Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumbering at his back.True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,Yet, careless what he brings, his one concernIs to conduct it to the destined inn;And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on.He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of griefPerhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;To him indifferent whether grief or joy.Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wetWith tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeksFast as the periods from his fluent quill,Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,Or nymphs responsive, equally affectHis horse and him, unconscious of them all.But O the important budget! usher'd inWith such heart-shaking music, who can sayWhat are its tidings? have our troops awaked?Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'dSnore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?Is India free? and does she wear her plumedAnd jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,The popular harangue, the tart reply,The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,And give them voice and utterance once again.Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urnThrows up a steamy column, and the cups,That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,So let us welcome peaceful evening in.Not such his evening, who with shining faceSweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezedAnd bored with elbow points through both his sides,Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,And his head thumps, to feed upon the breathOf patriots, bursting with heroic rage,Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.This folio of four pages, happy work!Which not e'en critics criticise; that holdsInquisitive attention, while I read,Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;What is it but a map of busy life,Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridgeThat tempts Ambition. On the summit seeThe seals of office glitter in his eyes;He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down,And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.Here rills of oily eloquence, in softMeanders, lubricate the course they take;The modest speaker is ashamed and grievedTo engross a moment's notice; and yet begs,Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,However trivial all that he conceives.Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise;The dearth of information and good sense,That it foretells us, always comes to pass.Cataracts of declamation thunder here;There forests of no meaning spread the page,In which all comprehension wanders lost;While fields of pleasantry amuse us thereWith merry descants on a nation's woes.The rest appears a wilderness of strangeBut gay confusion; roses for the cheeksAnd lilies for the brows of faded age,Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs,Æthereal journeys, submarine exploits,And Katerfelto, with his hair on endAt his own wonders, wondering for his bread.'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,To peep at such a world; to see the stirOf the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;To hear the roar she sends through all her gatesAt a safe distance, where the dying soundFalls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.Thus sitting, and surveying thus at easeThe globe and its concerns, I seem advancedTo some secure and more than mortal height,That liberates and exempts me from them all.It turns submitted to my view, turns roundWith all its generations; I beholdThe tumult and am still. The sound of warHas lost its terrors ere it reaches me;Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the prideAnd avarice that make man a wolf to man;Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,By which he speaks the language of his heart,And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.He travels and expatiates, as the beeFrom flower to flower, so he from land to land;The manners, customs, policy of allPay contribution to the store he gleans;He sucks intelligence in every clime,And spreads the honey of his deep researchAt his return—a rich repast for me.He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyesDiscover countries, with a kindred heartSuffer his woes, and share in his escapes;While fancy, like the finger of a clock,Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd,Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeksFringed with a beard made white with other snowsThan those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds,A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throneA sliding car, indebted to no wheels,But urg'd by storms along its slippery way,I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sunA prisoner in the yet undawning east,Shortening his journey between morn and noon,And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,Down to the rosy west; but kindly stillCompensating his loss with added hoursOf social converse and instructive ease,And gathering, at short notice, in one groupThe family dispersed, and fixing thought,Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.I crown thee king of intimate delights,Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,And all the comforts that the lowly roofOf undisturb'd Retirement, and the hoursOf long uninterrupted evening know.No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;No powder'd pert proficient in the artOf sounding an alarm assaults these doorsTill the street rings; no stationary steedsCough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound,The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:But here the needle plies its busy task,The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,Follow the nimble finger of the fair;A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blowWith most success when all besides decay.The poet's or historian's page by oneMade vocal for the amusement of the rest;The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet soundsThe touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;And the clear voice, symphonious, yet distinct,And in the charming strife triumphant still,Beguile the night, and set a keener edgeOn female industry: the threaded steelFlies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.The volume closed, the customary ritesOf the last meal commence. A Roman meal,Such as the mistress of the world once foundDelicious, when her patriots of high note,Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,And under an old oak's domestic shade,Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg!Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,Nor such as with a frown forbids the playOf fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:Nor do we madly, like an impious world,Who deem religion frenzy, and the GodThat made them an intruder on their joys,Start at his awful name, or deem his praiseA jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,Exciting oft our gratitude and love,While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand,That calls the past to our exact review,The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare,The disappointed foe, deliverance foundUnlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored,Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim'dThe Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply,More to be prized and coveted than yours,As more illumined, and with nobler truths,That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps,The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng,To thaw him into feeling; or the smartAnd snappish dialogue, that flippant witsCall comedy, to prompt him with a smile?The self-complacent actor, when he views(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)The slope of faces from the floor to the roof(As if one master spring controll'd them all,)Relax'd into a universal grin,Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joyHalf so refined or so sincere as ours.Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricksThat idleness has ever yet contrivedTo fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain,To palliate dullness, and give time a shove.Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound;But the World's Time is Time in masquerade!Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledgedWith motley plumes; and, where the peacock showsHis azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and redWith spots quadrangular of diamond form,Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard maceWell does the work of his destructive scythe.Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion blindsTo his true worth, most pleased when idle most;Whose only happy are their wasted hours.E'en misses, at whose age their mothers woreThe backstring and the bib, assume the dressOf womanhood, fit pupils in the schoolOf card-devoted Time, and, night by nightPlaced at some vacant corner of the board,Learn every trick, and soon play all the game.But truce with censure. Roving as I rove,Where shall I find an end, or how proceed?As he that travels far oft turns aside,To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower,Which seen delights him not; then, coming home,Describes and prints it, that the world may knowHow far he went for what was nothing worth;So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,With colours mix'd for a far different use,Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thingThat Fancy finds in her excursive flights.Come, Evening, once again, season of peace;Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,With matron step slow moving, while the NightTreads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'dIn letting fall the curtain of reposeOn bird and beast, the other charged for manWith sweet oblivion of the cares of day:Not sumptuously adorn'd, not needing aid,Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems;A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,Suffices thee; save that the moon is thineNo less than hers, not worn indeed on highWith ostentatious pageantry, but setWith modest grandeur in thy purple zone,Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:And, whether I devote thy gentle hoursTo books, to music, or the poet's toil;To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,When they command whom man was born to please;I slight thee not, but make thee welcome stillJust when our drawing-rooms begin to blazeWith lights, by clear reflection multipliedFrom many a mirror, in which he of Gath,Goliath, might have seen his giant bulkWhole without stooping, towering crest and all,My pleasures too begin. But me perhapsThe glowing hearth may satisfy awhileWith faint illumination, that upliftsThe shadows to the ceiling, there by fitsDancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.Not undelightful is an hour to meSo spent in parlour twilight: such a gloomSuits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,The mind contemplative, with some new themePregnant, or indisposed alike to all.Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers,That never felt a stupor, know no pause,Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess,Fearless, a soul that does not always think.Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wildSoothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'dIn the red cinders, while with poring eyeI gazed, myself creating what I saw.Nor less amused, have I quiescent watch'dThe sooty films that play upon the bars,Pendulous and foreboding, in the viewOf superstition, prophesying still,Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach.'Tis thus the understanding takes reposeIn indolent vacuity of thought,And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the faceConceals the mood lethargic with a maskOf deep deliberation, as the manWere task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost.Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hourAt evening, till at length the freezing blast,That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons homeThe recollected powers; and, snapping shortThe glassy threads with which the fancy weavesHer brittle toils, restores me to myself.How calm is my recess; and how the frost,Raging abroad, and the rough wind endearThe silence and the warmth enjoy'd within!I saw the woods and fields at close of dayA variegated show; the meadows green,Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved,The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share.I saw far off the weedy fallows smileWith verdure not unprofitable, grazedBy flocks, fast feeding, and selecting eachHis favourite herb; while all the leafless groves,That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue,Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.To-morrow brings a change, a total change!Which even now, though silently perform'd,And slowly, and by most unfelt, the faceOf universal nature undergoes.Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakesDescending, and with never ceasing lapse,Softly alighting upon all below,Assimilate all objects. Earth receivesGladly the thickening mantle; and the greenAnd tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast,Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.In such a world, so thorny, and where noneFinds happiness unblighted; or, if found,Without some thistly sorrow at its side;It seems the part of wisdom, and no sinAgainst the law of love, to measure lotsWith less distinguished than ourselves; that thusWe may with patience bear our moderate ills,And sympathize with others suffering more.Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalksIn ponderous boots beside his reeking team.The wain goes heavily, impeded soreBy congregated loads, adhering closeTo the clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish paceNoiseless appears a moving hill of snow.The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,While every breath, by respiration strongForced downward, is consolidated soonUpon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bearThe pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,With half-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and teethPresented bare against the storm, plods on.One hand secures his hat, save when with bothHe brandishes his pliant length of whip,Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.O happy; and, in my account, deniedThat sensibility of pain with whichRefinement is endued, thrice happy thou!Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeedThe piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd.The learned finger never need exploreThy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east,That breathes the spleen, and searches every boneOf the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.Thy days roll on exempt from household care;Thy wagon is thy wife, and the poor beasts,That drag the dull companion to and fro,Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st,Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great,With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place,Humane as they would seem, not always show.Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,Such claim compassion in a night like this,And have a friend in every feeling heart.Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour all day longThey brave the season, and yet find at eve,Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool.The frugal housewife trembles when she lightsHer scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear,But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys.The few small embers left she nurses well;And, while her infant race, with outspread hands,And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks,Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd.The man feels least, as more inured than sheTo winter, and the current in his veinsMore briskly moved by his severer toil;Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.The taper soon extinguish'd, which I sawDangled along at the cold finger's endJust when the day declined; and the brown loafLodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauceOf savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still;Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas,Where penury is felt the thought is chained,And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few!With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care,Ingenious Parsimony takes, but justSaves the small inventory, bed, and stool,Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale.They live, and live without extorted almsFrom grudging hands; but other boast have noneTo soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg,Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair,For ye are worthy; choosing rather farA dry but independent crust, hard earn'd,And eaten with a sigh, than to endureThe rugged frowns and insolent rebuffsOf knaves in office, partial in the workOf distribution; liberal of their aidTo clamorous importunity in rags,But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blushTo wear a tatter'd garb however coarse,Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth:These ask with painful shyness, and, refusedBecause deserving, silently retire!But be ye of good courage! Time itselfShall much befriend you. Time shall give increase;And all your numerous progeny, well train'd,But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not wantWhat, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send.I mean the man who, when the distant poorNeed help, denies them nothing but his name.But poverty with most, who whimper forthTheir long complaints, is self-inflicted woe;The effect of laziness or sottish waste.Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroadFor plunder; much solicitous how bestHe may compensate for a day of slothBy works of darkness and nocturnal wrong.Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge,Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stakesDeep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength,Resistless in so bad a cause, but lameTo better deeds, he bundles up the spoil,An ass's burden, and, when laden mostAnd heaviest, light of foot steals fast away,Nor does the boarded hovel better guardThe well-stack'd pile of riven logs and rootsFrom his pernicious force. Nor will he leaveUnwrench'd the door, however well secured,Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleepsIn unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the perch,He gives the princely bird, with all his wives,To his voracious bag, struggling in vain,And loudly wondering at the sudden change.Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse,Did pity of their sufferings warp asideHis principle, and tempt him into sinFor their support, so destitute. But theyNeglected pine at home; themselves, as moreExposed than others, with less scruple madeHis victims, robb'd of their defenceless all.Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirstOf ruinous ebriety that promptsHis every action, and imbrutes the man.O for a law to noose the villain's neckWho starves his own; who persecutes the bloodHe gave them in his children's veins, and hatesAnd wrongs the woman he has sworn to love!Pass where we may, through city or through town,Village, or hamlet, of this merry land,Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth paceConducts the unguarded nose to such a whiffOf stale debauch, forth issuing from the styesThat law has licensed, as makes temperance reel.There sit, involved and lost in curling cloudsOf Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor,The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman thereTakes a Lethean leave of all his toil;Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears,And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike,All learned, and all drunk! the fiddle screamsPlaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailedIts wasted tones and harmony unheard:Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she,Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate,Perch'd on the sign-post, holds with even handHer undecisive scales. In this she laysA weight of ignorance; in that, of pride;And smiles delighted with the eternal poise.Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound,The cheek distending oath, not to be praisedAs ornamental, musical, polite,Like those which modern senators employ,Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame!Behold the schools in which plebeian minds,Once simple, are initiated in arts,Which some may practise with politer grace,But none with readier skill!—'tis here they learnThe road that leads from competence and peaceTo indigence and rapine; till at lastSociety, grown weary of the load,Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out.But censure profits little: vain the attemptTo advertise in verse a public pest,That, like the filth with which the peasant feedsHis hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.The excise is fatten'd with the rich resultOf all this riot; and ten thousand casks,For ever dribbling out their base contents,Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state,Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!Gloriously drunk, obey the important call!Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;—Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.Would I had fallen upon those happier days,That poets celebrate; those golden times,And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings,And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had heartsThat felt their virtues: Innocence, it seems,From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the groves;The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'dUpon the yielding herbage (so they sing)Then were not all effaced: then speech profaneAnd manners profligate were rarely found,Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd.Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreamsSat for the picture: and the poet's hand,Imparting substance to an empty shade,Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.Grant it:—I still must envy them an ageThat favour'd such a dream; in days like theseImpossible, when Virtue is so scarce,That to suppose a scene where she presides,Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.No: we are polish'd now! The rural lass,Whom once her virgin modesty and grace,Her artless manners, and her neat attire,So dignified, that she was hardly lessThan the fair shepherdess of old romance,Is seen no more. The character is lost!Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft,And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised,And magnified beyond all human size,Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's handFor more than half the tresses it sustains;Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering formIll propp'd upon French heels; she might be deem'd(But that the basket dangling on her armInterprets her more truly) of a rankToo proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs.Expect her soon with footboy at her heels,No longer blushing for her awkward load,Her train and her umbrella all her care!The town has tinged the country; and the stainAppears a spot upon a vestal's robe,The worse for what it soils. The fashion runsDown into scenes still rural; but, alas!Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now!Time was when in the pastoral retreatThe unguarded door was safe; men did not watchTo invade another's right, or guard their own.Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscaredBy drunken howlings; and the chilling taleOf midnight murder was a wonder heardWith doubtful credit, told to frighten babes.But farewell now to unsuspicious nights,And slumbers unalarm'd! Now, ere you sleep,See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care,And drop the night bolt;—ruffians are abroad;And the first 'larum of the cock's shrill throatMay prove a trumpet, summoning your earTo horrid sounds of hostile feet within.E'en daylight has its dangers; and the walkThrough pathless wastes and woods, unconscious onceOf other tenants than melodious birds,Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.Lamented change! to which full many a causeInveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.The course of human things from good to ill,From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.Increase of power begets increase of wealth;Wealth luxury, and luxury excess;Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague,That seizes first the opulent, descendsTo the next rank contagious, and in timeTaints downwarn all the graduated scaleOf order, from the chariot to the plough.The rich, and they that have an arm to checkThe licence of the lowest in degree,Desert their office; and themselves, intentOn pleasure, haunt the capital, and thusTo all the violence of lawless handsResign the scenes their presence might protect.Authority herself not seldom sleeps,Though resident, and witness of the wrong.The plump convivial parson often bearsThe magisterial sword in vain, and laysHis reverence and his worship both to restOn the same cushion of habitual sloth.Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;When he should strike he trembles, and sets free,Himself enslaved by terror of the band,The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind.Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,He too may have his vice, and sometimes proveLess dainty than becomes his grave outsideIn lucrative concerns. Examine wellHis milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean—But here and there an ugly smutch appears.Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'dCorruption! Whoso seeks an audit herePropitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.But faster far, and more than all the rest,A noble cause, which none, who bears a sparkOf public virtue, ever wish'd removed,Works the deplored and mischievous effect.'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'dThe heart of merit in the meaner class.Arms, through the vanity and brainless rageOf those that bear them, in whatever cause,Seem most at variance with all moral good,And incompatible with serious thought.The clown, the child of nature, without guile,Blest with an infant's ignorance of allBut his own simple pleasures; now and thenA wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair;Is balloted, and trembles at the news:Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swearsA bible-oath to be whate'er they please,To do he knows not what. The task perform'd,That instant he becomes the serjeant's care,His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.His awkward gait, his introverted toes,Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,Procure him many a curse. By slow degreesUnapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff,He yet by slow degrees puts off himself,Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well:He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk;He steps right onward, martial in his air,His form, and movement; is as smart aboveAs meal and larded locks can make him; wearsHis hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace;And, his three years of heroship expired,Returns indignant to the slighted plough.He hates the field, in which no fife or drumAttends him; drives his cattle to a march;And sighs for the smart comrades he has left.'Twere well if his exterior change were all—But with his clumsy port the wretch has lostHis ignorance and harmless manners too.To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home,By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach,The great proficiency he made abroad;To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends;To break some maiden's and his mother's heart;To be a pest where he was useful once;Are his sole aim, and all his glory now.Man in society is like a flowerBlown in its native bed: 'tis there aloneHis faculties, expanded in full bloom,Shine out; there only reach their proper use.But man, associated and leagued with manBy regal warrant, or self-join'd by bondFor interest sake, or swarming into clansBeneath one head for purposes of war,Like flowers selected from the rest, and boundAnd bundled close to fill some crowded vase,Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd,Contracts defilement not to be endured.Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues;And burghers, men immaculate perhapsIn all their private functions, once combined,Become a loathsome body, only fitFor dissolution, hurtful to the main.Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sinAgainst the charities of domestic life,Incorporated, seem at once to loseTheir nature; and, disclaiming all regardFor mercy and the common rights of man,Build factories with blood, conducting tradeAt the sword's point, and dyeing the white robeOf innocent commercial Justice red.Hence too the field of glory, as the worldMisdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,With all its majesty of thundering pomp,Enchanting music and immortal wreaths,Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taughtOn principle, where foppery atonesFor folly, gallantry for every vice.But slighted as it is, and by the greatAbandon'd, and, which still I more regret,Infected with the manners and the modesIt knew not once, the country wins me still.I never framed a wish, or form'd a plan,That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss,But there I laid the scene. There early stray'dMy fancy, ere yet liberty of choiceHad found me, or the hope of being free.My very dreams were rural; rural tooThe firstborn efforts of my youthful muse,Sportive, and jingling her poetic bellsEre yet her ear was mistress of their powers.No bard could please me but whose lyre was tunedTo Nature's praises. Heroes and their featsFatigued me, never weary of the pipeOf Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech.Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'dThe struggling efforts of my boyish tongueTo speak its excellence. I danced for joy.I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an ageAs twice seven years, his beauties had then firstEngaged my wonder; and admiring still,And still admiring, with regret supposedThe joy half lost, because not sooner found.There too, enamour'd of the life I loved,Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuitDetermined, and possessing it at last,With transports, such as favour'd lovers feel,I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had knownIngenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'dBy modern lights from an erroneous taste,I cannot but lament thy splendid witEntangled in the cobwebs of the schools.I still revere thee, courtly though retired;Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers,Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amendsFor a lost world in solitude and verse.'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's worksIs an ingredient in the compound man,Infused at the creation of the kind.And, though the Almighty Maker has throughoutDiscriminated each from each, by strokesAnd touches of his hand, with so much artDiversified, that two were never foundTwins at all points—yet this obtains in all,That all discern a beauty in his works,And all can taste them: minds that have been form'dAnd tutor'd, with a relish more exact,But none without some relish, none unmoved.It is a flame that dies not even thereWhere nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,Nor habits of luxurious city life,Whatever else they smother of true worthIn human bosoms, quench it or abate.The villas with which London stands begirtLike a swarth Indian with his belt of beadsProve it. A breath of unadulterate air,The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheerThe citizen, and brace his languid frame!E'en in the stifling bosom of the townA garden, in which nothing thrives, has charmsThat soothe the rich possessor; much consoled,That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wellHe cultivates. These serve him with a hintThat nature lives; that sight-refreshing greenIs still the livery she delights to wear,Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,The prouder sashes fronted with a rangeOf orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,The Frenchman's darling?[813]are they not all proofsThat man, immured in cities, still retainsHis inborn inextinguishable thirstOf rural scenes, compensating his lossBy supplemental shifts, the best he mayThe most unfurnish'd with the means of life,And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds,To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,Yet feel the burning instinct: over headSuspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands,A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there;Sad witnesses how close-pent man regretsThe country, with what ardour he contrivesA peep at Nature, when he can no more.Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,And contemplation, heart-consoling joys,And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abodeOf multitudes unknown! hail, rural life!Address himself who will to the pursuitOf honours, or emolument, or fame;I shall not add myself to such a chase,Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.Some must be great. Great offices will haveGreat talents. And God gives to every manThe virtue, temper, understanding, taste,That lifts him into life, and lets him fallJust in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.To the deliverer of an injured landHe gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heartTo feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;To monarchs dignity; to judges sense;To artists ingenuity and skill;To me an unambitious mind, contentIn the low vale of life, that early feltA wish for ease and leisure, and ere longFound here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumbering at his back.True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,Yet, careless what he brings, his one concernIs to conduct it to the destined inn;And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on.He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of griefPerhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;To him indifferent whether grief or joy.Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wetWith tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeksFast as the periods from his fluent quill,Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,Or nymphs responsive, equally affectHis horse and him, unconscious of them all.But O the important budget! usher'd inWith such heart-shaking music, who can sayWhat are its tidings? have our troops awaked?Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'dSnore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?Is India free? and does she wear her plumedAnd jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,The popular harangue, the tart reply,The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,And give them voice and utterance once again.Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urnThrows up a steamy column, and the cups,That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,So let us welcome peaceful evening in.Not such his evening, who with shining faceSweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezedAnd bored with elbow points through both his sides,Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,And his head thumps, to feed upon the breathOf patriots, bursting with heroic rage,Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.This folio of four pages, happy work!Which not e'en critics criticise; that holdsInquisitive attention, while I read,Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;What is it but a map of busy life,Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridgeThat tempts Ambition. On the summit seeThe seals of office glitter in his eyes;He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down,And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.Here rills of oily eloquence, in softMeanders, lubricate the course they take;The modest speaker is ashamed and grievedTo engross a moment's notice; and yet begs,Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,However trivial all that he conceives.Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise;The dearth of information and good sense,That it foretells us, always comes to pass.Cataracts of declamation thunder here;There forests of no meaning spread the page,In which all comprehension wanders lost;While fields of pleasantry amuse us thereWith merry descants on a nation's woes.The rest appears a wilderness of strangeBut gay confusion; roses for the cheeksAnd lilies for the brows of faded age,Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs,Æthereal journeys, submarine exploits,And Katerfelto, with his hair on endAt his own wonders, wondering for his bread.'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,To peep at such a world; to see the stirOf the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;To hear the roar she sends through all her gatesAt a safe distance, where the dying soundFalls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.Thus sitting, and surveying thus at easeThe globe and its concerns, I seem advancedTo some secure and more than mortal height,That liberates and exempts me from them all.It turns submitted to my view, turns roundWith all its generations; I beholdThe tumult and am still. The sound of warHas lost its terrors ere it reaches me;Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the prideAnd avarice that make man a wolf to man;Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,By which he speaks the language of his heart,And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.He travels and expatiates, as the beeFrom flower to flower, so he from land to land;The manners, customs, policy of allPay contribution to the store he gleans;He sucks intelligence in every clime,And spreads the honey of his deep researchAt his return—a rich repast for me.He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyesDiscover countries, with a kindred heartSuffer his woes, and share in his escapes;While fancy, like the finger of a clock,Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd,Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeksFringed with a beard made white with other snowsThan those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds,A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throneA sliding car, indebted to no wheels,But urg'd by storms along its slippery way,I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sunA prisoner in the yet undawning east,Shortening his journey between morn and noon,And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,Down to the rosy west; but kindly stillCompensating his loss with added hoursOf social converse and instructive ease,And gathering, at short notice, in one groupThe family dispersed, and fixing thought,Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.I crown thee king of intimate delights,Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,And all the comforts that the lowly roofOf undisturb'd Retirement, and the hoursOf long uninterrupted evening know.No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;No powder'd pert proficient in the artOf sounding an alarm assaults these doorsTill the street rings; no stationary steedsCough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound,The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:But here the needle plies its busy task,The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,Follow the nimble finger of the fair;A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blowWith most success when all besides decay.The poet's or historian's page by oneMade vocal for the amusement of the rest;The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet soundsThe touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;And the clear voice, symphonious, yet distinct,And in the charming strife triumphant still,Beguile the night, and set a keener edgeOn female industry: the threaded steelFlies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.The volume closed, the customary ritesOf the last meal commence. A Roman meal,Such as the mistress of the world once foundDelicious, when her patriots of high note,Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,And under an old oak's domestic shade,Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg!Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,Nor such as with a frown forbids the playOf fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:Nor do we madly, like an impious world,Who deem religion frenzy, and the GodThat made them an intruder on their joys,Start at his awful name, or deem his praiseA jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,Exciting oft our gratitude and love,While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand,That calls the past to our exact review,The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare,The disappointed foe, deliverance foundUnlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored,Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim'dThe Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply,More to be prized and coveted than yours,As more illumined, and with nobler truths,That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps,The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng,To thaw him into feeling; or the smartAnd snappish dialogue, that flippant witsCall comedy, to prompt him with a smile?The self-complacent actor, when he views(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)The slope of faces from the floor to the roof(As if one master spring controll'd them all,)Relax'd into a universal grin,Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joyHalf so refined or so sincere as ours.Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricksThat idleness has ever yet contrivedTo fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain,To palliate dullness, and give time a shove.Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound;But the World's Time is Time in masquerade!Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledgedWith motley plumes; and, where the peacock showsHis azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and redWith spots quadrangular of diamond form,Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard maceWell does the work of his destructive scythe.Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion blindsTo his true worth, most pleased when idle most;Whose only happy are their wasted hours.E'en misses, at whose age their mothers woreThe backstring and the bib, assume the dressOf womanhood, fit pupils in the schoolOf card-devoted Time, and, night by nightPlaced at some vacant corner of the board,Learn every trick, and soon play all the game.But truce with censure. Roving as I rove,Where shall I find an end, or how proceed?As he that travels far oft turns aside,To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower,Which seen delights him not; then, coming home,Describes and prints it, that the world may knowHow far he went for what was nothing worth;So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,With colours mix'd for a far different use,Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thingThat Fancy finds in her excursive flights.Come, Evening, once again, season of peace;Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,With matron step slow moving, while the NightTreads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'dIn letting fall the curtain of reposeOn bird and beast, the other charged for manWith sweet oblivion of the cares of day:Not sumptuously adorn'd, not needing aid,Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems;A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,Suffices thee; save that the moon is thineNo less than hers, not worn indeed on highWith ostentatious pageantry, but setWith modest grandeur in thy purple zone,Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:And, whether I devote thy gentle hoursTo books, to music, or the poet's toil;To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,When they command whom man was born to please;I slight thee not, but make thee welcome stillJust when our drawing-rooms begin to blazeWith lights, by clear reflection multipliedFrom many a mirror, in which he of Gath,Goliath, might have seen his giant bulkWhole without stooping, towering crest and all,My pleasures too begin. But me perhapsThe glowing hearth may satisfy awhileWith faint illumination, that upliftsThe shadows to the ceiling, there by fitsDancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.Not undelightful is an hour to meSo spent in parlour twilight: such a gloomSuits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,The mind contemplative, with some new themePregnant, or indisposed alike to all.Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers,That never felt a stupor, know no pause,Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess,Fearless, a soul that does not always think.Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wildSoothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'dIn the red cinders, while with poring eyeI gazed, myself creating what I saw.Nor less amused, have I quiescent watch'dThe sooty films that play upon the bars,Pendulous and foreboding, in the viewOf superstition, prophesying still,Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach.'Tis thus the understanding takes reposeIn indolent vacuity of thought,And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the faceConceals the mood lethargic with a maskOf deep deliberation, as the manWere task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost.Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hourAt evening, till at length the freezing blast,That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons homeThe recollected powers; and, snapping shortThe glassy threads with which the fancy weavesHer brittle toils, restores me to myself.How calm is my recess; and how the frost,Raging abroad, and the rough wind endearThe silence and the warmth enjoy'd within!I saw the woods and fields at close of dayA variegated show; the meadows green,Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved,The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share.I saw far off the weedy fallows smileWith verdure not unprofitable, grazedBy flocks, fast feeding, and selecting eachHis favourite herb; while all the leafless groves,That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue,Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.To-morrow brings a change, a total change!Which even now, though silently perform'd,And slowly, and by most unfelt, the faceOf universal nature undergoes.Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakesDescending, and with never ceasing lapse,Softly alighting upon all below,Assimilate all objects. Earth receivesGladly the thickening mantle; and the greenAnd tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast,Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.In such a world, so thorny, and where noneFinds happiness unblighted; or, if found,Without some thistly sorrow at its side;It seems the part of wisdom, and no sinAgainst the law of love, to measure lotsWith less distinguished than ourselves; that thusWe may with patience bear our moderate ills,And sympathize with others suffering more.Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalksIn ponderous boots beside his reeking team.The wain goes heavily, impeded soreBy congregated loads, adhering closeTo the clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish paceNoiseless appears a moving hill of snow.The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,While every breath, by respiration strongForced downward, is consolidated soonUpon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bearThe pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,With half-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and teethPresented bare against the storm, plods on.One hand secures his hat, save when with bothHe brandishes his pliant length of whip,Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.O happy; and, in my account, deniedThat sensibility of pain with whichRefinement is endued, thrice happy thou!Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeedThe piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd.The learned finger never need exploreThy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east,That breathes the spleen, and searches every boneOf the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.Thy days roll on exempt from household care;Thy wagon is thy wife, and the poor beasts,That drag the dull companion to and fro,Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st,Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great,With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place,Humane as they would seem, not always show.Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,Such claim compassion in a night like this,And have a friend in every feeling heart.Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour all day longThey brave the season, and yet find at eve,Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool.The frugal housewife trembles when she lightsHer scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear,But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys.The few small embers left she nurses well;And, while her infant race, with outspread hands,And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks,Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd.The man feels least, as more inured than sheTo winter, and the current in his veinsMore briskly moved by his severer toil;Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.The taper soon extinguish'd, which I sawDangled along at the cold finger's endJust when the day declined; and the brown loafLodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauceOf savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still;Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas,Where penury is felt the thought is chained,And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few!With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care,Ingenious Parsimony takes, but justSaves the small inventory, bed, and stool,Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale.They live, and live without extorted almsFrom grudging hands; but other boast have noneTo soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg,Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair,For ye are worthy; choosing rather farA dry but independent crust, hard earn'd,And eaten with a sigh, than to endureThe rugged frowns and insolent rebuffsOf knaves in office, partial in the workOf distribution; liberal of their aidTo clamorous importunity in rags,But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blushTo wear a tatter'd garb however coarse,Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth:These ask with painful shyness, and, refusedBecause deserving, silently retire!But be ye of good courage! Time itselfShall much befriend you. Time shall give increase;And all your numerous progeny, well train'd,But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not wantWhat, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send.I mean the man who, when the distant poorNeed help, denies them nothing but his name.But poverty with most, who whimper forthTheir long complaints, is self-inflicted woe;The effect of laziness or sottish waste.Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroadFor plunder; much solicitous how bestHe may compensate for a day of slothBy works of darkness and nocturnal wrong.Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge,Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stakesDeep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength,Resistless in so bad a cause, but lameTo better deeds, he bundles up the spoil,An ass's burden, and, when laden mostAnd heaviest, light of foot steals fast away,Nor does the boarded hovel better guardThe well-stack'd pile of riven logs and rootsFrom his pernicious force. Nor will he leaveUnwrench'd the door, however well secured,Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleepsIn unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the perch,He gives the princely bird, with all his wives,To his voracious bag, struggling in vain,And loudly wondering at the sudden change.Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse,Did pity of their sufferings warp asideHis principle, and tempt him into sinFor their support, so destitute. But theyNeglected pine at home; themselves, as moreExposed than others, with less scruple madeHis victims, robb'd of their defenceless all.Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirstOf ruinous ebriety that promptsHis every action, and imbrutes the man.O for a law to noose the villain's neckWho starves his own; who persecutes the bloodHe gave them in his children's veins, and hatesAnd wrongs the woman he has sworn to love!Pass where we may, through city or through town,Village, or hamlet, of this merry land,Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth paceConducts the unguarded nose to such a whiffOf stale debauch, forth issuing from the styesThat law has licensed, as makes temperance reel.There sit, involved and lost in curling cloudsOf Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor,The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman thereTakes a Lethean leave of all his toil;Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears,And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike,All learned, and all drunk! the fiddle screamsPlaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailedIts wasted tones and harmony unheard:Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she,Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate,Perch'd on the sign-post, holds with even handHer undecisive scales. In this she laysA weight of ignorance; in that, of pride;And smiles delighted with the eternal poise.Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound,The cheek distending oath, not to be praisedAs ornamental, musical, polite,Like those which modern senators employ,Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame!Behold the schools in which plebeian minds,Once simple, are initiated in arts,Which some may practise with politer grace,But none with readier skill!—'tis here they learnThe road that leads from competence and peaceTo indigence and rapine; till at lastSociety, grown weary of the load,Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out.But censure profits little: vain the attemptTo advertise in verse a public pest,That, like the filth with which the peasant feedsHis hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.The excise is fatten'd with the rich resultOf all this riot; and ten thousand casks,For ever dribbling out their base contents,Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state,Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!Gloriously drunk, obey the important call!Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;—Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.Would I had fallen upon those happier days,That poets celebrate; those golden times,And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings,And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had heartsThat felt their virtues: Innocence, it seems,From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the groves;The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'dUpon the yielding herbage (so they sing)Then were not all effaced: then speech profaneAnd manners profligate were rarely found,Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd.Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreamsSat for the picture: and the poet's hand,Imparting substance to an empty shade,Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.Grant it:—I still must envy them an ageThat favour'd such a dream; in days like theseImpossible, when Virtue is so scarce,That to suppose a scene where she presides,Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.No: we are polish'd now! The rural lass,Whom once her virgin modesty and grace,Her artless manners, and her neat attire,So dignified, that she was hardly lessThan the fair shepherdess of old romance,Is seen no more. The character is lost!Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft,And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised,And magnified beyond all human size,Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's handFor more than half the tresses it sustains;Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering formIll propp'd upon French heels; she might be deem'd(But that the basket dangling on her armInterprets her more truly) of a rankToo proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs.Expect her soon with footboy at her heels,No longer blushing for her awkward load,Her train and her umbrella all her care!The town has tinged the country; and the stainAppears a spot upon a vestal's robe,The worse for what it soils. The fashion runsDown into scenes still rural; but, alas!Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now!Time was when in the pastoral retreatThe unguarded door was safe; men did not watchTo invade another's right, or guard their own.Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscaredBy drunken howlings; and the chilling taleOf midnight murder was a wonder heardWith doubtful credit, told to frighten babes.But farewell now to unsuspicious nights,And slumbers unalarm'd! Now, ere you sleep,See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care,And drop the night bolt;—ruffians are abroad;And the first 'larum of the cock's shrill throatMay prove a trumpet, summoning your earTo horrid sounds of hostile feet within.E'en daylight has its dangers; and the walkThrough pathless wastes and woods, unconscious onceOf other tenants than melodious birds,Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.Lamented change! to which full many a causeInveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.The course of human things from good to ill,From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.Increase of power begets increase of wealth;Wealth luxury, and luxury excess;Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague,That seizes first the opulent, descendsTo the next rank contagious, and in timeTaints downwarn all the graduated scaleOf order, from the chariot to the plough.The rich, and they that have an arm to checkThe licence of the lowest in degree,Desert their office; and themselves, intentOn pleasure, haunt the capital, and thusTo all the violence of lawless handsResign the scenes their presence might protect.Authority herself not seldom sleeps,Though resident, and witness of the wrong.The plump convivial parson often bearsThe magisterial sword in vain, and laysHis reverence and his worship both to restOn the same cushion of habitual sloth.Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;When he should strike he trembles, and sets free,Himself enslaved by terror of the band,The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind.Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,He too may have his vice, and sometimes proveLess dainty than becomes his grave outsideIn lucrative concerns. Examine wellHis milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean—But here and there an ugly smutch appears.Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'dCorruption! Whoso seeks an audit herePropitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.But faster far, and more than all the rest,A noble cause, which none, who bears a sparkOf public virtue, ever wish'd removed,Works the deplored and mischievous effect.'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'dThe heart of merit in the meaner class.Arms, through the vanity and brainless rageOf those that bear them, in whatever cause,Seem most at variance with all moral good,And incompatible with serious thought.The clown, the child of nature, without guile,Blest with an infant's ignorance of allBut his own simple pleasures; now and thenA wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair;Is balloted, and trembles at the news:Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swearsA bible-oath to be whate'er they please,To do he knows not what. The task perform'd,That instant he becomes the serjeant's care,His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.His awkward gait, his introverted toes,Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,Procure him many a curse. By slow degreesUnapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff,He yet by slow degrees puts off himself,Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well:He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk;He steps right onward, martial in his air,His form, and movement; is as smart aboveAs meal and larded locks can make him; wearsHis hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace;And, his three years of heroship expired,Returns indignant to the slighted plough.He hates the field, in which no fife or drumAttends him; drives his cattle to a march;And sighs for the smart comrades he has left.'Twere well if his exterior change were all—But with his clumsy port the wretch has lostHis ignorance and harmless manners too.To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home,By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach,The great proficiency he made abroad;To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends;To break some maiden's and his mother's heart;To be a pest where he was useful once;Are his sole aim, and all his glory now.Man in society is like a flowerBlown in its native bed: 'tis there aloneHis faculties, expanded in full bloom,Shine out; there only reach their proper use.But man, associated and leagued with manBy regal warrant, or self-join'd by bondFor interest sake, or swarming into clansBeneath one head for purposes of war,Like flowers selected from the rest, and boundAnd bundled close to fill some crowded vase,Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd,Contracts defilement not to be endured.Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues;And burghers, men immaculate perhapsIn all their private functions, once combined,Become a loathsome body, only fitFor dissolution, hurtful to the main.Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sinAgainst the charities of domestic life,Incorporated, seem at once to loseTheir nature; and, disclaiming all regardFor mercy and the common rights of man,Build factories with blood, conducting tradeAt the sword's point, and dyeing the white robeOf innocent commercial Justice red.Hence too the field of glory, as the worldMisdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,With all its majesty of thundering pomp,Enchanting music and immortal wreaths,Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taughtOn principle, where foppery atonesFor folly, gallantry for every vice.But slighted as it is, and by the greatAbandon'd, and, which still I more regret,Infected with the manners and the modesIt knew not once, the country wins me still.I never framed a wish, or form'd a plan,That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss,But there I laid the scene. There early stray'dMy fancy, ere yet liberty of choiceHad found me, or the hope of being free.My very dreams were rural; rural tooThe firstborn efforts of my youthful muse,Sportive, and jingling her poetic bellsEre yet her ear was mistress of their powers.No bard could please me but whose lyre was tunedTo Nature's praises. Heroes and their featsFatigued me, never weary of the pipeOf Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech.Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'dThe struggling efforts of my boyish tongueTo speak its excellence. I danced for joy.I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an ageAs twice seven years, his beauties had then firstEngaged my wonder; and admiring still,And still admiring, with regret supposedThe joy half lost, because not sooner found.There too, enamour'd of the life I loved,Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuitDetermined, and possessing it at last,With transports, such as favour'd lovers feel,I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had knownIngenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'dBy modern lights from an erroneous taste,I cannot but lament thy splendid witEntangled in the cobwebs of the schools.I still revere thee, courtly though retired;Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers,Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amendsFor a lost world in solitude and verse.'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's worksIs an ingredient in the compound man,Infused at the creation of the kind.And, though the Almighty Maker has throughoutDiscriminated each from each, by strokesAnd touches of his hand, with so much artDiversified, that two were never foundTwins at all points—yet this obtains in all,That all discern a beauty in his works,And all can taste them: minds that have been form'dAnd tutor'd, with a relish more exact,But none without some relish, none unmoved.It is a flame that dies not even thereWhere nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,Nor habits of luxurious city life,Whatever else they smother of true worthIn human bosoms, quench it or abate.The villas with which London stands begirtLike a swarth Indian with his belt of beadsProve it. A breath of unadulterate air,The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheerThe citizen, and brace his languid frame!E'en in the stifling bosom of the townA garden, in which nothing thrives, has charmsThat soothe the rich possessor; much consoled,That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wellHe cultivates. These serve him with a hintThat nature lives; that sight-refreshing greenIs still the livery she delights to wear,Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,The prouder sashes fronted with a rangeOf orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,The Frenchman's darling?[813]are they not all proofsThat man, immured in cities, still retainsHis inborn inextinguishable thirstOf rural scenes, compensating his lossBy supplemental shifts, the best he mayThe most unfurnish'd with the means of life,And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds,To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,Yet feel the burning instinct: over headSuspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands,A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there;Sad witnesses how close-pent man regretsThe country, with what ardour he contrivesA peep at Nature, when he can no more.Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,And contemplation, heart-consoling joys,And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abodeOf multitudes unknown! hail, rural life!Address himself who will to the pursuitOf honours, or emolument, or fame;I shall not add myself to such a chase,Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.Some must be great. Great offices will haveGreat talents. And God gives to every manThe virtue, temper, understanding, taste,That lifts him into life, and lets him fallJust in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.To the deliverer of an injured landHe gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heartTo feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;To monarchs dignity; to judges sense;To artists ingenuity and skill;To me an unambitious mind, contentIn the low vale of life, that early feltA wish for ease and leisure, and ere longFound here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.
A frosty morning—The foddering of cattle—The woodman and his dog—The poultry—Whimsical effects of frost at a waterfall—The Empress of Russia's palace of ice—Amusements of monarchs—War, one of them—Wars, whence—And whence monarchy—The evils of it—English and French loyalty contrasted—The Bastille, and a prisoner there—Liberty the chief recommendation of this country—Modern patriotism questionable, and why—The perishable nature of the best human institutions—Spiritual liberty not perishable—The slavish state of man by nature—Deliver him, Deist, if you can—Grace must do it—The respective merits of patriots and martyrs stated—Their different treatment—Happy freedom of the man whom grace makes free—His relish of the works of God—Address to the Creator.