[From Crabbe’s Parish Register.]
One of the most eminent of our modern poets died a few weeks ago, the
Reverend George Crabbe. Mr. Crabbe was born in 1754, at Aldborough in
Suffolk, and, consequently, at the time of his death, had reached the
advanced age of seventy-eight. Although his last work, his Tales of the
Hall, in two volumes, was published so lately as 1819, he had been for
many years by far the oldest of our living poets; for his first
production, The Library, was published so long ago as the year 1781. His
poetical career, therefore, reckoning from this commencement to his
death, had extended over more than the long space of half a century. A
second poem, entitled The Village, however, which quickly followed the
Library, was the only additional work which he produced during the first
half of this period. It was not till 1807 that he again came before the
world as an author, by the publication of two volumes of Poems,
comprising the Parish Register and other pieces. This publication was
followed by another poem, entitled The Borough, in 1810; by two volumes
of Tales, in 1812; and, as already mentioned, by his ‘Tales of the
Hall,’ the last work which he gave to the press, in 1819. Mr. Crabbe had
been Rector of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, for eighteen years before his
death.
Notwithstanding considerable peculiarities, and some obvious faults of
manner, it is impossible to peruse any of Crabbe’s productions without
feeling yourself to be in the hands of a writer of great power, and a
true poet. In some of his pieces he has displayed both a soaring
imagination and a delicate sense of beauty; but he is most popularly
known as the poet of poverty and wretchedness,--the stern explorer and
describer of the deepest and darkest recesses of human suffering and
crime. Perhaps he has occasionally painted the gloom of the regions in
which he was thus accustomed to wander with somewhat of exaggeration;
but it would be easy to select abundant proof from his writings, that if
he delineated with an unsparing pencil both the miseries and the vices
of the poor, he could also sympathize with their enjoyments and estimate
their virtues as cordially as any man that ever lived. The following
passage from the Third Part of his Parish Register, that in which he
reviews the list of burials, is an admirably drawn picture of a lofty
character in humble life. The writer, it will be observed, speaks in the
character of the clergyman of the parish. He has related the lives and
deaths of two of his female parishioners, after which he proceeds
thus:--
Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,
A noble peasant, _Isaac Ashford_, died;
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene.
Of no man’s presence _Isaac_ felt afraid;
At no man’s question _Isaac_ looked dismayed:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved.
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection’s sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed,
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, ’twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, _Ashford_ might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,
In sturdy boys, to virtuous labours trained;
Pride in the power that guards his country’s coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander’s tongue defied,
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed _Pride_.
He had no party’s rage, no sectary’s whim;
Christian and countryman was _all_ with him:
True to his church he came; no Sunday shower
Kept him at home in that important hour;
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect
By the strong glare of their new light direct;
‘On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,
But should be blind and lose it in your blaze.’
In times severe, when many a sturdy swain
Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain,
_Isaac_ their wants would soothe, his own would hide,
And feel in _that_ his comfort and his pride.
At length, he found, when seventy years were run,
His strength departed, and his labour done;
When, save his honest fame, he kept no more,
But lost his wife, and saw his children poor;
’Twas then a spark of--say not discontent--
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:--
‘Kind are your laws (’tis not to be denied)
That in yon house for ruined age provide;
And they are just;--when young, we give you all,
And then for comforts in our weakness call.
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your Poor and eat the Parish bread?
But yet I linger, loathe with him to feed,
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need;
He who, by contract, all your Paupers took,
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look!
On some old master I could well depend,
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him, who doles the day’s supply,
And counts our chances, _who_ at night may die;
Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not complain
Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain.’
Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew,
Daily he placed the Workhouse in his view;
But came not there; for sudden was his fate,
He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honoured head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight;
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister _Ashford_ softened to a smile:
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there;
But he is blest, and I lament no more
A wise good man contented to be poor.
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