ANDwhat is Life?—An hour-glass on the run,A mist retreating from the morning sun,A busy, bustling, still repeated dream.—Its length?—A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.And happiness?—A bubble on the stream,That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.What is vain Hope?—The puffing gale of morn,That robs each flow’ret of its gem,—and dies;A cobweb hiding disappointment’s thorn,Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.—And thou, O Trouble?—nothing can suppose(And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows),What need requireth thee:So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,Some necessary cause must surely be.But disappointments, pains, and every woeDevoted wretches feel,The universal plagues of life below,Are mysteries still ’neath Fate’s unbroken seal.And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?—A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.And Peace? where can its happiness abound?—No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.Then what is Life?—When stripp’d of its disguise,A thing to be desir’d it cannot be;Since every thing that meets our foolish eyesGives proof sufficient of its vanity.’Tis but a trial all must undergo;To teach unthankful mortals how to prizeThat happiness vain man’s denied to know,Until he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.
ANDwhat is Life?—An hour-glass on the run,A mist retreating from the morning sun,A busy, bustling, still repeated dream.—Its length?—A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.And happiness?—A bubble on the stream,That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.What is vain Hope?—The puffing gale of morn,That robs each flow’ret of its gem,—and dies;A cobweb hiding disappointment’s thorn,Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.—And thou, O Trouble?—nothing can suppose(And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows),What need requireth thee:So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,Some necessary cause must surely be.But disappointments, pains, and every woeDevoted wretches feel,The universal plagues of life below,Are mysteries still ’neath Fate’s unbroken seal.And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?—A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.And Peace? where can its happiness abound?—No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.Then what is Life?—When stripp’d of its disguise,A thing to be desir’d it cannot be;Since every thing that meets our foolish eyesGives proof sufficient of its vanity.’Tis but a trial all must undergo;To teach unthankful mortals how to prizeThat happiness vain man’s denied to know,Until he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.
ANDwhat is Life?—An hour-glass on the run,A mist retreating from the morning sun,A busy, bustling, still repeated dream.—Its length?—A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.And happiness?—A bubble on the stream,That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.
What is vain Hope?—The puffing gale of morn,That robs each flow’ret of its gem,—and dies;A cobweb hiding disappointment’s thorn,Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.
—And thou, O Trouble?—nothing can suppose(And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows),What need requireth thee:So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,Some necessary cause must surely be.But disappointments, pains, and every woeDevoted wretches feel,The universal plagues of life below,Are mysteries still ’neath Fate’s unbroken seal.
And what is Death? is still the cause unfound?That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?—A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave.And Peace? where can its happiness abound?—No where at all, save heaven, and the grave.
Then what is Life?—When stripp’d of its disguise,A thing to be desir’d it cannot be;Since every thing that meets our foolish eyesGives proof sufficient of its vanity.’Tis but a trial all must undergo;To teach unthankful mortals how to prizeThat happiness vain man’s denied to know,Until he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.
OTHOUBliss! to riches known,Stranger to the poor alone;Giving most where none’s requir’d,Leaving none where most’s desir’d;Who, sworn friend to miser, keepsAdding to his useless heapsGifts on gifts, profusely stor’d,Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard:While poor, shatter’d Poverty,To advantage seen in me,With his rags, his wants, and pain,Waking pity but in vain,Bowing, cringing at thy side,Begs his mite, and is denied.O, thou blessing! let not meTell, as vain, my wants to thee;Thou, by name of Plenty stil’dFortune’s heir, her favourite child.’Tis a maxim—hunger feed,Give the needy when they need;He, whom all profess to serve,The same maxim did observe:Their obedience here, how well,Modern times will plainly tell.Hear my wants, nor deem me bold,Not without occasion told:Hear one wish; nor fail to give;Use me well, and bid me live.’Tis not great, what I solicit:Was it more, thou couldst not miss it:Now the cutting Winter’s come,’Tis but just to find a home,In some shelter, dry and warm,That will shield me from the storm.Toiling in the naked fields,Where no bush a shelter yields,Needy Labour dithering stands,Beats and blows his numbing hands;And upon the crumping snowsStamps, in vain, to warm his toes.Leaves are fled, that once had powerTo resist a summer shower;And the wind so piercing blows,Winnowing small the drifting snows,The summer shade of loaded boughWould vainly boast a shelter now:Piercing snows so searching fall,They sift a passage through them all.Though all’s vain to keep him warm,Poverty must brave the storm.Friendship none, its aid to lend:Health alone his only friend;Granting leave to live in pain,Giving strength to toil in vain;To be, while winter’s horrors last,The sport of every pelting blast.Oh, sad sons of Poverty!Victims doom’d to misery;Who can paint what pain prevailsO’er that heart which Want assails?Modest Shame the pain conceals:No one knows, but he who feels.O thou charm which Plenty crowns:Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns:Cast around a pitying eye!Feed the hungry, ere they die.Think, oh! think upon the poor,Nor against them shut thy door:Freely let thy bounty flow,On the sons of Want and Woe.Hills and dales no more are seenIn their dress of pleasing green;Summer’s robes are all thrown by,For the clothing of the sky;Snows on snows in heaps combine,Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine,And at distance rising proud,Each appears a fleecy cloud.Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;Exit bid to every woe:Take me in, shut out the blast,Make the doors and windows fast;Place me in some corner, where,Lolling in an elbow chair,Happy, blest to my desire,I may find a rouzing fire;While in chimney-corner nigh,Coal or wood, a fresh supply,Ready stands for laying on,Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone.Now and then, as taste decreedIn a book a page I’d read;And, inquiry to amuse,Peep at something in the news;See who’s married, and who’s dead,And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread:While on hob, or table nigh,Just to drink before I’m dry,A pitcher at my side should stand,With the barrel nigh at hand,Always ready as I will’d,When ’twas empty, to be fill’d;And, to be possess’d of all,A corner cupboard in the wall,With store of victuals lin’d complete,That when hungry I might eat.Then would I, in Plenty’s lap,For the first time take a nap;Falling back in easy lair,Sweetly slumbering in my chair;With no reflective thoughts to wakePains that cause my heart to ache,Of contracted debts, long made,In no prospect to be paid;And, to Want, sad news severe,Of provisions getting dear:While the Winter, shocking sight,Constant freezes day and night,Deep and deeper falls the snow,Labour’s slack, and wages low.These, and more, the poor can tell,Known, alas, by them too well,Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,Never more should trouble me.Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,Soft and smooth as flows the tide,Where no stones or choaking grassForce a curve ere it can pass:And as happy, and as blest,As beasts drop them down to rest,When in pastures, at their will,They have roam’d and eat their fill;Soft as nights in summer creep,So should I then fall asleep;While sweet visions of delight,So enchanting to the sight,Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes,Would sink me into extacies.Nor would pleasure’s dream once more,As they oft have done before,Cause be to create a pain,When I woke, to find them vain:Bitter past, the present sweet,Would my happiness complete.Oh; how easy should I lie,With the fire up-blazing high,(Summer’s artificial bloom,)That like an oven keeps the room,Or lovely May, as mild and warm:While, without, the raging stormIs roaring in the chimney-top,In no likelihood to drop;And the witchen-branches nigh,O’er my snug box towering high,That sweet shelter’d stands beneath,In convulsive eddies wreathe.Then while, tyrant-like, the stormTakes delight in doing harm.Down before him crushing all,Till his weapons useless fall;And as in oppression proudPeal his howlings long and loud,While the clouds, with horrid sweep,Give (as suits a tyrant’s trade)The sun a minute’s leave to peep,To smile upon the ruin’s made;And to make complete the blast,While the hail comes hard and fast,Rattling loud against the glass;And the snowy sleets, that pass,Driving up in heaps remainClose adhering to the pane,Stop the light and spread a gloom,Suiting sleep, around the room:—Oh, how blest ’mid these alarms,I should bask in Fortune’s arms,Who, defying every frown,Hugs me on her drowny breast,Bids my head lie easy down,And on Winter’s ruins rest.So upon the troubled sea,Emblematic simile,Birds are known to sit secure,While the billows roar and rave,Slumbering in their safety sure,Rock’d to sleep upon the wave.So would I still slumber on,Till hour-telling clocks had gone,And, from the contracted day,One or more had click’d away.Then with sitting wearied out,I for change’s sake, no doubt,Just might wish to leave my seat,And, to exercise my feet,Make a journey to the door,Put my nose out, but no more:There to village taste agree;Mark how times are like to be;How the weather’s getting on;Peep in ruts where carts have gone;Or, by stones, a sturdy stroke,View the hole the boys have broke,Crizzling, still inclin’d to freeze;—And the rime upon the trees.Then to pause on ills to come,Just look upward on the gloom;See fresh storms approaching fast,View them busy in the air,Boiling up the brewing blast,Still fresh horrors scheming there.Black and dismal, rising high,From the north they fright the eye:Pregnant with a thousand storms,Huddled in their icy arms,Heavy hovering as they come,Some as mountains seem—and someJagg’d as craggy rocks appearDismally advancing near:Fancy, at the cumbrous sight,Chills and shudders with affright,Fearing lest the air, in vain,Strive her station to maintain,And wearied, yeilding to the skies,The world beneath in ruin lies.So may Fancy think and feign;Fancy oft imagines vain:Nature’s laws, by wisdom penn’d,Mortals cannot comprehend;Power almighty Being gave,Endless Mercy stoops to save;Causes, hid from mortals’ sight,Prove “whatever is, is right.”Then to look again below,Labour’s former life I’d view,Who, still beating through the snow,Spite of storms their toils pursue,Forc’d out by sad NecessityThat sad fiend that forces me.Troubles, then no more my own,Which I but too long had known,Might create a care, a pain;Then I’d seek my joys again:Pile the fire up, fetch a drink,Then sit down again and think;Pause on all my sorrows past,Think how many a bitter blast,When it snow’d, and hail’d, and blew,I have toil’d and batter’d through.Then to ease reflective pain,To my sports I’d fall again,Till the clock had counted ten;When I’d seek my downy bed,Easy, happy, and well fed.Then might peep the morn, in vain,Through the rimy misted pane;Then might bawl the restless cock,And the loud-tongued village clock;And the flail might lump away,Waking soon the dreary day:They should never waken me,Independent, blest, and free;Nor, as usual, make me start,Yawning sigh with heavy heart,Loth to ope my sleepy eyes,Weary still, in pain to rise,With aching bones and heavy head,Worse than when I went to bed.With nothing then to raise a sigh,Oh, how happy should I lieTill the clock was eight, or more,Then proceed as heretofore.Best of blessings! sweetest charm!Boon these wishes while they’re warm;My fairy visions ne’er despise;As reason thinks, thou realize:Depress’d with want and povertyI sink, I fall, denied by thee.
OTHOUBliss! to riches known,Stranger to the poor alone;Giving most where none’s requir’d,Leaving none where most’s desir’d;Who, sworn friend to miser, keepsAdding to his useless heapsGifts on gifts, profusely stor’d,Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard:While poor, shatter’d Poverty,To advantage seen in me,With his rags, his wants, and pain,Waking pity but in vain,Bowing, cringing at thy side,Begs his mite, and is denied.O, thou blessing! let not meTell, as vain, my wants to thee;Thou, by name of Plenty stil’dFortune’s heir, her favourite child.’Tis a maxim—hunger feed,Give the needy when they need;He, whom all profess to serve,The same maxim did observe:Their obedience here, how well,Modern times will plainly tell.Hear my wants, nor deem me bold,Not without occasion told:Hear one wish; nor fail to give;Use me well, and bid me live.’Tis not great, what I solicit:Was it more, thou couldst not miss it:Now the cutting Winter’s come,’Tis but just to find a home,In some shelter, dry and warm,That will shield me from the storm.Toiling in the naked fields,Where no bush a shelter yields,Needy Labour dithering stands,Beats and blows his numbing hands;And upon the crumping snowsStamps, in vain, to warm his toes.Leaves are fled, that once had powerTo resist a summer shower;And the wind so piercing blows,Winnowing small the drifting snows,The summer shade of loaded boughWould vainly boast a shelter now:Piercing snows so searching fall,They sift a passage through them all.Though all’s vain to keep him warm,Poverty must brave the storm.Friendship none, its aid to lend:Health alone his only friend;Granting leave to live in pain,Giving strength to toil in vain;To be, while winter’s horrors last,The sport of every pelting blast.Oh, sad sons of Poverty!Victims doom’d to misery;Who can paint what pain prevailsO’er that heart which Want assails?Modest Shame the pain conceals:No one knows, but he who feels.O thou charm which Plenty crowns:Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns:Cast around a pitying eye!Feed the hungry, ere they die.Think, oh! think upon the poor,Nor against them shut thy door:Freely let thy bounty flow,On the sons of Want and Woe.Hills and dales no more are seenIn their dress of pleasing green;Summer’s robes are all thrown by,For the clothing of the sky;Snows on snows in heaps combine,Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine,And at distance rising proud,Each appears a fleecy cloud.Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;Exit bid to every woe:Take me in, shut out the blast,Make the doors and windows fast;Place me in some corner, where,Lolling in an elbow chair,Happy, blest to my desire,I may find a rouzing fire;While in chimney-corner nigh,Coal or wood, a fresh supply,Ready stands for laying on,Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone.Now and then, as taste decreedIn a book a page I’d read;And, inquiry to amuse,Peep at something in the news;See who’s married, and who’s dead,And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread:While on hob, or table nigh,Just to drink before I’m dry,A pitcher at my side should stand,With the barrel nigh at hand,Always ready as I will’d,When ’twas empty, to be fill’d;And, to be possess’d of all,A corner cupboard in the wall,With store of victuals lin’d complete,That when hungry I might eat.Then would I, in Plenty’s lap,For the first time take a nap;Falling back in easy lair,Sweetly slumbering in my chair;With no reflective thoughts to wakePains that cause my heart to ache,Of contracted debts, long made,In no prospect to be paid;And, to Want, sad news severe,Of provisions getting dear:While the Winter, shocking sight,Constant freezes day and night,Deep and deeper falls the snow,Labour’s slack, and wages low.These, and more, the poor can tell,Known, alas, by them too well,Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,Never more should trouble me.Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,Soft and smooth as flows the tide,Where no stones or choaking grassForce a curve ere it can pass:And as happy, and as blest,As beasts drop them down to rest,When in pastures, at their will,They have roam’d and eat their fill;Soft as nights in summer creep,So should I then fall asleep;While sweet visions of delight,So enchanting to the sight,Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes,Would sink me into extacies.Nor would pleasure’s dream once more,As they oft have done before,Cause be to create a pain,When I woke, to find them vain:Bitter past, the present sweet,Would my happiness complete.Oh; how easy should I lie,With the fire up-blazing high,(Summer’s artificial bloom,)That like an oven keeps the room,Or lovely May, as mild and warm:While, without, the raging stormIs roaring in the chimney-top,In no likelihood to drop;And the witchen-branches nigh,O’er my snug box towering high,That sweet shelter’d stands beneath,In convulsive eddies wreathe.Then while, tyrant-like, the stormTakes delight in doing harm.Down before him crushing all,Till his weapons useless fall;And as in oppression proudPeal his howlings long and loud,While the clouds, with horrid sweep,Give (as suits a tyrant’s trade)The sun a minute’s leave to peep,To smile upon the ruin’s made;And to make complete the blast,While the hail comes hard and fast,Rattling loud against the glass;And the snowy sleets, that pass,Driving up in heaps remainClose adhering to the pane,Stop the light and spread a gloom,Suiting sleep, around the room:—Oh, how blest ’mid these alarms,I should bask in Fortune’s arms,Who, defying every frown,Hugs me on her drowny breast,Bids my head lie easy down,And on Winter’s ruins rest.So upon the troubled sea,Emblematic simile,Birds are known to sit secure,While the billows roar and rave,Slumbering in their safety sure,Rock’d to sleep upon the wave.So would I still slumber on,Till hour-telling clocks had gone,And, from the contracted day,One or more had click’d away.Then with sitting wearied out,I for change’s sake, no doubt,Just might wish to leave my seat,And, to exercise my feet,Make a journey to the door,Put my nose out, but no more:There to village taste agree;Mark how times are like to be;How the weather’s getting on;Peep in ruts where carts have gone;Or, by stones, a sturdy stroke,View the hole the boys have broke,Crizzling, still inclin’d to freeze;—And the rime upon the trees.Then to pause on ills to come,Just look upward on the gloom;See fresh storms approaching fast,View them busy in the air,Boiling up the brewing blast,Still fresh horrors scheming there.Black and dismal, rising high,From the north they fright the eye:Pregnant with a thousand storms,Huddled in their icy arms,Heavy hovering as they come,Some as mountains seem—and someJagg’d as craggy rocks appearDismally advancing near:Fancy, at the cumbrous sight,Chills and shudders with affright,Fearing lest the air, in vain,Strive her station to maintain,And wearied, yeilding to the skies,The world beneath in ruin lies.So may Fancy think and feign;Fancy oft imagines vain:Nature’s laws, by wisdom penn’d,Mortals cannot comprehend;Power almighty Being gave,Endless Mercy stoops to save;Causes, hid from mortals’ sight,Prove “whatever is, is right.”Then to look again below,Labour’s former life I’d view,Who, still beating through the snow,Spite of storms their toils pursue,Forc’d out by sad NecessityThat sad fiend that forces me.Troubles, then no more my own,Which I but too long had known,Might create a care, a pain;Then I’d seek my joys again:Pile the fire up, fetch a drink,Then sit down again and think;Pause on all my sorrows past,Think how many a bitter blast,When it snow’d, and hail’d, and blew,I have toil’d and batter’d through.Then to ease reflective pain,To my sports I’d fall again,Till the clock had counted ten;When I’d seek my downy bed,Easy, happy, and well fed.Then might peep the morn, in vain,Through the rimy misted pane;Then might bawl the restless cock,And the loud-tongued village clock;And the flail might lump away,Waking soon the dreary day:They should never waken me,Independent, blest, and free;Nor, as usual, make me start,Yawning sigh with heavy heart,Loth to ope my sleepy eyes,Weary still, in pain to rise,With aching bones and heavy head,Worse than when I went to bed.With nothing then to raise a sigh,Oh, how happy should I lieTill the clock was eight, or more,Then proceed as heretofore.Best of blessings! sweetest charm!Boon these wishes while they’re warm;My fairy visions ne’er despise;As reason thinks, thou realize:Depress’d with want and povertyI sink, I fall, denied by thee.
OTHOUBliss! to riches known,Stranger to the poor alone;Giving most where none’s requir’d,Leaving none where most’s desir’d;Who, sworn friend to miser, keepsAdding to his useless heapsGifts on gifts, profusely stor’d,Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard:While poor, shatter’d Poverty,To advantage seen in me,With his rags, his wants, and pain,Waking pity but in vain,Bowing, cringing at thy side,Begs his mite, and is denied.O, thou blessing! let not meTell, as vain, my wants to thee;Thou, by name of Plenty stil’dFortune’s heir, her favourite child.’Tis a maxim—hunger feed,Give the needy when they need;He, whom all profess to serve,The same maxim did observe:Their obedience here, how well,Modern times will plainly tell.Hear my wants, nor deem me bold,Not without occasion told:Hear one wish; nor fail to give;Use me well, and bid me live.
’Tis not great, what I solicit:Was it more, thou couldst not miss it:Now the cutting Winter’s come,’Tis but just to find a home,In some shelter, dry and warm,That will shield me from the storm.Toiling in the naked fields,Where no bush a shelter yields,Needy Labour dithering stands,Beats and blows his numbing hands;And upon the crumping snowsStamps, in vain, to warm his toes.Leaves are fled, that once had powerTo resist a summer shower;And the wind so piercing blows,Winnowing small the drifting snows,The summer shade of loaded boughWould vainly boast a shelter now:Piercing snows so searching fall,They sift a passage through them all.Though all’s vain to keep him warm,Poverty must brave the storm.Friendship none, its aid to lend:Health alone his only friend;Granting leave to live in pain,Giving strength to toil in vain;To be, while winter’s horrors last,The sport of every pelting blast.
Oh, sad sons of Poverty!Victims doom’d to misery;Who can paint what pain prevailsO’er that heart which Want assails?Modest Shame the pain conceals:No one knows, but he who feels.O thou charm which Plenty crowns:Fortune! smile, now Winter frowns:Cast around a pitying eye!Feed the hungry, ere they die.Think, oh! think upon the poor,Nor against them shut thy door:Freely let thy bounty flow,On the sons of Want and Woe.
Hills and dales no more are seenIn their dress of pleasing green;Summer’s robes are all thrown by,For the clothing of the sky;Snows on snows in heaps combine,Hillocks, rais’d as mountains, shine,And at distance rising proud,Each appears a fleecy cloud.Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;Exit bid to every woe:Take me in, shut out the blast,Make the doors and windows fast;Place me in some corner, where,Lolling in an elbow chair,Happy, blest to my desire,I may find a rouzing fire;While in chimney-corner nigh,Coal or wood, a fresh supply,Ready stands for laying on,Soon as t’other’s burnt and gone.Now and then, as taste decreedIn a book a page I’d read;And, inquiry to amuse,Peep at something in the news;See who’s married, and who’s dead,And who, through bankrupt, beg their bread:While on hob, or table nigh,Just to drink before I’m dry,A pitcher at my side should stand,With the barrel nigh at hand,Always ready as I will’d,When ’twas empty, to be fill’d;And, to be possess’d of all,A corner cupboard in the wall,With store of victuals lin’d complete,That when hungry I might eat.Then would I, in Plenty’s lap,For the first time take a nap;Falling back in easy lair,Sweetly slumbering in my chair;With no reflective thoughts to wakePains that cause my heart to ache,Of contracted debts, long made,In no prospect to be paid;And, to Want, sad news severe,Of provisions getting dear:While the Winter, shocking sight,Constant freezes day and night,Deep and deeper falls the snow,Labour’s slack, and wages low.These, and more, the poor can tell,Known, alas, by them too well,Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,Never more should trouble me.Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,Soft and smooth as flows the tide,Where no stones or choaking grassForce a curve ere it can pass:And as happy, and as blest,As beasts drop them down to rest,When in pastures, at their will,They have roam’d and eat their fill;Soft as nights in summer creep,So should I then fall asleep;While sweet visions of delight,So enchanting to the sight,Sweetly swimming o’er my eyes,Would sink me into extacies.Nor would pleasure’s dream once more,As they oft have done before,Cause be to create a pain,When I woke, to find them vain:Bitter past, the present sweet,Would my happiness complete.Oh; how easy should I lie,With the fire up-blazing high,(Summer’s artificial bloom,)That like an oven keeps the room,Or lovely May, as mild and warm:While, without, the raging stormIs roaring in the chimney-top,In no likelihood to drop;And the witchen-branches nigh,O’er my snug box towering high,That sweet shelter’d stands beneath,In convulsive eddies wreathe.Then while, tyrant-like, the stormTakes delight in doing harm.Down before him crushing all,Till his weapons useless fall;And as in oppression proudPeal his howlings long and loud,While the clouds, with horrid sweep,Give (as suits a tyrant’s trade)The sun a minute’s leave to peep,To smile upon the ruin’s made;And to make complete the blast,While the hail comes hard and fast,Rattling loud against the glass;And the snowy sleets, that pass,Driving up in heaps remainClose adhering to the pane,Stop the light and spread a gloom,Suiting sleep, around the room:—Oh, how blest ’mid these alarms,I should bask in Fortune’s arms,Who, defying every frown,Hugs me on her drowny breast,Bids my head lie easy down,And on Winter’s ruins rest.So upon the troubled sea,Emblematic simile,Birds are known to sit secure,While the billows roar and rave,Slumbering in their safety sure,Rock’d to sleep upon the wave.So would I still slumber on,Till hour-telling clocks had gone,And, from the contracted day,One or more had click’d away.Then with sitting wearied out,I for change’s sake, no doubt,Just might wish to leave my seat,And, to exercise my feet,Make a journey to the door,Put my nose out, but no more:There to village taste agree;Mark how times are like to be;How the weather’s getting on;Peep in ruts where carts have gone;Or, by stones, a sturdy stroke,View the hole the boys have broke,Crizzling, still inclin’d to freeze;—And the rime upon the trees.Then to pause on ills to come,Just look upward on the gloom;See fresh storms approaching fast,View them busy in the air,Boiling up the brewing blast,Still fresh horrors scheming there.Black and dismal, rising high,From the north they fright the eye:Pregnant with a thousand storms,Huddled in their icy arms,Heavy hovering as they come,Some as mountains seem—and someJagg’d as craggy rocks appearDismally advancing near:Fancy, at the cumbrous sight,Chills and shudders with affright,Fearing lest the air, in vain,Strive her station to maintain,And wearied, yeilding to the skies,The world beneath in ruin lies.So may Fancy think and feign;Fancy oft imagines vain:Nature’s laws, by wisdom penn’d,Mortals cannot comprehend;Power almighty Being gave,Endless Mercy stoops to save;Causes, hid from mortals’ sight,Prove “whatever is, is right.”
Then to look again below,Labour’s former life I’d view,Who, still beating through the snow,Spite of storms their toils pursue,Forc’d out by sad NecessityThat sad fiend that forces me.Troubles, then no more my own,Which I but too long had known,Might create a care, a pain;Then I’d seek my joys again:Pile the fire up, fetch a drink,Then sit down again and think;Pause on all my sorrows past,Think how many a bitter blast,When it snow’d, and hail’d, and blew,I have toil’d and batter’d through.Then to ease reflective pain,To my sports I’d fall again,Till the clock had counted ten;When I’d seek my downy bed,Easy, happy, and well fed.
Then might peep the morn, in vain,Through the rimy misted pane;Then might bawl the restless cock,And the loud-tongued village clock;And the flail might lump away,Waking soon the dreary day:They should never waken me,Independent, blest, and free;Nor, as usual, make me start,Yawning sigh with heavy heart,Loth to ope my sleepy eyes,Weary still, in pain to rise,With aching bones and heavy head,Worse than when I went to bed.With nothing then to raise a sigh,Oh, how happy should I lieTill the clock was eight, or more,Then proceed as heretofore.Best of blessings! sweetest charm!Boon these wishes while they’re warm;My fairy visions ne’er despise;As reason thinks, thou realize:Depress’d with want and povertyI sink, I fall, denied by thee.
ALLhow silent and how still;Nothing heard but yonder mill:While the dazzled eye surveysAll around a liquid blaze;And amid the scorching gleams,If we earnest look, it seemsAs if crooked bits of glassSeem’d repeatedly to pass.Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow!But breezes are all strangers now;Not a twig is seen to shake,Nor the smallest bent to quake;From the river’s muddy sideNot a curve is seen to glide;And no longer on the streamWatching lies the silver bream,Forcing, from repeated springs,“Verges in successive rings.”Bees are faint, and cease to hum;Birds are overpower’d and dumb.Rural voices all are mute,Tuneless lie the pipe and flute:Shepherds, with their panting sheep,In the swaliest corner creep;And from the tormenting heatAll are wishing to retreat.Huddled up in grass and flowers,Mowers wait for cooler hours;And the cow-boy seeks the sedge,Ramping in the woodland hedge,While his cattle o’er the valesScamper, with uplifted tails;Others not so wild and mad,That can better bear the gad,Underneath the hedge-row lunge,Or, if nigh, in waters plunge.Oh! to see how flowers are took,How it grieves me when I look:Ragged-robins, once so pink,Now are turn’d as black as ink,And the leaves, being scorch’d so much,Even crumble at the touch;Drowking lies the meadow-sweet,Flopping down beneath one’s feetWhile to all the flowers that blow,If in open air they grow,Th’ injurious deed alike is doneBy the hot relentless sun.E’en the dew is parched upFrom the teasel’s jointed cup:O poor birds! where must ye fly,Now your water-pots are dry?If ye stay upon the heath,Ye’ll be choak’d and clamm’d to death:Therefore leave the shadeless goss,Seek the spring-head lin’d with moss;There your little feet may stand,Safely printing on the sand;While, in full possession, wherePurling eddies ripple clear,You with ease and plenty blest,Sip the coolest and the best.Then away! and wet your throats;Cheer me with your warbling notes:T’will hot noon the more revive;While I wander to contriveFor myself a place as good,In the middle of a wood:There aside some mossy bank,Where the grass in bunches rankLifts its down on spindles high,Shall be where I’ll choose to lie;Fearless of the things that creep,There I’ll think, and there I’ll sleep;Caring not to stir at all,Till the dew begins to fall.
ALLhow silent and how still;Nothing heard but yonder mill:While the dazzled eye surveysAll around a liquid blaze;And amid the scorching gleams,If we earnest look, it seemsAs if crooked bits of glassSeem’d repeatedly to pass.Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow!But breezes are all strangers now;Not a twig is seen to shake,Nor the smallest bent to quake;From the river’s muddy sideNot a curve is seen to glide;And no longer on the streamWatching lies the silver bream,Forcing, from repeated springs,“Verges in successive rings.”Bees are faint, and cease to hum;Birds are overpower’d and dumb.Rural voices all are mute,Tuneless lie the pipe and flute:Shepherds, with their panting sheep,In the swaliest corner creep;And from the tormenting heatAll are wishing to retreat.Huddled up in grass and flowers,Mowers wait for cooler hours;And the cow-boy seeks the sedge,Ramping in the woodland hedge,While his cattle o’er the valesScamper, with uplifted tails;Others not so wild and mad,That can better bear the gad,Underneath the hedge-row lunge,Or, if nigh, in waters plunge.Oh! to see how flowers are took,How it grieves me when I look:Ragged-robins, once so pink,Now are turn’d as black as ink,And the leaves, being scorch’d so much,Even crumble at the touch;Drowking lies the meadow-sweet,Flopping down beneath one’s feetWhile to all the flowers that blow,If in open air they grow,Th’ injurious deed alike is doneBy the hot relentless sun.E’en the dew is parched upFrom the teasel’s jointed cup:O poor birds! where must ye fly,Now your water-pots are dry?If ye stay upon the heath,Ye’ll be choak’d and clamm’d to death:Therefore leave the shadeless goss,Seek the spring-head lin’d with moss;There your little feet may stand,Safely printing on the sand;While, in full possession, wherePurling eddies ripple clear,You with ease and plenty blest,Sip the coolest and the best.Then away! and wet your throats;Cheer me with your warbling notes:T’will hot noon the more revive;While I wander to contriveFor myself a place as good,In the middle of a wood:There aside some mossy bank,Where the grass in bunches rankLifts its down on spindles high,Shall be where I’ll choose to lie;Fearless of the things that creep,There I’ll think, and there I’ll sleep;Caring not to stir at all,Till the dew begins to fall.
ALLhow silent and how still;Nothing heard but yonder mill:While the dazzled eye surveysAll around a liquid blaze;And amid the scorching gleams,If we earnest look, it seemsAs if crooked bits of glassSeem’d repeatedly to pass.Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow!But breezes are all strangers now;Not a twig is seen to shake,Nor the smallest bent to quake;From the river’s muddy sideNot a curve is seen to glide;And no longer on the streamWatching lies the silver bream,Forcing, from repeated springs,“Verges in successive rings.”Bees are faint, and cease to hum;Birds are overpower’d and dumb.Rural voices all are mute,Tuneless lie the pipe and flute:Shepherds, with their panting sheep,In the swaliest corner creep;And from the tormenting heatAll are wishing to retreat.Huddled up in grass and flowers,Mowers wait for cooler hours;And the cow-boy seeks the sedge,Ramping in the woodland hedge,While his cattle o’er the valesScamper, with uplifted tails;Others not so wild and mad,That can better bear the gad,Underneath the hedge-row lunge,Or, if nigh, in waters plunge.Oh! to see how flowers are took,How it grieves me when I look:Ragged-robins, once so pink,Now are turn’d as black as ink,And the leaves, being scorch’d so much,Even crumble at the touch;Drowking lies the meadow-sweet,Flopping down beneath one’s feetWhile to all the flowers that blow,If in open air they grow,Th’ injurious deed alike is doneBy the hot relentless sun.E’en the dew is parched upFrom the teasel’s jointed cup:O poor birds! where must ye fly,Now your water-pots are dry?If ye stay upon the heath,Ye’ll be choak’d and clamm’d to death:Therefore leave the shadeless goss,Seek the spring-head lin’d with moss;There your little feet may stand,Safely printing on the sand;While, in full possession, wherePurling eddies ripple clear,You with ease and plenty blest,Sip the coolest and the best.Then away! and wet your throats;Cheer me with your warbling notes:T’will hot noon the more revive;While I wander to contriveFor myself a place as good,In the middle of a wood:There aside some mossy bank,Where the grass in bunches rankLifts its down on spindles high,Shall be where I’ll choose to lie;Fearless of the things that creep,There I’ll think, and there I’ll sleep;Caring not to stir at all,Till the dew begins to fall.
NOflattering praises daub my stone,My frailties and my faults to hide;My faults and failings all are known—I liv’d in sin—in sin I died.And oh! condemn me not, I pray,You who my sad confession view;But ask your soul, if it can say,That I’m a viler man than you.
NOflattering praises daub my stone,My frailties and my faults to hide;My faults and failings all are known—I liv’d in sin—in sin I died.And oh! condemn me not, I pray,You who my sad confession view;But ask your soul, if it can say,That I’m a viler man than you.
NOflattering praises daub my stone,My frailties and my faults to hide;My faults and failings all are known—I liv’d in sin—in sin I died.
And oh! condemn me not, I pray,You who my sad confession view;But ask your soul, if it can say,That I’m a viler man than you.
COCKSwake the early morn with many a crow;Loud-striking village clock has counted four;The labouring rustic hears his restless foe,And weary, of his pains complaining sore,Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor:Some busy ’gin to teem the loaded corn,Which night throng’d round the barn’s becrowded door;Such plenteous scenes the farmer’s yard adorn,Such noisy, busy toils now mark the Harvest Morn.The bird-boy’s pealing horn is loudly blow’d;The waggons jostle on with rattling sound;And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road,Grunting, and gabbling, in contention, roundThe barley ears that litter on the ground.What printing traces mark the waggon’s way;What busy bustling wakens echo round;How drive the sun’s warm beams the mist away;How labour sweats and toils, and dreads the sultry day!His scythe the mower o’er his shoulder leans,And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound;Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans,And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground;While ’neath some friendly heap, snug shelter’d roundFrom spoiling sun, lies hid the heart’s delight;And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round,Their toils pursuing with redoubled might—Great praise to him is due that brought its birth to light.Upon the waggon now, with eager bound,The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves;Or, resting ponderous creaking fork aground,Boastful at once whole shocks of barley heaves:The loading boy revengeful inly grievesTo find his unmatch’d strength and power decay;The barley horn his garments interweaves;Smarting and sweating ’neath the sultry day,With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away.A motley group the clearing field surround;Sons of Humanity, oh ne’er denyThe humble gleaner entrance in your ground;Winter’s sad cold, and Poverty are nigh.Grudge not from Providence the scant supply:You’ll never miss it from your ample store.Who gives denial—harden’d, hungry hound,—May never blessings crowd his hated door!But he shall never lack, that giveth to the poor.Ah, lovely Emma! mingling with the rest,Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen,Thy rosy cheeks, thy sweetly swelling breast;But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean.O Poverty! how basely you demeanThe imprison’d worth your rigid fates confine:Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queenSo sweet as Emma’s real beauties shine:Had Fortune blest, sweet girl, this lot had ne’er been thine.The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high,Refreshment must recruit exhausted power;The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by,And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour.The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flowerLingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends;And when to take the horn fond swains implore,With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends.So pass the bevering hours, so Harvest Morning ends.O Rural Life! what charms thy meanness hide;What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing;What loves, what graces on thy plains abide:Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing,What rifled charms should my researches bring!Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside;Of rural sports and beauties would I sing;Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride,Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride.
COCKSwake the early morn with many a crow;Loud-striking village clock has counted four;The labouring rustic hears his restless foe,And weary, of his pains complaining sore,Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor:Some busy ’gin to teem the loaded corn,Which night throng’d round the barn’s becrowded door;Such plenteous scenes the farmer’s yard adorn,Such noisy, busy toils now mark the Harvest Morn.The bird-boy’s pealing horn is loudly blow’d;The waggons jostle on with rattling sound;And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road,Grunting, and gabbling, in contention, roundThe barley ears that litter on the ground.What printing traces mark the waggon’s way;What busy bustling wakens echo round;How drive the sun’s warm beams the mist away;How labour sweats and toils, and dreads the sultry day!His scythe the mower o’er his shoulder leans,And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound;Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans,And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground;While ’neath some friendly heap, snug shelter’d roundFrom spoiling sun, lies hid the heart’s delight;And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round,Their toils pursuing with redoubled might—Great praise to him is due that brought its birth to light.Upon the waggon now, with eager bound,The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves;Or, resting ponderous creaking fork aground,Boastful at once whole shocks of barley heaves:The loading boy revengeful inly grievesTo find his unmatch’d strength and power decay;The barley horn his garments interweaves;Smarting and sweating ’neath the sultry day,With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away.A motley group the clearing field surround;Sons of Humanity, oh ne’er denyThe humble gleaner entrance in your ground;Winter’s sad cold, and Poverty are nigh.Grudge not from Providence the scant supply:You’ll never miss it from your ample store.Who gives denial—harden’d, hungry hound,—May never blessings crowd his hated door!But he shall never lack, that giveth to the poor.Ah, lovely Emma! mingling with the rest,Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen,Thy rosy cheeks, thy sweetly swelling breast;But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean.O Poverty! how basely you demeanThe imprison’d worth your rigid fates confine:Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queenSo sweet as Emma’s real beauties shine:Had Fortune blest, sweet girl, this lot had ne’er been thine.The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high,Refreshment must recruit exhausted power;The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by,And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour.The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flowerLingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends;And when to take the horn fond swains implore,With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends.So pass the bevering hours, so Harvest Morning ends.O Rural Life! what charms thy meanness hide;What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing;What loves, what graces on thy plains abide:Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing,What rifled charms should my researches bring!Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside;Of rural sports and beauties would I sing;Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride,Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride.
COCKSwake the early morn with many a crow;Loud-striking village clock has counted four;The labouring rustic hears his restless foe,And weary, of his pains complaining sore,Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor:Some busy ’gin to teem the loaded corn,Which night throng’d round the barn’s becrowded door;Such plenteous scenes the farmer’s yard adorn,Such noisy, busy toils now mark the Harvest Morn.
The bird-boy’s pealing horn is loudly blow’d;The waggons jostle on with rattling sound;And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road,Grunting, and gabbling, in contention, roundThe barley ears that litter on the ground.What printing traces mark the waggon’s way;What busy bustling wakens echo round;How drive the sun’s warm beams the mist away;How labour sweats and toils, and dreads the sultry day!
His scythe the mower o’er his shoulder leans,And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound;Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans,And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground;While ’neath some friendly heap, snug shelter’d roundFrom spoiling sun, lies hid the heart’s delight;And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round,Their toils pursuing with redoubled might—Great praise to him is due that brought its birth to light.
Upon the waggon now, with eager bound,The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves;Or, resting ponderous creaking fork aground,Boastful at once whole shocks of barley heaves:The loading boy revengeful inly grievesTo find his unmatch’d strength and power decay;The barley horn his garments interweaves;Smarting and sweating ’neath the sultry day,With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away.
A motley group the clearing field surround;Sons of Humanity, oh ne’er denyThe humble gleaner entrance in your ground;Winter’s sad cold, and Poverty are nigh.Grudge not from Providence the scant supply:You’ll never miss it from your ample store.Who gives denial—harden’d, hungry hound,—May never blessings crowd his hated door!But he shall never lack, that giveth to the poor.
Ah, lovely Emma! mingling with the rest,Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen,Thy rosy cheeks, thy sweetly swelling breast;But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean.O Poverty! how basely you demeanThe imprison’d worth your rigid fates confine:Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queenSo sweet as Emma’s real beauties shine:Had Fortune blest, sweet girl, this lot had ne’er been thine.
The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high,Refreshment must recruit exhausted power;The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by,And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour.The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flowerLingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends;And when to take the horn fond swains implore,With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends.So pass the bevering hours, so Harvest Morning ends.
O Rural Life! what charms thy meanness hide;What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing;What loves, what graces on thy plains abide:Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing,What rifled charms should my researches bring!Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside;Of rural sports and beauties would I sing;Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride,Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride.
BENEATHthe sod where smiling creepThe daisies into view,The ashes of an Infant sleep,Whose soul’s as smiling too;Ah! doubly happy, doubly blest,(Had I so happy been!)Recall’d to heaven’s eternal rest,Ere it knew how to sin.Thrice happy Infant! great the blissAlone reserv’d for thee;Such joy ’twas my sad fate to miss,And thy good luck to see;For oh! when all must rise again,And sentence then shall have,What crowds will wish with me, in vain,They’d fill’d an infant’s grave.
BENEATHthe sod where smiling creepThe daisies into view,The ashes of an Infant sleep,Whose soul’s as smiling too;Ah! doubly happy, doubly blest,(Had I so happy been!)Recall’d to heaven’s eternal rest,Ere it knew how to sin.Thrice happy Infant! great the blissAlone reserv’d for thee;Such joy ’twas my sad fate to miss,And thy good luck to see;For oh! when all must rise again,And sentence then shall have,What crowds will wish with me, in vain,They’d fill’d an infant’s grave.
BENEATHthe sod where smiling creepThe daisies into view,The ashes of an Infant sleep,Whose soul’s as smiling too;Ah! doubly happy, doubly blest,(Had I so happy been!)Recall’d to heaven’s eternal rest,Ere it knew how to sin.
Thrice happy Infant! great the blissAlone reserv’d for thee;Such joy ’twas my sad fate to miss,And thy good luck to see;For oh! when all must rise again,And sentence then shall have,What crowds will wish with me, in vain,They’d fill’d an infant’s grave.
WELCOME, old Comrade! peeping once again;Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour:Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain,And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower.Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place;Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side;Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled faceDecks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride.Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless hereEncampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side;Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear;And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied.Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage,But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee;Far better luck thy visits well presage,And be it thine and mine that luck to see.Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tellTo see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart;I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well,Till ripening summer summons us to part.Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been,We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year;And o’er thy exit from this changing sceneWe’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear.
WELCOME, old Comrade! peeping once again;Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour:Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain,And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower.Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place;Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side;Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled faceDecks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride.Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless hereEncampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side;Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear;And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied.Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage,But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee;Far better luck thy visits well presage,And be it thine and mine that luck to see.Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tellTo see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart;I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well,Till ripening summer summons us to part.Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been,We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year;And o’er thy exit from this changing sceneWe’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear.
WELCOME, old Comrade! peeping once again;Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour:Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain,And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower.
Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place;Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side;Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled faceDecks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride.
Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless hereEncampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side;Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear;And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied.
Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage,But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee;Far better luck thy visits well presage,And be it thine and mine that luck to see.
Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tellTo see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart;I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well,Till ripening summer summons us to part.
Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been,We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year;And o’er thy exit from this changing sceneWe’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear.
THEsinking sun is taking leave,And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve,While huddling clouds of purple dyeGloomy hang the western sky.Crows crowd croaking over-head,Hastening to the woods to bed.Cooing sits the lonely dove,Calling home her absent love.With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats,Partridge distant partridge greets;Beckoning hints to those that roam,That guide the squander’d covey home.Swallows check their winding flight,And twittering on the chimney light.Round the pond the martins flirt,Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt,While the mason, ’neath the slates,Each mortar-bearing bird awaits:By art untaught, each labouring spouseCurious daubs his hanging house.Bats flit by in hood and cowl;Through the barn-hole pops the owl;From the hedge, in drowsy hum,Heedless buzzing beetles bum,Haunting every bushy place,Flopping in the labourer’s face.Now the snail hath made his ring;And the moth with snowy wingCircles round in winding whirls,Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearlsOn each nodding rush besprent;Dancing on from bent to bent:Now to downy grasses clung,Resting for a while he’s hung;Strong to ferry o’er the stream,Vanishing as flies a dream:Playful still his hours to keep,Till his time has come to sleep;In tall grass, by fountain-head,Weary then he drops to bed.From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heapsStartled frogs take vaunting leaps;And along the shaven mead,Jumping travellers, they proceed:Quick the dewy grass divides,Moistening sweet their speckled sides;From the grass or flowret’s cup,Quick the dew-drop bounces up.Now the blue fog creeps along,And the bird’s forgot his song:Flowers now sleep within their hoods;Daisies button into buds;From soiling dew the butter-cupShuts his golden jewels up;And the rose and woodbine theyWait again the smiles of day.’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs,Dolly, singing, milks hers cows;While the brook, as bubbling by,Joins in murmuring melody.Dick and Dob, with jostling joll,Homeward drag the rumbling roll;Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait,Lolls him o’er the pasture gate.Swains to fold their sheep begin;Dogs loud barking drive them in.Hedgers now along the roadHomeward bend beneath their load;And from the long furrow’d seams,Ploughmen loose their weary teams:Ball, with urging lashes weal’d.Still so slow to drive a-field,Eager blundering from the plough,Wants no whip to drive him now;At the stable-door he stands,Looking round for friendly handsTo loose the door its fast’ning pin,And let him with his corn begin.Round the yard, a thousand waysBeasts in expectation gaze,Catching at the loads of hayPassing fodd’rers tug away.Hogs with grumbling, deaf’ning noiseBother round the server boys;And, far and near, the motley groupAnxious claim their suppering-up.From the rest, a blest release,Gabbling home, the quarrelling geeseSeek their warm straw-litter’d shed,And, waddling, prate away to bed.’Nighted by unseen delay,Poking hens, that lose their way,On the hovel’s rafters rise,Slumbering there, the fox’s prize.Now the cat has ta’en her seat,With her tail curl’d round her feet;Patiently she sits to watchSparrows fighting on the thatch.Now Doll brings th’ expected pails.And dogs begin to wag their tails;With strokes and pats they’re welcom’d inAnd they with looking wants begin:Slove in the milk-pail brimming o’er,She pops their dish behind the door.Prone to mischief boys are met,’Neath the eaves the ladder’s set,Sly they climb in softest tread,To catch the sparrow on his bed,Massacred, O cruel pride!Dash against the ladder’s side.Curst barbarians! pass me by:Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh;Sure my sparrow’s are my own,Let ye then my birds alone.Come poor birds! from foes severeFearless come, you’re welcome here;My heart yearns at fate like yours,A sparrow’s life’s as sweet as ours.Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheatWhich hunger forces birds to eat:Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you,Can’t see the good which sparrows do.Did not poor birds with watching roundsPick up the insects from your grounds,Did they not tend your rising grain,You might then sow to reap in vain.Thus Providence, right understood,Whose end and aim is doing good,Sends nothing here without its use;Though ignorance loads it with abuse;And fools despise the blessing sent,And mock the Giver’s good intent—O God! let me what’s good pursue,Let me the same to others doAs I’d have others do to me,And learn at least humanity.Dark and darker glooms the sky;Sleep ’gins close the labourer’s eye:Dobson leaves his greensward seat,Neighbours where they neighbours meetCrops to praise and work in hand,And battles tell from foreign land.While his pipe is puffing out,Sue he’s putting to the rout,Gossiping, who takes delightTo shool her knitting out at night,And back-bite neighbours ’bout the town—Who’s got new caps, and who a gown,And many a thing, her evil eyeCan see they don’t come honest by.Chattering at a neighbour’s house,She hears call out her frowning spousePrepar’d to start, she soodles home,Her knitting twirling o’er her thumb,As, loth to leave, afraid to stay,She bawls her story all the way:The tale so fraught with ’ticing charms.Her apron folded o’er her arms,She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain,To end as evening comes again;And in the cottage gangs with dreadTo meet old Dobson’s timely frown,Who grumbling sits, prepar’d for bed,While she stands chelping ’bout the town.The night-wind now, with sooty wings,In the cotter’s chimney sings;Now, as stretching o’er the bed,Soft I raise my drowsy head,Listening to the ushering charmsThat shake the elm tree’s mossy arms;Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,Deeper darkness stealing round,Then, as rock’d, I sink to sleep,’Mid the wild wind’s lulling sound.
THEsinking sun is taking leave,And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve,While huddling clouds of purple dyeGloomy hang the western sky.Crows crowd croaking over-head,Hastening to the woods to bed.Cooing sits the lonely dove,Calling home her absent love.With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats,Partridge distant partridge greets;Beckoning hints to those that roam,That guide the squander’d covey home.Swallows check their winding flight,And twittering on the chimney light.Round the pond the martins flirt,Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt,While the mason, ’neath the slates,Each mortar-bearing bird awaits:By art untaught, each labouring spouseCurious daubs his hanging house.Bats flit by in hood and cowl;Through the barn-hole pops the owl;From the hedge, in drowsy hum,Heedless buzzing beetles bum,Haunting every bushy place,Flopping in the labourer’s face.Now the snail hath made his ring;And the moth with snowy wingCircles round in winding whirls,Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearlsOn each nodding rush besprent;Dancing on from bent to bent:Now to downy grasses clung,Resting for a while he’s hung;Strong to ferry o’er the stream,Vanishing as flies a dream:Playful still his hours to keep,Till his time has come to sleep;In tall grass, by fountain-head,Weary then he drops to bed.From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heapsStartled frogs take vaunting leaps;And along the shaven mead,Jumping travellers, they proceed:Quick the dewy grass divides,Moistening sweet their speckled sides;From the grass or flowret’s cup,Quick the dew-drop bounces up.Now the blue fog creeps along,And the bird’s forgot his song:Flowers now sleep within their hoods;Daisies button into buds;From soiling dew the butter-cupShuts his golden jewels up;And the rose and woodbine theyWait again the smiles of day.’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs,Dolly, singing, milks hers cows;While the brook, as bubbling by,Joins in murmuring melody.Dick and Dob, with jostling joll,Homeward drag the rumbling roll;Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait,Lolls him o’er the pasture gate.Swains to fold their sheep begin;Dogs loud barking drive them in.Hedgers now along the roadHomeward bend beneath their load;And from the long furrow’d seams,Ploughmen loose their weary teams:Ball, with urging lashes weal’d.Still so slow to drive a-field,Eager blundering from the plough,Wants no whip to drive him now;At the stable-door he stands,Looking round for friendly handsTo loose the door its fast’ning pin,And let him with his corn begin.Round the yard, a thousand waysBeasts in expectation gaze,Catching at the loads of hayPassing fodd’rers tug away.Hogs with grumbling, deaf’ning noiseBother round the server boys;And, far and near, the motley groupAnxious claim their suppering-up.From the rest, a blest release,Gabbling home, the quarrelling geeseSeek their warm straw-litter’d shed,And, waddling, prate away to bed.’Nighted by unseen delay,Poking hens, that lose their way,On the hovel’s rafters rise,Slumbering there, the fox’s prize.Now the cat has ta’en her seat,With her tail curl’d round her feet;Patiently she sits to watchSparrows fighting on the thatch.Now Doll brings th’ expected pails.And dogs begin to wag their tails;With strokes and pats they’re welcom’d inAnd they with looking wants begin:Slove in the milk-pail brimming o’er,She pops their dish behind the door.Prone to mischief boys are met,’Neath the eaves the ladder’s set,Sly they climb in softest tread,To catch the sparrow on his bed,Massacred, O cruel pride!Dash against the ladder’s side.Curst barbarians! pass me by:Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh;Sure my sparrow’s are my own,Let ye then my birds alone.Come poor birds! from foes severeFearless come, you’re welcome here;My heart yearns at fate like yours,A sparrow’s life’s as sweet as ours.Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheatWhich hunger forces birds to eat:Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you,Can’t see the good which sparrows do.Did not poor birds with watching roundsPick up the insects from your grounds,Did they not tend your rising grain,You might then sow to reap in vain.Thus Providence, right understood,Whose end and aim is doing good,Sends nothing here without its use;Though ignorance loads it with abuse;And fools despise the blessing sent,And mock the Giver’s good intent—O God! let me what’s good pursue,Let me the same to others doAs I’d have others do to me,And learn at least humanity.Dark and darker glooms the sky;Sleep ’gins close the labourer’s eye:Dobson leaves his greensward seat,Neighbours where they neighbours meetCrops to praise and work in hand,And battles tell from foreign land.While his pipe is puffing out,Sue he’s putting to the rout,Gossiping, who takes delightTo shool her knitting out at night,And back-bite neighbours ’bout the town—Who’s got new caps, and who a gown,And many a thing, her evil eyeCan see they don’t come honest by.Chattering at a neighbour’s house,She hears call out her frowning spousePrepar’d to start, she soodles home,Her knitting twirling o’er her thumb,As, loth to leave, afraid to stay,She bawls her story all the way:The tale so fraught with ’ticing charms.Her apron folded o’er her arms,She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain,To end as evening comes again;And in the cottage gangs with dreadTo meet old Dobson’s timely frown,Who grumbling sits, prepar’d for bed,While she stands chelping ’bout the town.The night-wind now, with sooty wings,In the cotter’s chimney sings;Now, as stretching o’er the bed,Soft I raise my drowsy head,Listening to the ushering charmsThat shake the elm tree’s mossy arms;Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,Deeper darkness stealing round,Then, as rock’d, I sink to sleep,’Mid the wild wind’s lulling sound.
THEsinking sun is taking leave,And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve,While huddling clouds of purple dyeGloomy hang the western sky.Crows crowd croaking over-head,Hastening to the woods to bed.Cooing sits the lonely dove,Calling home her absent love.With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats,Partridge distant partridge greets;Beckoning hints to those that roam,That guide the squander’d covey home.Swallows check their winding flight,And twittering on the chimney light.Round the pond the martins flirt,Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt,While the mason, ’neath the slates,Each mortar-bearing bird awaits:By art untaught, each labouring spouseCurious daubs his hanging house.Bats flit by in hood and cowl;Through the barn-hole pops the owl;From the hedge, in drowsy hum,Heedless buzzing beetles bum,Haunting every bushy place,Flopping in the labourer’s face.Now the snail hath made his ring;And the moth with snowy wingCircles round in winding whirls,Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearlsOn each nodding rush besprent;Dancing on from bent to bent:Now to downy grasses clung,Resting for a while he’s hung;Strong to ferry o’er the stream,Vanishing as flies a dream:Playful still his hours to keep,Till his time has come to sleep;In tall grass, by fountain-head,Weary then he drops to bed.From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heapsStartled frogs take vaunting leaps;And along the shaven mead,Jumping travellers, they proceed:Quick the dewy grass divides,Moistening sweet their speckled sides;From the grass or flowret’s cup,Quick the dew-drop bounces up.Now the blue fog creeps along,And the bird’s forgot his song:Flowers now sleep within their hoods;Daisies button into buds;From soiling dew the butter-cupShuts his golden jewels up;And the rose and woodbine theyWait again the smiles of day.’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs,Dolly, singing, milks hers cows;While the brook, as bubbling by,Joins in murmuring melody.Dick and Dob, with jostling joll,Homeward drag the rumbling roll;Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait,Lolls him o’er the pasture gate.Swains to fold their sheep begin;Dogs loud barking drive them in.Hedgers now along the roadHomeward bend beneath their load;And from the long furrow’d seams,Ploughmen loose their weary teams:Ball, with urging lashes weal’d.Still so slow to drive a-field,Eager blundering from the plough,Wants no whip to drive him now;At the stable-door he stands,Looking round for friendly handsTo loose the door its fast’ning pin,And let him with his corn begin.Round the yard, a thousand waysBeasts in expectation gaze,Catching at the loads of hayPassing fodd’rers tug away.Hogs with grumbling, deaf’ning noiseBother round the server boys;And, far and near, the motley groupAnxious claim their suppering-up.From the rest, a blest release,Gabbling home, the quarrelling geeseSeek their warm straw-litter’d shed,And, waddling, prate away to bed.’Nighted by unseen delay,Poking hens, that lose their way,On the hovel’s rafters rise,Slumbering there, the fox’s prize.Now the cat has ta’en her seat,With her tail curl’d round her feet;Patiently she sits to watchSparrows fighting on the thatch.Now Doll brings th’ expected pails.And dogs begin to wag their tails;With strokes and pats they’re welcom’d inAnd they with looking wants begin:Slove in the milk-pail brimming o’er,She pops their dish behind the door.Prone to mischief boys are met,’Neath the eaves the ladder’s set,Sly they climb in softest tread,To catch the sparrow on his bed,Massacred, O cruel pride!Dash against the ladder’s side.Curst barbarians! pass me by:Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh;Sure my sparrow’s are my own,Let ye then my birds alone.Come poor birds! from foes severeFearless come, you’re welcome here;My heart yearns at fate like yours,A sparrow’s life’s as sweet as ours.Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheatWhich hunger forces birds to eat:Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you,Can’t see the good which sparrows do.Did not poor birds with watching roundsPick up the insects from your grounds,Did they not tend your rising grain,You might then sow to reap in vain.Thus Providence, right understood,Whose end and aim is doing good,Sends nothing here without its use;Though ignorance loads it with abuse;And fools despise the blessing sent,And mock the Giver’s good intent—O God! let me what’s good pursue,Let me the same to others doAs I’d have others do to me,And learn at least humanity.
Dark and darker glooms the sky;Sleep ’gins close the labourer’s eye:Dobson leaves his greensward seat,Neighbours where they neighbours meetCrops to praise and work in hand,And battles tell from foreign land.While his pipe is puffing out,Sue he’s putting to the rout,Gossiping, who takes delightTo shool her knitting out at night,And back-bite neighbours ’bout the town—Who’s got new caps, and who a gown,And many a thing, her evil eyeCan see they don’t come honest by.Chattering at a neighbour’s house,She hears call out her frowning spousePrepar’d to start, she soodles home,Her knitting twirling o’er her thumb,As, loth to leave, afraid to stay,She bawls her story all the way:The tale so fraught with ’ticing charms.Her apron folded o’er her arms,She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain,To end as evening comes again;And in the cottage gangs with dreadTo meet old Dobson’s timely frown,Who grumbling sits, prepar’d for bed,While she stands chelping ’bout the town.
The night-wind now, with sooty wings,In the cotter’s chimney sings;Now, as stretching o’er the bed,Soft I raise my drowsy head,Listening to the ushering charmsThat shake the elm tree’s mossy arms;Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,Deeper darkness stealing round,Then, as rock’d, I sink to sleep,’Mid the wild wind’s lulling sound.
YEswampy falls of pasture ground,And rushy spreading greens;Ye rising swells in brambles bound,And freedom’s wilder’d scenes;I’ve trod ye oft, and love ye dear,And kind was fate to let me;On you I found my all, for here’Twas first my Patty met me.Flow on, thou gently plashing stream,O’er weed-beds wild and rank;Delighted I’ve enjoy’d my dreamUpon thy mossy bank:Bemoistening many a weedy stem,I’ve watched thee wind so clearly;And on thy bank I found the gemThat makes me love thee dearly.Thou wilderness, so rudely gay;Oft as I seek thy plain,Oft as I wend my steps away,And meet my joys again,And brush the weaving branches byOf briars and thorns so matty;So oft Reflection warms a sigh,—Here first I meet my Patty.
YEswampy falls of pasture ground,And rushy spreading greens;Ye rising swells in brambles bound,And freedom’s wilder’d scenes;I’ve trod ye oft, and love ye dear,And kind was fate to let me;On you I found my all, for here’Twas first my Patty met me.Flow on, thou gently plashing stream,O’er weed-beds wild and rank;Delighted I’ve enjoy’d my dreamUpon thy mossy bank:Bemoistening many a weedy stem,I’ve watched thee wind so clearly;And on thy bank I found the gemThat makes me love thee dearly.Thou wilderness, so rudely gay;Oft as I seek thy plain,Oft as I wend my steps away,And meet my joys again,And brush the weaving branches byOf briars and thorns so matty;So oft Reflection warms a sigh,—Here first I meet my Patty.
YEswampy falls of pasture ground,And rushy spreading greens;Ye rising swells in brambles bound,And freedom’s wilder’d scenes;I’ve trod ye oft, and love ye dear,And kind was fate to let me;On you I found my all, for here’Twas first my Patty met me.
Flow on, thou gently plashing stream,O’er weed-beds wild and rank;Delighted I’ve enjoy’d my dreamUpon thy mossy bank:Bemoistening many a weedy stem,I’ve watched thee wind so clearly;And on thy bank I found the gemThat makes me love thee dearly.
Thou wilderness, so rudely gay;Oft as I seek thy plain,Oft as I wend my steps away,And meet my joys again,And brush the weaving branches byOf briars and thorns so matty;So oft Reflection warms a sigh,—Here first I meet my Patty.