their ponds the fish are borne, and allThe rip’ning treasures from their lofty wall;How meaner rivals in their sports delight,Just rich enough to claim a doubtful right;Who take a licence round their fields to stray,A mongrel race! the Poachers of the day.And hark! the riots of the Green begin,That sprang at first from yonder noisy Inn;What time the weekly pay was vanish’d all,And the slow Hostess scor’d the threat’ning wall;What time they ask’d, their friendly feast to close,A final cup, and that will make them foes;When blows ensue that break the arm of Toil,And rustic battle ends the boobies’ broil.Save when to yonder Hall they bend their way;Where the grave Justice ends the grievous fray;He who recites, to keep the Poor in awe,The Law’s vast volume—for he knows the Law.—To him with anger or with shame repairThe injur’d Peasant and deluded Fair.Lo! at his throne the silent Nymph appears,Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears;And while she stands abash’d, with conscious eye,Some favourite Female of her Judge glides by:Who views with scornful glance the strumpet’s fate,And thanks the stars that made her Keeper great:Near her the Swain, about to bear for lifeOne certain evil, doubts ’twixt War and Wife;But, while the faultering Damsel takes her oath,Consents to wed, and so secures them both.Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate,Why make the Poor as guilty as the Great?To shew the Great, those mightier sons of Pride,How near in vice the lowest are allied;Such are their natures and their passions such,But these disguise too little, those too much:So shall the man of Power and Pleasure seeIn his own Slave as vile a wretch as he;In his luxurious Lord the Servant findHis own low pleasures and degenerate mind:And each in all the kindred vices trace,Of a poor, blind, bewilder’d, erring Race;Who, a short time in varied fortune past,Die, and are equal in the dust at last.And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fate,Forbear to envy those you call the Great;And know, amid those blessings they possess,They are, like you, the victims of distress;While Sloth with many a pang torments her slave,Fear waits on Guilt, and Danger shakes the brave.Oh! if in life one noble Chief appears,Great in his name, while blooming in his years;Born to enjoy whate’er delights Mankind,And yet to all you feel or fear resign’d;Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown,For pains and dangers greater than your own;If such there be, then let your murmurs cease,Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace.And such there was:—Oh! grief, that checks our pride,Weeping we say there was,—forMannersdied;Beloved of Heav’n, these humble lines forgive,That sing of Thee[6], and thus aspire to live.As the tall Oak, whose vigorous branches formAn ample shade and brave the wildest storm,High o’er the subject Wood is seen to grow,The guard and glory of the Trees below;Till on its head the fiery bolt descends,And o’er the plain the shatter’d trunk extends;Yet then it lies, all wond’rous as before,And still the Glory, though the Guard no more.SoTHOU, when every virtue, every grace,Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face;When, though the Son ofGranby, Thou wert knownLess by thy Father’s glory than thy own;When Honour lov’d and gave Thee every charm,Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm;Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes,Fate and thy Virtues call’d Thee to the Skies;Yet still we wonder at thy tow’ring fame,And losing Thee, still dwell upon thy Name.Oh! ever honour’d, ever valued! say,What Verse can praise Thee, or what Work repay?Yet Verse (in all we can) thy worth repays,Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days;—Honours for Thee thy Country shall prepare,Thee in their hearts, the Good, the Brave shall bear;To deeds like thine shall noblest Chiefs aspire,The Muse shall mourn Thee, and the World admire.In future times, when smit with Glory’s charms,The untry’d youth first quits a Father’s arms;—“Oh! be like him,” the weeping Sire shall say;“LikeMannerswalk, who walk’d in Honour’s way;“In Danger foremost, yet in Death sedate,“Oh! be like Him in all things, but his fate!”If for that Fate such public Tears be shed,That Victory seems to die nowTHOUart dead;How shall a Friend his nearer hope resign,That Friend a Brother, and whose soul was thine;By what bold lines shall we his grief express,Or by what soothing numbers make it less?’Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song,Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong,Words aptly cull’d and Meanings well exprest,Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast;But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains,Shall heal that bosom,Rutland, where she reigns.Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart,To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart;Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh,And curb rebellious passion, with reply;—Calmly to dwell on all that pleas’d before,And yet to know that all shall please no more;—Oh! glorious labour of the soul to saveHer captive powers, and bravely mourn the Brave.To such, these thoughts will lasting comfort give—Life is not measur’d by the time we live;’Tis not an even course of threescore years,A life of narrow views and paltry fears,Grey-hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,That take from Death, the terrors or the sting;But ’tis the gen’rous Spirit, mounting highAbove the world, that native of the Sky;The noble Spirit, that, in dangers brave,Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave:—SuchMannerswas, so he resign’d his breath,If in a glorious, then a timely death.Cease then that grief and let those tears subside;If Passion rule us, be that passion Pride;If Reason, Reason bids us strive to raiseOur fallen hearts and be like Him we praise!Or if Affection still the soul subdue,}Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view,}And let Affection find its comfort too:}For how can Grief so deeply wound the heart,When Admiration claims so large a part?Grief is a foe, expel him then thy soul,Let nobler thoughts the nearer views controul!Oh! make the Age to come thy better care,See otherRutlands, otherGranbysthere!And as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide,See other Heroes die asMannersdied:And from their fate, thy Race shall nobler grow,As trees shoot upwards that are prun’d below;Or as OldThamesborne down with decent pride,Sees his young Streams run warbling at his side;Though some, by art cut off, no longer run,And some are lost beneath the Summer’s Sun—Yet the pure Stream moves on, and as it moves,Its power increases and its use improves;While Plenty round its spacious waves bestow,Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.

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ARGUMENT.

The Village Register considered, as containing principally the Annals of the Poor.—State of the Peasantry as meliorated by Frugality and Industry.—The Cottage of an industrious Peasant; its Ornaments.—Prints and Books.—The Garden; its Satisfactions.—The state of the Poor when improvident and vicious.—The Row or Street, and its Inhabitants.—The Dwelling of One of these.—A Public-House.—Garden and its Appendages.—Gamesters; rustic Sharpers, &c.—Conclusion of the Introductory Part.

Baptisms.

The Child of the Miller’s Daughter, and relation of her Misfortune.—A frugal Couple: their kind of Frugality.—Plea of the Mother of a natural Child: her Churching.—Large Family of Gerard Ablett: his Apprehensions: Comparison between his State and that of the wealthy Farmer his Master: his Consolation.—An Old Man’s Anxiety for an Heir: the Jealousy of another on having many.—Characters of the Grocer Dawkins and his Friend: their different kinds of Disappointment.—Three Infants named.—An Orphan Girl and Village School-mistress.—Gardener’s Child: Pedantry and Conceit of the Father: his Botanical Discourse: Method of fixing the Embryo-fruit of Cucumbers.—Absurd effects of Rustic Vanity: observed in the Names oftheir Children.—Relation of the Vestry Debate on a Foundling: Sir Richard Monday.—Children of various Inhabitants.—The poor Farmer.—Children of a Profligate: his Character and Fate.—Conclusion.

Tum porro puer (ut sævis projectus ab undis,Navita) nudus humi jacet infans indigus omniVitali auxilio,——Vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut æquum est,Cui tantum in vitâ restat transire malorum.Lucret. de Nat. Rerum, lib. 5.

TheYear revolves, and I again exploreThe simple Annals of my Parish-poor;What Infant-members in my flock appear,What Pairs I blest in the departed year;And who, of Old or Young, or Nymphs or Swains,Are lost to Life, its Pleasures and its pains.No Muse I ask, before my view to bringThe humble actions of the Swains I sing.—How pass’d the Youthful, how the Old their days,Who sank in sloth and who aspir’d to praise;Their Tempers, Manners, Morals, Customs, Arts,What parts they had, and how they ’employed their parts;By what elated, sooth’d, seduc’d, deprest,Full well I know—these Records give the rest.Is there a place, save one the Poet sees,A Land of Love, of Liberty and Ease;Where labour wearies not nor cares suppressTh’ eternal flow of Rustic Happiness;Where no proud Mansion frowns in aweful State,Or keeps the Sunshine from the Cottage-gate;Where Young and Old, intent on pleasure throng,And half man’s life, is Holiday and Song?Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,By sighs unruffled or unstain’d by tears;Since Vice the world subdued and Waters drown’d,AuburnandEdencan no more be found.Hence good and evil mix’d, but Man has skillAnd power to part them, when he feels the will;Toil, care, and patience bless th’ abstemious few,Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.Behold the Cot! where thrives th’ industrious Swain,Source of his pride, his pleasure and his gain;Screen’d from the Winter’s wind, the Sun’s last raySmiles on the window and prolongs the day;Projecting thatch the woodbine’s branches stop,And turn their blossoms to the casement’s top:—All need requires is in that Cot contain’d,And much that taste untaught and unrestrain’dSurveys delighted; there she loves to trace,In one gay picture all the Royal Race;Around the walls are Heroes, Lovers, Kings;The print that shews them and the verse that sings.Here the lastLewison his throne is seen,And there he stands imprison’d and his Queen;To these the Mother takes her Child and showsWhat grateful Duty to his God he owes;Who gives to him, an happy Home and free,With life’s ennobling comfort, Liberty;When Kings and Queens, dethron’d, insulted, tried,Are all these Comforts of the Poor denied.There isKing Charles, and all his Golden Rules,Who prov’d Misfortune’s was the best of schools;And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain,Prov’d that misfortunes may be sent in vain.The Magic-mill that grinds the gran’nams young,Close at the side of kindGodivahung;She, of her favourite place the pride and joy,Of charms at once most lavish and most coy;By wanton act, the purest fame could raise,And give the boldest deed, the chastest praise.There stands the stoutestOxin England fed;There fights the boldestJew, Whitechapel-bred;And hereSaint Monday’s worthy votaries live,In all the joys that Ale and Skittles give.Now lo! in Egypt’s coast that hostile Fleet,By nations dreaded and byNelsonbeat;And here shall soon another Triumph come,A deed of Glory in a day of Gloom;Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate!The proudest Conquest, at the dearest rate.On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock,Of Cottage-reading rests the chosen stock;Learning we lack, not Books, but have a kindFor all our wants, a meat for every mind:The Tale for wonder and the Joke for whim,The half-sung Sermon and the half-groan’d Hymn.No need of classing; each within its place,The feeling finger in the dark can trace;“First from the corner, farthest from the wall,”Such all the rules and they suffice for all.There pious works for Sunday’s use are found,Companions for that Bible newly bound;That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly sav’d,Has choicest prints by famous Hands engrav’d;Has choicest notes by many a famous Head,Such as to doubt, have rustic readers led;Have made them stop to reasonwhy?andhow?And where they once agreed, to cavil now.Oh! rather give me Commentators plain,Who with no deep researches vex the brain;Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun;Who simple Truth with nine-fold reasons back,And guard the point, no enemies attack.Bunyan’s fam’dPilgrimrests that shelf upon,A genius rare but rude was honestJohn;Not one who, early by the Muse beguil’d,Drank from her well, the waters undefil’d;Not one who slowly gain’d the Hill sublime,Then often sipp’d and little at a time;But one who dabbled in the sacred Springs,And drank them muddy, mix’d with baser things.Here tointerpret Dreamswe read the rules,Science our own! and never taught in schools;In Moles and Specks we Fortune’s gifts discern,And Fate’s fix’d will from Nature’s wanderings learn.Of HermitQuarlewe read in island rare,Far from Mankind and seeming far from Care;Safe from all want and sound in every limb;Yes! there was he and there was Care with him.Unbound and heap’d these valued works beside,Laid humbler works, the pedler’s pack supplied;Yet these, long since, have all acquir’d a name;TheWandering Jewhas found his way to fame:And fame, denied to many a labour’d song,CrownsThumbthe great andHickerthriftthe strong.There too is he, by wizard-power upheld,Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell’d;His shoes of swiftness on his feet he plac’d;His coat of darkness on his loins he brac’d;His sword of sharpness in his hand he took,And off the heads of doughty Giants stroke;Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;No sound of feet alarm’d the drowsy ear;No English blood their pagan sense could smell,But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell.These are the Peasant’s joy, when, plac’d at ease,Half his delighted Offspring mount his knees.To every Cot the Lord’s indulgent mind,Has a small space for Garden-ground assign’d;Here—till return of morn dismiss’d the farm—The careful Peasant plies the sinewy arm,Warm’d as he works and casts his look aroundOn every foot of that improving ground:It is his own he sees; his Master’s eye,Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;—Hope, profit, pleasure,—they are all his own.Here grow the humbleCivesand hard by them,The tallLeek, tapering with his rushy stem;High climb his Pulse in many an even row,Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below,And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste,Give a warm relish to the Night’s repast.Apples and Cherries grafted by his hand,And cluster’d Nuts for neighbouring market stand.Nor thus concludes his labour; near the Cot,The Reed-fence rises round some favourite spot;Where rich Carnations, Pinks with purple eyes,}Proud Hyacinths, the least some Florist’s prize,}Tulips tall-stemm’d and pounc’d Auricula’s rise.}Here on a Sunday-eve, when Service ends,Meet and rejoice a Family of Friends;All speak aloud, are happy and are free,And glad they seem and gaily they agree.What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,Where all are talkers and where none can teach;Where still the Welcome and the Words are old,And the same Stories are for ever told;Yet their’s is joy that bursting from the heart,Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart;That forms these tones of gladness we despise,That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays,And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long,But Vice and Misery now demand the song;And turn our view from Dwellings simply neat,To this infected Row, we term our Street.Here, in cabal, a disputatious crewEach evening meet; the Sot, the Cheat, the Shrew;Riots are nightly heard;—the curse, the criesOf beaten Wife, perverse in her replies;While shrieking Children hold each threat’ning hand.And sometimes life, and sometimes food demand:Boys in their first stol’n rags, to swear begin,And girls, who heed not dress, are skill’d in gin:Snarers and Smugglers here their gains divide,Ensnaring females here their victims hide;And here is one, the Sybil of the Row,Who knows all secrets, or affects to know.Seeking their fate, to her the simple run,To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun;Mistress of worthless arts, deprav’d in will,Her care unblest and unrepaid her skill,Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops,And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes.Between the road-way and the walls, offenceInvades all eyes and strikes on every sense;There lie, obscene, at every open door,Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor;And day by day the mingled masses grow,As sinks are disembogu’d and kennels flow.There hungry dogs from hungry children steal,There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal;There dropsied infants wail without redress,And all is want and woe and wretchedness:Yet should these boys, with bodies bronz’d and bare,High-swoln and hard, outlive that lack of care—Forc’d on some farm, the unexerted strength,Though loth to action, is compell’d at length,When warm’d by health, as serpents in the spring,Aside their slough of indolence they fling.Yet ere they go, a greater evil comes—See! crowded beds in those contiguous rooms;Beds but ill parted, by a paltry screen,Of paper’d lath or curtain dropt between;Daughters and Sons to yon compartments creep,And Parents here beside their Children sleep:Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part,Nor let the Ear be first to taint the Heart.Come! search within, nor sight nor smell regard;The true Physician walks the foulest ward.See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest!What nauseous fragments on yon fractur’d chest!What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat!And round these posts that serve this bed for feet;This bed where all those tatter’d garments lie,Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by!See! as we gaze, an Infant lifts its head,Left by neglect and burrow’d in that bed;The Mother-gossip has the love supprest,An Infant’s cry once waken’d in her breast;And daily prattles, as her round she takes,(With strong resentment) of the want she makes.Whence all these woes?—From want of virtuous will,Of honest shame, of time-improving skill;From want of care t’ employ the vacant hour,And want of ev’ry kind but want of power.Here are no Wheels for either Wool or Flax,But packs of Cards—made up of sundry packs;Here is no Clock, nor will they turn the Glass,And see how swift th’ important moments pass;Here are no Books, but ballads on the wall,Are some abusive, and indecent all;Pistols are here, unpair’d; with Nets and Hooks,Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks;An ample flask that nightly rovers fill,With recent poison from the Dutchman’s still;A Box of Tools with wires of various size,}Frocks, Wigs, and Hats, for night or day disguise,}And Bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize.}To every House belongs a space of Ground,Of equal size, once fenc’d with Paling round;That Paling now by slothful waste destroy’d,Dead Gorse and stumps of Elder fill the void;Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay,Hide Sots and Striplings at their drink and play;Within, a board, beneath a til’d retreat,Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat;Where heavy Ale in spots like varnish shows,Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows;Black Pipes and broken Jugs the seats defile,The walls and windows, Rhymes and Reck’nings vile;Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door,And cards in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor.Here his poor Bird th’ inhuman Cocker brings,Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings;With spicy food th’ impatient spirit feeds,And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds;Struck through the brain, depriv’d of both his eyes,The vanquish’d bird must combat till he dies;Must faintly peck at his victorious foe,And reel and stagger at each feeble blow;When fall’n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes,His blood-stain’d arms, for other deaths assumes;And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake,And only bled and perish’d for his sake.Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yieldGlories unsought, the Fathers of the Field;And these who take from our reluctant hands,WhatBurnadvises or the Bench commands.Our Farmers round, well pleas’d with constant gain,Like other farmers, flourish and complain.—These are our Groups; our Portraits next appear,And close our Exhibition for the Year.==============Withevil omen, we that Year begin:A Child of Shame,—stern Justice adds, of Sin,Is first recorded;—I would hide the deed,But vain the wish; I sigh and I proceed:And could I well th’ instructive truth convey,’Twould warn the Giddy and awake the Gay.Of all the Nymphs, who gave our Village grace,TheMiller’s Daughter had the fairest Face;Proud was the Miller; Money was his pride,He rode to Market, as our Farmers ride,And ’twas his boast, inspir’d by spirits, there,His favouriteLucyshould be rich as fair;But she must meek and still obedient prove,And not presume, without his leave, to love.A youthfulSailorheard him;—“Ha!” quoth he,“ThisMiller’s Maiden is a prize for me;“Her Charms I love, his Riches I desire,“And all his threats but fan the kindling fire;“My ebbing purse, no more the Foe shall fill,“But Love’s kind act andLucyat the Mill.”Thus thought the Youth, and soon the chace began,Stretch’d all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan:His trusty staff, in his bold hand, he took,Like him and like his Frigate,Heart of Oak;Fresh were his features, his attire was new;Clean was his linen and his jacket blue;Of finestjeanhis trowsers tight and trim,Brush’d the large buckle at the silver rim.He soon arriv’d, he trac’d the Village-green,There saw the Maid, and was with pleasure seen;Then talk’d of Love, tillLucy’s yielding heartConfess’d ’twas painful, though ’twas right to part.“For ah! my Father has an haughty soul,“Whom best he loves, he loves but to controul;“Me to some churl in bargain he’ll consign,“And make some tyrant of the Parish, mine;“Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe,“Has often forc’d, but never shed the tear;“Save when my Mother died, some drops express’d“A kind of sorrow for a Wife at rest:—“To me a Master’s stern regard is shown,“I’m like his steed, priz’d highly as his own;“Stroak’d but corrected, threaten’d when supplied,“His slave and boast, his victim and his pride.”‘Cheer up, my Lass! I’ll to thy Father go,‘TheMillercannot be the Sailor’s foe;‘Both live by Heaven’s free gale that plays aloud‘In the stretch’d canvass and the piping shroud;‘The rush of winds, the flapping sails above,‘And rattling planks within, are sounds we love;‘Calms are our dread; when Tempests plough the Deep.‘We take a Reef, and to the rocking, sleep.’“Ha!” quoth theMiller, mov’d at speech so rash,“Art thou like me? Then where thy Notes and Cash?“Away toWapping, and a Wife command,“With all thy wealth, a Guinea, in thine hand;“There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer,“And leave myLucyfor thy Betters here.”‘Revenge! Revenge!’ the angry Lover cried,Then sought the Nymph, and ‘Be thou now my Bride.’Bride had she been, but they no Priest could moveTo bind in Law, the Couple bound by Love.What sought these Lovers then by day, by night?But stolen moments of disturb’d delight;Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly priz’d,Transports that pain’d and joys that agoniz’d:Till, the fond Damsel, pleas’d with Lad so trim,Aw’d by her Parent and entic’d by him;Her lovely form from savage power to save,Gave—not her Hand—butALLshe could, she gave.Then came the Day of shame, the grievous Night,The varying Look, the wandering Appetite;The Joy assum’d, while Sorrow dimm’d the eyes,The forc’d sad Smiles that follow’d sudden Sighs;And every art, long us’d, but us’d in vain,To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain.Too eager caution shews some danger’s near,The Bully’s bluster proves the Coward’s fear;His sober step, the Drunkard vainly tries,And Nymphs expose the failings they disguise.First, whisperingGossipswere in parties seen;Then louderScandalwalk’d the Village-green;Next babblingFollytold the growing ill,And busyMalicedropt it at the Mill.“Go! to thy curse and mine,” the Father said,“Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed;“Want and a wailing Brat thy Portion be,“Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me,“Where skulks the villain?”———‘On the Ocean wide,‘MyWilliamseeks a portion for his Bride.’—“Vain be his search! But till the traitor come,“The Higler’s Cottage be thy future home;“There with his antient Shrew and Care abide,“And hide thy Head, thy Shame thou canst not hide.”Day after day were past in grief and pain,Week after week,—nor came the Youth again;Her Boy was born—no Lads nor Lasses cameTo grace the Rite or give the Child a name;Nor grave conceited Nurse of office proud,Bore the young Christian roaring through the crowd;In a small chamber was my office done,Where blinks through paper’d panes the setting Sun;Where noisy Sparrows perch’d on penthouse near,Chirp tuneless joy and mock the frequent tear;Bats on their webby wings in darkness move,And feebly shriek their melancholy love.No Sailor came; the months in terror fled!Then news arriv’d; He fought, and he wasDEAD!At the lone CottageLucylives, and stillWalks, for her weekly pittance, to the Mill;A mean seraglio there her Father keeps,Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps:And sees the plenty, while compell’d to stay,Her Father’s pride, become his Harlot’s prey.Throughout the lanes, she glides at evening’s close,And softly lulls her Infant to repose;Then sits and gazes but with viewless look,As gilds the Moon the rimpling of the brook;And sings her vespers, but in voice so low,She hears their murmurs as the waters flow;And she too murmurs and begins to findThe solemn wanderings of a wounded mind;Visions of terror, views of woe succeed,The mind’s impatience, to the body’s need;By turns to that, by turns to this a prey,She knows what Reason yields and dreads what Madness may.Next with their Boy, a decent Couple came,And call’d himRobert, ’twas his Father’s name;Three Girls preceded, all by time endear’d,And future Births were neither hop’d nor fear’d;Blest in each other, but to no excess;Health, quiet, comfort, form’d their happiness;Love all made up of torture and delight,Was but mere madness in this Couple’s sight:Susancould think, though not without a sigh,If she were gone, who should her place supply?AndRoberthalf in earnest, half in jest,Talk of her Spouse when he should be at rest;Yet strange would either think it to be told,Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold;Few were their Acres,—but they, well content,Were on each pay-day, ready with their rent;And few their wishes—what their Farm denied,The neighbouring town, at trifling cost, supplied;If at the Draper’s window,SusancastA longing look, as with her goods she pass’d;And with the produce of the wheel and churn,Bought her a Sunday-robe on her return;True to her maxim, she would take no rest,Till care repay’d that portion to the Chest:Or if, when loitering at the Whitsun-fair,HerRobertspent some idle shillings there;Up at the Barn, before the break of day,He made his labour for th’ indulgence pay;Thus both—that Waste itself might work in vain—Wrought double tides, and all was well again.Yet though so prudent, there were times of joy,(The Day they wed, the Christening of the Boy,)When to the wealthier Farmers there was shown,Welcome unfeign’d, and plenty like their own;ForSusanserv’d the Great and had some pride,Among our topmost people to preside;Yet in that plenty, in that welcome free,There was the guiding nice Frugality;That in the festal as the frugal day,Has in a different mode, a sovereign sway:As tides the same attractive influence knowIn the least ebb and in their proudest flow;The wise Frugality that does not give,A life to saving but that saves to live,Sparing not pinching, mindful though not mean,O’er all presiding, yet in nothing seen.Recorded next a Babe of Love I trace!Of many Loves, the Mother’s fresh disgrace;—“Again, thou Harlot! could not all thy pain,“All my reproof, thy wanton thoughts restrain?”‘Alas! your Reverence, wanton thoughts, I grant,‘Were once my motive, now the thoughts of want;‘Women like me, as ducks in a decoy,‘Swim down a stream and seem to swim in joy;‘Your Sex pursue us and our own disdain,‘Return is dreadful and escape is vain.‘Would Men forsake us and would Women strive‘To help the fall’n, their Virtue might revive.’For Rite of Churching soon she made her way,In dread of Scandal, should she miss the day:—Two Matrons came! with them she humbly knelt,Their action copied and their comforts felt,From that great pain and peril to be free,Though still in peril of that pain to be;Alas! what numbers like this amorous Dame,Are quick to censure but are dead to shame!Twin-Infants then appear, a Girl, a Boy,Th’ o’erflowing cup ofGerard Ablett’s joy:Seven have I nam’d, and but six years have pastBy him andJudithsince I bound them fast;Well pleas’d, the Bridegroom smil’d to hear—“A Vine“Fruitful and spreading round the walls be thine,“And branch-like be thine Offspring!”—GerardthenLook’d joyful love, and softly said, ‘Amen.’Now of that Vine he would no more increase,Those playful Branches now disturb his peace;Them he beholds around his table spread,But finds, the more the Branch, the less the Bread;And while they run his humble walls about,They keep the sunshine of good-humour out.Cease, man, to grieve! thy Master’s lot survey,Whom Wife and Children, thou and thine obey;A Farmer proud, beyond a Farmer’s pride,Of all around the envy or the guide;Who trots to market on a steed so fine,That when I meet him, I’m asham’d of mine;Whose board is high up-heap’d with generous fare,}Which five stout Sons and three tall Daughters share:}Cease, man, to grieve, and listen to his care.}A few years fled, and all thy Boys shall beLords of a Cot, and labourers like thee;Thy Girls unportioned neighbouring youths shall lead,Brides from my Church, and thenceforth thou art freed:But then thy Master shall of cares complain,Care after care, a long connected train;His Sons for Farms shall ask a large supply,For Farmer’s sons each gentle Miss shall sigh;Thy Mistress reasoning well of life’s decay,Shall ask a chaise and hardly brook delay;The smart young Cornet who, with so much grace,Rode in the ranks and betted at the Race,While the vext parent rails at deed so rash,Shall d—n his luck, and stretch his hand for cash.Sad troubles,Gerard!now pertain to thee,When thy rich Master seems from trouble free;But ’tis one fate at different times assign’d,And cares from thee departing, he must find.“Ah!” quoth our village Grocer, rich and old,“Would! I might one such cause for care, behold!”To whom his Friend, ‘Mine greater bliss would be,‘Would Heav’n take those, my Spouse assigns to me.’Aged were both, thatDawkins,Ditchemthis,Who much of Marriage thought and much amiss;Both would delay, the One, till—riches gain’d,The Son he wish’d might be to honour train’d;His Friend—lest fierce intruding Heirs should come,To waste his Hoard and vex his quiet Home.Dawkins, a dealer once on burthen’d back,Bore his whole substance in a pedlar’s pack;To dames discreet, the duties yet unpaid,His stores of Lace and Hyson he convey’d:When thus enrich’d, he chose at home to stopAnd fleece his neighbours in a new-built shop;Then woo’d a Spinster blithe and hop’d, when wed,For Love’s fair favours and a fruitful bed.Not so his Friend;—on Widow fair and staid,He fix’d his eye, but he was much afraid;Yet woo’d; while she, his hair of silver hueDemurely notic’d and her eye withdrew;Doubtful he paus’d—“Ah! were I sure,” he cried,“No craving Children would my gains divide;“Fair as she is, I would my Widow take,“And live more largely for my Partner’s sake.”With such their views, some thoughtful years they pass’d,And hoping, dreading, they were bound at last.And what their fate! Observe them as they go,Comparing fear with fear and woe with woe.“Ah! Humphrey! Humphrey! Envy in my breast,“Sickens to see thee in thy Children blest;“They are thy joys, while I go grieving home,“To a sad Spouse and our eternal gloom;“We look Despondency; no Infant near,“To bless the eye or win the Parent’s ear;“Our sudden heats and quarrels to allay,“And soothe the petty sufferings of the day:“Alike our want, yet both the want reprove,“Where are, I cry, these Pledges of our Love?“When she like Jacob’s wife makes fierce reply,“Yet fond—Oh! give me Children or I die;“And I return—still childless doom’d to live,“Like the vex’d Patriarch,—Are they mine to give?“Ah! much I envy thee, thy Boys who ride“On poplar branch and canter at thy side;“And Girls, whose cheeks thy chin’s fierce fondness know,“And with fresh beauty at the contact, glow.”‘Oh simple friend,’ said Humphrey, ’wouldst thou gain,‘A Father’s pleasure, by an Husband’s pain?‘Alas! what pleasure—when some vig’rous Boy‘Should swell thy pride, some rosy Girl thy joy?‘Is it to doubt, who grafted this sweet flower,‘Or whence arose that spirit and that power?‘Four years I’ve wed; not one has past in vain:‘Behold the fifth! Behold, a Babe again!‘My Wife’s gay friends th’ unwelcome imp admire,‘And fill the room with gratulation dire;‘While I in silence sate, revolving all!‘That influence antient men, or that befall;‘A gay pert guest—Heav’n knows his business—came;‘A glorious Boy, he cried, and what the name?‘Angry I growl’d; My spirit cease to tease,‘Name it yourselves,—Cain,Judas, if you please,‘His father’s give him, should you that explore,‘The Devil’s or your’s:—I said, and sought the door.‘My tender Partner not a word or sigh‘Gives to my wrath, nor to my speech reply;‘But takes her comforts, triumphs in my pain,‘And looks undaunted for a Birth again.’—Heirs thus denied afflict the pining heart,And thus afforded, jealous pangs impart;To prove these arrows of the giant’s hand,Are not for Man to stay or to command.Then with their Infants three, the Parents came,And each assign’d—‘twas all they had—a Name:Names of no mark or price; of them not oneShall court our view on the sepulchral stone;Or stop the Clerk, th’ engraven scrolls to spell,Or keep the Sexton from the sermon-bell.An Orphan Girl succeeds: ere she was born,Her Father died, her Mother on that morn;The pious Mistress of the School sustainsHer Parents’ part, nor their affection feigns,But pitying feels: with due respect and joy,I trace the Matron at her lov’d employ;What time the striplings wearied ev’n with play,}Part at the closing of the Summer’s day,}And each by different path, returns the well-known way.}Then I behold her at her cottage-door,Frugal of light:—her Bible laid before,When on her double duty she proceeds,Of Time as frugal;—knitting as she reads:Her idle neighbours who approach to tellOf news or nothing, her grave looks compel,To hear reluctant,—while the lads who pass,In pure respect, walk silent on the grass;Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes,Till solemn prayers the daily duties close.But I digress, and lo! an Infant-trainAppear, and call me to my task again.‘WhyLonicerawilt thou name thy child?’I ask’d theGardener’s Wife, in accents mild:“We have a right,” replied the sturdy dame;—AndLonicerawas the Infant’s name.If next a Son shall yield our Gardener joy,ThenHyacinthusshall be that fair boy;And if a Girl, they will at length agree,ThatBelladonnathat fair maid shall be.High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets,And at his Club to wondering Swains repeats;He then ofRhusandRhododendronspeaks,AndAlliumcalls his Onions and his Leeks;Nor Weeds are now, for whence arose the Weed,Scarce Plants, fair Herbs and curious Flowers proceed;WhereCuckoo-pintsandDandelionssprung,(Gross names had they our plainer sires among;)ThereArums, thereLeontodonswe view,AndArtimisiagrows, whereWormwoodgrew.But though no weed exists, his Garden round,FromRumexstrong our Gardener frees his ground,Takes softSeniciofrom the yielding land,And grasps the arm’dUrticain his hand.NotDarwin’s self had more delight to singOf Floral Courtship, in th’ awaken’d spring;ThanPeter Pratt, who simpering loves to tell,How rise theStamens, as thePistilsswell;How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse,And give and take the vegetable vows;How those esteem’d of old, but tips and chives,Are tender husbands and obedient wives;Who live and love within the sacred bower,—That bridal bed, the vulgar term a Flower.HearPeterproudly, to some humble friend,A wondrous secret, in his science lend;—“Would you advance the nuptial hour, and bring“The fruit of Autumn, with the flowers of Spring;“View that light frame whereCucumislies spread,“And trace the husbands in their golden bed,“Three powder’dAnthers;—then no more delay,“But to theStigma’s top, their dust convey;“Then by thyself, from prying glance secure,“Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure;“A long-abiding race the deed shall pay,“Nor one unblest abortion pine away.”T’ admire their friend’s discourse our Swains agree,And call it Science and Philosophy.’Tis good, ’tis pleasant, through th’ advancing year,To see unnumber’d growing Forms appear;What leafy-life from Earth’s broad bosom rise!What insect-myriads seek the summer skies!What scaly tribes in every streamlet move!}What plumy people sing in every grove!}All with the year awak’d, to life, delight and love.}Then Names are good, for how, without their aidIs knowledge, gain’d by man, to man convey’d?But from that source shall all our pleasure flow?Shall all our knowledge be those Names to know?Then He, with memory blest, shall bear awayThe palm fromGrew, andMiddleton, andRay;No! let us rather seek in Grove and Field,What food for Wonder, what for Use they yield;Some just remark from Nature’s people bring,And some new source of homage for herKing.Pride lives with all; strange Names our Rustics giveTo helpless Infants, that their own may live;Pleas’d to be known, some notice they will claim,And find some bye-way to the house of Fame.The straightest Furrow lifts the Ploughman’s heart,The Hat he gain’d has warmth for head and heart;The Bowl that beats the greater number down,Of tottering Nine-pins, gives to fame the Clown;Or foil’d in these, he opes his ample jaws,And lets a Frog leap down to gain applause;Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week,Or challenges a well-pinch’d pig, to squeak;Some idle deed, some child’s preposterous Name,Shall make him known and give his folly, fame.To name an Infant met our Village-sires,Assembled all, as such event requires;Frequent and full, the rural Sages sate,And Speakers many urg’d the long debate,—Some harden’d knaves, who rov’d the country round,Had left a Babe within the Parish-bound.—First, of the fact they question’d—“Was it true?”The Child was brought—“What then remain’d to do?“Was’t dead or living?” This was fairly prov’d,’Twas pinch’d, it roar’d, and every doubt remov’d;Then by what Name th’ unwelcome guest to call,Was long a question and it pos’d them all:For he who lent a Name to Babe unknown,Censorious men might take it for his own;They look’d about, they ask’d the name of all,And not oneRichardanswer’d to the call;Next they enquir’d the day, when passing by,Th’unluckypeasant heard the stranger’s cry;This known; how Food and Raiment they might give,Was next debated—for the rogue would live;At last with all their words and work content,}Back to their homes, the prudent Vestry went,}AndRichard Mondayto the Workhouse sent.}There was he pinch’d and pitied, thump’d and fed,And duly took his beatings and his bread;Patient in all controul, in all abuse,He found contempt and kicking have their use:Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow,A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;His pliant soul gave way to all things base,He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace:It seem’d, so well his passions he suppress’d,No feeling stirr’d his ever-torpid breast;Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat,He was a footstool for the beggar’s feet;His were the legs that ran at all commands;They us’d on all occasions,Richard’s hands;His very soul was not his own; he stoleAs others order’d, and without a dole;In all disputes, on either part he lied,And freely pledg’d his oath on either side,In all rebellionsRichardjoin’d the rest,In all detectionsRichardfirst confess’d;Yet though disgrac’d, he watch’d his time so well,He rose in favour, when in fame he fell;Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,And all despis’d and fed the pliant boy:At length, “’tis time he should abroad be sent,”Was whisper’d near him,—and abroad he went;One morn they call’d him,Richardanswer’d not,They doom’d him hanging and in time forgot,—Yet miss’d him long, as each, throughout the clan,Found he “had better spar’d a better man.”NowRichard’s talents for the world were fit,He’d no small cunning and had some small wit;Had that calm look which seem’d to all assent,And that complacent speech which nothing meant;He’d but one care and that he strove to hide,How best forRichard Mondayto provide;Steel, through opposing plates the Magnet draws,And steelly atoms culls from dust and straws;And thus our Hero, to his interest true,Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew;But still more surely round the world to go,This Fortune’s Child, had neither friend nor foe.Long lost to us, at last our man we trace,SirRichard Mondaydied atMonday-place;His Lady’s worth, his Daughter’s we peruse;And find his Grandsons all as rich as Jews;He gave reforming Charities a sum,And bought the blessings of the Blind and Dumb;Bequeath’d to Missions money from the Stocks,And Bibles issu’d from his private box;But to his native place severely just,He left a pittance bound in rigid trust;Two paltry pounds, on every quarter’s-day,(At church produc’d) for forty loaves should pay;A stinted gift, that to the Parish shows,He kept in mind their bounty and their blows!To Farmers three, the Year has giv’n a Son,Finchon the Moor, andFrenchandMiddleton;Twice in this year a femaleGilesI see,ASpaldingonce, and once aBarnaby;An humble man is he and when they meet,Our Farmers find him on a distant seat;There for their wit he serves a constant theme,“They praise his Dairy, they extol his Team,“They ask the price of each unrivall’d Steed,“And whence his Sheep, that admirable breed;“His thriving arts they beg he would explain,“And where he puts the Money he must gain:—“They have their Daughters, but they fear their friend“Would think his Sons too much would condescend;—“They have their Sons who would their fortunes try,“But fear his Daughters will their suit deny.”So runs the joke, whileJameswith sigh profound,And face of care, keeps looking on the ground;These looks and sighs provoke the insult more,And point the jest—forBarnabyis poor.Last in my List, five untaught Lads appear;Their Father dead, Compassion sent them here,For still that rustic Infidel denied,To have their Names with solemn Rite applied:His, a lone House, by Dead-man’s Dyke-way stood;And his, a nightly Haunt, in Lonely-wood;Each Village Inn has heard the ruffian boast,That he believ’d ‘in neither God nor Ghost;‘That when the sod upon the Sinner press’d,‘He, like the Saint, had everlasting rest;‘That never Priest believ’d his Doctrines true,}‘But would, for profit, own himself a Jew,}‘Or worship Wood and Stone, as honest Heathen do;}‘That fools alone on future Worlds rely,‘And all who die for Faith, deserve to die.’These Maxims,—part th’ Attorney’s Clerk profess’d,His own transcendant genius found the rest.Our pious Matrons heard and much amaz’d,Gaz’d on the Man and trembled as they gaz’d;And now his Face explor’d and now his Feet,Man’s dreaded Foe, in this Bad Man, to meet:But him our Drunkards as their Champion rais’d,Their Bishop call’d, and as their Hero prais’d;Though most when sober, and the rest, when sick,Had little question, whence his Bishoprick.But he, triumphant Spirit! all things dar’d,He poach’d the Wood and on the Warren snar’d;’Twas his, at Cards, each Novice to trepan,And call the Wants of Rogues the Rights of Man;Wild as the Winds, he let his Offspring rove,And deem’d the Marriage-Bond the Bane of Love.What Age and Sickness for a Man so bold,Had done, we know not;—none beheld him old:By night as business urg’d, he sought the Wood,The ditch was deep, the rain had caus’d a flood;The foot-bridge fail’d, he plung’d beneath the Deep,And slept, if truth were his, th’ eternal sleep.These have we nam’d; on Life’s rough Sea they sail,With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale!Where Passion soon, like powerful Winds, will rage,While wearied Prudence with their Strength engage;Then each, in aid, shall some Companion ask,For Help or Comfort in the tedious task;And what that Help—what Joys from Union flow,What Good or Ill, we next prepare to show;And row, meantime, our weary Bark ashore,AsSpencerhis—but not withSpencer’s Oar[7].

Next with their Boy, a decent Couple came,And call’d himRobert, ’twas his Father’s name;Three Girls preceded, all by time endear’d,And future Births were neither hop’d nor fear’d;Blest in each other, but to no excess;Health, quiet, comfort, form’d their happiness;Love all made up of torture and delight,Was but mere madness in this Couple’s sight:Susancould think, though not without a sigh,If she were gone, who should her place supply?AndRoberthalf in earnest, half in jest,Talk of her Spouse when he should be at rest;Yet strange would either think it to be told,Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold;Few were their Acres,—but they, well content,Were on each pay-day, ready with their rent;And few their wishes—what their Farm denied,The neighbouring town, at trifling cost, supplied;If at the Draper’s window,SusancastA longing look, as with her goods she pass’d;And with the produce of the wheel and churn,Bought her a Sunday-robe on her return;True to her maxim, she would take no rest,Till care repay’d that portion to the Chest:Or if, when loitering at the Whitsun-fair,HerRobertspent some idle shillings there;Up at the Barn, before the break of day,He made his labour for th’ indulgence pay;Thus both—that Waste itself might work in vain—Wrought double tides, and all was well again.Yet though so prudent, there were times of joy,(The Day they wed, the Christening of the Boy,)When to the wealthier Farmers there was shown,Welcome unfeign’d, and plenty like their own;ForSusanserv’d the Great and had some pride,Among our topmost people to preside;Yet in that plenty, in that welcome free,There was the guiding nice Frugality;That in the festal as the frugal day,Has in a different mode, a sovereign sway:As tides the same attractive influence knowIn the least ebb and in their proudest flow;The wise Frugality that does not give,A life to saving but that saves to live,Sparing not pinching, mindful though not mean,O’er all presiding, yet in nothing seen.

Recorded next a Babe of Love I trace!Of many Loves, the Mother’s fresh disgrace;—“Again, thou Harlot! could not all thy pain,“All my reproof, thy wanton thoughts restrain?”‘Alas! your Reverence, wanton thoughts, I grant,‘Were once my motive, now the thoughts of want;‘Women like me, as ducks in a decoy,‘Swim down a stream and seem to swim in joy;‘Your Sex pursue us and our own disdain,‘Return is dreadful and escape is vain.‘Would Men forsake us and would Women strive‘To help the fall’n, their Virtue might revive.’For Rite of Churching soon she made her way,In dread of Scandal, should she miss the day:—Two Matrons came! with them she humbly knelt,Their action copied and their comforts felt,From that great pain and peril to be free,Though still in peril of that pain to be;Alas! what numbers like this amorous Dame,Are quick to censure but are dead to shame!

Twin-Infants then appear, a Girl, a Boy,Th’ o’erflowing cup ofGerard Ablett’s joy:Seven have I nam’d, and but six years have pastBy him andJudithsince I bound them fast;Well pleas’d, the Bridegroom smil’d to hear—“A Vine“Fruitful and spreading round the walls be thine,“And branch-like be thine Offspring!”—GerardthenLook’d joyful love, and softly said, ‘Amen.’Now of that Vine he would no more increase,Those playful Branches now disturb his peace;Them he beholds around his table spread,But finds, the more the Branch, the less the Bread;And while they run his humble walls about,They keep the sunshine of good-humour out.Cease, man, to grieve! thy Master’s lot survey,Whom Wife and Children, thou and thine obey;A Farmer proud, beyond a Farmer’s pride,Of all around the envy or the guide;Who trots to market on a steed so fine,That when I meet him, I’m asham’d of mine;Whose board is high up-heap’d with generous fare,}Which five stout Sons and three tall Daughters share:}Cease, man, to grieve, and listen to his care.}A few years fled, and all thy Boys shall beLords of a Cot, and labourers like thee;Thy Girls unportioned neighbouring youths shall lead,Brides from my Church, and thenceforth thou art freed:But then thy Master shall of cares complain,Care after care, a long connected train;His Sons for Farms shall ask a large supply,For Farmer’s sons each gentle Miss shall sigh;Thy Mistress reasoning well of life’s decay,Shall ask a chaise and hardly brook delay;The smart young Cornet who, with so much grace,Rode in the ranks and betted at the Race,While the vext parent rails at deed so rash,Shall d—n his luck, and stretch his hand for cash.Sad troubles,Gerard!now pertain to thee,When thy rich Master seems from trouble free;But ’tis one fate at different times assign’d,And cares from thee departing, he must find.

“Ah!” quoth our village Grocer, rich and old,“Would! I might one such cause for care, behold!”To whom his Friend, ‘Mine greater bliss would be,‘Would Heav’n take those, my Spouse assigns to me.’

Aged were both, thatDawkins,Ditchemthis,Who much of Marriage thought and much amiss;Both would delay, the One, till—riches gain’d,The Son he wish’d might be to honour train’d;His Friend—lest fierce intruding Heirs should come,To waste his Hoard and vex his quiet Home.Dawkins, a dealer once on burthen’d back,Bore his whole substance in a pedlar’s pack;To dames discreet, the duties yet unpaid,His stores of Lace and Hyson he convey’d:When thus enrich’d, he chose at home to stopAnd fleece his neighbours in a new-built shop;Then woo’d a Spinster blithe and hop’d, when wed,For Love’s fair favours and a fruitful bed.Not so his Friend;—on Widow fair and staid,He fix’d his eye, but he was much afraid;Yet woo’d; while she, his hair of silver hueDemurely notic’d and her eye withdrew;Doubtful he paus’d—“Ah! were I sure,” he cried,“No craving Children would my gains divide;“Fair as she is, I would my Widow take,“And live more largely for my Partner’s sake.”With such their views, some thoughtful years they pass’d,And hoping, dreading, they were bound at last.And what their fate! Observe them as they go,Comparing fear with fear and woe with woe.“Ah! Humphrey! Humphrey! Envy in my breast,“Sickens to see thee in thy Children blest;“They are thy joys, while I go grieving home,“To a sad Spouse and our eternal gloom;“We look Despondency; no Infant near,“To bless the eye or win the Parent’s ear;“Our sudden heats and quarrels to allay,“And soothe the petty sufferings of the day:“Alike our want, yet both the want reprove,“Where are, I cry, these Pledges of our Love?“When she like Jacob’s wife makes fierce reply,“Yet fond—Oh! give me Children or I die;“And I return—still childless doom’d to live,“Like the vex’d Patriarch,—Are they mine to give?“Ah! much I envy thee, thy Boys who ride“On poplar branch and canter at thy side;“And Girls, whose cheeks thy chin’s fierce fondness know,“And with fresh beauty at the contact, glow.”‘Oh simple friend,’ said Humphrey, ’wouldst thou gain,‘A Father’s pleasure, by an Husband’s pain?‘Alas! what pleasure—when some vig’rous Boy‘Should swell thy pride, some rosy Girl thy joy?‘Is it to doubt, who grafted this sweet flower,‘Or whence arose that spirit and that power?‘Four years I’ve wed; not one has past in vain:‘Behold the fifth! Behold, a Babe again!‘My Wife’s gay friends th’ unwelcome imp admire,‘And fill the room with gratulation dire;‘While I in silence sate, revolving all!‘That influence antient men, or that befall;‘A gay pert guest—Heav’n knows his business—came;‘A glorious Boy, he cried, and what the name?‘Angry I growl’d; My spirit cease to tease,‘Name it yourselves,—Cain,Judas, if you please,‘His father’s give him, should you that explore,‘The Devil’s or your’s:—I said, and sought the door.‘My tender Partner not a word or sigh‘Gives to my wrath, nor to my speech reply;‘But takes her comforts, triumphs in my pain,‘And looks undaunted for a Birth again.’—Heirs thus denied afflict the pining heart,And thus afforded, jealous pangs impart;To prove these arrows of the giant’s hand,Are not for Man to stay or to command.

Then with their Infants three, the Parents came,And each assign’d—‘twas all they had—a Name:Names of no mark or price; of them not oneShall court our view on the sepulchral stone;Or stop the Clerk, th’ engraven scrolls to spell,Or keep the Sexton from the sermon-bell.

An Orphan Girl succeeds: ere she was born,Her Father died, her Mother on that morn;The pious Mistress of the School sustainsHer Parents’ part, nor their affection feigns,But pitying feels: with due respect and joy,I trace the Matron at her lov’d employ;What time the striplings wearied ev’n with play,}Part at the closing of the Summer’s day,}And each by different path, returns the well-known way.}Then I behold her at her cottage-door,Frugal of light:—her Bible laid before,When on her double duty she proceeds,Of Time as frugal;—knitting as she reads:Her idle neighbours who approach to tellOf news or nothing, her grave looks compel,To hear reluctant,—while the lads who pass,In pure respect, walk silent on the grass;Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes,Till solemn prayers the daily duties close.

But I digress, and lo! an Infant-trainAppear, and call me to my task again.‘WhyLonicerawilt thou name thy child?’I ask’d theGardener’s Wife, in accents mild:“We have a right,” replied the sturdy dame;—AndLonicerawas the Infant’s name.If next a Son shall yield our Gardener joy,ThenHyacinthusshall be that fair boy;And if a Girl, they will at length agree,ThatBelladonnathat fair maid shall be.High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets,And at his Club to wondering Swains repeats;He then ofRhusandRhododendronspeaks,AndAlliumcalls his Onions and his Leeks;Nor Weeds are now, for whence arose the Weed,Scarce Plants, fair Herbs and curious Flowers proceed;WhereCuckoo-pintsandDandelionssprung,(Gross names had they our plainer sires among;)ThereArums, thereLeontodonswe view,AndArtimisiagrows, whereWormwoodgrew.But though no weed exists, his Garden round,FromRumexstrong our Gardener frees his ground,Takes softSeniciofrom the yielding land,And grasps the arm’dUrticain his hand.NotDarwin’s self had more delight to singOf Floral Courtship, in th’ awaken’d spring;ThanPeter Pratt, who simpering loves to tell,How rise theStamens, as thePistilsswell;How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse,And give and take the vegetable vows;How those esteem’d of old, but tips and chives,Are tender husbands and obedient wives;Who live and love within the sacred bower,—That bridal bed, the vulgar term a Flower.HearPeterproudly, to some humble friend,A wondrous secret, in his science lend;—“Would you advance the nuptial hour, and bring“The fruit of Autumn, with the flowers of Spring;“View that light frame whereCucumislies spread,“And trace the husbands in their golden bed,“Three powder’dAnthers;—then no more delay,“But to theStigma’s top, their dust convey;“Then by thyself, from prying glance secure,“Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure;“A long-abiding race the deed shall pay,“Nor one unblest abortion pine away.”T’ admire their friend’s discourse our Swains agree,And call it Science and Philosophy.’Tis good, ’tis pleasant, through th’ advancing year,To see unnumber’d growing Forms appear;What leafy-life from Earth’s broad bosom rise!What insect-myriads seek the summer skies!What scaly tribes in every streamlet move!}What plumy people sing in every grove!}All with the year awak’d, to life, delight and love.}Then Names are good, for how, without their aidIs knowledge, gain’d by man, to man convey’d?But from that source shall all our pleasure flow?Shall all our knowledge be those Names to know?Then He, with memory blest, shall bear awayThe palm fromGrew, andMiddleton, andRay;No! let us rather seek in Grove and Field,What food for Wonder, what for Use they yield;Some just remark from Nature’s people bring,And some new source of homage for herKing.

Pride lives with all; strange Names our Rustics giveTo helpless Infants, that their own may live;Pleas’d to be known, some notice they will claim,And find some bye-way to the house of Fame.The straightest Furrow lifts the Ploughman’s heart,The Hat he gain’d has warmth for head and heart;The Bowl that beats the greater number down,Of tottering Nine-pins, gives to fame the Clown;Or foil’d in these, he opes his ample jaws,And lets a Frog leap down to gain applause;Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week,Or challenges a well-pinch’d pig, to squeak;Some idle deed, some child’s preposterous Name,Shall make him known and give his folly, fame.

To name an Infant met our Village-sires,Assembled all, as such event requires;Frequent and full, the rural Sages sate,And Speakers many urg’d the long debate,—Some harden’d knaves, who rov’d the country round,Had left a Babe within the Parish-bound.—First, of the fact they question’d—“Was it true?”The Child was brought—“What then remain’d to do?“Was’t dead or living?” This was fairly prov’d,’Twas pinch’d, it roar’d, and every doubt remov’d;Then by what Name th’ unwelcome guest to call,Was long a question and it pos’d them all:For he who lent a Name to Babe unknown,Censorious men might take it for his own;They look’d about, they ask’d the name of all,And not oneRichardanswer’d to the call;Next they enquir’d the day, when passing by,Th’unluckypeasant heard the stranger’s cry;This known; how Food and Raiment they might give,Was next debated—for the rogue would live;At last with all their words and work content,}Back to their homes, the prudent Vestry went,}AndRichard Mondayto the Workhouse sent.}There was he pinch’d and pitied, thump’d and fed,And duly took his beatings and his bread;Patient in all controul, in all abuse,He found contempt and kicking have their use:Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow,A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;His pliant soul gave way to all things base,He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace:It seem’d, so well his passions he suppress’d,No feeling stirr’d his ever-torpid breast;Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat,He was a footstool for the beggar’s feet;His were the legs that ran at all commands;They us’d on all occasions,Richard’s hands;His very soul was not his own; he stoleAs others order’d, and without a dole;In all disputes, on either part he lied,And freely pledg’d his oath on either side,In all rebellionsRichardjoin’d the rest,In all detectionsRichardfirst confess’d;Yet though disgrac’d, he watch’d his time so well,He rose in favour, when in fame he fell;Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,And all despis’d and fed the pliant boy:At length, “’tis time he should abroad be sent,”Was whisper’d near him,—and abroad he went;One morn they call’d him,Richardanswer’d not,They doom’d him hanging and in time forgot,—Yet miss’d him long, as each, throughout the clan,Found he “had better spar’d a better man.”NowRichard’s talents for the world were fit,He’d no small cunning and had some small wit;Had that calm look which seem’d to all assent,And that complacent speech which nothing meant;He’d but one care and that he strove to hide,How best forRichard Mondayto provide;Steel, through opposing plates the Magnet draws,And steelly atoms culls from dust and straws;And thus our Hero, to his interest true,Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew;But still more surely round the world to go,This Fortune’s Child, had neither friend nor foe.Long lost to us, at last our man we trace,SirRichard Mondaydied atMonday-place;His Lady’s worth, his Daughter’s we peruse;And find his Grandsons all as rich as Jews;He gave reforming Charities a sum,And bought the blessings of the Blind and Dumb;Bequeath’d to Missions money from the Stocks,And Bibles issu’d from his private box;But to his native place severely just,He left a pittance bound in rigid trust;Two paltry pounds, on every quarter’s-day,(At church produc’d) for forty loaves should pay;A stinted gift, that to the Parish shows,He kept in mind their bounty and their blows!

To Farmers three, the Year has giv’n a Son,Finchon the Moor, andFrenchandMiddleton;Twice in this year a femaleGilesI see,ASpaldingonce, and once aBarnaby;An humble man is he and when they meet,Our Farmers find him on a distant seat;There for their wit he serves a constant theme,“They praise his Dairy, they extol his Team,“They ask the price of each unrivall’d Steed,“And whence his Sheep, that admirable breed;“His thriving arts they beg he would explain,“And where he puts the Money he must gain:—“They have their Daughters, but they fear their friend“Would think his Sons too much would condescend;—“They have their Sons who would their fortunes try,“But fear his Daughters will their suit deny.”So runs the joke, whileJameswith sigh profound,And face of care, keeps looking on the ground;These looks and sighs provoke the insult more,And point the jest—forBarnabyis poor.

Last in my List, five untaught Lads appear;Their Father dead, Compassion sent them here,For still that rustic Infidel denied,To have their Names with solemn Rite applied:His, a lone House, by Dead-man’s Dyke-way stood;And his, a nightly Haunt, in Lonely-wood;Each Village Inn has heard the ruffian boast,That he believ’d ‘in neither God nor Ghost;‘That when the sod upon the Sinner press’d,‘He, like the Saint, had everlasting rest;‘That never Priest believ’d his Doctrines true,}‘But would, for profit, own himself a Jew,}‘Or worship Wood and Stone, as honest Heathen do;}‘That fools alone on future Worlds rely,‘And all who die for Faith, deserve to die.’These Maxims,—part th’ Attorney’s Clerk profess’d,His own transcendant genius found the rest.Our pious Matrons heard and much amaz’d,Gaz’d on the Man and trembled as they gaz’d;And now his Face explor’d and now his Feet,Man’s dreaded Foe, in this Bad Man, to meet:But him our Drunkards as their Champion rais’d,Their Bishop call’d, and as their Hero prais’d;Though most when sober, and the rest, when sick,Had little question, whence his Bishoprick.But he, triumphant Spirit! all things dar’d,He poach’d the Wood and on the Warren snar’d;’Twas his, at Cards, each Novice to trepan,And call the Wants of Rogues the Rights of Man;Wild as the Winds, he let his Offspring rove,And deem’d the Marriage-Bond the Bane of Love.What Age and Sickness for a Man so bold,Had done, we know not;—none beheld him old:By night as business urg’d, he sought the Wood,The ditch was deep, the rain had caus’d a flood;The foot-bridge fail’d, he plung’d beneath the Deep,And slept, if truth were his, th’ eternal sleep.

These have we nam’d; on Life’s rough Sea they sail,With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale!Where Passion soon, like powerful Winds, will rage,While wearied Prudence with their Strength engage;Then each, in aid, shall some Companion ask,For Help or Comfort in the tedious task;And what that Help—what Joys from Union flow,What Good or Ill, we next prepare to show;And row, meantime, our weary Bark ashore,AsSpencerhis—but not withSpencer’s Oar[7].

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