The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: George CrabbeRelease date: September 30, 2018 [eBook #57990]Most recently updated: January 24, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: PoemsAuthor: George CrabbeRelease date: September 30, 2018 [eBook #57990]Most recently updated: January 24, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

Title: Poems

Author: George Crabbe

Release date: September 30, 2018 [eBook #57990]Most recently updated: January 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

BYTHE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, LL.B.

Ipse per Ausonias Æneïa carmina gentesQui sonat, ingenti qui nomine pulsat Olympum;Mæöniumque senem Romano provocat ore:Forsitan illius nemoris latuisset in umbrâQuod canit, et sterili tantum cantâsset avenâIgnotus populi; si Mæcenate careret.Paneg. ad Pisones,Lucan.

====================THIRD EDITION.====================London:=======PRINTED FOR J. HATCHARD,BOOKSELLER TO HER MAJESTY, OPPOSITE ALBANY,PICCADILLY.====1808.Brettell & Co. Printers,Marshall-Street, Golden-Square.

Dedication.================

TOTHE RIGHT HONOURABLEHENRY-RICHARD FOX,L O R D H O L L A N D,OF HOLLAND, IN LINCOLNSHIRE;LORD HOLLAND, OF FOXLEY;ANDFELLOW OF THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES.=====================

MY LORD;

Thatthe longest Poem in this Collection was honoured by the notice of your Lordship’s Right Honourable and ever-valued Relation, Mr. Fox; that it should be the last which engaged his attention; and that some parts of it were marked with his approbation; are circumstances productive of better hopes ofultimate success, than I had dared to entertain before I was gratified with a knowledge of them: And the hope thus raised, leads me to ask permission that I may dedicate this Book to your Lordship, to whom that truly great and greatly lamented Personage was so nearly allied in family, so closely bound in affection, and in whose mind presides the same critical taste which he exerted to the delight of all who heard him. He doubtless united with his unequalled abilities, a fund of good-nature; and this possibly led him to speak favourably of, and give satisfaction to writers, with whose productions he might not be entirely satisfied; nor must I allow myself to suppose his desire of obliging was withholden, when he honoured any effort of mine with his approbation: But, my Lord, as there was discrimination in the opinion he gave; as he did not veil indifference for insipid mediocrity of composition under any general expression of cool approval; I allow myself to draw a favourable conclusion from the verdict of One who had the superiority of intellect few would dispute, which he made manifest by a force of eloquence peculiar to himself; whose excellent judgement, no one of his friends found cause to distrust, and whose acknowledged candour no enemy had the temerity to deny.

With such encouragement, I present my Book to your Lordship: the Account of theLife and Writings of Lopez de Vega, has taught me what I am to expect; I there perceive how your Lordship can write, and am there taught how you can judge of writers: my faults, however numerous, I know will none of them escape through inattention, nor will any merit be lost for want of discernment: My verses are before him who has written elegantly, who has judged with accuracy, and who has given unequivocal proof of abilities in a work of difficulty;—a translation of poetry, which few persons in this kingdom are able to read, and in the estimation of talents not hitherto justly appreciated: In this view, I cannot but feel some apprehension: but I know also, that your Lordship is apprised of the great difficulty of writing well; that you will make much allowance for failures, if not too frequently repeated;and, as you can accurately discern, so you will readily approve, all the better and more happy efforts of one, who places the highest value upon your Lordship’s approbation; and who has the honour to be,

MY LORD,Your Lordship’s most faithful,andobliged humble Servant,GEO. CRABBE.

Abouttwenty-five years since, was published a Poem calledThe Library; which, in no long time, was followed by two others,The Village, andThe Newspaper: These, with a few alterations and additions, are here reprinted; and are accompanied by a Poem of greater length, and several shorter attempts, now, for the first time, before the Public; whose reception of them creates in their Author, something more than common solicitude, because he conceives that, with the judgement to be formed of these latter productions, upon whatever may be found intrinsically meritorious or defective, there will be united an enquiry into the relative degree of praise or blame, which they may be thought to deserve, when compared with the more early attempts of the same Writer.

And certainly, were it the principal employment of a man’s life, to compose Verses, it might seem reasonable to expect, that he would continue to improve as long as he continued to live; though, even then, there is some doubt whether such improvement would follow, and perhaps proof might be adduced to shew, it would not: but when to this “idle trade,” is added some “calling,” with superior claims upon his time and attention, his progress in the art of Versification will probably be in proportion neither to the years he has lived, nor even to the attempts he has made.

While composing the first-published of these Poems, the Author was honoured with the notice and assisted by the advice of theRight HonourableEdmund Burke: Part of it was written in his presence, and the whole submitted to his judgement; receiving, in its progress, the benefit of his correction: I hope therefore to obtain pardon of the reader, if I eagerly seize the occasion, and, after so long a silence, endeavour to express a grateful sense of the benefits I have received from this Gentleman, who was solicitous for my more essential interests, as well as benevolently anxious for my credit as a writer.

I will not enter upon the subject of his extraordinary abilities; it would be vanity, it would be weaknessin me to believe that I could make them better known or more admired than they now are; but of his private worth, of his wishes to do good, of his affability and condescension; his readiness to lend assistance when he knew it was wanted, and his delight to give praise where he thought it was deserved; of these I may write with some propriety: all know that his powers were vast, his acquirements various, and I take leave to add, that he applied them, with unremitted attention, to those objects which he believed tended to the honour and welfare of his country; but it may not be so generally understood that he was ever assiduous in the more private duties of a benevolent nature, that he delighted to give encouragement to any promise of ability and assistance to any appearance of desert; to what purposes he employed his pen, and with what eloquence he spake in the senate, will be told by many, who yet may be ignorant of the solid instruction as well as the fascinating pleasantry found in his common conversation, among his friends, and his affectionate manners, amiable disposition, and zeal for their happiness, which he manifested in the hours of retirement with his family.

To this Gentleman I was indebted for my knowledge ofSirJoshua Reynolds, who was as well known tohis friends, for his perpetual fund of good-humour, and his unceasing wishes to oblige, as he was to the public, for the extraordinary productions of his pencil and his pen: By him I was favoured with an introduction toDoctorJohnson, who honoured me with his notice and assisted me, as Mr.Boswellhas told, with Remarks and Emendations for a Poem I was about to publish[1]: TheDoctorhad been often wearied by applications, and did not readily comply with requests, for his opinion; not from any unwillingness to oblige, but from a painful contention in his mind, between a desire of giving pleasure and a determination to speak truth. No man can, I think, publish a work without some expectation of satisfying those who are to judge of its merit: but I can, with the utmost regard to veracity, speak my fears, as predominating over every pre-indulged thought of a more favourable nature, when I was told that a judge so discerning, had consented to read and give his opinion of theVillage, the poem I had prepared for publication. The time of suspence was not long protracted; I was soon favoured with a few words fromSirJoshua, who observed,—‘If I knew how cautiousDoctorJohnsonwas in giving commendation, I should be well satisfied with the portion dealt to me in his letter.’—Of that letter the following is a copy:

“Sir;“I have sent you back Mr.Crabbe’s Poem; which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant.—The alterations which I have made, I do not require him to adopt; for, my lines are, perhaps, not often better [than] his own: but he may take mine and his own together, and perhaps, between them, produce something better than either.—He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced: A wet sponge will wash all the red lines away, and leave the pages clean.—His Dedication[2]will be least liked: it were better to contract it into a short sprightly Address.—I do not doubt of Mr.Crabbe’s success.“I am,Sir, your most humble servant,“March 4 1783.”“SAM: JOHNSON.”

“Sir;

“I have sent you back Mr.Crabbe’s Poem; which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant.—The alterations which I have made, I do not require him to adopt; for, my lines are, perhaps, not often better [than] his own: but he may take mine and his own together, and perhaps, between them, produce something better than either.—He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced: A wet sponge will wash all the red lines away, and leave the pages clean.—His Dedication[2]will be least liked: it were better to contract it into a short sprightly Address.—I do not doubt of Mr.Crabbe’s success.

“I am,Sir, your most humble servant,

“March 4 1783.”

“SAM: JOHNSON.”

That I was fully satisfied, my readers will do me the justice to believe; and I hope they will pardon me, if there should appear to them any impropriety in publishing the favourable opinion expressed in a private letter; they will judge, and truly, that by so doing I wish to bespeak their good opinion, but have no design of extorting their applause: I would not hazard an appearance so ostentatious, to gratify my vanity, but, I venture to do it, in compliance with my fears.

After these was published theNewspaper: it had not the advantage of such previous criticism from my friends, nor perhaps so much of my own attention as I ought to have given to it; but the impression was disposed of, and I will not pay so little respect to the judgement of my readers, as now to suppress, what they then approved.

Since the publication of this Poem, more than twenty years have elapsed, and I am not without apprehension, lest so long a silence should be construed into a blameable neglect of my own interest which those excellent friends were desirous of promoting; or what is yet worse, into a want of gratitude for their assistance; since it becomes me to suppose, they considered these first attempts as promises of better things, and their favours as stimulants tofuture exertion; and here, be the construction put upon my apparent negligence what itmay, let me not suppress my testimony to the liberality of those who are looked up to, as patrons and encouragers of literary merit, or indeed of merit of any kind: their patronage has never been refused, I conceive, when it has been reasonably expected or modestly required, and it would be difficult, probably, to instance, in these times and in this country, any one who merited or was supposed to merit assistance, but who nevertheless languished in obscurity or necessity for want of it; unless in those cases, where it was prevented by the resolution of impatient pride, or wearied by the solicitations of determined profligacy.—And while the subject is before me, I am unwilling to pass silently over the debt of gratitude which I owe to the memory of two deceased noblemen,His Grace the late Duke ofRutland, andThe Right Honourable the LordThurlow: sensible of the honour done me by their notice and the benefits received from them, I trust this acknowledgement will be imputed to its only motive, a grateful sense of their favours.

Upon this subject I could dwell with much pleasure; but to give a reason for that appearance of neglect, as it is more difficult, so happily it is less required: In truth I have, for many years, intended a republication of these Poems, as soon as I should be able to join with them, such other of later date, as might not deprive me of the little credit, the former had obtained. Long indeed has this purpose been procrastinated: and if the duties of a profession, not before pressing upon me; if the claims of a situation, at that time untried; if diffidence of my own judgement, and the loss of my earliest friends, will not sufficiently account for my delay, I must rely upon the good-nature of my reader, that he will let them avail as far as he can, and find an additional apology in my fears of his censure.

These fears being so prevalent with me, I determined not to publish any thing more, unless I could first obtain the sanction of such opinion, as I might with some confidence rely upon: I looked for a friend who, having the discerning taste ofMr.Burke, and the critical sagacity ofDoctorJohnson, would bestow upon my MS. the attention requisite to form his opinion, and would then favour me with the result of his observations: and it was my singular good fortune to gain such assistance; the opinion of a critic so qualified, and a friend so disposed to favour me. I had been honoured by an introduction to theRight HonourableCharles-James Fox, some years before, at the seat ofMr.Burke; and being againwith him, I received a promise that he would peruse any work I might send to him previous to its publication, and would give me his opinion. At that time, I did not think myself sufficiently prepared; and when, afterwards, I had collected some Poems for his inspection, I found my Right Honourable Friend engaged by the affairs of a great empire, and struggling with the inveteracy of a fatal disease: at such time, upon such mind, ever disposed to oblige as that mind was, I could not obtrude the petty business of criticizing verses: but he remembered the promise he had kindly given, and repeated an offer, which though I had not presumed to expect, I was happy to receive. A copy of the Poems, now first published, was immediately sent to him, and (as I have the information fromLordHolland, and his Lordship’s permission to inform my Readers) the Poem which I have namedThe Parish Register, was heard by Mr.Fox, and it excited interest enough, by some of its parts, to gain for me the benefit of his judgement upon the whole: Whatever he approved, the Reader will readily believe, I have carefully retained; the parts he disliked are totally expunged, and others are substituted, which I hope resemble those, more conformable to the taste of so admirable a judge; nor can I deny myself the melancholy satisfaction of addingthat this Poem, (and more especially the story ofPhœbe Dawson[3], with some parts of the second book) were the last compositions of their kind, that engaged and amused the capacious, the candid, the benevolent mind of this great Man.

The above information I owe to the favour ofThe Right Honourable LordHolland; nor this only, but to his Lordship I am indebted for some excellent remarks upon other parts of my MS. It was not indeed my good fortune then to know that my verses were in the hands of a Nobleman who had given proof of his accurate judgement as a critic, and his elegance as a writer, by favouring the public with an easy and spirited translation of some interesting scenes of a dramatic poet, not often read in this kingdom: The Life of Lope de Vega was then unknown to me; I had, in common with many English readers, heard of him, but could not judge whether his far-extended reputation was caused by the sublime efforts of a mighty genius, or the unequalled facility of a rapid composer, aided by peculiar and fortunate circumstances.—That any part of my MS. was honoured by the remarks ofLordHolland, yields me an high degree of satisfaction, and his Lordship will perceive the use I havemade of them, but I must feel some regret when I know to what small portion they were limited; and discerning as I do, the taste and judgement bestowed upon the verses of Lope de Vega, I must perceive how much my own needed the assistance afforded to one, who cannot be sensible of the benefit he has received.

But how much soever I may lament the advantages lost, let me remember with gratitude the helps I have obtained: With a single exception, every poem in the ensuing collection has been submitted to the critical sagacity of a gentleman, upon whose skill and candour their Author could rely: to publish by advice of friends, has been severely ridiculed, and that too by a poet, who probably without such advice, never made public any verses of his own; in fact, it may not be easily determined who acts with less discretion, the writer who is encouraged to publish his works, merely by the advice of friends whom he consulted, or he who against advice publishes from the sole encouragement of his own opinion: these are deceptions to be carefully avoided, and I was happy to escape the latter, by the friendly attentions of theReverendRichard Turner, Minister of Great Yarmouth. To this gentleman I am indebted, more than I am able to describe, or than he is willing to allow, for the time hehas bestowed upon the attempts I have made. He is indeed, the kind of critic for whom every poet should devoutly wish, and the friend whom every man would be happy to acquire; he has taste to discern all that is meritorious, and sagacity to detect whatsoever should be discarded; he gives just the opinion an author’s wisdom should covet, however his vanity might prompt him to reject it; what altogether to expunge and what to improve he has repeatedly taught me, and, could I have obeyed him in the latter direction as I invariably have in the former, the public would have found this collection more worthy its attention, and I should have sought the opinion of the critic more void of apprehension.

But whatever I may hope or fear, whatever assistance I have had or have needed, it becomes me to leave my verses to the judgement of the reader, without my endeavour to point out their merit or an apology for their defects: yet as, among the poetical attempts of one who has been for many years a priest, it may seem a want of respect for the legitimate objects of his study, that nothing occurs, unless it be incidentally, of the great subjects of Religion; so it may appear a kind of ingratitude in a beneficed clergyman, that he has not employed his talent (be it estimated as it may) to some patriotic purpose; as in celebrating the unsubduedspirit of his countrymen in their glorious resistance of those enemies, who would have no peace throughout the world, except that which is dictated to the drooping spirit of suffering humanity by the triumphant insolence of military success.

Credit will be given to me I hope, when I affirm that subjects so interesting have the due weight with me, which the sacred nature of the one and the national importance of the other must impress upon every mind, not seduced into carelessness for religion, by the lethargic influence of a perverted philosophy, nor into indifference for the cause of our country, by hyperbolical or hypocritical professions of universal philanthropy; but after many efforts to satisfy myself by various trials on these subjects, I declined all further attempt, from a conviction that I should not be able to give satisfaction to my readers: poetry of religious nature must indeed ever be clogged with almost insuperable difficulty: but there are doubtless to be found, poets who are well qualified to celebrate the unanimous and heroic spirit of our countrymen, and to describe in appropriate colours some of those extraordinary scenes, which have been and are shifting in the face of Europe, with such dreadful celerity; and to such I relinquish the duty.

It remains for me to give the reader, a brief viewof those articles in the following collection, which for the first time solicit his attention.

In theParish-Register, he will find an endeavour once more to describe Village-Manners, not by adopting the notion of pastoral simplicity or assuming ideas of rustic barbarity, but by more natural views of the peasantry, considered as a mixed body of persons sober or profligate, and from hence, in a great measure, contented or miserable. To this more general description are added, the various characters which occur in the three parts of a Register; Baptisms, Marriages, and Burials.

If theBirth of Flatteryoffer no moral, as an appendage to the fable, it is hoped, that nothing of an immoral, nothing of improper tendency will be imputed to a piece of poetical playfulness; in fact, genuine praise, like all other species of truth, is known by its bearing full investigation: it is what the giver is happy that he can justly bestow, and the receiver conscious that he may boldly accept; but adulation must ever be afraid of enquiry, and must, in proportion to their degrees of moral sensibility,

Be shame “to him that gives and him that takes.”

The verses in p. 211, want a title, nor does the motto, although it gave occasion to them, altogether express the sense of the writer, who meant to observethat some of our best acquisitions, and some of our nobler conquests are rendered ineffectual, by the passing away of opportunity and the changes made by time; an argument that such acquirements and moral habits are reserved for a state of being, in which they may have the uses here denied them.

In the story ofSir Eustace Grey, an attempt is made to describe the wanderings of a mind first irritated by the consequences of error and misfortune, and afterwards soothed by a species of enthusiastic conversion, still keeping him insane: a task very difficult, and if the presumption of the attempt may find pardon, it will not be refused to the failure of the poet. It is said of our Shakespeare, respecting madness:

“In that circle none dare walk but he:”—

yet be it granted to one, who dares not to pass the boundary fixed for common minds, at least to step near to the tremendous verge and form some idea of the terrors that are stalking in the interdicted space.

“When first I had writtenAaron, orThe Gipsey; I had no unfavourable opinion of it; and had I been collecting my verses at that time for publication, I should certainly have included this tale. Nine years have since elapsed, and I continue to judge the same of it, thus literally obeying one of the directions given by the prudence of criticism to the eagerness ofthe poet: but how far I may have conformed to rules of more importance, must be left to the less partial judgement of the readers.

The concluding poem, intitledWoman!, was written at the time when the quotation from Mr.Ledyardwas first made public; the expression has since become hackneyed; but the sentiment is congenial with our feelings, and though somewhat amplified in these verses, it is hoped they are not so far extended as to become tedious.

After this brief account of his subjects, the Author leaves them to their fate, not presuming to make any remarks upon the kinds of versification he has chosen, or the merit of the execution; he has indeed brought forward the favourable opinion of his friends, and for that he earnestly hopes his motives will be rightly understood; it was a step of which he felt the advantage while he foresaw the danger; he was aware of the benefit, if his readers would consider him as one who puts on a defensive armour against hasty and determined severity; but he feels also the hazard, lest they should suppose be looks upon himself to be guarded by his friends and so secure in the defence, that he may defy the fair judgement of legal criticism: it will probably be said, ‘he has brought with him his testimonials to the bar of the public;’ and he must admit the truth of the remark: but he begs leave to observe in reply, that, of those who bear testimonials of any kind, the greater numbers feel apprehension, and not security; they are indeed so far from the enjoyment of victory or the exultation of triumph, that, with all they can do for themselves, with all their friends have done for them, they are, like him, in dread of examination and in fear of disappointment.

Muston, Leicestershire,September 1807.

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THE READER.

Inthis Edition of his Poems, the Author has endeavoured to avail himself of such Remarks as have been communicated to him since the publication of his Work; and so far as the time allowed, he has sought to make the Improvements suggested: he is nevertheless conscious that much remains to be done, and must intreat the Indulgence of his Readers, if they still perceive many Places to which he ought to have directed his Attention; some which required Retrenchment; and not a few, which (with advantage to the Book) might have been altogether expunged.

July 26, 1808.

A Poem.IN TWO BOOKS.

========BOOK I.========

ARGUMENT.

The Subject proposed.—Remarks upon Pastoral Poetry.—A Tract of Country near the Coast described.—An Impoverished Borough.—Smugglers and their Assistants.—Rude Manners of the Inhabitants.—Ruinous Effects of an high Tide.—The Village Life more generally considered: Evils of it—The youthful Labourer.—The Old Man: his Soliloquy.—The Parish Workhouse: its Inhabitants.—The Sick Poor: their Apothecary.—The dying Pauper.—The Village Priest.

BOOK I.

TheVillage Life and every care that reignsO’er youthful Peasants and declining Swains;What labour yields and what, that labour past,Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;What form the real picture of the Poor,Demand a Song—the Muse can give no more.Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains,The rustic Poet prais’d his native Plains;No Shepherds now in smooth alternate verse,Their Country’s beauty or their Nymphs’ rehearse;Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,Still in our lays fondCorydonscomplain,And Shepherds’ boys, their amorous pains reveal,The only pains, alas! they never feel.OnMincio’s banks, inCæsar’s bounteous reign,IfTityrusfound the Golden Age again,Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong,Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song?From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray,WhereVirgil, not where Fancy, leads the way?Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy Swains,Because the Muses never knew their pains:They boast their Peasants’ pipes: but Peasants nowResign their pipes and plod behind the plough;And few amid the Rural-tribe have time,To number syllables and play with rhyme;Save honestDuck, what son of Verse could shareThe Poet’s rapture and the Peasant’s care?Or the great labours of the Field degrade,With the new peril of a poorer trade?From this chief cause these idle praises spring,That themes so easy, few forbear to sing;For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask,To sing of Shepherds is an easy task;The happy youth assumes the common strain,A Nymph his mistress and himself a Swain;With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer,But all, to look like her, is painted fair.I grant indeed that Fields and Flocks have charms,For him that gazes or for him that farms;But when amid such pleasing scenes I traceThe poor laborious natives of the place,And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray,On their bare heads and dewy temples play;While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts,Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts;Then shall I dare these real ills to hide,In tinsel trappings of poetic pride?No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast,Which neither Groves nor happy Valleys boast;Where other cares than those the Muse relates,And other Shepherds dwell with other mates;By such examples taught, I paint the Cot,As Truth will paint it and as Bards will not:For you, ye Poor, of letter’d scorn complain,To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain;O’ercome by labour and bow’d down by time,Feel you the barren flattery of a Rhyme?Can Poets sooth you, when you pine for bread,By winding myrtles round your ruin’d shed?Can their light tales your weighty griefs o’erpower,Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour?Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o’er,Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;From thence a length of burning sand appears,Where the thin harvest waves its wither’d ears;Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,Reign o’er the land and rob the blighted rye:There Thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,And to the ragged infant threaten war;There Poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil;There the blue Bugloss paints the sterile soil;Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,The slimy Mallow waves her silky leaf;O’er the young shoot the Charlock throws a shade,And clasping Tares cling round the sickly blade;With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,And a sad splendour vainly shines around.So looks the Nymph whom wretched arts adorn,Betray’d by Man, then left for Man to scorn;Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose,While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose;Whose outward splendour is but folly’s dress,Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race,With sullen woe display’d in every face;Who, far from civil arts and social fly,And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.Here too the lawless Merchant of the mainDraws from his plough th’ intoxicated Swain;Want only claim’d the labour of the day,But vice now steals his nightly rest away.Where are the Swains, who, daily labour done,With rural games play’d down the setting sun;Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball,Or made the pond’rous quoit obliquely fall;While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong,Engag’d some artful stripling of the throng,And fell beneath him, foil’d, while far around,Hoarse triumph rose and rocks return’d the sound?Where now are these?—Beneath yon cliff they stand,To show the freighted pinnace where to land;To load the ready steed with guilty haste,To fly in terror o’er the pathless waste,Or when detected, in their straggling course,To foil their foes by cunning or by force;Or yielding part (which equal knaves demand)To gain a lawless passport through the land.Here wand’ring long, amid these frowning fields,I sought the simple life that Nature yields;Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp’d her place,And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;Who, only skill’d to take the finny tribe,The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,Wait on the shore, and as the waves run high,On the tost vessel bend their eager eye;Which to their coast directs its vent’rous way,Their’s, or the ocean’s miserable prey.As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,And wait for favouring winds to leave the land;While still for flight the ready wing is spread:So waited I the favouring hour, and fled;Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign,And cry’d, Ah! hapless they who still remain;Who still remain to hear the ocean roar,Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore;Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway,Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;When the sad tenant weeps from door to door,And begs a poor protection from the poor!But these are scenes where Nature’s niggard handGave a spare portion to the famish’d land;Her’s is the fault, if here mankind complainOf fruitless toil and labour spent in vain;But yet in other scenes more fair in view,Where Plenty smiles—alas! she smiles for few,And those who taste not, yet behold her store,}Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore,}The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.}Or will you deem them amply paid in health,Labour’s fair child, that languishes with Wealth?Go then! and see them rising with the sun,Through a long course of daily toil to run;See them beneath the Dog-star’s raging heat,When the knees tremble and the temples beat;Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o’erThe labour past, and toils to come explore;See them alternate suns and showers engage,And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;Thro’ fens and marshy moors their steps pursue,When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;Then own that labour may as fatal beTo these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.Amid this tribe too oft a manly prideStrives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide;There may you see the youth of slender frameContend with weakness, weariness, and shame;Yet urg’d along, and proudly loth to yield,He strives to join his fellows of the field;Till long-contending nature droops at last,Declining health rejects his poor repast,His cheerless Spouse the coming danger sees,And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.Yet grant them health, ’tis not for us to tell,Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;Or will you praise that, homely, healthy fare,Plenteous and plain, that happy Peasants share?Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, suchAs you who praise would never deign to touch.Ye gentle souls, who dream of Rural ease,Whom the smooth Stream and smoother Sonnet please;Go! if the peaceful Cot your praises share,Go look within, and ask if Peace be there;If Peace be his—that drooping weary Sire,Or their’s, that Offspring round their feeble fire;Or her’s, that Matron pale, whose trembling handTurns on the wretched hearth th’ expiring brand!Nor yet can Time itself obtain for theseLife’s latest comforts, due respect and ease;For yonder see that hoary Swain, whose age,Can with no cares except its own engage;Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to seeThe bare arms broken from the withering tree;On which, a boy, he climb’d the loftiest bough,Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.He once was chief in all the Rustic-trade,His steady hand the straightest furrow made;Full many a prize he won, and still is proudTo find the triumphs of his youth allow’d;A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes,He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs:For now he journeys to his grave in pain;The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain;Alternate masters now their slave command,Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand,And, when his age attempts its task in vain,With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain[4].Oft may you see him when he tends the sheep,His winter-charge, beneath the hillock weep;Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blowO’er his white locks and bury them in snow;When rous’d by rage and muttering in the morn,He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn.“Why do I live, when I desire to be“At once from life and life’s long labour free?“Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away,“Without the sorrows of a slow decay;“I, like yon wither’d leaf, remain behind,“Nipt by the frost and shivering in the wind;“There it abides till younger buds come on,“As I, now all my fellow swains are gone;“Then, from the rising generation thrust,“It falls, like me, unnotic’d to the dust.“These fruitful Fields, these numerous Flocks I see,“Are others’ gain, but killing cares to me;“To me the children of my youth are lords,“Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words:“Wants of their own demand their care; and who“Feels his own want and succours others too?“A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go,“None need my help and none relieve my woe;“Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,“And men forget the wretch they would not aid.”Thus groan the Old, till, by disease opprest,They taste a final woe, and then they rest.Their’s is yon House that holds the Parish Poor,Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;There, where the putrid vapours flagging, play,And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;—There Children dwell who know no Parents’ care;Parents, who know no Children’s love, dwell there;Heart-broken Matrons on their joyless bed,Forsaken Wives and Mothers never wed;Dejected Widows with unheeded tears,And crippled Age with more than childhood-fears;The Lame, the Blind, and, far the happiest they!The moping Idiot and the Madman gay.Here too the Sick their final doom receive,Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve,Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below;Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,And the cold charities of man to man:Whose laws indeed for ruin’d Age provide,And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,And pride imbitters what it can’t deny.Say ye, opprest by some fantastic woes,Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;Who press the downy couch, while slaves advanceWith timid eye, to read the distant glance;Who with sad prayers the weary Doctor tease,To name the nameless ever-new disease;Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,Which real pain and that alone can cure;How would ye bear in real pain to lie,Despis’d, neglected, left alone to die?How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,Where all that’s wretched pave the way for death?Such is that room which one rude beam divides,And naked rafters from the sloping sides;Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,And lath and mud are all that lie between;Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch’d, gives wayTo the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:Here, on a matted flock, with dust o’erspread,The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;For him no hand the cordial cup applies,Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;Anon, a Figure enters, quaintly neat,All pride and business, bustle and conceit;With looks unalter’d by these scenes of woe,With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go;He bids the gazing throng around him fly,And carries Fate and Physic in his eye;A potent Quack, long vers’d in human ills,Who first insults the victim whom he kills;Whose murd’rous hand a drowsy Bench protect,And whose most tender mercy is neglect.Paid by the Parish for attendance here,He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies,Impatience mark’d in his averted eyes;And, some habitual queries hurried o’er,Without reply, he rushes on the door;His drooping Patient, long inur’d to pain,And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;He ceases now the feeble help to craveOf Man; and silent sinks into the grave.But ere his death some pious doubts arise,Some simple fears which “bold bad” men despise:Fain would he ask the Parish Priest to proveHis title certain to the Joys above;For this he sends the murmuring Nurse, who callsThe holy Stranger to these dismal walls;And doth not he, the pious man, appear,He, “passing rich with forty pounds a year?”Ah! no, a Shepherd of a different stock,And far unlike him, feeds this little Flock;A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday’s task,As much as God or Man can fairly ask;The rest he gives to Loves and Labours light,To Fields the morning and to Feasts the night;None better skill’d the noisy Pack to guide,To urge their chace, to cheer them or to chide;A Sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day,And skill’d at Whist, devotes the night to play;Then, while such honours bloom around his head,Shall he sit sadly by the Sick Man’s bed,To raise the hope he feels not, or with zealTo combat fears that ev’n the pious feel?Now once again the gloomy scene explore,}Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o’er,}The Man of many Sorrows sighs no more.—}Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slowThe Bier moves winding from the vale below;There lie the happy Dead from trouble free,And the glad Parish pays the frugal fee:No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hearChurchwarden stern, or kingly Overseer;No more the Farmer claims his humble bow,Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!Now to the Church behold the Mourners come,Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb;The Village Children now their games suspend,To see the Bier that bears their ancient Friend;For he was one in all their idle sport,And like a Monarch rul’d their little Court;The pliant Bow he form’d, the flying Ball,The Bat, the Wicket, were his labours all;Him now they follow to his grave, and standSilent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand;While bending low, their eager eyes exploreThe mingled relicks of the Parish Poor:The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round,Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound;The busy Priest, detain’d by weightier care,Defers his duty till the day of prayer;And waiting long, the crowd retire distrest,To think a Poor Man’s bones should lie unblest[5].

ARGUMENT.

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