PART I.

_CAMBRIDGE ENGLISH CLASSICS_

Poems

by

George Crabbe

In Three Volumes

GEORGE CRABBE

Born, 1754

Died, 1832

_GEORGE CRABBE_

POEMS

EDITED BY

ADOLPHUS WILLIAM WARD,

Litt.D., Hon. LL.D., F.B.A.

Master of Peterhouse

[Illustration]

Volume I

Cambridge:

at the University Press

1905

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE

C. F. CLAY, Manager.

*London:* FETTER LANE, E.C.

*Glasgow:* 50, WELLINGTON STREET.

[Illustration]

*Leipzig:* F. A. BROCKHAUS.

*New York:* THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

*Bombay and Calcutta:* MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd.

[_All Rights reserved_]

PREFATORY NOTE.

In the present edition of Crabbe's Poems the general arrangement

adopted is that of the chronological order of publication. The poem

entitled _Midnight_ has been inserted at a conjectural date as

belonging to the period of the Juvenile Poems (1772-1780); but all

other poems contained in this edition which have hitherto remained

unpublished will be printed after the published poems, in the sequence

of their production so far as this is ascertainable. With the poems

hitherto unpublished I have also been fortunate enough to obtain

permission to include in a later volume, among other posthumously

printed pieces, the _Two Poetical Epistles_ by Crabbe, first

published, from a manuscript in the collection of Mr Buxton Forman, in

Vol. II of _Literary Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century_ edited by W.

Robertson Nicoll and Thomas J. Wise (London, 1896). From the second of

these _Epistles_ were taken, but not in their original order, the ten

lines reproduced in the present volume from George Crabbe the

younger's 1834 edition of his father's Poems.

The earliest of the Juvenile Poems here printed are taken from _The

Lady's Magazine, or Entertaining Companion for the Fair Sex,

appropriated solely to their Use and Amusement_, for the year 1772,

printed at London for Robinson and Roberts, 25 Paternoster Row. The

first volume of this Magazine seems to have been that for the year

1770, and to have comprised the numbers from August to December

inclusive; but the earlier portion of this volume had been previously

published in the same year 1770 under the same title by J. Wheble at

20 Paternoster Row, 'by whom letters to the Editor are requested and

received.' This then must be the 'Wheble's Magazine for 1772,' of

which George Crabbe the younger in the Life prefixed to the 1834

edition of his father's Poems (p. 22) states that he had after long

search discovered a copy. The Magazine seems itself to have been a

revival of an earlier _Lady's Magazine_, of which portions of the

volumes for 1760 and 1761 are extant, and which, according to the

title-page of the volume for 1761, was printed for J. Wilkie at the

Bible in St Paul's Churchyard.

But the younger Crabbe's account of his father's verses in 'Wheble's

Magazine for 1772' does not tally with the actual contents of the

volume for 1772 of _The Lady's Magazine_ which has been used for the

present edition. It is possible, of course, though there is no

evidence to support the supposition, that _The Lady's Magazine_

published by Wheble was continued at all events till 1772, parallel to

_The Lady's Magazine_ published by Robinson and Roberts, with which in

1770 it had been in some measure blended. It is equally possible that

the younger Crabbe made some mistake or mistakes. In any case, his

statement is, that Wheble's Magazine for 1772 'contains besides the

prize poem on Hope,' from which he proceeds to quote the concluding

six lines, 'four other pieces, signed "G. C., Woodbridge, Suffolk,"

"To Mira," "The Atheist reclaimed," "The Bee," and "An Allegorical

Fable."' The volume published by Robinson and Roberts contains no

pieces corresponding to these, except that in its October number

there is printed an _Essay on Hope_, in which the lines cited by the

younger Crabbe and reprinted, on his authority, in the present

edition, do not appear, but of which the concluding lines seem to

imply that it was a copy of verses written in competition for a prize.

It cannot however be by Crabbe. For it is signed 'C. C., Rotherhithe,

1772'; and the July number of the same volume contains a piece of

verse of some length entitled _The Rotherhithe Beauties_ and signed

'C. C., Rotherhithe, July 15,' which is certainly not by Crabbe; and

later in the volume follows another piece entitled _Night_, signed 'C.

C., Rotherhithe, November 19, 1772,' which likewise cannot be

attributed to Crabbe.

On the other hand the 1772 volume of _The Lady's Magazine_ contains

certain pieces of verse which may without hesitation be assigned to

him, and which are accordingly reprinted in the present edition. These

are, in the September number, _Solitude_ and _A Song_, which bear as a

signature the quasi-anagram 'G. EBBARE'; in the October number, the

lines _To Emma_, with the quasi-anagram 'G. EBBAAC' and the date

'Suffolk'; and, in the November number, _Despair_, _Cupid_, and a

_Song_, signed with the earlier form 'G. EBBARE.' This _Song_ is

followed by some lines in blank verse _On the Wonders of Creation_,

and, further on, by some stanzas _To Friendship_, likewise signed 'C.

C.'; but manifestly neither blank verse nor stanzas are by Crabbe.

Finally, it should be noted that in the October number in the same

volume the following occurs among the notices _To our Correspondents_:

'The birth of a Maccaroni, by Ebbare, in the style of the Scriptures,

seems to be taking too great a liberty with things sacred; and it is

our maxim, as far as possible, to abstain from every appearance of

evil.' The _Lady's Magazine_ continued to be published by Robinson

and Roberts for many subsequent years; and it is a curious coincidence

that No. 5 of Vol. XLVII (for May, 1816) contains some stanzas

entitled _Myra's Wedding-Day_.

The remaining _Juvenilia_ printed in the present edition are partly

reproduced from the _Fragments of Verse, from Mr Crabbe's early

Note-Books_ in Vol. II of the 1834 edition, partly from the Life in

Vol. I of the same. The lines On the Death of William Springall Levett

are quoted in the latter from Green's _History of Framlingham_, which

has been compared.

Of the poems which follow in the present volume, _Inebriety_ is here

printed from a copy of the quarto of 1775, which lacks a title-page

and which bears on p. 1 the following deprecation in Crabbe's

handwriting: 'NB.--pray let not this be seen at [cipher] there is very

little of it that I'm not heartily asham'd of.' The imprint of the

title-page here given is taken from the _Life_ (1834, p. 28).

_Midnight, a Poem_, is now first printed from the original manuscript

which formed part of Dawson Turner's collection, in which it was

numbered 121 at the sale of Dawson Turner's manuscripts in June, 1859.

Its handwriting, as Professor Dowden points out, is identical with

that of a _facsimile_ in a passage from the _Two Epistles_ mentioned

above, given in the _Literary Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century_.

_The Candidate_ is printed from the edition of 1834 (Vol. II,

Appendix). This poem is not included in the edition of 1823, and after

a long quest it has proved impossible to obtain a copy of the original

edition of 1780 (published in quarto by H. Payne, opposite Marlborough

House, Pall Mall). This edition is not in the British Museum. It was

only possible to compare the forty-six lines of the poem quoted in

_The Monthly Review_ for September, 1780; but no variants have been

found in these.

The subsequent poems contained in the present volume are all printed

from the edition of 1823, the last edition published in England in the

poet's lifetime. The _Variants_ enumerated at the close of this volume

are in each case the readings of the first editions of the several

poems, viz., _The Library_, 1781, _The Village_, 1783, _The

Newspaper_, 1785, _The Parish Register &c._, 1807, and _The Borough_,

1810. The address _To the Reader_ prefixed to _The Newspaper_, which

does not appear in the edition of 1823, has been restored from that of

1785, as it appears in the younger Crabbe's edition of 1834.

The list of _Errata_ includes all the misprints, slips of the pen, and

unintentional mistakes of spelling or quotation, which have been found

in the texts which have been reprinted in this volume. The reading

substituted here is in each case enclosed in square brackets. The list

is a long one, for Crabbe was a careless writer; and in the matter of

quotations (as the concluding sentence of the _Preface_ to _The

Borough_ indicates) was not given to over-conscientiousness. It has

seemed permissible, where this could be done, to supplement the poet's

statements as to the sources of his quotations; but there are

instances in which these statements themselves remain more or less

doubtful. Crabbe's interpunctuation is so arbitrary, and, though no

doubt largely determined by what might be described as the movement of

the writer's mind, so frequently at variance even with the practice

(it can hardly be called system) which he more usually follows, that

it has been thought right to use as much freedom on this head as

seemed consistent with a due respect for the author's intention. No

alteration has been made in the matter of interpunctuation which was

not warranted either by the poet's ordinary practice, or by the

primary necessity of making his meaning clear.

As complete as possible a bibliography of Crabbe's Poems will, it is

hoped, be published in the concluding volume of this edition.

There remains the pleasant duty of thanking those whose kindness has

been of assistance in the preparation of this volume. The relatives of

my dear friend the late Canon AINGER have allowed me to retain for

this purpose the first editions of _Inebriety_ (with Crabbe's

autograph), _The Village_ and _The Newspaper_ which he had lent me not

long before his death. The Vice-Master of Trinity, Mr W. ALDIS WRIGHT,

besides enabling me to borrow from Trinity Library the first edition

of _The Library_, kindly lent his own copy of the _Poems_ published in

1807. I am indebted to Professor EDWARD DOWDEN, LL.D., of Trinity

College, Dublin, for various services generously rendered by him to

this edition of Crabbe, which will benefit from them in its concluding

as it has in its opening volume. He has readily allowed me to print

the whole of the interesting blank verse poem of _Midnight_, which, in

his own words, 'unless it be a transcript by Crabbe from some other

eighteenth-century poet, of which there is no evidence, may be assumed

to be of his authorship.'

To the same kind friend, and to the special courtesy of Mr J. W.

LYSTER, Librarian of the National Library of Ireland, Kildare Street,

Dublin, I owe the opportunity of tracing _fide oculata_, so far as it

seems possible to make sure of it, the elusive volume of _The Lady's

Magazine_ containing the earliest of Crabbe's printed verse.

Mr A. R. WALLER, of Peterhouse, Assistant Secretary to the Syndics of

the University Press, has in many ways facilitated the preparation of

this volume. And without the unstinting and unflagging cooperation of

another member of my College, Mr A. T. BARTHOLOMEW, of the University

Library, who has compiled the list of variants, besides giving me much

other assistance, I could not, amidst other engagements, have carried

so far the execution of a delightful task.

A. W. WARD.

Peterhouse Lodge, Cambridge.

_July_ 24th, 1905.

CORRIGENDA.

p. 5, _for_ Ovid _read_ Ovid [?].

p. 48, l. 41, _for_ Meonides _read_ [Maeonides].

p. 55, l. 297, _for_ [threat'ned] _read_ [threaten'd].

p. 232, l. 319, _for_ Rubens _read_ [Rubens].

p. 252, l. 5, _for_ dolor _read_ [labor].

p. 256, l. 4, _for_ deplorant _read_ [deplangunt].

p. 329, l. 11, _for_ and worship me _read_ [and worship me].

ib. l. 12, _for_ Part I _read_ Part II.

p. 364, l. 12, _for_ [erat] _read_ erant.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

JUVENILIA 1

Solitude 1

A Song 3

Concluding Lines of Prize Poem on Hope 4

To Emma 4

Despair 5

Cupid 7

Song 8

[On the Death of William Springall Levett] 8

Parody on [Byrom's] "My Time, Oh ye Muses" 9

The Wish 10

INEBRIETY 11

JUVENILIA 37

[The Learning of Love] 37

Ye Gentle Gales 37

Mira 38

Hymn 39

The Wish 40

The Comparison 40

Goldsmith to the Author 41

Fragment 41

The Resurrection 42

My Birth-day 43

To Eliza 43

Life 44

The Sacrament 44

Night 45

Fragment, written at Midnight 45

MIDNIGHT 47

JUVENILIA 61

[A Farewell] 61

Time 62

The Choice 63

[A Humble Invocation] 65

[From an Epistle to Mira] 66

[Concluding Lines of an Epistle to Prince William

Henry, afterwards King William IV] 66

[Drifting] 68

To the Right Honourable the Earl of Shelburne 69

An Epistle to a Friend 70

THE CANDIDATE 73

THE LIBRARY 100

THE VILLAGE 119

THE NEWSPAPER 137

THE PARISH REGISTER 158

THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY 223

REFLECTIONS 234

SIR EUSTACE GREY 238

THE HALL OF JUSTICE 252

WOMAN! 261

THE BOROUGH 263

JUVENILIA

(1772--1780.)

SOLITUDE.

[September, 1772.]

Free from envy, strife and sorrow,

Jealous doubts, and heart-felt fears;

Free from thoughts of what to-morrow

May o'er-charge the soul with cares--

Live I in a peaceful valley,

By a neighbouring lonely wood;

Giving way to melancholy,

(Joy, when better understood).

Near me ancient ruins falling

From a worn-out castle's brow; 10

Once the greatest [chiefs] installing,

Where are all their honours now?

Here in midnight's gloomy terror

I enjoy the silent night;

Darkness shews the soul her error,

Darkness leads to inward light.

Here I walk in meditation,

Pond'ring all sublunar things,

From the silent soft persuasion,

Which from virtue's basis springs. 20

What, says truth, are pomp and riches?

Guilded baits to folly lent;

Honour, which the soul bewitches,

When obtain'd, we may repent.

By me plays the stream meand'ring

Slowly, as its waters glide;

And, in gentle murmurs wand'ring,

Lulls to downy rest my pride.

Silent as the gloomy graves are

Now the mansions once so loud; 30

Still and quiet as the brave, or

All the horrors of a croud.

This was once the seat of plunder,

Blood of heroes stain'd the floor;

Heroes, nature's pride and wonder,

Heroes heard of now no more.

Owls and ravens haunt the buildings,

Sending gloomy dread to all;

Yellow moss the summit yielding,

Pellitory decks the wall. 40

Time with rapid speed still wanders,

Journies on an even pace;

Fame of greatest actions squanders,

But perpetuates disgrace.

Sigh not then for pomp or glory;

What avails a heroe's name?

Future times may tell your story,

To your then disgrace and shame.

Chuse some humble cot as this is,

In sweet philosophic ease; 50

With dame Nature's frugal blisses

Live in joy, and die in peace.

G. EBBARE.

A SONG.

[September, 1772.]

I.

As Chloe fair, a new-made bride,

Sat knotting in an arbour,

To Colin now the damsel ty'd,

No strange affection harbour.

II.

"How poor," says [she, "'s a] single life,

A maid's affected carriage;

Spent in sighs and inward strife,

Things unknown in marriage.

III.

"Virgins vainly say they're free,

None so much confin'd are; 10

Lovers kind and good may be,

Husbands may be kinder.

IV.

"Then shun not wedlock's happy chain,

Nor wantonly still fly man;

A single life is care and pain,

Blessings wait on Hymen."

G. EBBARE.

CONCLUDING LINES OF PRIZE POEM ON HOPE.

[Before October, 1772.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

But, above all, the POET owns thy powers--

Hope leads him on, and every fear devours;

He writes, and, unsuccessful, writes again,

Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain;

New schemes he forms, and various plots he tries

To win the laurel, and possess the PRIZE.

TO EMMA.

View, my fair, the fading flower,

Clad like thee in [beauty's] arms,

Idle pageant of an hour;

Soon shall time its tints devour,

And what are then its charms?

Early pluck'd, it might produce

A remedy to mortal pain,

Afford a balmy cordial juice,

That might celestial ease diffuse,

Nor blossom quite in vain. 10

So 'tis with thee, my Emma fair,

If nature's law's unpaid,

If thou refuse our vows to hear

And steel thy heart to ev'ry pray'r,

A cruel frozen maid.

But yield, my fair one, yield to love,

And joys unnumber'd find,

In Cupid's mystic circle move,

Eternal raptures thou shalt prove,

Which leave no pang behind. 20

G. EBBAAC.

_Suffolk, Oct. 15, 1772._

_'Multa cadunt inter calicem supremaque labra.'_

DESPAIR.

[November, 1772.]

_Heu mihi!_

_Quod nullis amor medicabilis herbis._ OVID.

Tyrsis _and_ Damon.

_D._ Begin, my Tyrsis; songs shall sooth our cares,

Allay our sorrows, and dispel our fears;

Shall glad thy heart, and bring its native peace,

And bid thy grief its weighty influence cease.

No more those tears of woe, dear shepherd, shed,

Nor ever mourn the lov'd Cordelia dead.

_T._ In vain, my Damon, urge thy fond request

To still the troubles of an anxious breast:

Cordelia's gone! and now what pain is life

Without my fair, my friend, my lovely wife? 10

Hope! cheerful hope! to distant climes is fled,

And Nature mourns the fair Cordelia dead.

_D._ But can thy tears re-animate the earth,

Or give to sordid dust a second birth?

Mistaken mortal! learn to bear the ill,

Nor let that canker, grief, thy pleasures kill.

No more in Sorrow's sable garb array'd,

Still [mourn] thy lov'd, thy lost Cordelia dead.

_T._ Can I forget the fairest of her kind,

Beauteous in person, fairer still in mind? 20

Can I forget she sooth'd my heart to rest,

And still'd the troubl'd motion in my breast?

Can I, by soothing song or friendship led,

Forget to mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead?

_D._ Another fair may court thee to her arms,

Display her graces, and reveal her charms;

May catch thy wand'ring eye, dispel thy woe,

And give to sorrow final overthrow.

No longer, then, thy heart-felt anguish shed,

Nor mourn, in solitude, Cordelia dead. 30

_T._ Sooner shall lions fierce forget to roam,

And peaceful walk with gentle lambs at home;

Sooner shall Discord love her ancient hate,

And Peace and Love with Rage incorporate;

Sooner shall turtles with the sparrow wed,

Than I forget my lov'd Cordelia dead.

_D._ Must then Dorintha ever sigh in vain,

And Cælia breathe to echoing groves her pain?

Must Chloe hope in vain to steel that heart

In which each nymph would gladly share a part? 40

Must these, dejected shepherd, be betray'd.

And victims fall, because Cordelia's dead?

_T._ By those who love, my friend, it stands confest,

No second flame can fill a lover's breast:

For me no more the idle scenes of life

Shall vex with envy, hatred, noise, or strife;

But here, in melancholy form array'd,

I'll ever mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead.

G. EBBARE.

CUPID.

[November, 1772.]

_Whoe'er thou art, thy master know;

He has been, is, or shall be so._

What is he, who clad in arms,

Hither seems in haste to move,

Bringing with him soft alarms,

Fears the heart of man to prove;

Yet attended too by charms--

Is he Cupid, God of Love?

Yes, it is, behold him nigh,

Odd compound of ease and smart;

Near him [stands] a nymph, whose sigh

Grief and joy, and love impart; 10

Pleasure dances in her eye,

Yet she seems to grieve at heart.

Lo! a quiver by his side,

Arm'd with darts, a fatal store!

See him, with a haughty pride,

Ages, sexes, all devour;

Yet, as pleasure is describ'd,

Glad we meet the tyrant's power.

Doubts and cares before him go,

Canker'd jealousy behind; 20

Round about him spells he'll throw,

Scatt'ring with each gust of wind

On the motley crew below,

Who, like him, are render'd blind.

This is love! a tyrant kind,

Giving extacy and pain;

Fond deluder of the mind,

Ever feigning not to feign;

Whom no savage laws can bind,

None escape his pleasing chain. 30

G. EBBARE.

SONG.

[November, 1772.]

Cease to bid me not to sing.

Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre:

Hither, god of music, bring

Food to feed the gentle fire;

And on Pægasean wing

Mount my soul enraptur'd higher.

Some there are who'd curb the mind,

And would blast the springing bays;

All essays are vain, they'll find,

Nought shall drown the muse's lays, 10

Nought shall curb a free-born mind,

Nought shall damp Apollo's praise.

G. EBBARE.

[ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SPRINGALL LEVETT.]

[1774.]

What though no trophies peer above his dust,

Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust;

What though no earthly thunders sound his name,

Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame:

One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess--

More should we mourn him, did we love him less.

PARODY ON [BYROM'S] "MY TIME, OH YE MUSES."

[Woodbridge, about 1774.]

My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped

Ere you or your whimsies got into my head;

I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest,

And my heart play'd a regular tune in my breast.

But now, lack-a-day! what a change for the worse,

'Tis as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse.

My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind,

Could guide my pen gently to what I design'd.

I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle,

Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle. 10

But, since this vile Cupid has got in my brain,

I beg of the gods to assist in my strain.

And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves,

And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE WISH.

[Woodbridge, about 1774.]

My Mira, shepherds, is as fair

As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale,

As sylphs who dwell in purest air,

As fays who skim the dusky dale,

As Venus was when Venus fled

From watery Triton's oozy bed.

My Mira, shepherds, has a voice

As soft as Syrinx in her grove,

As sweet as echo makes her choice,

As mild as whispering virgin-love;

As gentle as the winding stream

Or fancy's song when poets dream.

* * * * * * * * *

INEBRIETY.

[Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by C.

Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price one shilling

and sixpence.]

The PREFACE.

Presumption or Meanness are but too often the only articles to be

discovered in a Preface. Whilst one author haughtily affects to

despise the public attention, another timidly courts it. I would no

more beg for than disdain applause, and therefore should advance

nothing in Favor of the following little _Poem_, did it not appear a

Cruelty and disregard to send a first Production naked into the WORLD.

The WORLD!--how pompous, and yet how trifling the sound. Every MAN,

Gentle Reader, has a WORLD of his own, & whether it consists of half a

score, or half a thousand Friends, 'tis his, and he loves to boast of

it. Into my WORLD, therefore, I commit this, my Muse's earliest labor,

nothing doubting the Clemency of the Climate, nor fearing the

Partiality of the censorious.

Something by way of _Apology_ for this trifle, is perhaps necessary;

especially for those parts, wherein I have taken such great Liberties

with Mr. POPE; that Gentleman, secure in immortal Fame, would forgive

me; forgive me too, my friendly Critic; I promise thee, thou wilt find

the Extracts from the Swan of Thames the best Parts of the

Performance; Few, I dare venture to affirm, will pay me so great a

Compliment, as to think I have injured Mr POPE; Fewer, I hope, will

think I endeavoured to do it, and Fewest of all will think any thing

about it.

The LADIES will doubtless favor my Attempt; for them indeed it was

principally composed; I have endeavored to demonstrate that it is

their own Faults, if they are not deemed as good MEN, as half the

masculine World; that a personal Difference of Sex need not make a

real Difference; and that a tender Languishment, a refin'd Delicacy,

and a particular attention to shine in Dress, will render the

_Beau-Animal_ infinitely more feminine, than the generality of LADIES,

whatever arcane Tokens of _Manhood_ the said _Animal_ may be indued

with; and yet, ye FAIR! these creatures pass even in your catalogue

for MEN; which I'm afraid is a Demonstration that the real MAN is very

scarce.

Some grave _Head_ or _other_ may possibly tell me, that Vice is to be

lash'd, not indulg'd; that true _Poetry_ forbids, not encourages,

Folly; and such other wise and weighty Sentences, picked from POPE and

HORACE, as he shall think most appertaining to his own dignity. But

this, my good Reader, is a trifle; _People_ now a Days are not to be

preach'd into Reflection, or they pay _Parsons_, not _Poets_ for it,

if they were; they listen indeed to a Discourse from the Pulpit, for

MEN are too wise to give away their Money without any consideration;

and though they don't mind what is said there, 'tis doubtless a great

Satisfaction to think they might if they choose it; but a MAN reads a

_Poem_ for quite a different purpose: to be lul'd into ease from

reflection, to be lul'd into an inclination for pleasure, and (where I

confess it comes nearer the Sermon) to be lul'd--asleep.

But lest the _Apology_ should have the latter effect in itself, and so

take away the merit of the Performance by forestalling that agreeable

Event: I without further ceremony bid thee Adieu!

PART the FIRST.

The mighty Spirit and its power which stains[1]

The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains,

I sing. Say ye, its fiery Vot'ries true,

The jovial Curate, and the shrill-tongu'd Shrew;

Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst,

Where Bowl the second charms like Bowl the first;

Say, how and why the sparkling ill is shed,

The Heart which hardens, and which rules the Head.

When Winter stern his gloomy front uprears,

A sable void the barren earth appears; 10

The meads no more their former verdure boast,

Fast bound their streams, and all their Beauty lost;

The herds, the flocks, their icy garments mourn,

And wildly murmur for the Spring's return;

The fallen branches from the sapless tree

With glittering fragments strow the glassy way;

From snow-top'd Hills the whirlwinds keenly blow,

Howl through the Woods, and pierce the vales below;

Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,

Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; 20

The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,

And shed their substance on the floating air;

The floating air their downy substance glides

Through springing Waters, and prevents their tides;

Seizes the rolling Waves, and, as a God,

Charms their swift race, and stops the refl'ent flood;

The opening valves, which fill the venal road,

Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood;

The labouring Pulse a slower motion rules,

The Tendons stiffen, and the Spirit cools; 30

Each asks the aid of [Nature's] sister Art,

To Cher the senses, and to warm the Heart.

The gentle fair on nervous tea relies,

Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes;

An inoffensive Scandal fluttering round,

Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound;

Champain the Courtier drinks, the spleen to chase,

The Colonel burgundy, and port his Grace;

Turtle and 'rrack the city rulers charm,

Ale and content the labouring peasants warm; 40

O'er the dull embers happy Colin sits,

Colin, the prince of joke and rural wits;

Whilst the wind whistles through the hollow panes,

He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains;

And tells the Tale, from sire to son retold,

Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold;

Of moon-clad Imps, that tremble by the dew,

Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue.

The throng invisible, that doubtless float

By mould'ring Tombs, and o'er the stagnant moat; 50

Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain,

And all the dreadful nothing of the Green.

And why not these? Less fictious is the tale,

Inspir'd by Hel'con's streams, than muddy ale?

Peace be to such, the happiest and the best,

Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest;

Who wage no war with an Avenger's Rod,

Nor in the pride of reason curse their God.

When in the vaulted arch Lucina gleams,

And gaily dances o'er the azure streams; 60

When in the wide cerulean space on high

The vivid stars shoot lustre through the sky;

On silent Ether when a trembling sound

Reverberates, and wildly floats around,

Breaking through trackless space upon the ear--

Conclude the Bacchanalian Rustic near;

O'er Hills and vales the jovial Savage reels,

Fire in his head and Frenzy at his heels;

From paths direct the bending Hero swerves,

And shapes his way in ill-proportion'd curves; 70

Now safe arriv'd, his sleeping Rib he calls,

And madly thunders on the muddy walls;

The well-known sounds an equal fury move,

For rage meets rage, as love enkindles love;

The buxom Quean from bed of flocks descends }

With vengeful ire, a civil war portends, }

An oaken plant the Hero's breast defends. }

In vain the 'waken'd infant's accents shrill

The humble regions of the cottage fill;

In vain the Cricket chirps the mansion through, 80

'Tis war, and Blood and Battle must ensue.

As when, on humble stage, him Satan hight

Defies the brazen Hero to the fight;

From twanging strokes what dire misfortunes rise,

What fate to maple arms, and glassen eyes;

Here lies a leg of elm, and there a stroke

From ashen neck has whirl'd a Head of oak.

So drops from either power, with vengeance big,

A remnant night-cap, and an old cut wig;

Titles unmusical, retorted round, 90

On either ear with leaden vengeance sound;

'Till equal Valour equal Wounds create,

And drowsy peace concludes the fell debate;

Sleep in her woolen mantle wraps the pair,

And sheds her poppies on the ambient air;

Intoxication flies, as fury fled,

On rocky pinions quits the aching head;

Returning Reason cools the fiery blood,

And drives from memory's seat the rosy God.

Yet still he holds o'er some his madd'ning rule, 100

Still sways his Sceptre, and still knows his Fool;

Witness the livid lip and fiery front,

With many a smarting trophy plac'd upon't;

The hollow Eye, which plays in misty springs,

And the hoarse Voice, which rough and broken rings.

These are his triumphs, and o'er these he reigns,

The blinking Deity of reeling brains.

See Inebriety! her wand she waves,

And lo! her pale, and lo! her purple slaves;

Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape, 110

Of every order, station, rank, and shape;

The King, who nods upon his rattle-throne;

The staggering Peer, to midnight revel prone;

The slow-tongu'd Bishop, and the Deacon sly,

The humble Pensioner, and Gownsman dry;

The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great,

Swell the dull throng, and stagger into state.

Lo! proud Flaminius at the splendid board,

The easy chaplain of an atheist Lord,

Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense, 120

And clouds his brain in torpid elegance;

In china vases see the sparkling ill,

From gay Decanters view the rosy rill;

The neat-carv'd pipes in silver settle laid,

The screw by mathematic cunning made;

The whole a pompous and enticing scene,

And grandly glaring for the surplic'd Swain;

Oh! happy Priest whose God like Egypt's lies,

At once the Deity and sacrifice!

But is Flaminius, then, the man alone, 130

To whom the Joys of swimming brains are known?

Lo! the poor Toper whose untutor'd sense[2]

Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense;

Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer

Beyond the muddy extacies of Beer;

But simple nature can her longing quench

Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench;

Some kitchen-fire diffusing warmth around,

The semi-globe by Hieroglyphics crown'd;

Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd, 140

Nor Waiters rave, nor Landlords thirst for gold;

Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine,

He asks no limpid Punch, no rosy Wine;

But sees, admitted to an equal share,

Each faithful swain the heady potion bear.

Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of taste

Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest.

Call vulgar palates, what thou judgest so;

Say, beer is heavy, windy, cold and slow;

Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence, 150

Yet cry when tortur'd, where is Providence?

If thou alone art, head and heel, not clear,

Alone made steady here, untumour'd there;

Snatch from the Board the bottle and the bowl,

Curse the keen pain, and be a mad proud Fool.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "The mighty Mother, and her Son, who brings

The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings,

I sing. Say ye, her instruments, the great,

Call'd to this Work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;

You by whose care, in vain decry'd, and curst,

Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first;

Say, how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep,

And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep."

Pope's Dunciad.--

[2] "Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind

Sees God in Clouds, and hears him in the wind;

Whose Soul proud science never taught to stray

Far as the solar walk, or milky way,

Yet simple nature to his hope has given

Behind the cloud-top't hill an humbler Heaven;

Some safer world, in depth of woods embrac'd,

Some happier island, in a watry waste:

Where slaves once more their native land behold,

Nor friends torment, nor Christians thirst for Gold;

To live, contents his natural desire,

He asks no Seraph's wing, no Angel's fire,

But thinks admitted to that equal Sky,

His faithful Dog, shall bear him company:

Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense

Weigh thy opinion against Providence;

Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such,

Say here he gives too little, here too much,

Destroy all creatures for thy sport and gust,

Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust;

If man alone engross not Heaven's high care,

Alone made perfect here, immortal there:

Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,

Rejudge his Justice, and be God of God."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

End of PART the FIRST.

PART the SECOND.

In various forms the madd'ning Spirit moves,

This drinks and fights, another drinks and loves.

A bastard Zeal of different kinds it shows,

And now with rage, and now Religion glows;

The frantic Soul bright reason's path defies,

Now creeps on Earth, now triumphs in the Skies;

Swims in the seas of error and explores,

Through midnight mists, the fluctuating Shores;

From wave to wave in rocky Channel glides,

And sinks in woe, or on presumption slides; 10

In Pride exalted, or by Shame deprest,

An Angel-Devil, or a human-Beast.

Without a pilot who attempts to steer,

Has small discretion or has little care;

That pilot Reason, in the erring Soul,

Is lost, is blinded in the steaming Bowl,

Charm'd by its power, we cast our guide away,

And at the mercy of conjecture lay;

Discretion dies with reason, Revel wakes!

And o'er the head his fiery banners shakes. 20

With him come frenzy, folly and excess,

Blink-ey'd conceit and shallow emptiness;

At Folly's beck a train of Vices glide,

Murder in madness cloak'd, in choler, Pride;

Above, Impiety, with curses bound,

Lours at the skies, and whirls Damnation round.

Some rage, in all the strength of folly mad,

Some love stupidity, in silence clad,

Are never quarrelsome, are never gay,

But sleep and groan and drink the Night away; 30

Old Torpio nods, and, as the laugh goes round,

Grunts through the nasal Duct, and joins the sound;

Then sleeps again, and, as the liquors pass,

Wakes at the friendly Jog, and takes his Glass;

Alike to him who stands, or reels, or moves;

The elbow chair, good wine and Sleep he loves;

Nor cares of state disturb his easy head,

By grosser fumes and calmer follies fed;

Nor thoughts, of when, or where, or how to come,

The Canvass general, or the general Doom; 40

Extremes ne'er reach'd one passion of his Soul;

A villain tame, and an unmettled fool,

To half his Vices he has but pretence,

For they usurp the place of common sense;

To half his little Merits has no claim

But very Indolence has rais'd his name,

Happy in this, that under Satan's sway

His passions humble, but will not obey.

The Vicar at the table's front presides,

Whose presence a monastic life derides; 50

The reverend Wig, in sideway order plac'd,

The reverend Band, by rubric stains disgrac'd,

The leering Eye, in wayward circles roll'd,

Mark him the Pastor of a jovial Fold,

Whose various texts excite a loud applause,

Favouring the Bottle, and the good old Cause.

See! the dull smile which fearfully appears,

When gross Indecency her front uprears;

The joy conceal'd the fiercer burns within,

As masks afford the keenest gust to Sin; 60

Imagination helps the reverend Sire,

And spreads the sails of sub-divine desire.

But when the gay immoral joke goes round,

When Shame and all her blushing train are drown'd,

Rather than hear his God blasphem'd he takes

The last lov'd Glass, and then the board forsakes:

Not that Religion prompts the sober thought,

But slavish Custom has the practice taught.

Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion

Has a true levite Bias for promotion; 70

Vicars must with discretion go astray,

Whilst Bishops may be d----n'd the nearest way;

So puny robbers individuals kill,

When hector-Heroes murder as they will.

Good honest Curio elbows the [divine,]

And strives, a social sinner, how to shine;

The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthen'd tale,

That Wilton Farmers give you with their ale:

How midnight Ghosts o'er vaults terrific pass,

Dance o'er the Grave, and slide along the grass; 80

How Maids forsaken haunt the lonely wood,

And tye the Noose, or try the willow flood;

How rural Heroes overcame the giants,

And through the ramshorn trumpet blew defiance;

Or how pale Cicely, within the wood,

Call'd Satan forth and bargain'd with her blood.

These, honest Curio, are thine, and these

Are the dull Treasures of a brain at peace.

No wit intoxicates thy gentle skull,

Of heavy, native, [unwrought] folly full; 90

Bowl upon Bowl in vain exert their force;

The breathing Spirit takes a downward course,

Or, vainly soaring upwards to the head,

Meets an impenetrable tence of lead.

Hast thou, Oh Reader! search'd o'er gentle Gay,

Where various animals their powers display?

In one strange Group, a chattering race was hurl'd,

Led by the Monkey who had seen the world.

He, it is said, from woodland shepherds stole,

And went to Court, to greet each fellow fool. 100

Like him, Fabricio steals from guardian's side,

Swims not in [pleasure's] stream, but sips the tide;

He hates the Bottle, yet but thinks it right }

To boast next day the honours of the night; }

None like your Coward can describe a fight. }

See him, as down the sparkling potion goes,

Labor to grin away the horrid dose;

In joy-feign'd gaze his misty eye-balls float,

Th' uncivil Spirit gurgling at his throat;

So looks dim Titan through a wintry scene, 110

And faintly cheers the woe-foreboding swain;

But now, Alas! the hour, th'increasing flood,

Rolls round and round, and cannot be withstood;

Thrice he essays to stop the ruby flow,

To stem its Force, and keep it still below;

In vain his Art, it comes! at [distance] gaze,

Ye stancher Sots, and be not near the place.

As when a flood from Ossa's pendant brow

Rolls rapid to its fellow streams below,

It moves tempest'ous down the Mountain's sides, 120 }

O'er lesser hills and vales like light'ning glides, }

And o'er their beauties fall'n triumphant rides, }

Each verdant spot and sunny bank defaces,

And forms a minor Ocean at its basis;

So from his rueful lips Fabricio pours,

With melancholy Force, the tinctur'd showers;

O'er the embroider'd vest they take their way,

And in the grave its tinsel honours lay.

No Nymph was there, to hold the helpless face,

Or save from ruin's spoil the luckless lace; 130

No guardian Fair, to turn the head aside

And to securer paths the torrent glide;

From silk to silk it drove its wayward Course,

And on the diamond buckle spent its Force.

Ah! gentle Fop! what luckless fate was thine

To sin through fashion, and in woe to shine.

But all our Numbers why should rascals claim[3]?

Rise, honest Muse, and sing a nobler name.

Pleas'd in his Eye good humour always smiles,

And Mirth unbought with strife the hour beguiles, 140

Who smoothed the frown on yonder surly brow?

From the dry Joke who bade gay Laughter flow?

Not of affected, empty rapture full,

Nor in proud Strain magnificently dull,

But gay and easy, giving without Art

Joy to each sense, and Solace to the heart.

Thrice happy Damon, able to pursue

What all so wish, but want the power to do.

No cares thy Head, no crimes thy Heart torment,

At home thou'rt happy, and abroad content; 150

Pleas'd with thyself, and therefore form'd to please,

With Moderation free, and gay with Ease,

Wise in a medium, just to an extreme,

"The soul of Humour, and the life of Whim,"

Plac'd from thy Sphere, amid the sons of shame,

Proud of thy Jest, but prouder of thy Name.

Pernicious streams from healthy fountains rise,

And Wit abus'd degenerates into vice;

Timon, long practic'd in the School of art,

Has lost each finer feeling of the Heart, 160

Triumphs o'er shame, and with delusive whiles,

Laughs at the Idiot he himself beguiles.

So matrons, past the awe of Censure's tongue,

Deride the blushes of the fair and young.

Few with more Fire on every subject spoke,

But chief he lov'd the gay immoral joke;

The Words most sacred, stole from holy writ,

He gave a newer form, and call'd them Wit;

Could twist a Sentence into various meaning,

And save himself in dubious explaining; 170

Could use a manner long taught art affords,

And hint Impiety in holy words.

Vice never had a more sincere ally,

So bold no Sinner, yet no Saint so sly;

Sophist and Cynic, mystically cool,

And still a very Sceptic at the soul;

Learn'd but not wise, and without Virtue brave,

A gay, deluding, philosophic Knave.

When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire,

They stir a new, but still a false desire; 180

The place of malice ridicule then holds,

And woe to teachers, ministers and scolds;

And, to the comfort of each untaught Fool,

Horace in English vindicates the Bowl.

"The man" (says Timon) "who is drunk is blest[4],

No fears [disturb], no cares destroy his rest;

In thoughtless joy he reels away his life,

Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife.

Of late I sat within the jangling bar,

And heard my Rib's hoarse thunder from afar; 190

Careless I spoke, and, when she found me drunk,

She breath'd one Curse, and then away she slunk,

Oh! place me, Jove, where none but women come,

And thunders worse than thine afflict the room;

Where one eternal Nothing flutters round,

And senseless [titt'rings] sense of mirth confound;

Or lead me bound to Garret, babel-high,

Where frantic Poet rolls his crazy eye;

Tiring the Ear, with oft-repeated chimes,

And smiling at the never ending rhymes; 200

E'en here or there, I'll be as blest as Jove,

Give me tobacco, and the wine I love."

Applause from Hands the dying accents break

Of stagg'ring sots, who vainly try to speak;

From Milo, him who hangs upon each word,

And in loud praises splits the tortur'd board,

Collects each sentence, ere it's better known,

And makes the mutilated joke his own,

At weekly club to flourish, where he rules

The glorious president of grosser fools. 210

But cease, my Muse; of those or these enough,

The fools who listen, and the knaves who Scoff;

The jest profane, that mocks th' offended God,

Defies his power, and [sets] at nought his rod.

The empty Laugh, discretion's vainest foe,

From fool to fool re-echo'd to and fro;

The sly Indecency, that slowly springs

From barren wit, and halts on trembling wings:

Enough of these, and all the charms of Wine;

Be sober joys and social evenings mine, 220

Where peace and Reason unsoil'd mirth improve,

The powers of friendship and the joys of love;

Where thought meets thought ere Words its form array,

And all is sacred, elegant, and gay;

Such pleasure leaves no Sorrow on the mind,

Too great to [pall], to sicken too [refin'd],

Too soft for Noise, and too sublime for art,

The social solace of the feeling Heart,

For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high,

'Tis Virtue's Pleasure, and can never die. 230

FOOTNOTES:

[3] "But all our praises why should Lords engross?

Rise honest Muse and sing the Man of Ross.

Pleas'd Vaga echo's, through her winding bounds,

And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds;

Who hung with woods, yon mountain's sultry brow?

From the dry Rock, who bade the waters flow?

Not to the skies in useless columns tost,

Nor in proud falls, magnificently lost.

But clear and artless, pouring through the plain

Health to the Sick, and solace to the Swain."

POPE.--

[4] "Integer vitæ, scelerisque [purus]

Non eget &c. &c."

HORACE.

End of PART the SECOND.

PART the THIRD.

Now soar, my Muse! and leave the meaner crew[5],

To aim at bliss, and vainly bliss pursue;

Let us (since Man no privilege can claim,

Than a contended, half superior name)

Expatiate o'er the raptures of the Fair,

Vot'ries to stolen joys, but yet sincere;

In secret Haunts, where never day-light gleams

By bottles, tempting with forbidden streams,

Together let us search; above, below,

Try what the Closets, what the Cellars show; 10

The latent vault with piercing view explore

Of her who hides the all reviving store.

Eye Beauty's walks, when round the welkin rolls,

And catch the stumbling Charmer as she falls;

Laugh where we must, but pity where we can,

And vindicate the sweet soft souls to Man.

Pardon, ye Fair, the Poet and his Muse,

And what ye can't approve, at least excuse;

Far be from him the iron lash of Wit,

The jokes of Humour, and the sneers that hit; 20

He speaks of Freedom, and he speaks to you,

His Verse is simple, but his Subject new;

And novelty, ye Fair, beyond a doubt,

Is philosophic truth, the World throughout.

Hard is the lot of Woman, so have sung

The pensive old, and the presuming young;

Born without privilege, in bondage bred,

Slave from the Cradle to the marriage Bed;

Slave from the hour hymeneal to the grave,

In age, in youth, in infancy a Slave. 30

Happy the Bard, who, bold in pride of song

Shall free the chain, by Custom bound so long,

And show the Fair, to mean tradition prone,

Though Virtue may have sex, yet Vice has none.

If Man is licenc'd to confuse his mind,

Say, why should female Frailty be confin'd?

Is't right that she who dearly bought the fruit, }

Of all our wayward appetites the root, }

Who first made Man a fool and then a brute; }

Who fair in spells of tender kind can slay, 40

Like Israel's Judge, her thousands in a day;

Nay farther, has a far superior Pow'r,

And almost thousands in a day can cure;

She, the bright cause of fury in Man's breast;

And brighter cause who bids that fury rest;

Who raises peace or war at her command,

And bids a sword destroy a tipsy Land;

Say, is it right that she who kills and saves,

Makes wise Men mad, and takes the veil from Knaves,

Should want the pow'r, the magic, which alone, 50

Can Conquests boast more fatal than her own?

For Man alone did earth produce her fruit,

The sole, as well as the superior, brute;

Does he alone the glorious licence claim,

To put the human off, and loose his Name?

Woman in Knowledge was the earlier curst,

And tasted of forbidden Fruit the first;

Prior to Man, the law she disobey'd,

And shall she want the Freedom she convey'd?

By her first Theft each fiery ill we feel, 60

And yet compel the gen'rous Fair to steal;

First made by her for soaring actions fit,

Woman! the spring of super-human wit,

Shall we from her each dear bought bliss withhold,

As Spaniards use the Indians for their Gold?

Ungrateful Man! in pride so high to aim,

As to be sole inheritor of shame!

And you, ye Fair! why slumber on disdain,

Forbear to vindicate, yet can't refrain?

Why should Papilla seek the vaulted hoard, 70

And but in secret ape her honest Lord?

Why should'st thou, Celia, to thy stores repair,

And sip the generous Spirit in such fear?

Reform the Error, and revoke your plan,

And as ye dare to imitate, be----Man.

First know yourselves, and frame your passions all[6],

In proper order, how to rise and fall;

Woman's a Being, dubiously great,

Never contented with a passive state;

With too much Knowledge to give Man the sway, 80

With too much Pride his humours to obey,

She hangs in doubt, [too] humble or [too] brave;

In doubt to be a Mistress or a Slave;

In doubt herself or Husband to controul;

Born to be made a tyrant or a fool;

In one extreme, her Power is always such

Either to show too little, or too much;

Bred up in Passions, by their sway abus'd,

The weaker for the stronger still refus'd;

Created oft' to rise, and oft' to fall, 90

Changing in all things, yet alike in all;

Soft Judge of right or wrong, or blest or curst,

The happiest, saddest, holiest, or the worst.

And why? because your failings ye suppress,

And what ye dare to act, dare not confess.

Would you, ye Fair, as Man your vices boast,

And she be most admir'd, who sins the most;

Would ye in open revel gaily spring,

And o'er the wanton Banquet vaunting sing;

The doubtful Precedence we then should own, 100

And you be first in [Error's] mazes known.

But why to Vices of the boist'rous kind

Tye the soft Soul, and urge the gentle Mind?

Forbid it, Nature! to the Fair I speak,

By her made strong, by Custom rendered weak;

Whose passions, trembling for unbounded sway,

Will thank the Bard, who points the nearest way;

All Vice through Folly's regions first should pass,

And Folly holds her sceptre o'er the glass.

Drink then, ye Fair! and nature's laws fulfill; 110

Be ev'ry thing at once, and all ye will;

Put off the mask that hides the Sex's claim

And makes Distinction but an empty name.

Go, wond'rous Creature! where the potion glides[7]

From Bowls unmeasured in illumin'd tides;

Instruct each other, in your due degrees;

Correct old Rules, and be e'en what you please;

Go, drink! for who shall jointed power contest?

Drink to the passable, the good, the best.

And, quitting Custom and her idle plan, 120

Call drowning reason imitating Man;

Like lovers' brains in giddy circles run,

And, all exhausting, imitate the Sun;

Go, and be Man in noise and glorious strife,

Then drop into his Arms and be a----Wife.

Ye Gods! what scenes upon my Fancy press,

The Consequence of unconfin'd excess;

When Vice in common has one general name,

And male and female Errors be the same;

For, as the strength of Spirit none contest, 130

That daring Ill shall introduce the rest;

Then, what a field of glory will arise,

What dazzling scenes, ye Fair, before your eyes:

As female duels, Jockies----what besides?

Gamblers in petticoats, and booted brides;

The tender Billet to the gentle swain,

That boldly dares avouch the am'rous pain;

Soft Beaux intreated, gentle Coxcombs prest,

And Fops asham'd half blush to be addrest.

Thus to sweet Strephon will his Chloris say, 140

One cup of Nectar having pav'd the way;

"Oh! why so dead to my emploring eyes,

Deaf to my prayer, and speechless to my sighs?

Sure never Nymph of old, my darling Boy,

When Men intreated, and when we were coy,

Was prest so warmly by a bleeding swain,

Or shot from killing eyes such cold disdain."

And thus will run wild Flavia's Billetdoux,

The writing bold, and e'en the spelling true:

"No more, my Belmour, shun these longing arms, 150

Thou quintessence of all thy Sex's charms;

At ten--behind the elm, where echoes sigh,

Shall, taught [by] me, teach thee my swain to die;

The conscious Moon shall fill her lucid horn,

And join thy Blush to mock the crimson morn;

The limpid Stream shall softly move along,

And hear its own sweet warble from thy tongue;

There come, dear boy, or vainly flow the streams,

There come, or vainly sheds the moon her beams;

Vainly on her my Moments I shall waste, 160

She who like thee is cold, and who like thee is chaste."

But then what tender Stripling shall escape?

What blushing Boy avoid a Lady-Rape?

Where shall each lisping creature hide his head,

To amazonian desires betray'd?

Where from the wily Heroine remove,

Clad in the fortitude of Wine and Love?

Oh! hapless Lad, what refuge canst thou find

Too soft, too mild, too tender to be kind?

Yet this is no objection understood, 170

"For partial Evil's universal Good."

Nor think of Nature's state I make a jest[8]:

The state of Nature is a state undrest;

The love of Pleasure at our birth began,

Pleasure the aim of all things, and of Man.

Law then was not, the swelling flame to kill,

Man walk'd with beast, and--so he always will;

And Woman too, the same their board and bed,

And would be now, but Folks are better bred;

In some convenient grot, or tufted wood, 180

All human beings Nature's circuit trod;

The shrine was her's, with no gay vesture laid;

Unbrib'd, unmarried stood the willing maid;

Her attribute was universal Love,

And man's prerogative to range and rove.

But how unlike the Pairs of times to come,

Wedded, yet separate, abroad at home,

Who foes to Nature, and to evil prone,

Despising all, but hating most their own.

A wayward craving this Neglect succeeds, 190

As every Monster monst'rous children breeds;

Strange motly passions from this vice began,

And Man unnatural turn'd to worship Man.

For this the Muse now calls the Fair to rise,

To shew our failings, and to make us wise;

Be now to Bacchus, now to Venus prone,

And share each folly Man has thought his own;

Shame him from Vice, by shewing him your shame,

And part with yours, to reinstate his Fame;

Be generously vile, and this your view: 200

That Man may hate his errors seen in you.

Say, when the Coxcomb flatters and adores,

When (taking snuff) your pity he implores;

With many a gentle Dem'me swears to die,

And humbly begs Destruction from your eye;

When your own arts he takes, and speaks in smiles,

With Softness woos, and with a Voice beguiles;

Does it not move your pity and disdain,

Such flow'ry passion, and such mincing pain;

Your various Follies you with anger scan, 210

So shewn by one whom Nature meant for Man.

E'en so do we our faults in you despise,

And Vice has double malice in those Eyes.

When Chloe toasts her Beau, or raves too loud;

When Flavia leaves her home, and joins a croud;

When Silvia fearless rolls the roguish eye,

And Damon's want of confidence supply;

When betts, and duns, and every rougher name,

Sound in the ear of either Sex the same;

How should we tell, when thus you love and hate, 220

Who acts the Man, and who's effeminate?

Drink, then! disclaim your Sex, be Man in all,

Shew us at once, distinction ought to fall;

And from the humble things ye were of old,

Be reeling Cæsars in a cyprian mould.

Better for us, 'tis granted, it might be[9],

Were you all Softness, and all Honour we;

That never rougher Passion mov'd your mind;

That we were all or excellent or blind;

But, as we now subsist by passions strife, 230

Which are (POPE writes) the elements of life,

The general order, since the whole began,

Should be dissolv'd, and Manners make the Man.

Nor fear, if once ye break through general Laws,

To draw in thousands, and gain our applause;

Nor fear but Fame your merits shall make known,

And female Bravos trample Hectors down;

From Man himself you'll learn the art he boasts,

Rule in his room, and govern in his posts.

Thus does the Muse in vein didactic speak----[10] 240

"Go, from proud Man thy full instructions take;

Learn from the Law, what gain its mazes yield;

Learn of the Brave the police of the field;

Thy arts of shuffling from the Courtier get;

Learn of his Grace to stare away a debt;

Learn from the Sot his poison to caress,

Shake the mad room, and revel in excess;

From Man all forms of grand deception find,

And so be tempted to delude Mankind.

Here frantic schemes of wild Ambition see; 250

There all the plots, my Fair! he lays for thee.

Learn each small People's genius, humours, aims,

The Jocky's dealing, and Newmarket games;

How there in common wealth in currents go,

And poverty and riches ebb and flow;

And these for ever, though a Saint deny'd,

To splendour or contempt their Masters guide;

Mark the nice rules of modern honour well,

Rules which the laws of Nature far excel.

In vain thy fancy finer whims shall draw; 260

Good-breeding is as difficult as Law,

And, form'd so complex, makes itself a science,

To bid the Scholar and the Clown defiance.

Go then, and thus thy present Lords survey,

And let the Creatures feel they must obey;

Learn all their Arts, be these thy choicest hoard,

Be fear'd for these, and be for these ador'd."

And where are these? within the Bowl they lie;

Thence spring ambitious thoughts, there doubtings die;

From thence we trace the horrors of a War, 270

Chaotic counsel, ministerial jar;

This makes a gambling Lord, a Patriot vain,

The Soldier's fury, and the Lover's pain;

Fills Bedlam's wards with souls of ærial mould;

This makes the Madman, this supplies the Scold;

Here rules the one grand Passion in extreme,

A love of lucre, or a love of fame;

The Scholar's boast, the Politician's plan;

Here shines the Bubble, and here falls the Man.

Oh! happy fall of insolence and pride, 280

Which makes the humblest with the great allied;

Which levels like the Grave all earthly things,

For drunken Coblers are as proud as Kings;

Which plucks the sons of grandeur from their sphere,

For who is lower than a stagg'ring Peer?

Yet here, ye Fair, tho' ev'ry Soul's the same,

And Prince and Pedlar differ but in name,

Folly with Fashion is discreetly grac'd,

And, if all sin, not all can sin in taste;

For who, ye Gods! would ever go astray, 290

If 'twas not something in a modish way?

Oh! Fashion, caprice, pride--whate'er we call--

Thou something, nothing, dear attractive all;

Thou serious trifle of the gentle Soul,

Worship'd, yet changing, varying to controul;

Sweet Child of wanton fancy, artful whim,

Bred in an instant, born in an Extreme;

Folly's best friend, and luxury's ally,

Who, dying always, prov'st thou canst not die;

Attend us here; let us grow mad in Form, 300

Rage with an Air, and elegantly storm;

Invoke destruction with a Grace divine,

And call for Satan as a child of thine;

Genteely stagger from the common road;

And ape the brute, but ape him in the mode;

With a Court-grace make every action known,

For who'd be d----n'd for sins they blush to own?

Far as the power of human vice extends[11],

Her scale of sensual vanity ascends;

Mark how it rises to the gilded Throne, 310

From the poor wretch who dully topes alone.

What modes of folly, each in one extreme,

The sots dim sense, th' Epicurean's dream;

Of scent, what difference 'twixt the pungent rum

And noxious vapours of fermenting stum;

Of hearing, to Champain's decanted swell

From the dull gurgle of expiring ale?

The touch, how distant in the mean and great,

Who feel all roughness, or who feed from plate;

In the nice Lord, behold what arts produce; 320

From vases carv'd is quaff'd the balmy juice;

How palates vary in the poor Divine,

Compar'd, half-reasoning Nobleman! with thine.

Thus every sense is fill'd in due degree,

And proper barriers bound his Grace and me;

Here every Passion is at length display'd,

Nations are ruin'd, Ministers betray'd;

And what, ye Fair, concerns your pleasures most,

Intrigues are plan'd, and Reputations lost:

By you persuaded, Man was overcome, 330

And conquer'd once, received a general doom;

Requite the deed, partake a general Curse;

We fell with you, and you should fall with us.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] "Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner things

To low ambition, and the pride of Kings;

Let us (since Life can little more supply

Than just to look about us, and to die)

Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man,

A mighty maze, but not without a plan;

A Wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot

Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.

Together let us beat this ample field,

Try what the open, what the covert yield;

The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore,

Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;

Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies,

And catch the Manners, living as they rise;

Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,

But vindicate the ways of God to Man."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[6] "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,

The proper study of Mankind is Man.

Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,

A Being darkly wise, and rudely great;

With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,

With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,

He hangs between: in doubt to act, or rest;

In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast;

In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer;

Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;

Alike in Ignorance, his reason such,

Whether he thinks too little or too much;

Chaos of Thought and Passion; all confus'd;

Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd:

Created half to rise, and half to fall,

Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all;

Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl'd;

The glory, jest, and riddle of the World!"

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[7] "Go, wondrous creature! mount where Science guides;

Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;

Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,

Correct old Time, and regulate the Sun;

Go, soar, with Plato, to th' empyreal sphere,

To the first Good, first Perfect, and first Fair;

Or tread the mazy round his foll'wers trod,

And quitting sense call imitating God;

As eastern Priests in giddy circles run,

And turn their heads to imitate the Sun;

Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule;

Then drop into thyself, and be a Fool."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[8] "Nor think, in Nature's State they blindly trod;

The state of Nature was the reign of God:

Self-love and social at her birth began,

Union the bond of all things, and of Man.

Pride then was not; nor Arts, that Pride to aid;

Man walk'd with beast, joint tenant of the shade;

The same his table, and the same his bed;

No murder cloath'd him, and no murder fed.

In the same temple, the resounding wood,

All vocal beings hymn'd their equal God;

The shrine with gore unstain'd, with gold undrest;

Unbrib'd, unbloody, stood the blameless priest;

Heav'n's attribute was universal care,

And Man's prerogative to rule, but spare.

Ah! how unlike the man of times to come!

Of half that live the butcher and the tomb;

Who, foe to Nature, hears the gen'ral groan,

Murders their species, and betrays his own.

But just Disease to luxury succeeds,

And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds;

The Fury-passions from that blood began,

And turn'd on Man a fiercer savage, Man."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[9] "Better for us, I grant, it might appear,

Were there all Harmony, all Virtue here;

That never air or ocean felt the wind,

That never passion discompos'd the mind;

But all subsists by elemental strife,

And passions are the elements of life;

The general Order, since the whole began

Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man."

[10] "Thus then to Man the voice of Nature spake----

'Go, from the creatures thy instructions take:

Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield;

Learn from the beasts the physic of the field;

Thy arts of building from the bee receive;

Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave;

Learn of the little nautilus to sail,

Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.

Here too all forms of social union find,

And hence let Reason, late, instruct Mankind;

Here subterranean works and cities see,

There towns aerial on the waving tree.

Learn each small people's genius, policies,

The ant's republic, and the realm of bees;

How those in common all their wealth bestow,

And anarchy without confusion know;

And these for ever, though a monarch reign,

Their sep'rate cells and properties maintain.

Mark what unvary'd laws preserv'd each state,

Laws wise as nature, and as fix'd as Fate.

In vain thy Reason finer webs shall draw,

Intangle Justice in her net of law,

And right, too rigid, harden into wrong,

Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong.

Yet go! and thus o'er all the creatures sway;

Thus let the wiser make the rest obey;

And, for those arts mere Instinct could afford,

Be crown'd as Monarchs, or as Gods ador'd.'"

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[11] "Far as Creation's ample range extends,

The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends;

Mark how it mounts to Man's imperial race,

From the green myriads in the peopled grass

What modes of sight, betwixt each wide extreme,

The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:

Of smell the head-long lioness between,

And hound sagacious on the tainted green.

Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,

To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood,

The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line;

In the nice bee what art, so subtly true,

From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew;

How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine,

Compar'd, half-reasoning elephant, with thine."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

_FINIS._

JUVENILIA.

[THE LEARNING OF LOVE.]

[About 1776.]

Ah! blest be the days when with Mira I took

The learning of Love....

When we pluck'd the wild blossoms that blush'd in the grass,

And I taught my dear maid of their species and class;

For Conway, the friend of mankind, had decreed

That Hudson should show us the wealth of the mead.

YE GENTLE GALES.

Woodbridge, 1776.

Ye gentle Gales, that softly move,

Go whisper to the Fair I love;

Tell her I languish and adore,

And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request,

Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest--

My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim,

And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still, if she rests in mute disdain,

And thinks I feel a common pain-- 10

Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly,

And tell the haughty Fair I die.

MIRA.

Aldborough, 1777.

A wanton chaos in my breast raged high,

A wanton transport darted in mine eye;

False pleasure urged, and ev'ry eager care,

That swell the soul to guilt and to despair.

My Mira came! be ever blest the hour,

That drew my thoughts half way from folly's power;

She first my soul with loftier notions fired;

I saw their truth, and as I saw admired;

With greater force returning reason moved,

And as returning reason urged, I loved; 10

Till pain, reflection, hope, and love allied

My bliss precarious to a surer guide--

To Him who gives pain, reason, hope, and love,

Each for that end that angels must approve.

One beam of light He gave my mind to see,

And gave that light, my heavenly fair, by thee;

That beam shall raise my thoughts, and mend my strain,

Nor shall my vows, nor prayers, nor verse be vain.

HYMN.

Beccles, 1778.

Oh, Thou! who taught my infant eye

To pierce the air, and view the sky,

To see my God in earth and seas,

To hear him in the vernal breeze,

To know him midnight thoughts among,

O guide my soul, and aid my song!

Spirit of Light! do thou impart

Majestic truths, and teach my heart;

Teach me to know how weak I am,

How vain my powers, how poor my frame; 10

Teach me celestial paths untrod--

The ways of glory and of God.

No more let me, in vain surprise,

To heathen art give up my eyes--

To piles laborious science rear'd

For heroes brave, or tyrants fear'd;

But quit Philosophy, and see

The Fountain of her works in Thee.

Fond man! yon glassy mirror eye--

Go, pierce the flood, and there descry 20

The miracles that float between

The rainy leaves of wat'ry green;

Old Ocean's hoary treasures scan;

See nations swimming round a span.

Then wilt thou say--and rear no more

Thy monuments in mystic lore--

My God! I quit my vain design,

And drop my work to gaze on Thine:

Henceforth I'll frame myself to be,

Oh, Lord! a monument of Thee. 30

THE WISH.

Aldborough, 1778.

Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts,

The full design, complete in all its parts,

Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells the soul--

When swell'd too much the judgment to control--

The happy ear that feels the flowing force

Of the smooth line's uninterrupted course;

Give me, oh give, if not in vain the prayer,

That sacred wealth, poetic worth, to share--

Be it my boast to please and to improve,

To warm the soul to virtue and to love; 10

To paint the passions, and to teach mankind

Our greatest pleasures are the most refined;

The cheerful tale with fancy to rehearse,

And gild the moral with the charm of verse.

THE COMPARISON.

Parham, 1778.

Friendship is like the gold refined,

And all may weigh its worth;

Love like the ore, brought undesign'd

In virgin beauty forth.

Friendship may pass from age to age,

And yet remain the same;

Love must in many a toil engage,

And melt in lambent flame.

GOLDSMITH TO THE AUTHOR.

Aldborough, 1778.

_Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum._

You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true,

When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you?

_Read_ first--if my lectures your fancy delight--

Your taste is diseased, can your cure be to _write_?

You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engage

The attention of wits and the smiles of the age:

Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,

Why--every man thinks just the same of his own.

You imagine that Pope--but yourself you beguile--

Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style. 10

Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope--

Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.

You think of _my_ muse with a friendly regard,

And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward:

But let not his glory your spirits elate,

When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.

FRAGMENT.

Aldborough, 1778.

_Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him?_

Proud, little Man, opinion's slave.

Error's fond child, too duteous to be free,

Say, from the cradle to the grave,

Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee?

This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheel

Moves by deep springs, which thou canst never feel;

Her day and night, her centre and her sun,

Untraced by thee, their annual courses run.

A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine,

And flattering fancy calls the motion thine; 10

Untaught how soon some hanging grave may burst,

And join thy flimsy substance to the dust.

THE RESURRECTION.

Aldborough, 1778.

The wintry winds have ceased to blow,

And trembling leaves appear;

And fairest flowers succeed the snow,

And hail the infant year.

So, when the world and all its woes

Are vanish'd far away,

Fair scenes and wonderful repose

Shall bless the new-born day--

When, from the confines of the grave,

The body too shall rise, 10

No more precarious passion's slave,

Nor error's sacrifice.

'Tis but a sleep--and Sion's king

Will call the many dead;

'Tis but a sleep--and then we sing

O'er dreams of sorrow fled.

Yes!--wintry winds have ceased to blow,

And trembling leaves appear,

And Nature has her types to show

Throughout the varying year. 20

MY BIRTH-DAY.

Aldborough, December 24, 1778.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread,

The toiling year has pass'd and fled:

And, lo! in sad and pensive strain,

I sing my birth-day date again.

Trembling and poor, I saw the light,

New waking from unconscious night;

Trembling and poor I still remain,

To meet unconscious night again.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers,

To cheer or cheat the weary hours; 10

And those few strangers, dear indeed,

Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.

TO ELIZA.

Beccles, 1779.

The Hebrew king, with spleen possest,

By David's harp was soothed to rest;

Yet, when the magic song was o'er,

The soft delusion charm'd no more;

The former fury fired the brain,

And every care return'd again.

But had he known Eliza's skill

To bless the sense and bind the will,

To bid the gloom of care retire,

And fan the flame of fond desire, 10

Remembrance then had kept the strain,

And not a care return'd again.

LIFE.

Aldborough, 1779.

Think ye, the joys that fill our early day,

Are the poor prelude to some full repast?

Think you, they _promise_?--ah! believe they _pay_;

The purest ever, they are oft the last.

The jovial swain that yokes the morning team,

And all the verdure of the field enjoys,

See him, how languid, when the noon-tide beam

Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys.

So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled,

We at the summit of our hill arrive: 10

Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past--are dead,

But what still deepening clouds of Care survive!

THE SACRAMENT.

Aldborough, 1779.

O sacred gift of God to man,

A faith that looks above,

And sees the deep amazing plan

Of sanctifying love.

Thou dear and yet tremendous God,

Whose glory pride reviles;

How did'st thou change thy awful rod

To pard'ning grace and smiles!

Shut up with sin, with shame below,

I trust, this bondage past, 10

A great, a glorious change to know,

And to be bless'd at last.

I _do_ believe, that, God of light!

Thou didst to earth descend,

With Satan and with Sin to fight--

Our great, our only friend.

I _know_ thou did'st ordain for me,

Thy creature, bread and wine;

The depth of grace I cannot see,

But worship the design. 20

NIGHT.

Aldborough, 1779.

The sober stillness of the night

That fills the silent air,

And all that breathes along the shore,

Invite to solemn prayer.

Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!

Which points the sacred way,

And let thy creatures here below

Instruct me how to pray.

FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Aldborough, 1779.

Oh, great Apollo! by whose equal aid

The verse is written and the med'cine made,

Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers,

In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours?

Insulting quack! on thy sad business go,

And land the stranger on this world of woe.

Still I pass on, and now before me find

The restless ocean, emblem of my mind;

There wave on wave, here thought on thought succeeds,

Their produce idle works and idle weeds. 10

Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea,

But not more dark than my sad views to me;

Yet from the rising moon the light beams dance

In troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse;

So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright,

The Muse pours comfort in a flood of light.--

Shine out, fair flood! until the day-star flings

His brighter rays on all sublunar things.

"Why in such haste? by all the powers of wit,

I have against thee neither bond nor writ. 20

If thou'rt a poet, now indulge the flight

Of thy fine fancy in this dubious light;

Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme,

And all things meet to form the true sublime."--

"Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place,

With abject rhymes a doctor's name disgrace?

Nor doctor solely, in the healing art

I'm all in all, and all in every part;

Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be

Which gave me right to claim the golden fee. 30

Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due,

For mine th' advice and operation too;

And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe,

I make myself the med'cines I prescribe.

Mine, too, the chemic art; and not a drop

Goes to my patients from a vulgar shop.

But chief my fame and fortune I command

From the rare skill of this obstetric hand:

This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow,

With her who calls me from thy wonder now." 40

MIDNIGHT

A POEM.

[About 1779.]

Life is a Dream;--it steals upon the Man,

He knows not how, but thinks himself awake;

'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep,

That turns its glossy surface to the Sun,

Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proud

Of momentary Being--then it breaks--

To some tremendous Billow drops a prey,

And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.

But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care,

How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream, 10

And some--hard Fortune theirs--of Care alone.

Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake,

A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep;

While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad,

And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive Flight

Through Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her,

Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose Touch

Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits

On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.

Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines 20

The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave

Of the departed Lover; nor more mild

Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,

That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,

Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,

Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,

The Song shall please; and I will paint the Dream

That Midnight gave thee, when with wintry Wing

She swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew

Upon the frozen Garment of the pool; 30

And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine,

And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale,

And dress me in the Livery of the Dead;

And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee;

Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares,

And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons,

Who feed on Adulation--let them feed,

Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash,

And sickens with Repletion.--

I will ask,

No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song, 40

Nor Court Applause--Meonides had Fame,

And with her poverty and pain and Care,

Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph,

Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note;

From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key,

And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries;

Ambition started when he sang of War,

In Language all her own; and o'er his Lyre

Hung Devastation, glowing at the Sound,

And frantic for the Field; and there Distress, 50

As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man,

With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse;

And chiding Fame, by whispering to the Soul

Domestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise,

And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World,

Led the blind Bard in Sadness to the Tomb.--

I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver Wing

To bear me in some rapid even flight

Thro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard

That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang, 60

Transported, [wanders], feeling power divine

New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.

Imagination turns the Tide of Time,

Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,

And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear,

And falling Rome works back, till Nature smiles

And [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene,

And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen Boughs

That Shade the [Nereids] listning from their Streams.--

Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn 70

And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,

Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream

Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,

Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,

And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,

From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,

Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,

Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.

Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,

That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom, 80

Shot devious o'er the fervent Page of Young--

Young, Thought's Oeconomist, who wove reproof

Her [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone;

Whose Invitation was assault: he found

The World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.

Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream,

The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blend

With his Creation; when he led the Eye

Through the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring;

And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream, 90

And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her Leaf

Unfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rills

Unmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace.

Ah! who with mingled Modesty and Love

So paints the bathing Maid; who so describes

The new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb?

Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's Wing

Of Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm;

But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,

And led thy weary plowman from the field, 100

And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,

And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough,

And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds,

Rustling along the golden [Valley], bear

The Grain just dropping from its withering Glume.

And Winter too was thine! permit me there

To bear a part, for mine are wintry Thoughts.--

Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire,

Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd

Imagination's pleasures to its Eye; 110

His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine;

His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns;

And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike,

At that dread Hour when the officious Friend,

Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss,

May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul,

And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies,

Whisper a noble [Challenge] to the Tomb.--

Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same,

And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls, 120

Both sentenc'd to Contempt--unletter'd pride--

Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to him

Who soars above or labours in the Clouds,

Who travels the sublime, or dives profound

In the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream:

He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill

That owns him Lord untasted steals away,

Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.

Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down

The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy 130

And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song

Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night.

This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,

Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,

Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,

To dive into the Depths of your profound,

And with a vile assemblage gather'd there

Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ring Bays.--

Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,

In repetition mawkish, or who tir'd 140

Thinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the Hand

Of [Disappointment] snatches from the Vice

That waits on power? or who has lost a friend,

And mingles with the dew that wets his Tomb

A frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mild

And melancholy Bias from the Womb

Was fashioned for the View of serious Things,

And with the sober chiding of his eye,

Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek,

And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity? 150

Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul,

EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and give

The Living Youth the Manners of my Friend.

From the Enshrouded Tenant of the Sod

I'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart,

The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the Form

That, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile,

That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt,

Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear.

Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound, 160

Halting in frozen regions of the Air,

Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,

Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n

For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,

To grasp Delusion in her Guise of Gold.--

The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill

Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms

She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip

Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart

Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View. 170

In other Climates, from the rays of Noon

Embower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palm

Drinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the Brow

Of shadied Weariness; and distant now

Draws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow,

The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun,

Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths,

The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light.

'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim

And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gild 180

The restless Bosom of the briny Deep.

The fiery Meteor in the foggy Air

Rides emulous of Fame and apes the Star,

Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish,

It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream,

Within the bosom of Oblivion.

The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff,

Unconscious of the Surge that grates below

The frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds,

As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul, 190

The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,

Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is now

The awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's Grave

Rolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,

That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,

Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,

Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;

Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of Light

Imprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,

And now escaping, when the parent Sun 200

Flings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,

Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.

Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,

Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy net

The wintry Fern, and throws along the Heath

A Hoary Garment, nor less fair than Spring

Drops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.

The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd Air

Shed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece

The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak, 210

Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,

With [age's] stern and touching Eloquence

The ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.

The winds that in converging Furrows plough

The freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,

Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings.

In Winter's Livery sleeps this earthly Scene--

And, save where Ocean rolls his restless Flood,

The horizontal Eye grasps all things grey.--

Eugenio, see--for thou shalt bear His Name 220

Who sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was my Friend--

The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thou

A Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb;

For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead,

Where Vanity amid the Mouldring Scrolls

Of Genealogy and mingled Bones

Moves in a formal join'd Solemnity,

House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man;

And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell,

Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth, 230

Stirs busy Memory to con o'er Deeds

Of high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love;

Which in th' eternal Records of the Just,

Are written with an Angels pen, and sung

With [Symphony] of Harp, and there is Joy

And Gratulation with the Sons of God.--

Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene],

How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade!

No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale

With Fragrance, nor invites the roving Bee 240

To taste its Sweets--and why this direful waste

Of Verdure? why this Vegetable Death?

Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin?

All in rebellion rise?--and tepid Meads,

And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field,

And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods,

Spurn GOD'S Command and drink forbidden Dew?--

There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair,

(A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race)

A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love: 250

Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care,

The Sward was not--and Desolation slept

Till by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en Song

Wore Semblatude of War;--Eternal Spring

From the unfurrow'd Field the heavy Ear

Drew smiling, and the undistinguish'd year

Brought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she then

A Common Call, enamour'd of her plough.

The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm

E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant Lap 260

The tributary Grape, yet growing, laid.

The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay;

Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside,

The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains,

And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride.

Eugenio, thus they taught; and after this

A silver age arose, and hers the Scenes

Not Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid,

Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night,

And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye. 270

The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow,

And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care began

To plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age,

And Falshood from the female Eye to steal

The silent Tear; then prudence took her Seat

Within the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room.

Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bend

The ready Ear to tales of her own praise;

Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery,

But was, as Modesty is now, afraid 280

The Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much.

Then young Ambition wore his Russet Gown

Only in better Form, and Infant pomp

But saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom,

And propt his Cottage with a taller pier.--

Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of Sin

And foul Deformity, the Breast of Man

And the Sad Surface of the Earth enrobes.--

From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt

Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first, 290

Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood;

And treachery, breaking up the League of Friends

And rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ,

With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale,

A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care.

Hence War, in all her guilty Majesty

In slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land,

With all the murderous Whispers of the Camp

And shout of Ambush, castigates the Night.--

And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell, 300

That prey upon Mankind.--Eugenio, give

Thy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things,

To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air,

And we will mark the dreary Train that vex

The mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp,

Frowning upon the Midnight's murky Wing.--

And who is he, from yonder antient roof,

With Horror in his Eye, who steals around

Each hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace

Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the Foe 310

Of Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night,

And Superstition call'd, a Giant fond

Of Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness],

Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel,

And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a Groan

Resounding loud, affright the Coward Soul

From Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he Mourns

The fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure,

With Indolence and Folly, social pair,

Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who built 320

The Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'd

The drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or Eve

Hail'd the arising or descending Sun

With gothic Note, harmoniously sad.

But now no more the Votive Maiden clasps

The clay cold Saint, and mingles with her Vow

The Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realms

No more the power-compelling Bigot plucks

The robe from Kings, and consecrates the Tomb

That hides a Brother-Saint with Zeal-enforc'd 330

And ceremonious Solemnity.--

O'er the Opaque of Nature and of Night

Fair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born Art

That shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprest

Within the Volumes' varied Character,

Where to the wondering Eye the Soul reveals

Her Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shone

And Newton thro' the World, and Light on Light

Pour'd on the human Breast, as when of old,

From the Eternal Fountains of the God, 340

Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass;

Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'd

The first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things,

Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'd

Without a Station, and without a Name.

Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,

To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the arm

Of Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,

Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke

The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword, 350

Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,

And oft drew back, his silver wing born down

By the foul Breath of Malice; till at length

The Monster, rousing in Collected Might,

Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the Sound

Red Tyranny, and Torture, with his Limbs

Disjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blast

For every Fire, prepar'd each bloody Form

Of Death, and woo'd Destruction for her Wheel.--

Then on the Father dead the dying Son 360

Implor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrill

Shot from the lurid Flame, and to the Skies

Sail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's Eye

Met the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's Fear

Of Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply,

Forbidding Hope, on the affrightned Soul

Flung Terror; till, in pity to the World,

Came Wisdom, whispering to the Ear of power,

And peace arose; and then the Brother wept

A Brother's Death, for distant seem'd his own. 370

And now the Spirit of uneasy Man,

That weds Extreme, and, ever on the Wing

For Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the Cells

Of monkish Zeal, built with the base remains

The tow'ring Palace of Impiety.

There Jest profane, and Quibbling Mockery

Of all divine grew fast, as from the Earth

Enrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools,

Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth,

And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene. 380

To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success,

A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form,

And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a Lye

With Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth;

They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite,

With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man,

Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal,

Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!--

And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view

Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind, 390

And heedless of its Force. Upon the Brow

Of yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels,

And urges the departed Saints who sleep,

To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth,

Her Son, but late th' adopted of her dark

And gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the Crime

Of Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed!

And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep,

Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind

A thousand sooty Images of Death, 400

All horrible, and making Guilt's repose

Like to the fearfull rest the Vessel feels

In the dread Chasm of the tempestuous Sea,

Arch'd by the Wave that pauses o'er the Gulph,

While Sea-men urge their momentary prayer,

And with Heart-shrinking Horror view their Grave.

But hark, he speaks--attend the Wretches Tale--

Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night,

And seeking peace by giving Themes of pain

To the rude Air:

"Come, all ye little Ills, 410

Contempt, and poverty, and pale Disease

With Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applause

That sickens on the World, and all of Care

That shed your daily Drops of bitter Dew

Upon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike,

That I may feel your force, and call it Joy,

So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt,

With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart,

And when a momentary Comfort strives,

Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing, 420

Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought,

And nips the still-born Joy.--

"To me no more

The Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace,

Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard;

And did I think a base and sordid Heap

Had in it the Ability to pluck

The Sting from Guilt, and smother how it came

In the vile Knowledge that it came to me?

It was a Madman's Dream--O ye good Gods!

If Envy knew her Mark, she would beset 430

The poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut,

Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast,

Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep,

At their still howling North; and leave the Throne,

The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plant

The Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State,

On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep,

And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinkle there.--

"When shall I rest--O! let me, Night, [besiege]

Thy drowsy Ear with wailing, but be thou 440

[Tenacious] of my Guilt; and with her Band

Let everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue;

The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leap

Murder's Discretion, and with fearfull Speech

To free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death:

[Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man,

The base assassin, gives, and after longs

With Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine,

And I will yield all Hope of After-Life,

All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung-- 450

Elysium water'd with immortal Streams,

And gifted with Eternity of peace,

Balm-breathing Fields, and Bowers of soft repose,

Walks amaranthine, and the pillowy Moss,

On Banks where Harpers, to celestial Strings

Attuning Nature, warble Notes of Love,

The Anodyne to all-rebellious Thought.--

"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with these

Foregoing pain eternal. Why then strive

From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care, 460

When Life and Care may be remov'd together?--

If I were not a very Coward Wretch,

A very Shadow of the Man, a thing

Made to feel Burdens of my Fear, and drag

A hated Being on--'twere but to leap

From this rough [Eminence], and all is done--

All that is done on this Side of the Bier.

But there, surrounded with impervious Fog,

Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come;

Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes, 470

Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease,

Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride,

Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice,

Slay in thy path; within thy Sepulchre

Mould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs,

Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity!

But what comes then? O for a Seraph's Eye

That, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things,

Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light,

And in its Immaterial Robe detect 480

The Spirit, stript of the encumbring Clay."--

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,

Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;

The rest we seek in our reflecting View

Of Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.

How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!

Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,

Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,

Meets--may he not?--the jovial Eye of Day,

With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek, 490

Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates

Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores

That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,

And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,

But, take it patient with a sober hope,

That soon Distress may vary his assault,

Or soon the Welcome Tomb exclude Distress.--

But see another Son of Night and Care,

A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold, 500

Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.

Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feels

The gentler Blows of Nature, and receives

The Common Visit of Calamity.

JUVENILIA

[A FAREWELL.]

[1779?]

The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said,

How soon the happiest hours are fled!

On wings of down they lately flew,

But then their moments pass'd with you;

And still with you could I but be,

On downy wings they'd always flee.

Say, did you not, the way you went,

Feel the soft balm of gay content?

Say, did you not all pleasures find,

Of which you left so few behind? 10

I think you did: for well I know

My parting prayer would make it so.

"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake;

Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake--

The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live,

With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

TIME.

London, February, 1780.

"The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time,"

Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme.

All big with vision, we despise the powers

That vulgar beings link to days and hours--

Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts,

And cut our lives in momentary parts.

That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young.

Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue:

What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew,

How much in little space they have to do; 10

To bid the busy world resign their breath,

And beat each moment a soft call for death--

To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man."

Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can.

It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait;

It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate;

It tells my heart the paralysing tale

Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail.

THE CHOICE.

London, February, 1780.

What vulgar title thus salutes the eye,

The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy?

The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,

For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse;

The dull description of a scribbler's brain,

And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain;

A glowing chart of fairy-land estate,

Romantic scenes, and visions out of date,

Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers,

Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers? 10

Not thus! too long have I in fancy wove

My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love;

Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,

And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant;

Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again,

And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain!

"Gain by the Muse!"--alas! thou might'st as soon

Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon;

As soon grow rich by ministerial nods,

As soon divine by dreaming of the gods, 20

As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,

Or preaching moral documents to youth;

To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires,

As Tully's flourishes to country squires;

As simple truth within St. James's state,

Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate.

"Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope!

Who ever gain'd by poetry--but Pope?

And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part;

No potent Dean commends thy head or heart! 30

What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor?

They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,

They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.

What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say?

What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay?

For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give?

Or how did Johnson--how did Otway live?

Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good,

Their thin revénue never understood;

Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know; 40

Like thee, repining at each puny blow;

Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,

Upon their wits--but with a larger stock.

No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,

With supple acts to supple minds repair;

Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,

And deck thee with the livery genteel;

Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,

Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.

Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw 50

Give nations language, and great cities law;

Whom gods, they said--and surely gods--inspired,

Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired,

Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,

But vassals are, who judges were before.

Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,

As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste;

Though still some good the trial may produce,

To shape the useful to a nobler use.

Some few of these a statue and a stone 60

Has Fame decreed--but deals out bread to none.

Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,

Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;

Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,

Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:

Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,

And wily sergeants by the craft within:

Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led,

Starve by the means they use to gain their bread?

Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fate 70

Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;

Of children stinted in their daily meal,--

The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel.

Portentous spoke that pity in my breast,

And pleaded self--who ever pleads the best.

No! thank my stars, my misery's all my own--

To friends, to family, to foes unknown;

Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,

Shall wound no peace--shall grieve no heart but mine.

One trial past, let sober Reason speak: 80

Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek?

Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain

A placid harbour from the stormy main;

Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep,

And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

[A HUMBLE INVOCATION.]

[1780.]

When summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled,

And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed,

Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain,

And simpler beauties deck the withering plain.

And thus, when Verse her wintry prospect weeps,

When Pope is gone, and mighty Milton sleeps,

When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar,

And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more,

An humbler Bard the widow'd Muse invites,

Who led by hope and inclination writes; 10

With half their art, he tries the soul to move,

And swell the softer strain with themes of love.

[FROM AN EPISTLE TO MIRA.]

[April, 1780.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Of substance I've thought, and the varied disputes

On the nature of man and the notions of brutes;

Of systems confuted, and systems explain'd;

Of science disputed, and tenets maintain'd.

These, and such speculations on these kind of things,

Have robb'd my poor Muse of her plume and her wings;

Consumed the phlogiston you used to admire,

The spirit extracted, extinguish'd the fire;

Let out all the ether, so pure and refined,

And left but a mere _caput mortuum_ behind. 10

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[CONCLUDING LINES OF AN EPISTLE TO PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY, AFTERWARDS

KING WILLIAM IV.]

[April, 1780.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Who thus aspiring sings, would'st thou explore?

A Bard replies, who ne'er assumed before--

One taught in hard affliction's school to bear

Life's ills, where every lesson costs a tear;

Who sees from thence the proper point of view,

What the wise heed not, and the weak pursue.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"And now farewell," the drooping Muse exclaims;

She lothly leaves thee to the shock of war,

And, fondly dwelling on her princely tar,

Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share, 10

Without her misery and without her care.

For, ah! unknown to thee, a rueful train,

Her hapless children sigh, and sigh in vain;

A numerous band, denied the boon to die,

Half-starved, half-fed by fits of charity.

Unknown to thee! and yet, perhaps, thy ear

Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to hear,

How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease;

How some, like Savage, sicken'd by degrees;

How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed 20

The proud, big tear on song-extorted bread;

Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose

Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse.

One of this train--and of these wretches one--

Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son--

Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed

On Henry, laurels, on his poet, bread!

Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse;

Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;

Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex, 30

And every friend, and every brother vex--

Each fond companion?--No, I thank my God.

There rests my torment--there is hung the rod.

To friend, to fame, to family unknown,

Sour disappointments frown on me alone.

Who hates my song, and damns the poor design,

Shall wound no peace--shall grieve no heart but mine!

Pardon, sweet Prince! the thoughts that will intrude,

For want is absent, and dejection rude.

Methinks I hear, amid the shouts of Fame, 40

Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name;

And Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day,

One British bard should grieve when all are gay.

No! let him find his country has redress,

And bid adieu to every fond distress;

Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes retire,

Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire!

[DRIFTING.]

[May, 1780.]

Like some poor bark on the rough ocean tost,

My rudder broken, and my compass lost,

My sails the coarsest, and too thin to last,

Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast,

My anchor, Hope, scarce fix'd enough to stay

Where the strong current Grief sweeps all away,

I sail along, unknowing how to steer,

Where quicksands lie and frowning rocks appear.

Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark,

The rapid sword-fish, and the rav'ning shark, 10

Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid shell,

And knaves and fools and sycophants live well.

What have I left in such tempestuous sea?

No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me!

A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears

My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tears--

Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings,

Soothes me with song, and flatters as she sings.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF SHELBURNE.

[June, 1780.]

Ah! SHELBURNE, blest with all that's good or great

T'adorn a rich, or save a sinking, state--

If public Ills engross not all thy care,

Let private Woe assail a patriot's ear;

Pity confined, but not less warm, impart,

And unresisted win thy noble heart;

Nor deem I rob thy soul of Britain's share,

Because I hope to have some interest there.

Still wilt thou shine on all a fostering sun,

Though with more fav'ring beams enlight'ning one; 10

As Heaven will oft make some more amply blest,

Yet still in general bounty feeds the rest.

Oh, hear the Virtue thou reverest plead;

She'll swell thy breast, and there applaud the deed.

She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray,

And leads thee on to fame a shorter way;

Where, if no withering laurel's thy reward,

There's shouting Conscience, and a grateful Bard;

A bard untrained in all but misery's school,

Who never bribed a knave or praised a fool. 20

'Tis Glory prompts, and, as thou read'st, attend;

She dictates pity, and becomes my friend;

She bids each cold and dull reflection flee,

And yields her Shelburne to distress and me!

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

[June, 1780.]

Why, true, thou say'st the fools, at Court denied,

Growl vengeance--and then take the other side;

The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power,

As sweets unshelter'd run to vapid sour.

But thou, the counsel to my closest thought,

Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought.

The Muse I court ne'er fawn'd on venal souls,

Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls;

She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream,

Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme. 10

But, when she sees a titled nothing stand

The ready cipher of a trembling land--

Not of that simple kind that, placed alone,

Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none;

But those which, join'd to figures, well express

A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress,

Grow in proportion to their number great,

And help each other in the ranks of state--

When this and more the pensive Muses see,

They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee; 20

To Court on wings of agile anger speed,

And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed.

Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest,

And fright base action from sin's wavering breast;

For, though the Knave may scorn the Muse's arts,

Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts.

Some, though they wish it, are not steel'd enough,

Nor is each would-be villain conscience-proof.

And what, my friend, is left my song besides?

No school-day wealth that roll'd in silver tides, 30

No dreams of hope that won my early will,

Nor love, that pain'd in temporary thrill;

No gold to deck my pleasure-scorn'd abode,

No friend to whisper peace, to give me food.

Poor to the World, I'd yet not live in vain,

But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain.

Yet shall not Satire all my song engage

In indiscriminate and idle rage;

True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line,

And long--if Vanity deceives not--shine. 40

For, though in harsher strains, the strains of woe,

And unadorn'd my heart-felt murmurs flow,

Yet time shall be when this thine humbled friend

Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend.

A Man--for other title were too poor--

Such as 'twere almost virtue to adore,

He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale,

As the sun vapours from the dew-press'd vale;

Himself uninjuring, shall new warmth infuse,

And call to blossom every want-nipp'd Muse. 50

Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice,

His name harmonious thrill'd on Mira's voice;

Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring,

And SHELBURNE'S fame through laughing valleys ring.

THE CANDIDATE;

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.

_Multa quidem nobis facimus mala sæpe poetæ,

(Ut vineta egomet cædam mea) cum tibi librum

Sollicito damus, aut fesso, &c._

HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. I.

[London, 1780.]

AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS OF THE AUTHOR TO HIS POEMS.

Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care,

Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where?

As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote

On the fair type, or the embroider'd coat;

Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly,

Where princely POPES and mighty MILTONS lie?

Taught but to sing, and that in simple style,

Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile,

Go, then! and taste a yet unfelt distress,

The fear that guards the captivating press; 10

Whose maddening region should ye once explore,

No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more.

But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript,

"Ah, would to Heaven, we'd died in manuscript!"

Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee

--For few will read, and none admire like me.--

Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe.

Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmore's Job;

Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform,

Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm; 20

Then sent disgraced--the unpaid printer's bane--

To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane,

On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire,

Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire,

Who half reluctant has his care resign'd,

Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind.

Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth.

View the strange land, and tell us of its worth;

And, should he there barbarian usage meet,

The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat. 30

And thou, the first of thy eccentric race,

A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place,

Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard,

Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard.

Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize,

The Muses yield, as the Hesperides;

Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's done,

For every maid is willing to be won.

Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand,

And beg our passage through the fairy land: 40

Beg more--to search for sweets each blooming field,

And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield;

To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow,

And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow;

Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,

Soothe without fear, and without trembling hope.

TO THE READER.

The following Poem being itself of an introductory nature, its author

supposes it can require but little preface.

It is published with a view of obtaining the opinion of the candid and

judicious reader on the merits of the writer as a poet; very few, he

apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently impartial to decide for

themselves.

It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthly Review, as to critics of

acknowledged merit; an acquaintance with whose labours has afforded

the writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to them in

particular, and, he presumes, will yield to others a just and

sufficient plea for the preference.

Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be much surprised to find

he has mistaken his talent. However, if not egregiously the dupe of

his vanity, he promises to his readers some entertainment, and is

assured that, however little in the ensuing Poem is worthy of

applause, there is yet less that merits contempt.

TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.

The pious pilot, whom the Gods provide,

Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide,

Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep,

Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep;

But, whilst with nicest skill he steers his way,

The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray.

Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome,

The God relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb.

Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer,

I dread the storm, that ever rattles here; 10

Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul

Has felt the Muse's soft, but strong, control;

Nor think enough that manly strength and ease,

Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please;

But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow,

Here burn my incense, and here pay my vow;

That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er,

And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no more.

And ye, whom authors dread or dare in vain,

Affecting modest hopes or poor disdain, 20

Receive a bard, who, neither mad nor mean,

Despises each extreme, and sails between;

Who fears; but has, amid his fears confess'd,

The conscious virtue of a Muse oppressed;

A Muse in changing times and stations nursed,

By nature honour'd and by fortune cursed.

No servile strain of abject hope she brings,

Nor soars presumptuous, with unwearied wings;

But, pruned for flight--the future all her care--

Would know her strength, and, if not strong, forbear. 30

The supple slave to regal pomp bows down,

Prostrate to power, and cringing to a crown;

The bolder villain spurns a decent awe,

Tramples on rule, and breaks through every law;

But he whose soul on honest truth relies,

Nor meanly flatters power, nor madly flies.

Thus timid authors bear an abject mind,

And plead for mercy they but seldom find.

Some, as the desperate to the halter run,

Boldly deride the fate they cannot shun; 40

But such there are, whose minds, not taught to stoop,

Yet hope for fame, and dare avow their hope;

Who neither brave the judges of their cause,

Nor beg in soothing strains a brief applause.

And such I'd be;--and, ere my fate is past,

Ere clear'd with honour, or with culprits cast,

Humbly at Learning's bar I'll state my case,

And welcome then distinction or disgrace!

When in the man the flights of fancy reign,

Rule in the heart, or revel in the brain, 50

As busy Thought her wild creation apes,

And hangs delighted o'er her varying shapes,

It asks a judgment, weighty and discreet,

To know where wisdom prompts, and where conceit;

Alike their draughts to every scribbler's mind

(Blind to their faults as to their danger blind)--

We write enraptured, and we write in haste,

Dream idle dreams, and call them things of taste;

Improvement trace in every paltry line,

And see, transported, every dull design; 60

Are seldom cautious, all advice detest,

And ever think our own opinions best;

Nor shows my Muse a muse-like spirit here,

Who bids me pause, before I persevere.

But she--who shrinks, while meditating flight

In the wide way, whose bounds delude her sight,

Yet tired in her own mazes still to roam,

And cull poor banquets for the soul at home--

Would, ere she ventures, ponder on the way,

Lest dangers yet unthought-of flight betray; 70

Lest her Icarian wing, by wits unplumed,

Be robb'd of all the honours she assumed,

And Dulness swell--a black and dismal sea,

Gaping her grave, while censures madden me.

Such was his fate, who flew too near the sun,

Shot far beyond his strength, and was undone;

Such is his fate, who creeping at the shore

The billow sweeps him, and he's found no more.

Oh! for some God, to bear my fortunes fair

Midway betwixt presumption and despair! 80

"Has then some friendly critic's former blow

Taught thee a prudence authors seldom know?"

Not so! their anger and their love untried,

A wo-taught prudence deigns to tend my side:

Life's hopes ill-sped, the Muse's hopes grow poor,

And though they flatter, yet they charm no more;

Experience points where lurking dangers lay,

And as I run, throws caution in my way.

There was a night, when wintry winds did rage,

Hard by a ruin'd pile I met a sage; 90

Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd,

Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard;

Whose fate-lopp'd brow, the bat's and beetle's dome,

Shook, as the hunted owl flew hooting home.

His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast,

And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past;

His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound,

And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground;

Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow,

He shook, from locks as white, December's snow; 100

Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease,

But lock'd within him meditated peace.

"Father," I said--for silver hairs inspire,

And oft I call the bending peasant Sire--

"Tell me, as here beneath this ivy bower,

That works fantastic round its trembling tower,

We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders roar,

Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor;

For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu,

And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you. 110

"There was a time when, by Delusion led,

A scene of sacred bliss around me spread;

On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood,

And saw my Canaan there, my promised good.

A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd,

And wine and oil through vision's valleys flow'd;

As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd,

And gazed upon the good I ne'er possess'd:

On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand,

Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land." 120

"Son," said the Sage--"be this thy care suppressed;

The state the Gods shall choose thee is the best:

Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more,

And would thy patience, when they make thee poor.

But other thoughts within thy bosom reign,

And other subjects vex thy busy brain;

Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite,

And thy sad stars have destined thee to write.

Then, since that task the ruthless fates decree,

Take a few precepts from the Gods and me! 130

"Be not too eager in the arduous Chase:

Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race;

Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth,

And let thy labours one by one go forth;

Some happier scrap capricious wits may find

On a fair day, and be profusely kind;

Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng,

Had pleased as little as a new-year's song,

Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet,

Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet. 140

Merit not always--Fortune feeds the bard,

And, as the whim inclines, bestows reward;

None without wit, nor with it numbers gain;

To please is hard, but none shall please in vain.

As a coy mistress is the humour'd town,

Loth every lover with success to crown;

He who would win must every effort try,

Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fly;

Must gay or grave to every humour dress,

And watch the lucky Moment of Success; 150

That caught, no more his eager hopes are crost;

But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost."

Thus said the God; for now a God he grew, }

His white locks changing to a golden hue, }

And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-blue. }

His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed

Of dove-like Delia, when her doubts reposed;

Mira's alone a softer lustre bear,

When wo beguiles them of an angel's tear;

Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood, 160

Then sought on airy wing his blest abode.

Ah! truth distasteful in poetic theme,

Why is the Muse compell'd to own her dream?

Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line,

I only wish to make its moral mine.

Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed,

May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed?

Say, shall my name, to future song prefix'd,

Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd?

Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage, 170

My graver numbers move the silver'd sage,

My tender themes delight the lover's heart,

And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart?

For O! thou, Hope's--thou, Thought's eternal King,

Who gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing,

Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar,

And in my happier transports I adore;

Mercy thy softest attribute proclaim,

Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name;

That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray, 180

As the foil moon-beam gilds the watery way.

And then too, Love, my soul's resistless lord,

Shall many a gentle, generous strain afford,

To all the soil of sooty passions blind,

Pure as embracing angels, and as kind;

Our Mira's name in future times shall shine,

And--though the harshest--Shepherds envy mine.

Then let me (pleasing task!) however hard,

Join, as of old, the prophet and the bard;

If not, ah! shield me from the dire disgrace 190

That haunts the wild and visionary race;

Let me not draw my lengthen'd lines along,

And tire in untamed infamy of song;

Lest, in some dismal Dunciad's future page,

I stand the CIBBER of this tuneless age;

Lest, if another POPE th' indulgent skies

Should give, inspired by all their deities,

My luckless name, in his immortal strain,

Should, blasted, brand me as a second Cain;

Doom'd in that song to live against my will, 200

Whom all must scorn, and yet whom none could kill.

The youth, resisted by the maiden's art,

Persists, and time subdues her kindling heart;

To strong entreaty yields the widow's vow,

As mighty walls to bold besiegers bow;

Repeated prayers draw bounty from the sky,

And heaven is won by importunity.

Ours, a projecting tribe, pursue in vain,

In tedious trials, an uncertain gain;

Madly plunge on through every hope's defeat, 210

And with our ruin only, find the cheat.

"And why then seek that luckless doom to share?"

Who, I?--To shun it is my only care.

I grant it true, that others better tell

Of mighty WOLFE, who conquer'd as he fell[12];

Of heroes born their threaten'd realms to save,

Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose grave;

Of crimson'd fields, where Fate, in dire array,

Gives to the breathless the short-breathing clay;

Ours, a young train, by humbler fountains dream, 220

Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian stream;

When Rodney's triumph comes on eagle-wing,

We hail the victor, whom we fear to sing;

Nor tell we how each hostile chief goes on,

The luckless Lee, or wary Washington;

How Spanish bombast blusters--they were beat,

And French politeness dulcifies--defeat.

My modest Muse forbears to speak of kings,

Lest fainting stanzas blast the name she sings;

For who, the tenant of the beechen shade, 230

Dares the big thought in regal breasts pervade?

Or search his soul, whom each too-favouring God

Gives to delight in plunder, pomp, and blood?

No; let me, free from Cupid's frolic round,

Rejoice, or more rejoice by Cupid bound;

Of laughing girls in smiling couplets tell,

And paint the dark-brow'd grove, where wood-nymphs dwell,

Who bid invading youths their vengeance feel,

And pierce the votive hearts they mean to heal.

Such were the themes I knew in school-day ease, 240

When first the moral magic learn'd to please;

Ere Judgment told how transports warm'd the breast,

Transported Fancy there her stores imprest;

The soul in varied raptures learn'd to fly,

Felt all their force, and never question'd why.

No idle doubts could then her peace molest;

She found delight, and left to heaven the rest.

Soft joys in Evening's placid shades were born,

And where sweet fragrance wing'd the balmy morn.

When the wild thought roved vision's circuit o'er, 250

And caught the raptures, caught, alas! no more:

No care did then a dull attention ask,

For study pleased, and that was every task;

No guilty dreams stalk'd that heaven-favour'd round,

Heaven-guarded too; no Envy entrance found;

Nor numerous wants, that vex advancing age,

Nor Flattery's silver'd tale, nor Sorrow's sage;

Frugal Affliction kept each growing dart,

T' o'erwhelm in future days the bleeding heart.

No sceptic art veil'd Pride in Truth's disguise, 260

But prayer, unsoil'd of doubt, besieged the skies;

Ambition, avarice, care, to man retired,

Nor came desires more quick, than joys desired.

A summer morn there was, and passing fair;

Still was the breeze, and health perfumed the air;

The glowing east in crimson'd splendour shone,

What time the eye just marks the pallid moon;

Vi'let-wing'd Zephyr fann'd each opening flower,

And brush'd from fragrant cups the limpid shower;

A distant huntsman fill'd his cheerful horn, 270 }

The vivid dew hung trembling on the thorn, }

And mists, like creeping rocks, arose to meet the morn. }

Huge giant shadows spread along the plain,

Or shot from towering rocks o'er half the main.

There to the slumbering bark the gentle tide

Stole soft, and faintly beat against its side;

Such is that sound, which fond designs convey,

When, true to love, the damsel speeds away;

The sails, unshaken, hung aloft unfurl'd,

And, simpering nigh, the languid current curl'd; 280

A crumbling ruin, once a city's pride,

The well-pleased eye through withering oaks descried,

Where Sadness, gazing on time's ravage, hung,

And Silence to Destruction's trophy clung--

Save that, as morning songsters swell'd their lays,

Awaken'd Echo humm'd repeated praise.

The lark on quavering pinion woo'd the day, }

Less towering linnets fill'd the vocal spray, }

And song-invited pilgrims rose to pray. }

Here at a pine-prest hill's embroider'd base 290

I stood, and hail'd the Genius of the place.

Then was it doom'd by fate, my idle heart,

Soften'd by Nature, gave access to Art;

The Muse approach'd, her syren-song I heard,

Her magic felt, and all her charms revered:

E'er since she rules in absolute control,

And Mira only dearer to my soul.

Ah! tell me not these empty joys to fly;

If they deceive, I would deluded die;

To the fond themes my heart so early wed, 300

So soon in life to blooming visions led,

So prone to run the vague uncertain course--

'Tis more than death to think of a divorce.

What wills the poet of the favouring gods,

Led to their shrine, and blest in their abodes[13]?

What, when he fills the glass, and to each youth

Names his loved maid, and glories in his truth?

Not India's spoils, the splendid nabob's pride,

Not the full trade of Hermes' own Cheapside,

Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves, 310

Or shrouds, well shrouded in his sacred waves;

Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in trim array,

Which the more noble Thames bears far away.

Let those whose nod makes sooty subjects flee,

Hack with blunt steel the savory callipee;

Let those whose ill-used wealth their country fly,

Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy:

Favour'd by fate, let such in joy appear,

Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year;

Disdaining these, for simpler food I'll look, 320

And crop my beverage at the mantled brook.

O Virtue! brighter than the noon-tide ray,

My humble prayers with sacred joys repay!

Health to my limbs may the kind Gods impart,

And thy fair form delight my yielding heart!

Grant me to shun each vile inglorious road,

To see thy way, and trace each moral good;

If more--let Wisdom's sons my page peruse,

And decent credit deck my modest Muse.

Nor deem it pride that prophesies, my song 330

Shall please the sons of taste, and please them long.

Say, ye, to whom my Muse submissive brings

Her first-fruit offering, and on trembling wings,

May she not hope in future days to soar,

Where fancy's sons have led the way before?

Where genius strives in each ambrosial bower

To snatch with agile hand the opening flower?

To cull what sweets adorn the mountain's brow,

What humbler blossoms crown the vales below?

To blend with these the stores by art refined, 340

And give the moral Flora to the mind?

Far other scenes my timid hour admits,

Relentless critics, and avenging wits;

E'en coxcombs take a licence from their pen,

And to each "let-him-perish" cry Amen!

And thus, with wits or fools my heart shall cry,

For if they please not, let the trifles die--

Die, and be lost in dark oblivion's shore,

And never rise to vex their author more.

I would not dream o'er some soft liquid line, 350

Amid a thousand blunders form'd to shine;

Yet rather this, than that dull scribbler be, }

From every fault, and every beauty free, }

Curst with tame thoughts and mediocrity. }

Some have I found so thick beset with spots,

'Twas hard to trace their beauties through their blots;

And these, as tapers round a sick-man's room,

Or passing chimes, but warn'd me of the tomb!

O! if you blast, at once consume my bays,

And damn me not with mutilated praise. 360

With candour judge; and, a young bard in view.

Allow for that, and judge with kindness too.

Faults he must own, though hard for him to find,

Not to some happier merits quite so blind;

These if mistaken Fancy only sees,

Or Hope, that takes Deformity for these;

If Dunce, the crowd-befitting title, falls

His lot, and Dulness her new subject calls:

To the poor bard alone your censures give--

Let his fame die, but let his honour live; 370

Laugh if you must--be candid as you can,

And when you lash the Poet, spare the Man.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] IMIT.--Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium

Victor, Mæonii carminis alite,

Quam rem cumque ferox navibus aut equis

Miles, te duce, gesserit, &c. &c.

HOR. Lib. i. Od. [6].

[13] IMIT.--Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem

Vates? quid orat, de paterâ novum

Fundens liquorem? &c. &c.

HOR. Lib. i. _Carm._ xxxi.

POEMS.

Ipse per Ausonias Æneïa carmina gentes

Qui sonat, ingenti qui nomine pulsat Olympum,

Mæoniumque senem Romano provocat ore:

Forsitan illius nemoris latuisset in umbrâ

Quod canit, et sterili tantum cantâsset avenâ

Ignotus populi, si Mæcenate careret.

Paneg. ad Pisones.

TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY RICHARD FOX,

LORD HOLLAND,

OF HOLLAND, IN LINCOLNSHIRE; LORD HOLLAND

OF FOXLEY; AND FELLOW OF THE SOCIETY

OF ANTIQUARIES.

MY LORD,

That the longest poem in this collection was honoured by the notice of

your Lordship's right honourable and ever-valued relation, Mr. FOX;

that it should be the last which engaged his attention; and that some

parts of it were marked with his approbation: are circumstances

productive of better hopes of ultimate success than I had dared to

entertain before I was gratified with a knowledge of them; and the

hope thus raised leads me to ask permission that I may dedicate this

book to your Lordship, to whom that truly great and greatly lamented

personage was so nearly allied in family, so closely bound in

affection, and in whose mind presides the same critical taste which he

exerted to the delight of all who heard him. He doubtless united with

his unequalled abilities a fund of good-nature; and this possibly led

him to speak favourably of, and give satisfaction to writers, with

whose productions he might not be entirely satisfied; nor must I allow

myself to suppose his desire of obliging was withholden, when he

honoured any effort of mine with his approbation. But, my Lord, as

there was discrimination in the opinion he gave; as he did not veil

indifference for insipid mediocrity of composition under any general

expression of cool approval: I allow myself to draw a favourable

conclusion from the verdict of one who had the superiority of

intellect few would dispute, which he made manifest by a force of

eloquence peculiar to himself; whose excellent judgment no one of his

friends found cause to distrust, and whose acknowledged candour no

enemy had the temerity to deny.

With such encouragement, I present my book to your Lordship: the

Account of the _Life and Writings of Lopez de Vega_ has taught me what

I am to expect; I there perceive how your Lordship can write, and am

there taught how you can judge of writers: my faults, however

numerous, I know will none of them escape through inattention, nor

will any merit be lost for want of discernment; my verses are before

him who has written elegantly, who has judged with accuracy, and who

has given unequivocal proof of abilities in a work of difficulty--a

translation of poetry, which few persons in this kingdom are able to

read, and in the estimation of talents not hitherto justly

appreciated. In this view, I cannot but feel some apprehension; but I

know also, that your Lordship is apprised of the great difficulty of

writing well; that you will make much allowance for failures, if not

too frequently repeated; and, as you can accurately discern, so you

will readily approve, all the better and more happy efforts of one who

places the highest value upon your Lordship's approbation, and who has

the honour to be,

My LORD,

Your Lordship's most faithful

and obliged humble servant,

GEO. CRABBE.

PREFACE.

About twenty-five years since was published a poem called "The

Library," which, in no long time, was followed by two others, "The

Village," and "The Newspaper." These, with a few alterations and

additions, are here reprinted; and are accompanied by a poem of

greater length, and several shorter attempts, now, for the first time,

before the public; whose reception of them creates in their author

something more than common solicitude, because he conceives that, with

the judgment to be formed of these latter productions, upon whatever

may be found intrinsically meritorious or defective, there will be

united an inquiry into the relative degree of praise or blame which

they may be thought to deserve, when compared with the more early

attempts of the same writer.

And certainly, were it the principal employment of a man's life to

compose verses, it might seem reasonable to expect that he would

continue to improve as long as he continued to live; though, even

then, there is some doubt whether such improvement would follow, and

perhaps proof might be adduced to show it would not. But when, to this

"_idle trade_" is added some "_calling_," with superior claims upon

his time and attention, his progress in the art of versification will

probably be in proportion neither to the years he has lived, nor even

to the attempts he has made.

While composing the first-published of these poems, the author was

honoured with the notice and assisted by the advice of the Right

Honourable Edmund Burke; part of it was written in his presence, and

the whole submitted to his judgment; receiving, in its progress, the

benefit of his correction. I hope, therefore, to obtain pardon of the

reader, if I eagerly seize the occasion, and, after so long a

silence, endeavour to express a grateful sense of the benefits I have

received from this gentleman, who was solicitous for my more essential

interests, as well as benevolently anxious for my credit as a writer.

I will not enter upon the subject of his extraordinary abilities; it

would be vanity, it would be weakness, in me to believe that I could

make them better known or more admired than they now are. But of his

private worth, of his wishes to do good, of his affability and

condescension; his readiness to lend assistance when he knew it was

wanted, and his delight to give praise where he thought it was

deserved: of these I may write with some propriety. All know that his

powers were vast, his acquirements various; and I take leave to add,

that he applied them with unremitted attention to those objects which

he believed tended to the honour and welfare of his country. But it

may not be so generally understood that he was ever assiduous in the

more private duties of a benevolent nature; that he delighted to give

encouragement to any promise of ability, and assistance to any

appearance of desert. To what purposes he employed his pen, and with

what eloquence he spake in the senate, will be told by many, who yet

may be ignorant of the solid instruction, as well as the fascinating

pleasantry, found in his common conversation, amongst his friends, and

his affectionate manners, amiable disposition, and zeal for their

happiness, which he manifested in the hours of retirement with his

family.

To this gentleman I was indebted for my knowledge of Sir Joshua

Reynolds, who was as well known to his friends for his perpetual fund

of good-humour and his unceasing wishes to oblige, as he was to the

public for the extraordinary productions of his pencil and his pen. By

him I was favoured with an introduction to Doctor Johnson, who

honoured me with his notice, and assisted me, as Mr. Boswell has told,

with remarks and emendations for a poem I was about to publish. The

doctor had been often wearied by applications, and did not readily

comply with requests for his opinion: not from any unwillingness to

oblige, but from a painful contention in his mind between a desire of

giving pleasure and a determination to speak truth. No man can, I

think, publish a work without some expectation of satisfying those

who are to judge of its merit; but I can, with the utmost regard to

veracity, speak my fears, as predominating over every pre-indulged

thought of a more favourable nature, when I was told that a judge so

discerning had consented to read and give his opinion of "The

Village," the poem I had prepared for publication. The time of

suspense was not long protracted; I was soon favoured with a few words

from Sir Joshua, who observed, "If I knew how cautious Doctor Johnson

was in giving commendation, I should be well satisfied with the

portion dealt to me in his letter." Of that letter the following is a

copy:

"SIR,

"I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great

delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant. The alterations which

I have made, I do not require him to adopt; for my lines are, perhaps,

not often better [than] his own: but he may take mine and his own

together, and perhaps, between them, produce something better than

either.--He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced; a wet sponge

will wash all the red lines away, and leave the pages clean.--His

Dedication will be least liked: it were better to contract it into a

short sprightly address.--I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's success.

"I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

"SAM. JOHNSON."

"_March_ 4, 1783."

That I was fully satisfied, my readers will do me the justice to

believe; and I hope they will pardon me, if there should appear to

them any impropriety in publishing the favourable opinion expressed in

a private letter: they will judge, and truly, that by so doing, I wish

to bespeak their good opinion, but have no design of extorting their

applause. I would not hazard an appearance so ostentatious to gratify

my vanity, but I venture to do it in compliance with my fears.

After these was published "The Newspaper": it had not the advantage of

such previous criticism from any friends, nor perhaps so much of my

own attention as I ought to have given to it; but the impression was

disposed of, and I will not pay so little respect to the judgment of

my readers as now to suppress they then approved.

Since the publication of this poem more than twenty years have

elapsed, and I am not without apprehension, lest so long a silence

should be construed into a blamable neglect of my own interest, which

those excellent friends were desirous of promoting; or, what is yet

worse, into a want of gratitude for their assistance, since it becomes

me to suppose, they considered these first attempts as promises of

better things, and their favours as stimulants to future exertion. And

here, be the construction put upon my apparent negligence what it

_may_, let me not suppress my testimony to the liberality of those who

are looked up to as patrons and encouragers of literary merit, or

indeed of merit of any kind: their patronage has never been refused, I

conceive, when it has been reasonably expected or modestly required;

and it would be difficult, probably, to instance, in these times and

in this country, any one who merited or was supposed to merit

assistance, but who nevertheless languished in obscurity or necessity

for want of it; unless in those cases where it was prevented by the

resolution of impatient pride, or wearied by the solicitations of

determined profligacy. And, while the subject is before me, I am

unwilling to pass silently over the debt of gratitude which I owe to

the memory of two deceased noblemen, His Grace the late Duke of

Rutland, and the Right Honourable the Lord Thurlow: sensible of the

honour done me by their notice, and the benefits received from them, I

trust this acknowledgment will be imputed to its only motive, a

grateful sense of their favours.

Upon this subject I could dwell with much pleasure; but, to give a

reason for that appearance of neglect, as it is more difficult, so,

happily, it is less required. In truth, I have, for many years,

intended a republication of these poems, as soon as I should be able

to join with them such other of later date as might not deprive me of

the little credit the former had obtained. Long indeed has this

purpose been procrastinated; and, if the duties of a profession, not

before pressing upon me--if the claims of a situation, at that time

untried--if diffidence of my own judgment, and the loss of my earliest

friends, will not sufficiently account for my delay, I must rely upon

the good-nature of my reader, that he will let them avail as far as he

can, and find an additional apology in my fears of his censure.

These fears being so prevalent with me, I determined not to publish

any thing more, unless I could first obtain the sanction of such an

opinion as I might with some confidence rely upon. I looked for a

friend who, having the discerning taste of Mr. Burke, and the critical

sagacity of Doctor Johnson, would bestow upon my MS. the attention

requisite to form his opinion, and would then favour me with the

result of his observations; and it was my singular good fortune to

gain such assistance; the opinion of a critic so qualified, and a

friend so disposed to favour me. I had been honoured by an

introduction to the Right Honourable Charles James Fox some years

before, at the seat of Mr. Burke; and, being again with him, I

received a promise that he would peruse any work I might send to him

previous to its publication, and would give me his opinion. At that

time, I did not think myself sufficiently prepared; and when,

afterwards, I had collected some poems for his inspection, I found my

right honourable friend engaged by the affairs of a great empire, and

struggling with the inveteracy of a fatal disease; at such time, upon

such mind, ever disposed to oblige as that mind was, I could not

obtrude the petty business of criticising verses; but he remembered

the promise he had kindly given, and repeated an offer, which, though

I had not presumed to expect, I was happy to receive. A copy of the

poems, now first published, was immediately sent to him, and (as I

have the information from Lord Holland, and his Lordship's permission

to inform my readers) the poem which I have named "The Parish

Register" was heard by Mr. Fox, and it excited interest enough, by

some of its parts, to gain for me the benefit of his judgment upon the

whole. Whatever he approved, the reader will readily believe, I have

carefully retained; the parts he disliked are totally expunged, and

others are substituted, which I hope resemble those, more conformable

to the taste of so admirable a judge. Nor can I deny myself the

melancholy satisfaction of adding, that this poem (and more especially

the story of Phoebe Dawson, with some parts of the second book),

were the last compositions of their kind that engaged and amused the

capacious, the candid, the benevolent mind of this great man.

The above information I owe to the favour of the Right Honourable Lord

Holland; nor this only, but to his Lordship I am indebted for some

excellent remarks upon the other parts of my MS. It was not indeed my

good fortune then to know that my verses were in the hands of a

nobleman who had given proof of his accurate judgment as a critic, and

his elegance as a writer, by favouring the public with an easy and

spirited translation of some interesting scenes of a dramatic poet,

not often read in this kingdom. The Life of Lopez de Vega was then

unknown to me; I had, in common with many English readers, heard of

him, but could not judge whether his far-extended reputation was

caused by the sublime efforts of a mighty genius, or the unequalled

facility of a rapid composer, aided by peculiar and fortunate

circumstances. That any part of my MS. was honoured by the remarks of

Lord Holland yields me a high degree of satisfaction, and his Lordship

will perceive the use I have made of them; but I must feel some regret

when I know to what small portion they were limited; and discerning,

as I do, the taste and judgment bestowed upon the verses of Lopez de

Vega, I must perceive how much my own needed the assistance afforded

to one who cannot be sensible of the benefit he has received.

But how much soever I may lament the advantages lost, let me remember

with gratitude the helps I have obtained. With a single exception,

every poem in the ensuing collection has been submitted to the

critical sagacity of a gentleman, upon whose skill and candour their

author could rely. To publish by advice of friends has been severely

ridiculed, and that too by a poet, who probably, without such advice,

never made public any verses of his own: in fact, it may not be easily

determined who acts with less discretion, the writer who is encouraged

to publish his works, merely by the advice of friends whom he

consulted, or he who, against advice, publishes from the sole

encouragement of his own opinion. These are deceptions to be carefully

avoided; and I was happy to escape the latter, by the friendly

attentions of the Reverend Richard Turner, minister of Great Yarmouth.

To this gentleman I am indebted more than I am able to describe, or

than he is willing to allow, for the time he has bestowed upon the

attempts I have made. He is, indeed, the kind of critic for whom every

poet should devoutly wish, and the friend whom every man would be

happy to acquire; he has taste to discern all that is meritorious, and

sagacity to detect whatsoever should be discarded; he gives just the

opinion an author's wisdom should covet, however his vanity might

prompt him to reject it; what altogether to expunge and what to

improve he has repeatedly taught me, and, could I have obeyed him in

the latter direction, as I invariably have in the former, the public

would have found this collection more worthy its attention, and I

should have sought the opinion of the critic more void of

apprehension.

But whatever I may hope or fear, whatever assistance I have had or

have needed, it becomes me to leave my verses to the judgment of the

reader, without my endeavour to point out their merit, or an apology

for their defects. Yet as, among the poetical attempts of one who has

been for many years a priest, it may seem a want of respect for the

legitimate objects of his study, that nothing occurs, unless it be

incidentally, of the great subjects of religion: so it may appear a

kind of ingratitude of a beneficed clergyman, that he has not employed

his talent (be it estimated as it may) to some patriotic purpose--as

in celebrating the unsubdued spirit of his countrymen in their

glorious resistance of those enemies, who would have no peace

throughout the world, except that which is dictated to the drooping

spirit of suffering humanity by the triumphant insolence of military

success.

Credit will be given to me, I hope, when I affirm that subjects so

interesting have the due weight with me, which the sacred nature of

the one, and the national importance of the other, must impress upon

every mind not seduced into carelessness for religion by the lethargic

influence of a perverted philosophy, nor into indifference for the

cause of our country by hyperbolical or hypocritical professions of

universal philanthropy; but, after many efforts to satisfy myself by

various trials on these subjects, I declined all further attempt, from

a conviction that I should not be able to give satisfaction to my

readers. Poetry of religious nature must indeed ever be clogged with

almost insuperable difficulty; but there are doubtless to be found

poets who are well qualified to celebrate the unanimous and heroic

spirit of our countrymen, and to describe in appropriate colours some

of those extraordinary scenes, which have been and are shifting in the

face of Europe, with such dreadful celerity; and to such I relinquish

the duty.

It remains for me to give the reader a brief view of those articles in

the following collection, which for the first time solicit his

attention.

In the "Parish Register," he will find an endeavour once more to

describe village-manners, not by adopting the notion of pastoral

simplicity or assuming ideas of rustic barbarity, but by more natural

views of the peasantry, considered as a mixed body of persons, sober

or profligate, and hence, in a great measure, contented or miserable.

To this more general description are added the various characters

which occur in the three parts of a Register: Baptism, Marriages, and

Burials.

If the "Birth of Flattery" offer no moral, as an appendage to the

fable, it is hoped that nothing of an immoral, nothing of improper,

tendency will be imputed to a piece of poetical playfulness. In fact,

genuine praise, like all other species of truth, is known by its

bearing full investigation: it is what the giver is happy that he can

justly bestow, and the receiver conscious that he may boldly accept;

but adulation must ever be afraid of inquiry, and must, in proportion

to their degrees of moral sensibility,

Be shame "to him that gives and him that takes."

The verses in page[s 234-7] want a title; nor does the motto, although

it gave occasion to them, altogether express the sense of the writer,

who meant to observe that some of our best acquisitions, and some of

our nobler conquests, are rendered ineffectual, by the passing away

of opportunity, and the changes made by time: an argument that such

acquirements and moral habits are reserved for a state of being in

which they have the uses here denied them.

In the story of "Sir Eustace Grey," an attempt is made to describe the

wanderings of a mind first irritated by the consequences of error and

misfortune, and afterwards soothed by a species of enthusiastic

conversion, still keeping him insane: a task very difficult, and, if

the presumption of the attempt may find pardon, it will not be refused

to the failure of the poet. It is said of our Shakspeare, respecting

madness,

"In that circle none dare walk but he."

Yet be it granted to one who dares not to pass the boundary fixed for

common minds, at least to step near to the tremendous verge, and form

some idea of the terrors that are stalking in the interdicted space.

When first I had written "Aaron, or The Gipsy," I had no unfavourable

opinion of it; and, had I been collecting my verses at that time for

publication, I should certainly have included this tale. Nine years

have since elapsed, and I continue to judge the same of it, thus

literally obeying one of the directions given by the prudence of

criticism to the eagerness of the poet; but how far I may have

conformed to rules of more importance must be left to the less partial

judgment of the readers.

The concluding poem, entitled "Woman!" was written at the time when

the quotation from Mr. Ledyard was first made public; the expression

has since become hackneyed; but the sentiment is congenial with our

feelings, and though somewhat amplified in these verses, it is hoped

they are not so far extended as to become tedious.

After this brief account of his subjects, the author leaves them to

their fate, not presuming to make any remarks upon the kinds of

versification he has chosen, or the merit of the execution. He has

indeed brought forward the favourable opinion of his friends, and for

that he earnestly hopes his motives will be rightly understood; it was

a step of which he felt the advantage while he foresaw the danger; he

was aware of the benefit, if his readers would consider him as one who

puts on a defensive armour against hasty and determined severity; but

he feels also the hazard, lest they should suppose he looks upon

himself to be guarded by his friends, and so secure in the defence,

that he may defy the fair judgment of legal criticism. It will

probably be said, "he has brought with him his testimonials to the bar

of the public," and he must admit the truth of the remark; but he begs

leave to observe in reply, that of those who bear testimonials of any

kind the greater numbers feel apprehension, and not security: they are

indeed so far from the enjoyment of victory, of the exultation of

triumph, that, with all they can do for themselves, with all their

friends have done for them, they are, like him, in dread of

examination, and in fear of disappointment.

_Muston, Leicestershire,

September, 1807._

THE LIBRARY.

Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substituting a

lighter Kind of Distress for its own--They are productive of other

Advantages--An Author's Hope of being known in distant

Times--Arrangement of the Library--Size and Form of the

Volumes--The ancient Folio, clasped and chained--Fashion prevalent

even in this Place--The Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets,

&c.--Subjects of the different Classes--Divinity--Controversy--The

Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes--Sceptical

Authors--Reason too much rejected by the former Converts;

exclusively relied upon by the latter--Philosophy ascending

through the Scale of Being to moral Subjects--Books of Medicine:

their Variety, Variance, and Proneness to System: the Evil of

this, and the Difficulty it causes--Farewell to this Study--Law:

the increasing Number of its Volumes--Supposed happy State of Man

without Laws--Progress of Society--Historians: their

Subjects--Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic--Ancient

Romances--The Captive Heroine--Happiness in the Perusal of such

Books: why--Criticism--Apprehensions of the Author, removed by the

Appearance of the Genius of the Place; whose Reasoning and

Admonition conclude the Subject.

When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,

Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;

When every object that appears in view,

Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too:

Where shall affliction from itself retire?

Where fade away and placidly expire?

Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain;

Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain:

Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,

Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream. 10

For, when the soul is labouring in despair,

In vain the body breathes a purer air:

No storm-toss'd sailor sighs for slumbering seas--

He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;

On the smooth mirror of the deep resides }

Reflected wo, and o'er unruffled tides }

The ghost of every former danger glides. }

Thus, in the calms of life, we only see

A steadier image of our misery;

But lively gales and gently-clouded skies 20

Disperse the sad reflections as they rise;

And busy thoughts and little cares avail

To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.

When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,

Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,

We bleed anew in every former grief,

And joys departed furnish no relief.

Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,

Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart:

The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, 30

And anxious searches for congenial cares--

Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined, }

By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind. }

And steal our grief away and leave their own behind: }

A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure

Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose

The troubled mind to change its native woes?

Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see

Others more wretched, more undone than we? 40

This, books can do--nor this alone: they give

New views to life, and teach us how to live;

They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise;

Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise.

Their aid they yield to all: they never shun

The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone;

Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,

They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;

Nor tell to various people various things,

But show to subjects, what they show to kings. 50

Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene,

Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene;

Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold,

The soul's best cure in all her cares behold!

Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,

And mental physic the diseased in mind.

See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage;

See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;

Here alt'ratives by slow degrees control

The chronic habits of the sickly soul; 60

And round the heart, and o'er the aching head,

Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.

Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,

And view composed this silent multitude:--

Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound,

Here all the living languages abound,

Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,

In tombs that open to the curious eye.

Bless'd be the gracious Power, who taught mankind

To stamp a lasting image of the mind!-- 70

Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,

Their mutual feelings in the opening spring;

But man alone has skill and power to send

The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;

'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise

Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.

In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep,

When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,

When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,

And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest-- 80

Why then denies the studious man to share

Man's common good, who feels his common care?

Because the hope is his, that bids him fly

Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;

That after-ages may repeat his praise,

And fame's fair meed be his for length of days.

Delightful prospect! when we leave behind

A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind,

Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day,

Shall all our labour, all our care repay. 90

Yet all are not these births of noble kind,

Not all the children of a vigorous mind;

But, where the wisest should alone preside,

The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide;

Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show

The poor and troubled source from which they flow:

Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,

And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.

But, though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves

This seat serene, and virtue's self approves; 100

Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find,

The curious here, to feed a craving mind;

Here the devout their peaceful temple choose;

And here the poet meets his favouring muse.

With awe around these silent walks I tread:

These are the lasting mansions of the dead.--

"The dead," methinks, a thousand tongues reply;

"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!

Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime,

And laugh at all the little strife of time." 110

Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above,

Each in his sphere the literary Jove;

And ye, the common people of these skies,

A humbler crowd of nameless deities:

Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind

Through history's mazes, and the turnings find;

Or whether, led by science, ye retire,

Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire;

Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers,

And crowns your placid brows with living flowers; 120

Or godlike wisdom teaches you to show

The noblest road to happiness below;

Or men and manners prompt the easy page

To mark the flying follies of the age:

Whatever good ye boast, that good impart;

Inform the head and rectify the heart!

Lo! all in silence, all in order stand;

And mighty folios first, a lordly band,

Then quartos, their well-order'd ranks maintain,

And light octavos fill a spacious plain; 130

See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,

A humbler band of duodecimos;

While undistinguished trifles swell the scene,

The last new play and fritter'd magazine.

Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,

In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state;

Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,

Are much admired, and are but little read:

The commons next, a middle rank, are found;

Professions fruitful pour their offspring round; 140

Reasoners and wits are next their place allow'd,

And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd.

First, let us view the form, the size, the dress;

For these the manners, nay the mind express;

That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid;

Those ample clasps, of solid metal made;

The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age;

The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page;

On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd,

Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold; 150

These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim,

A painful candidate for lasting fame:

No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk

In the deep bosom of that weighty work;

No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style,

Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile.

Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie,

And slumber out their immortality:

They _had_ their day, when, after all his toil,

His morning study, and his midnight oil, 160

At length an author's ONE great work appear'd,

By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd:

Expecting nations hail'd it from the press;

Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address;

Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift,

And ladies read the work they could not lift.

Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools,

Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;

From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she goes,

And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes. 170

For lo! these fav'rites of the ancient mode

Lie all neglected like the Birth-day Ode;

Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain[14];

Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain;

No readers now invade their still retreat,

None try to steal them from their parent-seat;

Like ancient beauties, they may now discard

Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard.

Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by,

And roll'd o'er labour'd works th' attentive eye; 180

Page after page, the much-enduring men

Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen;

Till, every former note and comment known,

They mark'd the spacious margin with their own:

Minute corrections proved their studious care;

The little index, pointing, told us where;

And many an emendation show'd the age

Look'd far beyond the rubric title-page.

Our nicer palates lighter labours seek,

Cloy'd with a folio-_Number_ once a week; 190

Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down:

E'en light Voltaire is _number'd_ through the town:

Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law,

From men of study, and from men of straw;

Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times,

Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes:

But though to write be now a task of ease,

The task is hard by manly arts to please,

When all our weakness is exposed to view,

And half our judges are our rivals too. 200

Amid these works, on which the eager eye

Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by,

When all combined, their decent pomp display,

Where shall we first our early offering pay?

To thee, DIVINITY! to thee, the light

And guide of mortals through their mental night;

By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide;

To bear with pain, and to contend with pride;

When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive;

And with the world in charity to live. 210

Not truths like these inspired that numerous race,

Whose pious labours fill this ample space;

But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,

Awaked to war the long-contending foes.

For dubious meanings, learn'd polemics strove.

And wars on faith prevented works of love;

The brands of discord far around were hurl'd,

And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world--

Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,

With wit disgusting and despised without; 220

Saints in design, in execution men,

Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.

Methinks, I see, and sicken at the sight,

Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight:

Spirits who prompted every damning page,

With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage.

Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around,

And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground!

They pray, they fight, they murder, and they weep--

Wolves, in their vengeance, in their manners sheep; 230

Too well they act the prophet's fatal part,

Denouncing evil with a zealous heart;

And each, like Jonas, is displeased, if God

Repent his anger, or withhold his rod.

But here the dormant fury rests unsought,

And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought;

Here all the rage of controversy ends,

And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends:

An Athanasian here, in deep repose,

Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes; 240

Socinians here with Calvinists abide,

And thin partitions angry chiefs divide;

Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,

And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet.

Great authors, for the church's glory fired,

Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired;

And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race,

Lie, "Crums of Comfort for the Babes of Grace."

Against her foes Religion well defends

Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends; 250

If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads,

And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads.

But most she fears the controversial pen,

The holy strife of disputatious men;

Who the bless'd Gospel's peaceful page explore,

Only to fight against its precepts more.

Near to these seats, behold yon slender frames,

All closely fill'd and mark'd with modern names;

Where no fair science ever shows her face,

Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace. 260

There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng,

And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong:

Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain;

Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again;

Coldly profane, and impiously gay;

Their end the same, though various in their way.

When first Religion came to bless the land,

Her friends were then a firm believing band;

To doubt was, then, to plunge in guilt extreme,

And all was gospel that a monk could dream; 270

Insulted Reason fled the grov'ling soul,

For Fear to guide, and visions to control.

But now, when Reason has assumed her throne,

She, in her turn, demands to reign alone;

Rejecting all that lies beyond her view,

And, being judge, will be a witness too.

Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind,

To seek for truth, without a power to find;

Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite,

And pour on erring man resistless light? 280

Next to the seats, well stored with works divine,

An ample space, PHILOSOPHY! is thine;

Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light

We trace the moral bounds of wrong and right;

Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay,

To the bright orbs of yon celestial way!

'Tis thine, the great, the golden chain to trace,

Which runs through all, connecting race with race;

Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain,

Which thy inferior light pursues in vain:-- 290

How vice and virtue in the soul contend;

How widely differ, yet how nearly blend!

What various passions war on either part,

And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart;

How Fancy loves around the world to stray,

While Judgment slowly picks his sober way!

The stores of memory, and the flights sublime

Of genius, bound by neither space nor time--

All these divine Philosophy explores,

Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores. 300

From these, descending to the earth, she turns,

And matter, in its various form, discerns;

She parts the beamy light with skill profound,

Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound;

'Tis hers the lightning from the clouds to call,

And teach the fiery mischief where to fall.

Yet more her volumes teach--on these we look

As abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book:

Here, first described, the torpid earth appears,

And next, the vegetable robe it wears: 310

Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields and groves,

Nurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves--

Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain,

Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain;

But as the green blood moves along the blade,

The bed of Flora on the branch is made;

Where, without passion, love instinctive lives,

And gives new life, unconscious that it gives.

Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace,

In dens and burning plains, her savage race; 320

With those tame tribes who on their lord attend,

And find in man, a master and a friend;

Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new,

A moral world, that well demands our view.

This world is here; for, of more lofty kind,

These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind;

They paint the state of man, ere yet endued

With knowledge--man, poor, ignorant, and rude;

Then, as his state improves, their pages swell,

And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell: 330

Here we behold how inexperience buys,

At little price, the wisdom of the wise;

Without the troubles of an active state,

Without the cares and dangers of the great,

Without the miseries of the poor, we know

What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow;

We see how reason calms the raging mind,

And how contending passions urge mankind.

Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire;

Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire; 340

Whilst others, won by either, now pursue

The guilty chase, now keep the good in view;

For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,

They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life;

For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain,

Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.

Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul,

New interests draw, new principles control:

Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief,

But here the tortured body finds relief; 350

For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes

Her subtile gin, that not a fly escapes!

There PHYSIC fills the space, and far around,

Pile above pile, her learned works abound:

Glorious their aim--to ease the labouring heart;

To war with death, and stop his flying dart;

To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew,

And life's short lease on easier terms renew;

To calm the frenzy of the burning brain;

To heal the tortures of imploring pain; 360

Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave, }

To ease the victim no device can save, }

And smooth the stormy passage to the grave. }

But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure,

Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure;

For grave deceivers lodge their labours here,

And cloud the science they pretend to clear.

Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent;

Like fire and storms, they call us to repent;

But storms subside, and fires forget to rage, 370

_These_ are eternal scourges of the age.

'Tis not enough that each terrific hand

Spreads desolation round a guilty land;

But, train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes,

Their pen relentless kills through future times.

Say ye, who search these records of the dead,

Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read:

Can all the real knowledge ye possess,

Or those (if such there are) who more than guess,

Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes, 380

And mend the blunders pride or folly makes?

What thought so wild, what airy dream so light,

That will not prompt a theorist to write?

What art so prevalent, what proof so strong,

That will convince him his attempt is wrong?

One in the solids finds each lurking ill,

Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill;

A learned friend some subtler reason brings

Absolves the channels, but condemns their springs;

The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye, 390

Escape no more his subtler theory;

The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart,

Lends a fair system to these sons of art;

The vital air, a pure and subtile stream, }

Serves a foundation for an airy scheme, }

Assists the doctor, and supports his dream. }

Some have their favourite ills, and each disease

Is but a younger branch that kills from these.

One to the gout contracts all human pain;

He views it raging in the frantic brain; 400

Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar,

And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh.

Bilious by some, by others nervous seen,

Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen;

And every symptom of the strange disease

With every system of the sage agrees.

Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted long

The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song;

Ye first seducers of my easy heart,

Who promised knowledge ye could not impart; 410

Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes;

Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose;

Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt,

Light up false fires, and send us far about--

Still may yon spider round your pages spin,

Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin!

Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell;

Most potent, grave, and reverend friends--farewell!

Near these, and where the setting sun displays

Through the dim window his departing rays, 420

And gilds yon columns, there, on either side,

The huge abridgments of the LAW abide.

Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand,

And spread their guardian terrors round the land;

Yet, as the best that human care can do,

Is mix'd with error, oft with evil too,

Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade,

Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were made;

And justice vainly each expedient tries,

While art eludes it, or while power defies. 430

"Ah! happy age," the youthful poet sings,

"When the free nations knew not laws nor kings;

When all were bless'd to share a common store,

And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor;

No wars nor tumults vex'd each still domain,

No thirst of empire, no desire of gain;

No proud great man, nor one who would be great,

Drove modest merit from its proper state;

Nor into distant climes would avarice roam,

To fetch delights for luxury at home: 440

Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe,

They dwelt at liberty, and love was law!"

"Mistaken youth! each nation first was rude,

Each man a cheerless son of solitude,

To whom no joys of social life were known;

None felt a care that was not all his own;

Or in some languid clime his abject soul

Bow'd to a little tyrant's stern control;

A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised,

And in rude song his ruder idol praised; 450

The meaner cares of life were all he knew;

Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few.

But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,

And Science waken'd from her long repose;

When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease,

Ran round the land, and pointed to the seas;

When Emulation, born with jealous eye,

And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry;

Then one by one the numerous laws were made,

Those to control, and these to succour trade; 460

To curb the insolence of rude command,

To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand;

To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress,

And feed the poor with Luxury's excess."

Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong,

His nature leads ungovern'd man along;

Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide,

The laws are form'd and placed on ev'ry side:

Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed,

New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed; 470

More and more gentle grows the dying stream,

More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem;

Till, like a miner working sure and slow,

Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;

The basis sinks, the ample piles decay;

The stately fabric shakes and falls away;

Primeval want and ignorance come on,

But freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone.

Next, HISTORY ranks;--there full in front she lies,

And every nation her dread tale supplies. 480

Yet History has her doubts, and every age

With sceptic queries marks the passing page;

Records of old nor later date are clear--

Too distant those, and these are placed too near;

There time conceals the objects from our view,

Here our own passions and a writer's too.

Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose,

Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes;

Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain,

Lo! how they sunk to slavery again! 490

Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd,

A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd;

Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all,

And foes join foes to triumph in her fall.

Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race,

The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace;

The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run,

How soon triumphant, and how soon undone;

How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale,

And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale. 500

Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,

Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood:

There, such the taste of our degenerate age,

Stand the profane delusions of the STAGE.

Yet virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a friend--

Fable her means, morality her end;

For this she rules all passions in their turns,

And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns;

Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl;

Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul; 510

She makes the vile to virtue yield applause,

And own her sceptre while they break her laws;

For vice in others is abhorr'd of all,

And villains triumph when the worthless fall.

Not thus her sister COMEDY prevails,

Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails:

Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound,

And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound;

Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill,

Laughs at her malice, and is folly still. 520

Yet well the Muse portrays in fancied scenes

What pride will stoop to, what profession means;

How formal fools the farce of state applaud;

How caution watches at the lips of fraud;

The wordy variance of domestic life;

The tyrant husband, the retorting wife,

The snares for innocence, the lie of trade,

And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade.

With her the virtues too obtain a place,

Each gentle passion, each becoming grace; 530

The social joy in life's securer road,

Its easy pleasure, its substantial good;

The happy thought that conscious virtue gives.

And all that ought to live, and all that lives.

But who are these? Methinks, a noble mien

And awful grandeur in their form are seen--

Now in disgrace. What, though by time is spread

Polluting dust o'er every reverend head;

What, though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie,

And dull observers pass insulting by: 540

Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe,

What seems so grave, should no attention draw!

Come, let us then with [reverent] step advance,

And greet--the ancient worthies of ROMANCE.

Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread;

A thousand visions float around my head.

Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound,

And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round;

See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise,

Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes; 550

Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate,

And bloody hand that beckons on to fate:--

"And who art thou, thou little page, unfold!

Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold?

Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign

The captive queen--for Claribel is mine."

Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds,

Black suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds;

The giant falls, his recreant throat I seize,

And from his corslet take the massy keys; 560

Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move,

Released from bondage with my virgin love;

She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth,

Unequall'd love and unsuspected truth!

Ah! happy he who thus, in magic themes,

O'er worlds bewitch'd in early rapture dreams,

Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand,

And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land;

Where doubtful objects strange desires excite,

And Fear and Ignorance afford delight. 570

But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys,

Which Reason scatters, and which Time destroys--

Too dearly bought: maturer judgment calls

My busied mind from tales and madrigals;

My doughty giants all are slain or fled,

And all my knights, blue, green, and yellow, dead!

No more the midnight fairy tribe I view,

All in the merry moonshine tippling dew;

E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain,

The church-yard ghost, is now at rest again; 580

And all these wayward wanderings of my youth

Fly Reason's power and shun the light of truth.

With fiction, then, does real joy reside,

And is our reason the delusive guide?

Is it, then, right to dream the syrens sing,

Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing?

No, 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown,

That makes th' imagined paradise its own;

Soon as reflections in the bosom rise,

Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes; 590

The tear and smile, that once together rose,

Are then divorced; the head and heart are foes:

Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan,

And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man.

While thus, of power and fancied empire vain,

With various thoughts my mind I entertain;

While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,

Pleased with the pride that will not let them please;

Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise,

And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes; 600

For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound,

I see the CRITIC army ranged around.

Foes to our race! if ever ye have known

A father's fears for offspring of your own.--

If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line,

Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine,

Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt,

With rage as sudden dash'd the stanza out--

If, after fearing much and pausing long,

Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song, 610

And from the crusty critics of those days

Implored the feeble tribute of their praise:

Remember now the fears that moved you then,

And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen!

What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foes

Lie waiting all around them to oppose!

What treacherous friends betray them to the fight!

What dangers threaten them--yet still they write:

A hapless tribe! to every evil born,

Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn; 620

Strangers they come amid a world of wo,

And taste the largest portion ere they go.

Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;

The roof, methought, return'd a solemn sound;

Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds, like smoke,

From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke;

Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem,

Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream;

Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine

Round the large members of a form divine; 630

His silver beard, that swept his aged breast, }

His piercing eye, that inward light express'd, }

Were seen--but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest. }

Fear chill'd my heart: to one of mortal race,

How awful seem'd the Genius of the place!

So, in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw

His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe;

Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,

When from the pitying power broke forth a solemn sound:--

"Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save 640 }

The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave; }

Grief is to man as certain as the grave: }

Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,

And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies;

Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall,

But showers of sorrow are the lot of _all_:

Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw

Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law?

Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,

Life's little cares and little pains refuse? 650

Shall he not rather feel a double share

Of mortal wo, when doubly arm'd to bear?

"Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind

On the precarious mercy of mankind;

Who hopes for wild and visionary things,

And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous wings:

But as, of various evils that befall

The human race, some portion goes to all:

To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd,

Who feels his consolation in his mind; 660

And, lock'd within his bosom, bears about

A mental charm for every care without.

E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,

Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;

And every wound the tortured bosom feels,

Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;

Some generous friend, of ample power possess'd;

Some feeling heart that bleeds for the distress'd;

Some breast that glows with virtues all divine;

Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine. 670

"Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen,

Merit the scorn they meet from little men.

With cautious freedom if the numbers flow,

Not wildly high, nor pitifully low;

If vice alone their honest aims oppose,

Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes?

Happy for men in every age and clime,

If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme!

Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue

Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too. 680

Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,

The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great,

Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known,

Are visions far less happy than thy own:

Go on! and, while the sons of care complain,

Be wisely gay and innocently vain;

While serious souls are by their fears undone,

Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun,

And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show

More radiant colours in their worlds below; 690

Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,

And tell them, Such are all the toys they love."

FOOTNOTES:

[14] In the more ancient libraries, works of value and importance

were fastened to their places by a length of chain; and might so be

perused, but not taken away.

THE VILLAGE.

_IN TWO BOOKS._

BOOK I.

The Subject proposed--Remarks upon Pastoral Poetry--A Tract of Country

near the Coast described--An impoverished Borough--Smugglers and

their Assistants--Rude Manners of the Inhabitants--Ruinous Effects

of a high Tide--The Village Life more generally considered: Evils

of it--The youthful Labourer--The old Man: his Soliloquy--The

Parish Workhouse: its Inhabitants--The sick Poor: their

Apothecary--The dying Pauper--The Village Priest.

The Village Life, and every care that reigns

O'er youthful peasants and declining swains;

What labour yields, and what, that labour past,

Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;

What form the real picture of the poor,

Demand a song--the Muse can give no more.

Fled are those times when, in harmonious strains,

The rustic poet praised his native plains.

No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,

Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse; 10

Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,

Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,

And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal,

The only pains, alas! they never feel.

On Mincio's banks, in Cæsar's bounteous reign,

If Tityrus found the Golden Age again,

Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong,

Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song?

From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray,

Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way? 20

Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains,

Because the Muses never knew their pains.

They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now

Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough;

And few, amid the rural-tribe, have time

To number syllables, and play with rhyme;

Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share

The poet's rapture, and the peasant's care?

Or the great labours of the field degrade,

With the new peril of a poorer trade? 30

From this chief cause these idle praises spring,

That themes so easy few forbear to sing;

For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask:

To sing of shepherds is an easy task.

The happy youth assumes the common strain,

A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain;

With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer,

But all; to look like her, is painted fair.

I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms

For him that grazes or for him that farms; 40

But, when amid such pleasing scenes I trace

The poor laborious natives of the place,

And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray,

On their bare heads and dewy temples play;

While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts,

Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts:

Then shall I dare these real ills to hide

In tinsel trappings of poetic pride?

No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast,

Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; 50

Where other cares than those the Muse relates,

And other shepherds dwell with other mates;

By such examples taught, I paint the Cot,

As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not:

Nor you, ye poor, of letter'd scorn complain,

To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain;

O'ercome by labour, and bow'd down by time,

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?

Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,

By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed? 60

Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower,

Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour?

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,

Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;

From thence a length of burning sand appears,

Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears;

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,

Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye:

There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,

And to the ragged infant threaten war; 70

There poppies, nodding, mock the hope of toil;

There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;

Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,

The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;

O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,

And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;

With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,

And a sad splendour vainly shines around.

So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn,

Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn; 80

Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose,

While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose;

Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress,

Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.

Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race,

With sullen wo display'd in every face;

Who far from civil arts and social fly,

And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.

Here too the lawless merchant of the main

Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain; 90

Want only claim'd the labour of the day,

But vice now steals his nightly rest away.

Where are the swains, who, daily labour done,

With rural games play'd down the setting sun;

Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball,

Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall;

While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong,

Engaged some artful stripling of the throng,

And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around

Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound? 100

Where now are these?--Beneath yon cliff they stand,

To show the freighted pinnace where to land;

To load the ready steed with guilty haste;

To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste;

Or, when detected in their straggling course,

To foil their foes by cunning or by force;

Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand),

To gain a lawless passport through the land.

Here, wand'ring long amid these frowning fields,

I sought the simple life that Nature yields; 110

Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her place,

And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;

Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe,

The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,

Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high,

On the tost vessel bend their eager eye,

Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way;

[Their], or the ocean's, miserable prey.

As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,

And wait for favouring winds to leave the land, 120

While still for flight the ready wing is spread:

So waited I the favouring hour, and fled--

Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign,

And cried, Ah! hapless they who still remain;

Who still remain to hear the ocean roar,

Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore;

Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway,

Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;

When the sad tenant weeps from door to door,

And begs a poor protection from the poor! 130

But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand

Gave a spare portion to the famish'd land;

Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain

Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain.

But yet in other scenes, more fair in view,

Where Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for few--

And those who taste not, yet behold her store, }

Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore, }

The wealth around them makes them doubly poor }

Or will you deem them amply paid in health, 140

Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth?

Go, then! and see them rising with the sun,

Through a long course of daily toil to run;

See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat,

When the knees tremble and the temples beat;

Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er

The labour past, and toils to come explore;

See them alternate suns and showers engage,

And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;

Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, 150

When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;

Then own that labour may as fatal be

To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.

Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride

Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide;

There may you see the youth of slender frame

Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame;

Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield,

He strives to join his fellows of the field;

Till long-contending nature droops at last, 160

Declining health rejects his poor repast,

His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,

And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.

Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell,

Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;

Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,

Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share?

Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,

Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal--

Homely, not wholesome; plain, not plenteous; such 170

As you who praise would never deign to touch.

Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,

Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please;

Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,

Go, look within, and ask if peace be there:

If peace be his--that drooping weary sire,

Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;

Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand

Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand!

Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these 180

Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease:

For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age

Can with no cares except his own engage;

Who, propp'd on that rude staff, looks up to see

The bare arms broken from the withering tree,

On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough,

Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.

He once was chief in all the rustic trade;

His steady hand the straightest furrow made;

Full many a prize he won, and still is proud 190

To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd.

A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes;

He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs:

For now he journeys to his grave in pain;

The rich disdain him, nay, the poor disdain;

Alternate masters now their slave command,

Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand;

And, when his age attempts its task in vain,

With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain[15].

Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, 200

His winter-charge, beneath the hillock weep;

Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow

O'er his white locks and bury them in snow,

When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn,

He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn:--

"Why do I live, when I desire to be

At once from life and life's long labour free?

Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away,

Without the sorrows of a slow decay;

I, like yon wither'd leaf, remain behind, 210

Nipp'd by the frost, and shivering in the wind;

There it abides till younger buds come on,

As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone;

Then, from the rising generation thrust,

It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust.

"These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see,

Are others' gain, but killing cares to me:

To me the children of my youth are lords,

Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words:

Wants of their own demand their care; and who 220

Feels his own want and succours others too?

A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go,

None need my help, and none relieve my wo;

Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,

And men forget the wretch they would not aid!"

Thus groan the old, till, by disease oppress'd,

They taste a final wo, and then they rest.

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor,

Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;

There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, 230

And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day--

There children dwell, who know no parents' care;

Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there!

Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,

Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;

Dejected widows with unheeded tears,

And crippled age with more than childhood fears;

The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!

The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive, 240

Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve,

Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,

Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below;

Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,

And the cold charities of man to man:

Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,

And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;

But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,

And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes, 250

Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;

Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance

With timid eye to read the distant glance;

Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease,

To name the nameless ever-new disease;

Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,

Which real pain, and that alone, can cure--

How would ye bear in real pain to lie,

Despised, neglected, left alone to die?

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, 260

Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides,

And naked rafters form the sloping sides;

Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,

And lath and mud are all that lie between,

Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way

To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day.

Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,

The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;

For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 270

Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;

No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,

Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,

Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls.

Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,

All pride and business, bustle and conceit;

With looks unalter'd by these scenes of wo,

With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go,

He bids the gazing throng around him fly, 280

And carries fate and physic in his eye:

A potent quack, long versed in human ills,

Who first insults the victim whom he kills;

Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect.

And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

Paid by the parish for attendance here,

He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;

In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies,

Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;

And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, 290

Without reply, he rushes on the door.

His drooping patient, long inured to pain,

And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;

He ceases now the feeble help to crave

Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.

But ere his death some pious doubts arise,

Some simple fears, which "bold bad" men despise:

Fain would he ask the parish-priest to prove

His title certain to the joys above;

For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls 300

The holy stranger to these dismal walls;

And doth not he, the pious man, appear,

He, "passing rich with forty pounds a year"?

Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock,

And far unlike him, feeds this little flock:

A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task

As much as God or man can fairly ask;

The rest he gives to loves and labours light,

To fields the morning, and to feasts the night;

None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide, 310

To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide;

A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day,

And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to play.

Then, while such honours bloom around his head,

Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed,

To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal

To combat fears that e'en the pious feel?

Now once again the gloomy scene explore, }

Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er, }

The man of many sorrows sighs no more.-- 320 }

Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow

The bier moves winding from the vale below;

There lie the happy dead, from trouble free,

And the glad parish pays the frugal fee.

No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hear

Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer;

No more the farmer claims his humble bow,

Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!

Now to the church behold the mourners come,

Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb; 330

The village children now their games suspend,

To see the bier that bears their ancient friend:

For he was one in all their idle sport,

And like a monarch ruled their little court;

The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball,

The bat, the wicket, were his labours all;

Him now they follow to his grave, and stand

Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand;

While bending low, their eager eyes explore

The mingled relics of the parish poor. 340

The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round,

Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound;

The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care,

Defers his duty till the day of prayer;

And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd,

To think a poor man's bones should lie unbless'd[16].

BOOK II.

There are found, amid the Evils of a laborious Life, some Views of

Tranquillity and Happiness--The Repose and Pleasure of a Summer

Sabbath: interrupted by Intoxication and Dispute--Village

Detraction--Complaints of the 'Squire--The Evening

Riots--Justice--Reasons for this unpleasant View of Rustic Life:

the Effect it should have upon the Lower Classes; and the

Higher--These last have their peculiar Distresses: Exemplified in

the Life and heroic Death of Lord Robert Manners--Concluding

Address to His Grace the Duke of Rutland.

No longer truth, though shown in verse, disdain,

But own the Village Life a life of pain.

I too must yield, that oft amid these woes

Are gleams of transient mirth and hours of sweet repose,

Such as you find on yonder sportive Green,

The 'squire's tall gate and churchway-walk between;

Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends,

On a fair Sunday when the sermon ends.

Then rural beaux their best attire put on,

To win their nymphs, as other nymphs are won; 10

While those long wed go plain, and, by degrees,

Like other husbands, quit their care to please.

Some of the sermon talk, a sober crowd,

And loudly praise, if it were preach'd aloud;

Some on the labours of the week look round,

Feel their own worth, and think their toil renown'd;

While some, whose hopes to no renown extend,

Are only pleased to find their labours end.

Thus, as their hours glide on, with pleasure fraught,

Their careful masters brood the painful thought; 20

Much in their mind they murmur and lament,

That one fair day should be so idly spent;

And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their store

And tax their time for preachers and the poor.

Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your hour,

This is your portion, yet unclaim'd of power;

This is Heaven's gift to weary men oppress'd,

And seems the type of their expected rest.

But yours, alas! are joys that soon decay;

Frail joys, begun and ended with the day; 30

Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign,

The village vices drive them from the plain.

See the stout churl, in drunken fury great,

Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate!

His naked vices, rude and unrefined,

Exert their open empire o'er the mind;

But can we less the senseless rage despise,

Because the savage acts without disguise?

Yet here disguise, the city's vice, is seen,

And Slander steals along and taints the Green: 40

At her approach domestic peace is gone,

Domestic broils at her approach come on;

She to the wife the husband's crime conveys,

She tells the husband when his consort strays,

Her busy tongue through all the little state

Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate;

Peace, tim'rous goddess! quits her old domain,

In sentiment and song content to reign.

Nor are the nymphs that breathe the rural air

So fair as Cynthia's, nor so chaste as fair: 50

These to the town afford each fresher face,

And the clown's trull receives the peer's embrace;

From whom, should chance again convey her down,

The peer's disease in turn attacks the clown.

Here too the 'squire, or 'squire-like farmer, talk,

How round their regions nightly pilferers walk;

How from their ponds the fish are borne, and all

The rip'ning treasures from their lofty wall;

How meaner rivals in their sports delight,

Just rich enough to claim a doubtful right; 60

Who take a licence round their fields to stray,

A mongrel race! the poachers of the day.

And hark! the riots of the Green begin,

That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn;

What time the weekly pay was vanish'd all,

And the slow hostess scored the threatening wall;

What time they ask'd, their friendly feast to close,

A final cup, and that will make them foes;

When blows ensue that break the arm of toil,

And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil. 70

Save when to yonder Hall they bend their way,

Where the grave justice ends the grievous fray;

He who recites, to keep the poor in awe,

The law's vast volume--for he knows the law:--

To him with anger or with shame repair

The injured peasant and deluded fair.

Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears,

Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears;

And while she stands abash'd, with conscious eye,

Some favourite female of her judge glides by, 80

Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate,

And thanks the stars that made her keeper great;

Near her the swain, about to bear for life

One certain evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife;

But, while the falt'ring damsel takes her oath,

Consents to wed, and so secures them both.

Yet, why, you ask, these humble crimes relate,

Why make the poor as guilty as the great?

To show the great, those mightier sons of pride,

How near in vice the lowest are allied; 90

Such are their natures and their passions such,

But these disguise too little, those too much:

So shall the man of power and pleasure see

In his own slave as vile a wretch as he;

In his luxurious lord the servant find

His own low pleasures and degenerate mind:

And each in all the kindred vices trace

Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd, erring race;

Who, a short time in varied fortune past,

Die, and are equal in the dust at last. 100

And you, ye poor, who still lament your fate,

Forbear to envy those you call the great;

And know, amid those blessings they possess,

They are, like you, the victims of distress;

While sloth with many a pang torments her slave,

Fear waits on guilt, and danger shakes the brave.

Oh! if in life one noble chief appears,

Great in his name, while blooming in his years;

Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind,

And yet to all you feel or fear resign'd; 110

Who gave up joys and hopes, to you unknown,

For pains and dangers greater than your own:

If such there be, then let your murmurs cease,

Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace.

And such there was:--Oh! grief, that checks our pride!

Weeping we say, there was--for Manners died:

Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive,

That sing of Thee[17], and thus aspire to live.

As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form

An ample shade and brave the wildest storm, 120

High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow,

The guard and glory of the trees below;

Till on its head the fiery bolt descends,

And o'er the plain the shatter'd trunk extends;

Yet then it lies, all wond'rous as before,

And still the glory, though the guard no more:

So THOU, when every virtue, every grace,

Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face;

When, though the son of Granby, thou wert known

Less by thy father's glory than thy own; 130

When Honour loved and gave thee every charm,

Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm;

Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes,

Fate and thy virtues call'd thee to the skies;

Yet still we wonder at thy tow'ring fame,

And, losing thee, still dwell upon thy name.

Oh! ever honour'd, ever valued! say,

What verse can praise thee, or what work repay?

Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays,

Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days;-- 140

Honours for thee thy country shall prepare,

Thee in their hearts, the good, the brave shall bear;

To deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire,

The Muse shall mourn thee, and the world admire.

In future times, when, smit with Glory's charms,

The untried youth first quits a father's arms;--

"Oh! be like him," the weeping sire shall say;

"Like Manners walk, who walk'd in Honour's way;

In danger foremost, yet in death sedate,

Oh! be like him in all things, but his fate!" 150

If for that fate such public tears be shed,

That Victory seems to die now THOU art dead;

How shall a friend his nearer hope resign,

That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine?

By what bold lines shall we his grief express,

Or by what soothing numbers make it less?

'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song,

Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong,

Words aptly cull'd and meanings well express'd,

Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast; 160

But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains,

Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns.

Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart,

To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart,

Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh,

And curb rebellious passion with reply;

Calmly to dwell on all that pleased before,

And yet to know that all shall please no more--

Oh! glorious labour of the soul, to save

Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave. 170

To such these thoughts will lasting comfort give--

Life is not measured by the time we live:

'Tis not an even course of threescore years,

A life of narrow views and paltry fears,

Gray hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,

That take from death the terrors or the sting;

But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high

Above the world, that native of the sky;

The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave,

Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave:-- 180

Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath,

If in a glorious, then a timely death.

Cease then that grief, and let those tears subside;

If Passion rule us, be that passion pride;

If Reason, Reason bids us strive to raise

Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise;

Or, if Affection still the soul subdue, }

Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view, }

And let Affection find its comfort too: }

For how can Grief so deeply wound the heart, 190

When Admiration claims so large a part?

Grief is a foe; expel him, then, thy soul;

Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control!

Oh! make the age to come thy better care;

See other Rutlands, other Granbys there!

And, as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide,

See other heroes die as Manners died:

And, from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow,

As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below;

Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride, 200

Sees his young streams run warbling at his side;

Though some, by art cut off, no longer run,

And some are lost beneath the summer's sun--

Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves,

Its power increases and its use improves;

While plenty round its spacious waves bestow,

Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.

NOTES TO THE VILLAGE.

[15] Note 1, page 125, lines 198 and 199.

_And, when his age attempts its task in vain,

With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain._

A pauper who, being nearly past his labour, is employed by different

masters for a length of time, proportioned to their occupations.

[16] Note 2, page 128, lines 345 and 346.

_And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd

To think a poor man's bones should lie unbless'd._

Some apology is due for the insertion of a circumstance by no means

common: that it has been a subject for complaint in any place is a

sufficient reason for its being reckoned among the evils which may

happen to the poor, and which must happen to them exclusively;

nevertheless, it is just to remark, that such neglect is very rare

in any part of the kingdom, and in many parts is totally unknown.

[17] Note 3, page 133, lines 117 and 118.

_Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive,

That sing of Thee, and thus aspire to live._

Lord Robert Manners, the youngest son of the Marquis of Granby and

the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles Duke of Somerset, was

born the 5th of February, 1758; and was placed with his brother, the

late Duke of Rutland, at Eton school, where he acquired, and ever

after retained, a considerable knowledge of the classical authors.

Lord Robert, after going through the duties of his profession on

board different ships, was made captain of the Resolution, and

commanded her in nine different actions, besides the last memorable

one on the 2nd of April, 1782, when, in breaking the French line of

battle, he received the wounds which terminated his life, in the

twenty-fourth year of his age.--_See the Annual Register, printed

for Mr. Dodsley._

THE NEWSPAPER.

E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures,

Hi narrata ferunt alio: Mensuraque ficti

Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:

Illic Credulitas, illic temerarius Error,

Vanaque Lætitia est, consternatique Timores,

Seditioque recens, dubioque auctore Susurri.

_Ovid. Metamorph._ lib. xii.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

EDWARD LORD THURLOW,

LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN; ONE

OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY

COUNCIL, ETC. ETC.

MY LORD,

My obligations to your Lordship, great as they are, have not induced

me to prefix your name to the following Poem; nor is it your

Lordship's station, exalted as that is, which prevailed upon me to

solicit the honour of your protection for it. But, when I considered

your Lordship's great abilities and good taste, so well known and so

universally acknowledged, I became anxious for the privilege with

which you have indulged me; well knowing that the Public would not be

easily persuaded to disregard a performance, marked, in any degree,

with your Lordship's approbation.

It is, my Lord, the province of superior rank, in general, to bestow

this kind of patronage; but superior talents only can render it

valuable. Of the value of your Lordship's I am fully sensible; and,

while I make my acknowledgments for that, and for many other favours,

I cannot suppress the pride I have in thus publishing my gratitude,

and declaring how much I have the honour to be,

MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most obedient,

most obliged,

and devoted servant,

GEORGE CRABBE.

_Belvoir Castle,

February 20th, 1785._

TO THE READER.

The Poem which I now offer to the Public, is, I believe, the only one

written on the subject; at least, it is the only one which I have any

knowledge of; and, fearing there may not be found in it many things to

engage the Reader's attention, I am willing to take the strongest hold

I can upon him, by offering something which has the claim of novelty.

When the subject first occurred to me, I meant, in a few lines only,

to give some description of that variety of dissociating articles

which are huddled together in our Daily Papers. As the thought dwelt

upon me, I conceived this might be done methodically, and with some

connection of parts, by taking a larger scope; which notwithstanding I

have done, I must still apologize for a want of union and coherence in

my Poem. Subjects like this will not easily admit of them: we cannot

slide from theme to theme in an easy and graceful succession; but, on

quitting one thought, there will be an unavoidable hiatus, and in

general an awkward transition into that which follows.

That, in writing upon the subject of our Newspapers, I have avoided

every thing which might appear like the opinion of a party, is to be

accounted for from the knowledge I have gained from them; since, the

more of these Instructors a man reads, the less he will infallibly

understand; nor would it have been very consistent in me, at the same

time to censure their temerity and ignorance, and to adopt their

rage.

I should have been glad to have made some discrimination in my remarks

on these productions. There is, indeed, some difference; and I have

observed, that one editor will sometimes convey his abuse with more

decency, and colour his falsehood with more appearance of probability,

than another: but till I see that paper, wherein no great character is

wantonly abused, nor groundless insinuation wilfully disseminated, I

shall not make any distinction in my remarks upon them.

It must, however, be confessed, that these things have their use, and

are, besides, vehicles of much amusement; but this does not outweigh

the evil they do to society, and the irreparable injury they bring

upon the characters of individuals. In the following Work I have given

those good properties their due weight: they have changed indignation

into mirth, and turned, what would otherwise have been abhorrence,

into derision.

THE NEWSPAPER.

This not a Time favourable to poetical Composition; and

why--Newspapers Enemies to Literature, and their general

Influence--Their Numbers--The Sunday Monitor--Their general

Character--Their Effect upon Individuals--upon Society--in the

Country--The Village Freeholder--What Kind of Composition a

Newspaper is; and the Amusement it affords--Of what Parts it is

chiefly composed--Articles of Intelligence: Advertisements: The

Stage: Quacks: Puffing--The Correspondents to a Newspaper;

political and poetical--Advice to the latter--Conclusion.

A time like this, a busy, bustling time,

Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme:

Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong,

And mightier madness checks the flowing song:

Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield

Her feeble arms amid the furious field,

Where party-pens a wordy war maintain,

Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain;

And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine,

Till serious vengeance pays an idle line; 10

For party-poets are like wasps, who dart

Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart.

Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose,

Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse;

Or, should we sing the subject of the day,

To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away.

More bless'd the bards of that poetic time,

When all found readers who could find a rhyme;

Green grew the bays on every teeming head,

And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read. 20

Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline;

Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?

Alas! new charms the wavering many gain,

And rival sheets the reader's eye detain;

A daily swarm, that banish every Muse,

Come flying forth, and mortals call them NEWS:

For these unread the noblest volumes lie;

For these in sheets unsoil'd the Muses die;

Unbought, unbless'd, the virgin copies wait

In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate. 30

Since, then, the town forsakes us for our foes,

The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose;

Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride,

And sing our rivals with a rival's pride.

Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain

That foul neglect is all your labours gain;

That pity only checks your growing spite

To erring man, and prompts you still to write;

That your choice works on humble stalls are laid,

Or vainly grace the windows of the trade; 40

Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm

Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm:

Think of the common cause wherein we go,

Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;

Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame,

Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame;

And let us join our forces to subdue

This bold assuming but successful crew.

I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid sheets

The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets; 50

Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly,

Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye:

For, soon as morning dawns with roseate hue,

The Herald of the morn arises too;

Post after Post succeeds, and, all day long,

Gazettes and Ledgers swarm, a noisy throng.

When evening comes, she comes with all her train

Of Ledgers, Chronicles, and Posts again--

Like bats, appearing, when the sun goes down,

From holes obscure and corners of the town. 60

Of all these triflers, all like these, I write;

Oh! like my subject could my song delight,

The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise,

And all the Alley echo to his praise.

In shoals the hours their constant numbers bring,

Like insects waking to th' advancing spring;

Which take their rise from grubs obscene that lie

In shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky:

Such are these base ephemeras, so born

To die before the next revolving morn. 70

Yet thus they differ: insect-tribes are lost

In the first visit of a winter's frost;

While these remain, a base but constant breed,

Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires succeed:

No changing season makes their number less,

Nor Sunday shines a sabbath on the press!

Then, lo! the sainted Monitor is born,

Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn:

As artful sinners cloak the secret sin,

To veil with seeming grace the guile within; 80

So Moral Essays on his front appear,

But all is carnal business in the rear;

The fresh-coin'd lie, the secret whisper'd last,

And all the gleanings of the six days past.

With these retired, through half the Sabbath-day,

The London-lounger yawns his hours away:

Not so, my little flock! your preacher fly,

Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy;

But let the decent maid and sober clown

Pray for these idlers of the sinful town: 90

This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow,

Nor give to Woodfall, or the world below.

But, Sunday pass'd, what numbers flourish then,

What wond'rous labours of the press and pen!

Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords,

Some only once--O avarice of words!

When thousand starving minds such manna seek[18],

To drop the precious food but once a week.

Endless it were to sing the powers of all,

Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall: 100

Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize,

Rush to the head, and poison where they please:

Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train,

They drop their maggots in the trifler's brain;

That genial soil receives the fruitful store,

And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.

Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose

A cause and party, as the bard his muse;

Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,

And through the town their dreams and omens fly: 110

So the Sibylline leaves were blown about[19],

Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt;

So idle dreams, the journals of the night,

Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with right.

Some champions for the rights that prop the crown,

Some sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down;

Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught,

Wishing for war, but willing to be bought:

While some to every side and party go,

Shift every friend, and join with every foe; 120

Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strike

This side and that, the foes of both alike;

A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times,

Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes.

Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail,

Fickle and false, they veer with every gale;

As birds that migrate from a freezing shore,

In search of warmer climes, come skimming o'er,

Some bold adventurers first prepare to try

The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky; 130

But soon the growing Summer's certain sun

Wins more and more, till all at last are won:

So, on the early prospect of disgrace,

Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race;

Instinctive tribes! their failing food they dread,

And buy, with timely change, their future bread.

Such are our guides; how many a peaceful head,

Born to be still, have they to wrangling led!

How many an honest zealot stol'n from trade,

And factious tools of pious pastors made! 140

With clews like these they tread the maze of state,

These oracles explore, to learn our fate;

Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive,

Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.

Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend an ear,

(For we who will not speak are doom'd to hear);

While he, bewilder'd, tells his anxious thought,

Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught,

Or idiot hope; for each his mind assails,

As Lloyd's court-light or Stockdale's gloom prevails. 150

Yet stand I patient while but one declaims,

Or gives dull comments on the speech he maims:

But oh! ye Muses, keep your votary's feet

From tavern-haunts where politicians meet;

Where rector, doctor, and attorney pause,

First on each parish, then each public cause:

[Indicted] roads and rates that still increase;

The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace;

Election-zeal and friendship, since declined;

A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind; 160

The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife;

Dull port and poachers vile, the serious ills of life.

Here comes the neighbouring justice, pleased to guide

His little club, and in the chair preside.

In private business his commands prevail,

On public themes his reasoning turns the scale;

Assenting silence soothes his happy ear,

And, in or out, his party triumphs here.

Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops,

But flits along from palaces to shops; 170

Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,

And spread their plague and influenzas round;

The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant plain,

Breeds the Whig-farmer and the Tory-swain;

Brookes' and St. Alban's boasts not, but, instead,

Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney's Head:--

Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he

Who owns the little hut that makes him free;

Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile

Of mightier men, and never waste the while; 180

Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate,

A little prop and pillar of the state.

Here he delights the weekly news to con,

And mingle comments as he blunders on;

To swallow all their varying authors teach,

To spell a title, and confound a speech:

Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,

And claims his nation's licence to abuse;

Then joins the cry, "That all the courtly race

Are venal candidates for power and place"; 190

Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice,

That his own vote will bring its wonted price.

These are the ills the teeming press supplies,

The pois'nous springs from learning's fountain rise;

Not there the wise alone their entrance find,

Imparting useful light to mortals blind;

But, blind themselves, these erring guides hold out

Alluring lights, to lead us far about;

Screen'd by such means, here Scandal whets her quill,

Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she will; 200

Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive,

And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe.

Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye trust;

So wise their counsel, their reports so just:--

Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure,

Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure;

Merit they have, to mightier works unknown,

A style, a manner, and a fate their own.

We, who for longer fame with labour strive,

Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive; 210

Studious we toil, with patient care refine,

Nor let our love protect one languid line.

Severe ourselves, at last our works appear,

When, ah! we find our readers more severe;

For after all our care and pains, how few

Acquire applause, or keep it if they do!--

Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate,

Praised through their day, and but that day their date;

Their careless authors only strive to join

As many words as make an even line[20]; 220

As many lines as fill a row complete;

As many rows as furnish up a sheet:

From side to side, with ready types they run,

The measure's ended, and the work is done;

Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest!

Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest.

To you all readers turn, and they can look

Pleased on a paper, who abhor a book;

Those, who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse,

Would think it hard to be denied their news; 230

Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak,

Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek;

This, like the public inn, provides a treat,

Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat;

And such this mental food, as we may call

Something to all men, and to some men all.

Next, in what rare production shall we trace

Such various subjects in so small a space?

As the first ship upon the waters bore

Incongruous kinds who never met before; 240

Or as some curious virtuoso joins,

In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins,

Birds, beasts, and fishes; nor refuses place

To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race:

So here, compress'd within a single sheet,

Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet:

'Tis this which makes all Europe's business known,

Yet here a private man may place his own;

And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, he

May tell their honours that he sells rappee. 250

Add next th' amusement which the motley page

Affords to either sex and every age:

Lo! where it comes before the cheerful fire--

Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire

(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew),

Ere we can read the wonders that ensue:

Then, eager, every eye surveys the part,

That brings its favourite subject to the heart;

Grave politicians look for facts alone,

And gravely add conjectures of their own: 260

The sprightly nymph, who never broke her rest

For tottering crowns, or mighty lands oppress'd,

Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all

For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball;

The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale

For "Money's wanted," and "Estates on Sale";

While some with equal minds to all attend,

Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an end.

So charm the News; but we, who, far from town,

Wait till the postman brings the packet down, 270

Once in the week a vacant day behold,

And stay for tidings, till they're three days old:

That day arrives; no welcome post appears,

But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears;

We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,

To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;

Sullen, we ponder o'er a dull repast,

Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.

A master-passion is the love of news,

Not music so commands, nor so the Muse: 280

Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;

Feed the musician, and he's out of tune;

But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd,

Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest.

Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose

These rival sheets of politics and prose.

First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw,

A mutual theft that never fear'd a law;

Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall,

And read it once, you read it through them all: 290

For this their runners ramble day and night,

To drag each lurking deed to open light;

For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,

Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie.

Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring--

Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;

Home to their several cells they bear the store,

Cull'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.

No anxious virgin flies to "fair Tweed-side";

No injured husband mourns his faithless bride; 300

No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed,

But through the town transpires each vent'rous deed.

Should some fair frail-one drive her prancing pair,

Where rival peers contend to please the fair;

When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,

And beauty decks with all that beauty buys--

Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,

Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels.

To these a thousand idle themes succeed,

Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed. 310

Here stocks, the state-barometers, we view,

That rise or fall, by causes known to few;

Promotion's ladder who goes up or down;

Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town;

What new-born heir has made his father blest;

What heir exults, his father now at rest;

That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives,

And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives.

So grows the work, and now the printer tries

His powers no more, but leans on his allies. 320

When, lo! the advertising tribe succeed,

Pay to be read, yet find but few will read;

And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pills

Have patent powers to vanquish human ills:

These, with their cures, a constant aid remain,

To bless the pale composer's fertile brain;

Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil

Requires some pause, some intervals from toil;

And they at least a certain ease obtain

From Katterfelto's skill, and Graham's glowing strain. 330

I too must aid, and pay to see my name

Hung in these dirty avenues to fame;

Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen

And sung, could make those avenues more clean;

Could stop one slander ere it found its way,

And gave to public scorn its helpless prey.

By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends,

And kindly tells the banquet she intends;

Thither from real life the many run,

With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon; 340

Pleased, in fictitious joy or grief, to see

The mimic passion with their own agree;

To steal a few enchanted hours away

From care, and drop the curtain on the day.

But who can steal from self that wretched wight,

Whose darling work is tried, some fatal night?

Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss,

He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss;

Then groans succeed; not traitors on the wheel

Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel. 350

Nor end they here: next day he reads his fall

In every paper; critics are they all;

He sees his branded name, with wild affright,

And hears again the cat-calls of the night.

Such help the STAGE affords; a larger space

Is fill'd by PUFFS and all the puffing race.

Physic had once alone the lofty style,

The well-known boast, that ceased to raise a smile;

Now all the province of that tribe invade,

And we abound in quacks of every trade. 360

The simple barber, once an honest name--

Cervantes founded, Fielding raised his fame--

Barber no more, a gay perfumer comes,

On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms;

Here he appears, each simple mind to move,

And advertises beauty, grace, and love.

--"Come, faded belles, who would your youth renew,

And learn the wonders of Olympian dew;

Restore the roses that begin to faint,

Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint; 370

Your former features, airs, and arts assume,

Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom.

--Come, batter'd beaux, whose locks are turn'd to grey,

And crop Discretion's lying badge away;

Read where they vend these smart engaging things,

These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs;

No female eye the fair deception sees,

Not Nature's self so natural as these."

Such are their arts, but not confined to them,

The Muse impartial must her sons condemn: 380

For they, degenerate! join the venal throng,

And puff a lazy Pegasus along:

More guilty these, by Nature less design'd

For little arts that suit the vulgar-kind;

That barbers' boys, who would to trade advance,

Wish us to call them, smart Friseurs from France;

That he who builds a chop-house, on his door

Paints "The true old original Blue Boar!"

These are the arts by which a thousand live,

Where Truth may smile, and Justice may forgive; 390

But when, amid this rabble-rout, we find

A puffing poet to his honour blind;

Who [slily] drops quotations all about,

Packet or Post, and points their merit out;

Who advertises what reviewers say,

With sham editions every second day;

Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,

But hurries into fame with all his might;

Although the verse some transient praise obtains,

Contempt is all the anxious poet gains. 400

Now, puffs exhausted, advertisements past,

Their correspondents stand exposed at last;

These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown,

Who for the public good forego their own;

Who, volunteers, in paper-war engage,

With double portion of their party's rage:

Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear

Wooing the printer for admission here;

Whose generous souls can condescend to pray

For leave to throw their precious time away. 410

Oh! cruel Woodfall! when a patriot draws

His grey-goose quill in his dear country's cause,

To vex and maul a ministerial race,

Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place?

Alas! thou know'st not with what anxious heart

He longs his best-loved labours to impart;

How he has sent them to thy brethren round,

And still the same unkind reception found:

At length indignant will he damn the state,

Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate. 420

These Roman souls, like Rome's great sons, are known

To live in cells on labours of their own.

Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief,

Feeds, for his country's good, on legs of beef;

Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay,

Yet fights the public battles twice a day;

E'en now the godlike Brutus views his score

Scroll'd on the bar-board, swinging with the door;

Where, tippling punch, grave Cato's self you'll see,

And _Amor Patriæ_ vending smuggled tea. 430

Last in these ranks and least, their art's disgrace,

Neglected stand the Muse's meanest race:

Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye

Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by:

This Poet's Corner is the place they choose,

A fatal nursery for an infant Muse;

Unlike that corner where true poets lie,

These cannot live, and they shall never die;

Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade,

And win to verse the talents due to trade. 440

Curb, then, O youth! these raptures as they rise;

Keep down the evil spirit and be wise;

Follow your calling, think the Muses foes,

Nor lean upon the pestle and compose.

I know your day-dreams, and I know the snare

Hid in your flow'ry path, and cry "Beware."

Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind,

A sudden couplet rushes on your mind;

Here you may nameless print your idle rhymes,

And read your first-born work a thousand times; 450

Th' infection spreads, your couplet grows apace--

Stanzas to Delia's dog or Celia's face;

You take a name: Philander's odes are seen,

Printed, and praised, in every magazine;

Diarian sages greet their brother sage,

And your dark pages please th' enlighten'd age.--

Alas! what years you thus consume in vain,

Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain!

Go! to your desks and counters all return;

Your sonnets scatter, your acrostics burn; 460

Trade, and be rich; or, should your careful sires

Bequeath you wealth, indulge the nobler fires;

Should love of fame your youthful heart betray, }

Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way, }

Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray. }

Of all the good that mortal men pursue,

The Muse has least to give, and gives to few;

Like some coquettish fair, she leads us on,

With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are gone;

Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pair 470

Forget how constant one, and one how fair:

Meanwhile, Ambition, like a blooming bride,

Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side;

And, though she smiles not with such flattering charms,

The brave will sooner win her to their arms.

Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the bands,

Go spread your country's fame in hostile lands;

Her court, her senate, or her arms adorn,

And let her foes lament that you were born:

Or weigh her laws, their ancient rights defend, 480

Though hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason's friend;

Arm'd with strong powers, in their defence engage,

And rise the Thurlow of the future age!

NOTES TO THE NEWSPAPER.

[18] Note 1, page 144, line 97.

_When thousand starving minds such manna seek._

The Manna of the Day. _Green's Spleen._

[19] Note 2, page 145, line 111.

_So the Sibylline leaves were blown about._

. . . . . . . in foliis descripsit carmina Virgo;--

. . . . . . . et [teneras] turbavit janua frondes.

_Virg. Æneid._ lib. iii. [vv. 445, 447.]

[20] Note 3, page 147, lines 220-2.

_As many words as make an even line;

As many lines as fill a row complete;

As many rows as furnish up a sheet._

How many hours bring about the day;

How many days will furnish up the year;

How many years a mortal man may live. &c.

_Shakspeare's Henry VI._ [Part III. Act II. Sc. 5.]

THE PARISH REGISTER.

_IN THREE PARTS._

INTRODUCTION.

The Village Register considered, as containing principally the Annals

of the Poor--State of the Peasantry as meliorated by Frugality and

Industry--The Cottage of an industrious Peasant; its

Ornaments--Prints and Books--The Garden; its Satisfactions--The

State of the Poor, when improvident and vicious--The Row or

Street, and its Inhabitants--The Dwelling of one of these--A

Public House--Garden and its Appendages--Gamesters; rustic

Sharpers, &c.--Conclusion of the Introductory Part.

PART I.

_BAPTISMS._

The Child of the Miller's Daughter, and Relation of her Misfortune--A

frugal Couple: their Kind of Frugality--Plea of the Mother of a

natural Child: her Churching--Large Family of Gerard Ablett: his

Apprehensions: Comparison between his State and that of the

wealthy Farmer his Master: his Consolation--An old Man's Anxiety

for an Heir: the Jealousy of another on having many--Characters of

the Grocer Dawkins and his Friend: their different Kinds of

Disappointment--Three Infants named--An Orphan Girl and Village

School-mistress--Gardener's Child: Pedantry and Conceit of the

Father: his Botanical Discourse: Method of fixing the Embryo-fruit

of Cucumbers--Absurd Effects of Rustic Vanity: observed in the

Names of their Children--Relation of the Vestry Debate on a

Foundling: Sir Richard Monday--Children of various

Inhabitants--The poor Farmer--Children of a Profligate: his

Character and Fate--Conclusion.

Tum porro puer (ut sævis projectus ab undis

Navita) nudus humi jacet, infans, indigus omni

Vitali auxilio----

Vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut æquum est,

Cui tantum in vitâ [restet] transire malorum.

_Lucret. de Nat. Rerum_, lib. v. [vv. 223--5, 227--8.]

The year revolves, and I again explore

The simple annals of my parish poor:

What infant-members in my flock appear;

What pairs I bless'd in the departed year;

And who, of old or young, or nymphs or swains,

Are lost to life, its pleasures and its pains.

No Muse I ask, before my view to bring

The humble actions of the swains I sing--

How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days;

Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise; 10

Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts;

What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their parts;

By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd,

Full well I know--these records give the rest.

Is there a place, save one the poet sees,

A land of love, of liberty and ease;

Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress

Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness;

Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state,

Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate, 20

Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng,

And half man's life is holiday and song?

Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,

By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears;

Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd.

Auburn and Eden can no more be found.

Hence good and evil mix'd, but man has skill

And power to part them, when he feels the will!

Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few,

Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue. 30

Behold the cot! where thrives th' industrious swain,

Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain;

Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray

Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;

Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop,

And turn their blossoms to the casement's top:

All need requires is in that cot contain'd,

And much that taste, untaught and unrestrain'd,

Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace,

In one gay picture, all the royal race; 40

Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;

The print that shows them and the verse that sings.

Here the last Lewis on his throne is seen,

And there he stands imprison'd, and his queen;

To these the mother takes her child, and shows

What grateful duty to his God he owes;

Who gives to him a happy home, where he

Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free;

When kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried,

Are all these blessings of the poor denied. 50

There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules,

Who proved Misfortune's was the best of schools:

And there his son, who, tried by years of pain,

Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain.

The magic-mill that grinds the gran'nams young,

Close at the side of kind Godiva hung;

She, of her favourite place the pride and joy,

Of charms at once most lavish and most coy,

By wanton act the purest fame could raise,

And give the boldest deed the chastest praise. 60

There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed;

There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel-bred;

And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries live

In all the joys that ale and skittles give.

Now, lo! in Egypt's coast that hostile fleet,

By nations dreaded and by Nelson beat;

And here shall soon another triumph come,

A deed of glory in a day of gloom--

Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate!

The proudest conquest, at the dearest rate. 70

On shelf of deal, beside the cuckoo-clock,

Of cottage-reading rests the chosen stock;

Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind

For all our wants, a meat for every mind:

The tale for wonder and the joke for whim,

The half-sung sermon and the half-groan'd hymn.

No need of classing; each within its place,

The feeling finger in the dark can trace;

"First from the corner, farthest from the wall":

Such all the rules, and they suffice for all. 80

There pious works for Sunday's use are found,

Companions for that Bible newly bound:

That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved,

Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved;

Has choicest notes by many a famous head,

Such as to doubt have rustic readers led;

Have made them stop to reason, _why?_ and _how?_

And, where they once agreed, to cavil now.

Oh! rather give me commentators plain,

Who with no deep researches vex the brain; 90

Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,

And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun;

Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons back,

And guard the point no enemies attack.

Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that shelf upon;

A genius rare but rude was honest John:

Not one who, early by the Muse beguiled,

Drank from her well the waters undefiled;

Not one who slowly gain'd the hill sublime,

Then often sipp'd and little at a time; 100

But one who dabbled in the sacred springs,

And drank them muddy, mix'd with baser things.

Here, to interpret dreams we read the rules--

Science our own, and never taught in schools;

In moles and specks we Fortune's gifts discern,

And Fate's fix'd will from Nature's wanderings learn.

Of Hermit Quarle we read, in island rare,

Far from mankind and seeming far from care;

Safe from all want, and sound in every limb;

Yes! there was he, and there was care with him. 110

Unbound and heap'd, these valued works beside,

Lay humbler works the pedler's pack supplied;

Yet these, long since, have all acquired a name:

The Wandering Jew has found his way to fame;

And fame, denied to many a labour'd song,

Crowns Thumb the great, and Hickerthrift the strong.

There too is he, by wizard-power upheld,

Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd:

His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed;

His coat of darkness on his loins he braced; 120

His sword of sharpness in his hand he took,

And off the heads of doughty giants stroke:

Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;

No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear;

No English blood their pagan sense could smell,

But heads dropp'd headlong, wondering why they fell.

These are the peasant's joy, when, placed at ease,

Half his delighted offspring mount his knees.

To every cot the lord's indulgent mind

Has a small space for garden-ground assign'd; 130

Here--till return of morn dismiss'd the farm--

The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,

Warm'd as he works, and casts his look around

On every foot of that improving ground:

It is his own he sees; his master's eye

Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;

Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;--

Hope, profit, pleasure,--they are all his own.

Here grow the humble [chives], and, hard by them,

The leek with crown globose and reedy stem; 140

High climb his pulse in many an even row,

Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below;

And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste

Give a warm relish to the night's repast;

Apples and cherries grafted by his hand,

And cluster'd nuts for neighbouring market stand.

Nor thus concludes his labour: near the cot,

The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot;

Where rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes, }

Proud hyacinths, the least some florist's prize, 150 }

Tulips tall-stemm'd and pounced auriculas rise. }

Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,

Meet and rejoice a family of friends;

All speak aloud, are happy and are free,

And glad they seem, and gaily they agree.

What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,

Where all are talkers and where none can teach;

Where still the welcome and the words are old,

And the same stories are for ever told--

Yet theirs is joy that, bursting from the heart, 160

Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart;

That forms these tones of gladness we despise,

That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;

That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays,

And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.

Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long;

But vice and misery now demand the song,

And turn our view from dwellings simply neat,

To this infected row we term our street.

Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew 170

Each evening meet: the sot, the cheat, the shrew;

Riots are nightly heard--the curse, the cries

Of beaten wife, perverse in her replies;

While shrieking children hold each threat'ning hand,

And sometimes life, and sometimes food, demand:

Boys, in their first-stol'n rags, to swear begin,

And girls, who heed not dress, are skill'd in gin:

Snarers and smugglers here their gains divide;

Ensnaring females here their victims hide;

And here is one, the sibyl of the row, 180

Who knows all secrets, or affects to know.

Seeking their fate, to her the simple run,

To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun;

Mistress of worthless arts, depraved in will,

Her care unbless'd and unrepaid her skill,

Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops,

And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes.

Between the road-way and the walls, offence

Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense:

There lie, obscene, at every open door, 190

Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor;

And day by day the mingled masses grow,

As sinks are disembogued and kennels flow.

There hungry dogs from hungry children steal;

There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal;

There dropsied infants wail without redress,

And all is want and wo and wretchedness:

Yet, should these boys, with bodies bronzed and bare,

High-swoln and hard, outlive that lack of care,

Forced on some farm, the unexerted strength, 200

Though loth to action, is compell'd at length,

When warm'd by health, as serpents in the spring

Aside their slough of indolence they fling.

Yet, ere they go, a greater evil comes--

See! crowded beds in those contiguous rooms;

Beds but ill parted by a paltry screen

Of paper'd lath or curtain dropp'd between;

Daughters and sons to yon compartments creep,

And parents here beside their children sleep.

Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part, 210

Nor let the ear be first to taint the heart!

Come! search within, nor sight nor smell regard;

The true physician walks the foulest ward.

See! on the floor what frouzy patches rest!

What nauseous fragments on yon fractured chest!

What downy dust beneath yon window-seat!

And round these posts that serve this bed for feet;

This bed, where all those tatter'd garments lie,

Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by!

See! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, 220

Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed;

The mother-gossip has the love suppress'd

An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast;

And daily prattles, as her round she takes,

(With strong resentment) of the want she makes.

Whence all these woes?--From want of virtuous will,

Of honest shame, of time-improving skill;

From want of care t'employ the vacant hour,

And want of ev'ry kind but want of power.

Here are no wheels for either wool or flax, 230

But packs of cards--made up of sundry packs;

Here is no clock, nor will they turn the glass.

And see how swift th'important moments pass;

Here are no books, but ballads on the wall

Are some abusive, and indecent all;

Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks,

Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks;

An ample flask, that nightly rovers fill

With recent poison from the Dutchman's still;

A box of tools, with wires of various size, 240 }

Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise, }

And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. }

To every house belongs a space of ground,

Of equal size, once fenced with paling round;

That paling now by slothful waste destroy'd,

Dead gorse and stumps of elder fill the void,

Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay

Hide sots and striplings at their drink or play.

Within, a board, beneath a tiled retreat,

Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat; 250

Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows;

Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows;

Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile,

The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile;

Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door,

And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor.

Here his poor bird th'inhuman cocker brings,

Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings;

With spicy food th'impatient spirit feeds,

And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds. 260

Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes,

The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies;

Must faintly peck at his victorious foe,

And reel and stagger at each feeble blow.

When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes,

His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes;

And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake,

And only bled and perish'd for his sake.

Such are our peasants, those to whom we yield

Praise with relief, the fathers of the field; 270

And these who take, from our reluctant hands,

What Burn advises or the Bench commands.

Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain,

Like other farmers, flourish and complain.--

These are our groups; our portraits next appear,

And close our exhibition for the year.

* * * * *

With evil omen we that year begin:

A Child of Shame--stern Justice adds, of Sin--

Is first recorded; I would hide the deed,

But vain the wish; I sigh and I proceed: 280

And could I well th' instructive truth convey,

'Twould warn the giddy and awake the gay.

Of all the nymphs who gave our village grace,

The Miller's daughter had the fairest face.

Proud was the Miller; money was his pride;

He rode to market, as our farmers ride;

And 'twas his boast, inspired by spirits, there,

His favourite Lucy should be rich as fair;

But she must meek and still obedient prove,

And not presume, without his leave, to love. 290

A youthful Sailor heard him;--"Ha!" quoth he,

"This Miller's maiden is a prize for me;

Her charms I love, his riches I desire,

And all his threats but fan the kindling fire;

My ebbing purse no more the foe shall fill,

But Love's kind act and Lucy at the mill."

Thus thought the youth, and soon the chase began,

Stretch'd all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan:

His trusty staff in his bold hand he took,

Like him and like his frigate, heart of oak; 300

Fresh were his features, his attire was new;

Clean was his linen, and his jacket blue:

Of finest jean, his trowsers, tight and trim,

Brush'd the large buckle at the silver rim.

He soon arrived, he traced the village-green;

There saw the maid, and was with pleasure seen;

Then talk'd of love, till Lucy's yielding heart

Confess'd 'twas painful, though 'twas right, to part.

"For ah! my father has a haughty soul;

Whom best he loves, he loves but to control; 310

Me to some churl in bargain he'll consign,

And make some tyrant of the parish mine:

Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe

Has often forced but never shed the tear;

Save, when my mother died, some drops express'd

A kind of sorrow for a wife at rest.--

To me a master's stern regard is shown,

I'm like his steed, prized highly as his own;

Stroked but corrected, threaten'd when supplied,

His slave and boast, his victim and his pride." 320

"Cheer up, my lass! I'll to thy father go--

The Miller cannot be the Sailor's foe;

Both live by Heaven's free gale, that plays aloud

In the stretch'd canvas and the piping shroud;

The rush of winds, the flapping sails above,

And rattling planks within, are sounds _we_ love;

Calms are our dread; when tempests plough the deep,

We take a reef, and to the rocking sleep."

"Ha!" quoth the Miller, moved at speech so rash,

"Art thou like me? then, where thy notes and cash? 330

Away to Wapping, and a wife command,

With all thy wealth, a guinea, in thine hand;

There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer,

And leave my Lucy for thy betters here."

"Revenge! revenge!" the angry lover cried,

Then sought the nymph, and "Be thou now my bride."

Bride had she been, but they no priest could move

To bind in law the couple bound by love.

What sought these lovers then by day, by night,

But stolen moments of disturb'd delight-- 340

Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly prized,

Transports that pain'd, and joys that agonized:

Till the fond damsel, pleased with lad so trim,

Awed by her parent, and enticed by him,

Her lovely form from savage power to save,

Gave--not her hand, but ALL she could, she gave.

Then came the day of shame, the grievous night,

The varying look, the wandering appetite;

The joy assumed, while sorrow dimm'd the eyes;

The forced sad smiles that follow'd sudden sighs; 350

And every art, long used, but used in vain,

To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain.

Too eager caution shows some danger's near,

The bully's bluster proves the coward's fear;

His sober step the drunkard vainly tries,

And nymphs expose the failings they disguise.

First, whispering gossips were in parties seen;

Then louder Scandal walk'd the village-green;

Next babbling Folly told the growing ill,

And busy Malice dropp'd it at the mill. 360

"Go! to thy curse and mine," the Father said,

"Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed;

Want and a wailing brat thy portion be,

Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me.--

Where skulks the villain?"--"On the ocean wide

My William seeks a portion for his bride."--

"Vain be his search! but, till the traitor come,

The higgler's cottage be thy future home;

There with his ancient shrew and care abide,

And hide thy head--thy shame thou canst not hide." 370

Day after day was pass'd in pains and grief;

Week follow'd week--and still was no relief.

Her boy was born--no lads nor lasses came

To grace the rite or give the child a name;

Nor grave conceited nurse, of office proud,

Bore the young Christian roaring through the crowd:

In a small chamber was my office done,

Where blinks through paper'd panes the setting sun;

Where noisy sparrows, perch'd on penthouse near,

Chirp tuneless joy, and mock the frequent tear; 380

Bats on their webby wings in darkness move,

And feebly shriek their melancholy love.

No Sailor came; the months in terror fled!

Then news arrived: he fought, and he was DEAD!

At the lone cottage Lucy lives, and still

Walks for her weekly pittance to the mill;

A mean seraglio there her father keeps,

Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps,

And sees the plenty, while compell'd to stay,

Her father's pride become his harlot's prey. 390

Throughout the lanes she glides, at evening's close,

And softly lulls her infant to repose;

Then sits and gazes, but with viewless look,

As gilds the moon the rippling of the brook;

And sings her vespers, but in voice so low,

She hears their murmurs as the waters flow:

And she too murmurs, and begins to find

The solemn wanderings of a wounded mind.

Visions of terror, views of wo succeed,

The mind's impatience, to the body's need; 400

By turns to that, by turns to this, a prey,

She knows what reason yields, and dreads what madness may.

Next, with their boy, a decent couple came,

And call'd him Robert, 'twas his father's name;

Three girls preceded, all by time endear'd,

And future births were neither hoped nor fear'd.

Bless'd in each other, but to no excess,

Health, quiet, comfort, form'd their happiness;

Love, all made up of torture and delight,

Was but mere madness in this couple's sight: 410

Susan could think, though not without a sigh,

If she were gone, who should her place supply;

And Robert, half in earnest, half in jest,

Talk of her spouse when he should be at rest:

Yet strange would either think it to be told,

Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold.

Few were their acres,--but, with these content,

They were, each pay-day, ready with their rent;

And few their wishes--what their farm denied,

The neighbouring town, at trifling cost, supplied. 420

If at the draper's window Susan cast

A longing look, as with her goods she pass'd,

And, with the produce of the wheel and churn,

Bought her a Sunday-robe on her return;

True to her maxim, she would take no rest,

Till care repaid that portion to the chest:

Or if, when loitering at the Whitsun-fair,

Her Robert spent some idle shillings there;

Up at the barn, before the break of day,

He made his labour for th'indulgence pay: 430

Thus both--that waste itself might work in vain--

Wrought double tides, and all was well again.

Yet, though so prudent, there were times of joy,

(The day they wed, the christening of the boy,)

When to the wealthier farmers there was shown

Welcome unfeign'd, and plenty like their own;

For Susan served the great, and had some pride

Among our topmost people to preside.

Yet in that plenty, in that welcome free,

There was the guiding nice frugality, 440

That, in the festal as the frugal day,

Has, in a different mode, a sovereign sway;

As tides the same attractive influence know,

In the least ebb and in their proudest flow:

The wise frugality, that does not give

A life to saving, but that saves to live;

Sparing, not pinching, mindful though not mean,

O'er all presiding, yet in nothing seen.

Recorded next, a babe of love I trace,

Of many loves the mother's fresh disgrace.-- 450

"Again, thou harlot! could not all thy pain,

All my reproof, thy wanton thoughts restrain?"

"Alas! your reverence, wanton thoughts, I grant,

Were once my motive, now the thoughts of want;

Women, like me, as ducks in a decoy,

Swim down a stream, and seem to swim in joy;

Your sex pursue us, and our own disdain;

Return is dreadful, and escape is vain.

Would men forsake us, and would women strive

To help the fall'n, their virtue might revive." 460

For rite of churching soon she made her way,

In dread of scandal, should she miss the day.--

Two matrons came! with them she humbly knelt,

Their action copied and their comforts felt,

From that great pain and peril to be free,

Though still in peril of that pain to be;

Alas! what numbers, like this amorous dame,

Are quick to censure, but are dead to shame!

Twin-infants then appear: a girl, a boy,

Th' o'erflowing cup of Gerard Ablett's joy. 470

One had I named in every year that pass'd

Since Gerard wed, and twins behold at last!

Well pleased, the bridegroom smiled to hear--"A vine

Fruitful and spreading round the walls be thine,

And branch-like be thine offspring!"--Gerard then

Look'd joyful love, and softly said, "Amen."

Now of that vine he'd have no more increase,

Those playful branches now disturb his peace:

Them he beholds around his table spread,

But finds, the more the branch, the less the bread; 480

And while they run his humble walls about,

They keep the sunshine of good-humour out.

Cease, man, to grieve! thy master's lot survey,

Whom wife and children, thou and thine, obey;

A farmer proud beyond a farmer's pride,

Of all around the envy or the guide;

Who trots to market on a steed so fine,

That when I meet him, I'm ashamed of mine;

Whose board is high up-heap'd with generous fare, }

Which five stout sons and three tall daughters share: 490 }

Cease, man, to grieve, and listen to his care. }

A few years fled, and all thy boys shall be

Lords of a cot, and labourers like thee:

Thy girls, unportion'd, neighb'ring youths shall lead

Brides from my church, and thenceforth thou art freed;

But then thy master shall of cares complain,

Care after care, a long connected train;

His sons for farms shall ask a large supply,

For farmers' sons each gentle miss shall sigh;

Thy mistress, reasoning well of life's decay, 500

Shall ask a chaise, and hardly brook delay;

The smart young cornet who, with so much grace,

Rode in the ranks and betted at the race,

While the vex'd parent rails at deeds so rash,

Shall d--n his luck, and stretch his hand for cash.

Sad troubles, Gerard! now pertain to thee,

When thy rich master seems from trouble free;

But 'tis one fate at different times assign'd,

And thou shalt lose the cares that he must find.

"Ah!" quoth our village Grocer, rich and old, 510

"Would I might one such cause for care behold!"

To whom his Friend, "Mine greater bliss would be,

Would Heav'n take those my spouse assigns to me."

Aged were both, that Dawkins, Ditchem this,

Who much of marriage thought, and much amiss;

Both would delay, the one, till, riches gain'd,

The son he wish'd might be to honour train'd;

His Friend--lest fierce intruding heirs should come,

To waste his hoard and vex his quiet home.

Dawkins, a dealer once on burthen'd back 520

Bore his whole substance in a pedler's pack;

To dames discreet, the duties yet unpaid,

His stores of lace and hyson he convey'd.

When thus enrich'd, he chose at home to stop,

And fleece his neighbours in a new-built shop;

Then woo'd a spinster blithe, and hoped, when wed,

For love's fair favours and a fruitful bed.

Not so his Friend;--on widow fair and staid

He fix'd his eye; but he was much afraid,

Yet woo'd; while she his hair of silver hue 530

Demurely noticed, and her eye withdrew.

Doubtful he paused--"Ah! were I sure," he cried,

"No craving children would my gains divide:

Fair as she is, I would my widow take,

And live more largely for my partner's sake."

With such their views, some thoughtful years they pass'd,

And hoping, dreading, they were bound at last.

And what their fate? Observe them as they go,

Comparing fear with fear and wo with wo.

"Humphrey!" said Dawkins, "envy in my breast 540

Sickens to see thee in thy children bless'd;

They are thy joys, while I go grieving home

To a sad spouse, and our eternal gloom.

We look despondency; no infant near,

To bless the eye or win the parent's ear;

Our sudden heats and quarrels to allay,

And soothe the petty sufferings of the day.

Alike our want, yet both the want reprove;

Where are, I cry, these pledges of our love?

When she, like Jacob's wife, makes fierce reply, 550

Yet fond--'Oh! give me children, or I die';

And I return--still childless doom'd to live,

Like the vex'd patriarch--'Are they mine to give?'

Ah! much I envy thee thy boys, who ride

On poplar branch, and canter at thy side;

And girls, whose cheeks thy chin's fierce fondness know,

And with fresh beauty at the contact glow."

"Oh! simple friend," said Ditchem, "would'st thou gain

A father's pleasure by a husband's pain?

Alas! what pleasure--when some vig'rous boy 560

Should swell thy pride, some rosy girl thy joy--

Is it to doubt who grafted this sweet flower,

Or whence arose that spirit and that power?

"Four years I've wed; not one has pass'd in vain:

Behold the fifth! behold, a babe again!

My wife's gay friends th' unwelcome imp admire,

And fill the room with gratulation dire.

While I in silence sate, revolving all

That influence ancient men, or that befall,

A gay pert guest--Heav'n knows his business--came; 570

'A glorious boy,' he cried, 'and what the name?'

Angry I growl'd, 'My spirit cease to tease,

Name it yourselves,--Cain, Judas, if you please;

His father's give him--should you that explore,

The devil's or yours,' I said, and sought the door.

My tender partner not a word or sigh

Gives to my wrath, nor to my speech reply;

But takes her comforts, triumphs in my pain,

And looks undaunted for a birth again."

Heirs thus denied afflict the pining heart, 580

And, thus afforded, jealous pangs impart;

Let, therefore, none avoid, and none demand

These arrows number'd for the giant's hand.

Then with their infants three, the parents came,

And each assign'd--'twas all they had--a name:

Names of no mark or price; of them not one

Shall court our view on the sepulchral stone,

Or stop the clerk, th' engraven scrolls to spell,

Or keep the sexton from the sermon bell.

An orphan-girl succeeds; ere she was born 590

Her father died, her mother on that morn;

The pious mistress of the school sustains

Her parents' part, nor their affection feigns,

But pitying feels; with due respect and joy,

I trace the matron at her loved employ.

What time the striplings, wearied e'en with play, }

Part at the closing of the summer's day, }

And each by different path returns the well-known way-- }

Then I behold her at her cottage-door,

Frugal of light, her Bible laid before, 600

When on her double duty she proceeds,

Of time as frugal, knitting as she reads.

Her idle neighbours, who approach to tell

Some trifling tale, her serious looks compel,

To hear reluctant--while the lads who pass,

In pure respect walk silent on the grass.

Then sinks the day; but not to rest she goes,

Till solemn prayers the daily duties close.

But I digress, and lo! an infant train

Appear, and call me to my task again. 610

"Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?"

I ask'd the Gardener's wife, in accents mild.

"We have a right," replied the sturdy dame--

And Lonicera was the infant's name.

If next a son shall yield our Gardener joy,

Then Hyacinthus shall be that fair boy;

And if a girl, they will at length agree,

That Belladonna that fair maid shall be.

High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets,

And at his club to wondering swains repeats; 620

He then of Rhus and Rhododendron speaks,

And Allium calls his onions and his leeks;

Nor weeds are now, for whence arose the weed,

Scarce plants, fair herbs, and curious flowers proceed;

Where Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions sprung,

(Gross names had they our plainer sires among,)

There Arums, there Leontodons we view,

And Artemisia grows, where Wormwood grew.

But though no weed exists his garden round,

From Rumex strong our Gardener frees his ground; 630

Takes soft Senicio from the yielding land,

And grasps the arm'd Urtica in his hand.

Not Darwin's self had more delight to sing

Of floral courtship, in th' awaken'd Spring,

Than Peter Pratt, who, simpering, loves to tell

How rise the Stamens, as the Pistils swell;

How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse,

And give and take the vegetable vows;

How those esteem'd of old but tips and chives,

Are tender husbands and obedient wives; 640

Who live and love within the sacred bower--

That bridal bed the vulgar term a flower.

Hear Peter proudly, to some humble friend,

A wondrous secret in his science lend:--

"Would you advance the nuptial hour, and bring

The fruit of Autumn with the flowers of Spring:

View that light frame where Cucumis lies spread,

And trace the husbands in their golden bed,

Three powder'd Anthers;--then no more delay,

But to the Stigma's tip their dust convey; 650

Then by thyself, from prying glance secure,

Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure;

A long-abiding race the deed shall pay,

Nor one unbless'd abortion pine away."

T' admire their friend's discourse our swains agree,

And call it science and philosophy.

'Tis good, 'tis pleasant, through th' advancing year,

To see unnumber'd growing forms appear.

What leafy-life from Earth's broad bosom rise!

What insect-myriads seek the summer skies! 660

What scaly tribes in every streamlet move! }

What plumy people sing in every grove! }

All with the year awaked to life, delight, and love. }

Then names are good; for how, without their aid,

Is knowledge, gain'd by man, to man convey'd?

But from that source shall all our pleasures flow?

Shall all our knowledge be those names to know?

Then he, with memory bless'd, shall bear away

The palm from Grew, and Middleton, and Ray.

No! let us rather seek, in grove and field, 670

What food for wonder, what for use they yield;

Some just remark from Nature's people bring,

And some new source of homage for her King.

Pride lives with all; strange names our rustics give

To helpless infants, that their own may live;

Pleased to be known, they'll some attention claim,

And find some by-way to the house of fame.

The straightest furrow lifts the ploughman's art;

The hat he gain'd has warmth for head and heart;

The bowl that beats the greater number down 680

Of tottering nine-pins, gives to fame the clown;

Or, foil'd in these, he opes his ample jaws,

And lets a frog leap down, to gain applause;

Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week;

Or challenges a well-pinch'd pig to squeak.

Some idle deed, some child's preposterous name,

Shall make him known, and give his folly fame.

To name an infant meet our village-sires,

Assembled all, as such event requires;

Frequent and full, the rural sages sate, 690

And speakers many urged the long debate.

Some harden'd knaves, who roved the country round,

Had left a babe within the parish-bound.--

First, of the fact they question'd--"Was it true?"

The child was brought--"What then remain'd to do?

Was't dead or living?" This was fairly proved:

'Twas pinch'd, it roar'd, and every doubt removed.

Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call

Was long a question, and it posed them all;

For he who lent it to a babe unknown, 700

Censorious men might take it for his own:

They look'd about, they gravely spoke to all,

And not one Richard answer'd to the call.

Next they inquired the day, when, passing by,

Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry:

This known, how food and raiment they might give,

Was next debated--for the rogue would live;

At last, with all their words and work content, }

Back to their homes the prudent vestry went, }

And Richard Monday to the workhouse sent. 710 }

There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and fed,

And duly took his beatings and his bread;

Patient in all control, in all abuse,

He found contempt and kicking have their use--

Sad, silent, supple, bending to the blow,

A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;

His pliant soul gave way to all things base;

He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace.

It seem'd, so well his passions he suppressed,

No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast; 720

Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat,

He was a footstool for the beggar's feet;

His were the legs that ran at all commands;

They used on all occasions Richard's hands.

His very soul was not his own; he stole

As others order'd, and without a dole;

In all disputes, on either part he lied,

And freely pledged his oath on either side;

In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest,

In all detections Richard first confess'd. 730

Yet, though disgraced, he watch'd his time so well,

He rose in favour, when in fame he fell;

Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,

And all despised and fed the pliant boy.

At length, "'tis time he should abroad be sent,"

Was whisper'd near him--and abroad he went.

One morn they call'd him, Richard answered not;

They deem'd him hanging, and in time forgot;

Yet miss'd him long, as each, throughout the clan,

Found he "had better spared a better man." 740

Now Richard's talents for the world were fit,

He'd no small cunning, and had some small wit;

Had that calm look which seem'd to all assent,

And that complacent speech which nothing meant;

He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide,

How best for Richard Monday to provide.

Steel, through opposing plates, the magnet draws,

And steely atoms culls from dust and straws;

And thus our hero, to his interest true,

Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew; 750

But, still more surely round the world to go,

This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe.

Long lost to us, at last our man we trace--

Sir Richard Monday died at Monday-place.

His lady's worth, his daughter's, we peruse,

And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews;

He gave reforming charities a sum,

And bought the blessings of the blind and dumb;

Bequeathed to missions money from the stocks,

And Bibles issued from his private box; 760

But, to his native place severely just,

He left a pittance bound in rigid trust--

Two paltry pounds, on every quarter's-day,

(At church produced) for forty loaves should pay:

A stinted gift, that to the parish shows

He kept in mind their bounty and their blows!

To farmers three, the year has given a son:

Finch on the Moor, and French, and Middleton.

Twice in this year a female Giles I see:

A Spalding once, and once a Barnaby-- 770

A humble man is he, and, when they meet,

Our farmers find him on a distant seat;

There for their wit he serves a constant theme--

They praise his dairy, they extol his team,

They ask the price of each unrivall'd steed.

And whence his sheep, that admirable breed?

His thriving arts they beg he would explain,

And where he puts the money he must gain.

They have their daughters, but they fear their friend

Would think his sons too much would condescend; 780

They have their sons who would their fortunes try,

But fear his daughters will their suit deny.

So runs the joke, while James, with sigh profound,

And face of care, looks moveless on the ground;

His cares, his sighs, provoke the insult more,

And point the jest--for Barnaby is poor.

Last in my list, five untaught lads appear;

Their father dead, compassion sent them here--

For still that rustic infidel denied

To have their names with solemn rite applied. 790

His, a lone house, by Deadman's Dyke-way stood;

And his, a nightly haunt, in Lonely-wood.

Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast,

That he believed in neither God nor ghost;

That, when the sod upon the sinner press'd,

He, like the saint, had everlasting rest;

That never priest believed his doctrines true,

But would, for profit, own himself a Jew,

Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen do;

That fools alone on future worlds rely, 800

And all who die for faith, deserve to die.

These maxims, part th' attorney's clerk profess'd;

His own transcendent genius found the rest.

Our pious matrons heard, and, much amazed,

Gazed on the man, and trembled as they gazed;

And now his face explored, and now his feet,

Man's dreaded foe, in this bad man, to meet.

But him our drunkards as their champion raised,

Their bishop call'd, and as their hero praised;

Though most, when sober, and the rest, when sick, 810

Had little question whence his bishopric.

But he, triumphant spirit! all things dared,

He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snared;

'Twas his, at cards, each novice to trepan,

And call the wants of rogues the rights of man;

Wild as the winds, he let his offspring rove,

And deem'd the marriage-bond the bane of love.

What age and sickness, for a man so bold,

Had done, we know not--none beheld him old.

By night, as business urged, he sought the wood-- 820

The ditch was deep--the rain had caused a flood--

The foot-bridge fail'd--he plunged beneath the deep,

And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep.

These have we named; on life's rough sea they sail,

With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale!

Where passion soon, like powerful winds, will rage,

And prudence, wearied, with their strength engage.

Then each, in aid, shall some companion ask,

For help or comfort in the tedious task;

And what that help--what joys from union flow, 830

What good or ill, we next prepare to show;

And row, meantime, our weary bark ashore,

As Spenser his--but not with Spenser's oar[21].

FOOTNOTES:

[21] Allusions of this kind are to be found in the Fairy Queen. See

the end of the First Book, and other places.