AN ESSAY ON WAR, IN BLANK VERSE;
HONINGTON GREEN, A BALLAD;
THE CULPRIT, AN ELEGY;
AND
OTHER POEMS, ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS:
BY
NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD.
1803.
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Note: The page headers in the original text contained
one-line summaries of what appears on that page within each poem. Due to
the difficulty of interleaving these lines without completely disrupting
the flow of the poetry, they have been collected and placed in a single
square-bracketed paragraph at the start of each poem, and separated by
em-dashes.]
* * * * *
PREFACE.
* * * * *
Whoever has read the Preface to the FARMER'S BOY will hardly fail of
recollecting the Name of NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD; the Author of the POEMS
here offer'd to The Public.
It will be recollected that he there appears, with his Brother GEORGE
BLOOMFIELD, standing in the place of the Father, whom they had early
lost, to their younger Brother ROBERT.
It is natural to suppose that this brotherly interference, and it's
consequences, greatly and advantageously influenc'd the dispositions,
pursuits, and habits of thought and conduct, of all three of the
Brothers.--And it is the more exemplary when it is consider'd how young
the two eldest were at that time.
It is an encouraging instance how much may be effected for each other
by the poor and uneducated, if they have prudence, activity, and kind
affections; and how unexpectedly, and to an extent far beyond apparent
probability, success is given by Providence to virtuous and benevolent
efforts.
Beyond question, the Brothers of this Family are all extraordinary Men:
and perhaps every one of them is more so than he would have been without
the fraternal concord which has animated them all, and multiplied the
powers of all by union and sympathy.
Of NATHANIEL, as of ROBERT, my Account shall be taken from
communications by Letter, made at my request by Mr. GEORGE BLOOMFIELD.
NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD was born 23d Feb.[1] 1759.
He was the 3d Child and 2d Son of GEORGE BLOOMFIELD, of Honington: and
was deprived of his Father, by the Small-pox, when he was eight years
old. Like ROBERT, he learnt to read and write of his MOTHER: and had,
like him, his farther instructions in Writing, and was taught the
first Rules of Arithmetic, by Mr. RODWELL, of Ixworth[2]: where also
he seems to have had some instruction in Grammar. But his Mother being
then a widow, his Grandfather (Mr. ROBIN MANBY) kindly bound him
Apprentice to Mr. HAYLETT, a Tailor of Market-Harling: of which
business the Father of the BLOOMFIELDS had been.
He was here very kindly treated: and was found to be an excellent
Apprentice.
While here he learnt Church Music, (one of the great consolations of
energetic and pensive minds) and sung in a company which was conducted
by Mr. SYDER. But when his voice broke, he could make no figure among
them: for it was not only a Bass of extremely narrow compass, but weak
and tremulous.
This latter defect of voice was observ'd in THOMSON: and perhaps it may
arise sometimes not from a fault in the natural quality of the voice,
but from exceeding sensibility to Poetry and Music.
When about 16 or 17 years of age he entered with the fervor of a
vigorous and thoughtful mind into the study of Religion, on the
principles of the Church of England: and added to his study of it
what is the great end, the practice of Religion as a rule of conduct
and life.
At a stall at Harling Fair he met with a Practical Catechism: the
Author's name, PRATT: and at the same time he made the acquisition of a
large volume of TILLOTSON'S Sermons. Probably the Folio Edition of the
Sermons of that excellent Man and Writer: so distinguish'd by his
Piety, uniform, mild, and rational; the morality of his excellent
Discourses; their simplicity and clearness; and the sweetness and
persuasiveness of manner. These, and other religious Tracts, he bought:
and "the last" (Tillotson) "he lent," says Mr. GEORGE BLOOMFIELD, "to
me. I receiv'd many excellent Letters from him on that subject: and they
had greater weight on my mind than if they had been written by an elder
hand."
When his Apprenticeship expir'd he came to LONDON: and expected to
find his Brother GEORGE there. But GEORGE had taken a trip, "or tramp,
as it is called," into Kent. They however soon met in LONDON: "and
there never lived" (adds GEORGE) "a more pleasant acquaintance than
he prov'd."
It was some years before he could procure work in LONDON sufficient to
support him through the dead Months. He us'd therefore, when he found
trade dull in Town, to go into the Country.
And thus, while at Woolwich, he became acquainted with CHARLOTTE
NOBLE, whom he MARRIED 4th March, 1787; he being then in his 28th, and
she in her 17th year. Her Mother was a Widow: who kept a small General
Shop. Her Brother-in-law GEORGE, in speaking of this union, says, "There
perhaps never liv'd a Woman who possess'd a better temper: and he has,
though very poor, been exceedingly happy." For myself, I wish, in
transcribing this account, that those who think riches so essential to
happiness that they will take no step in life, nor suffer their hearts
or their understandings to have any influence with them, if the
acquisition of riches seems likely to be delayed or endanger'd, would
consider that the Family of the BLOOMFIELDS has been happy, and has
excell'd, upon very different principles. And if we would compare the
thousands in every situation of Life to whom what is called prosperity
is a snare, a burthen and a curse, with those who are happy with mere
necessaries, and those with difficulty obtain'd; ... happy by their
Affections and their Virtues; by improv'd and generous and tender
Feelings; by Hope amid difficulties, and Confidence in Heaven amid
trials and distresses, ... it might be seen and felt that there is more
of folly in the wisdom of the world, than those who place Wisdom in
the accumulation of superfluities, to the neglect of the most natural
Blessings, and often in violation of the clearest Duties, either of
Justice or of Benevolence, may be willing to acknowledge.
He has two Children living:--ELIZABETH; born 11th Jul. 1789; GEORGE;
4th Febr. 1797. "He lost," adds his Brother, "two sweet Boys: who both
died within a few days of each other, by that dreadful disease the
SMALL-POX;" which, while this Preface was in the Press, has been fatal
to another promising Child, THOMAS; born Aug. 1799. The Father,
oppress'd with grief, reproaches himself for not having inoculated this
Child with the Small-Pox. But when it is consider'd how formidable,
after two such Losses, the SMALL-POX in any form must appear to
affectionate Parents, I think it will be evident that he is too severe
to himself in this reproach. The inoculated SMALL-POX is sometimes
fatal: had he inoculated the Child he would have reproach'd himself,
and still with more feeling than justice, for so doing.
He had read but little Poetry when he came to LONDON: but he had not
been long there before he was struck, looking, as was his custom, at
Books on a stall, with the Title of NIGHT THOUGHTS. "He had never heard
of it before: but it's name was an irresistible charm to his melancholy,
enquiring mind. This has been ever his favourite Book. He would have
bought it had it been double the price. And as he possesses an
uncommonly retentive memory, he us'd to repeat great part of it by
rote in his walks with his Brothers. He afterwards read MILTON."
Such a Memory, and the study of two such Authors with poetic enthusiasm,
may in part account for what exceedingly surpriz'd me in reading the
MSS. of THE ESSAY ON WAR:--a greater mastery in the mechanism, and
greater power of numbers, than I should have almost thought possible
in the first attempt in BLANK VERSE; even to a person of the best
education.
He read too, GOLDSMITH and FIELDING. And he added to these some of our
English Poets as they fell in his way. Among these THOMSON could hardly
fail to be: but Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD remarks, "he never was so struck with
THOMSON as I should have expected."
While single, he made it the amusement of his evenings to read
_Entick's Dictionary_, and write down every word of which he wish'd to
remember the spelling or the meaning. He has often said that since his
buying of the Sermons in his early youth, he had never bought for his
own reading any but poetical Books: and when he could get hold of any
miscellaneous Book, he read first the Poetry, and after look'd at no
other part.
With this turn of Mind and habit of reading, that he has through Life
indulg'd in poetical effusions will be no matter of surprize. But be has
more than once said to his Brother GEORGE in Letters, that it was the
success of ROBERT that encouraged him to attempt an _Essay on War:_ a
subject on which he had occupied his thoughts a great length of time.
"I remember," says his Brother, "nothing particular of his infancy:
except the great share of bashfulness (or, as a Philosopher perhaps
would say, pride) which he possess'd in common with the rest of the
Family.... Exceedingly mild in his temper and kind to his play-mates,
he was very apt in learning."
For the last 15 years his own Account is that he has certainty read
but little: his Family having claim'd his utmost exertions; and his
business allowing little leisure. And what leisure he had being
generally employed in walking with his Children. Untill last Summer he
was a Journeyman Tailor: but has since been a MASTER in a small way.
If therefore he appears to possess any knowledge of a litterary nature,
it must be all from the stores of Memory.
He at present lives at No. 19, Dagget Court, Broker Row, Moorfields,
London. He is (says Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD) about 5F. 3I. high[3]: of a dark
complexion, and dark gray eyes: he has lost the hair from the top of
his head, which gives him the appearance of Age. Though remarkable for
talking little, so as to have the name of a man of few words, he is,
on occasion, a chearful companion: and though generally pensive and
melancholy, ever kind-hearted.
"As a Husband and Father, his character is certainly exemplary. And few
men pass through Life so smoothly. Though commonly working with a number
of shop-mates, he has such a philosophical command of temper, that he
never disputes; nor concerns himself with the disputes of others, unless
they refer to him for a decision."
Thus far the Account by his Brother: who had observ'd in a former
Letter, that with respect to Temper, what he should otherwise have to
speak of NATHANIEL, he had in a great measure said already of ROBERT.
Such a coincidence in mild and simple manners, amiable and good
disposition, is pleasing to remark any where: and additionally so when
it relates to Men who have each original and characteristic Genius; and
when the testimony is given by a Brother so capable of judging, and who
has had such continued experience from their very early Life, of the
Disposition and Character of both.
Having spoken thus far of the AUTHOR, from the best authority, it
remains for me to say something briefly of these his WORKS.
* * * * *
Early in the Spring of 1801, I saw in MSS. HONINGTON-GREEN, and the
ESSAY ON WAR[4]. I communicated them to Mr. GEDGE, Printer, of BURY;
who had been a zealous and active Friend to THE FARMER'S BOY: on reading
them, he wanted no time for deliberation, but offer'd at once to print
them for the benefit of the Author, at his own risque. I had known his
accuracy as a Printer: of which, and of neat Typography, I flatter
myself this Publication will be a proof. I had no difficulty to adopt
the proposal: and gladly offer'd, on my part, what little preparation
(very little indeed it was) might be necessary of the MSS. for the
Press; (or rather in it's progress through it); and to revise and
correct the Proofs.
My province has been quite of a similar kind in this instance as it
was in that of Mr. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD: little corrections, in point
of Orthography; and still fewer of Grammar: sometimes of Diction; and
sometimes of Versification. For some of the best of these emendations
I have been indebted to one, in mentioning of whom I should have had
an affectionate Pride: and have more in that Modesty which forbids the
mention. They are, as I have said, few of any kind: For of emendations I
have been anxiously sparing. Little was requisite: and more than was so
would have been blameable. I rely on the original MSS. being preserv'd:
which on this, as on the former occasion, will speak for itself.
I have said what I thought of THE FARMER'S BOY. It is a truely
agricultural Poem: it's originality and vivid representation of
immediate Nature manifest themselves in the whole Design, and in every
page. It will live with the works of HESIOD and THEOCRITUS; of VIRGIL
and THOMSON. I was nearly as much assur'd of this from the first, and so
express'd myself, as the event could assure me. I will now say with the
same freedom what I think of the ESSAY ON WAR.
I regard it as a Poem of extraordinary vigor and originality: in
Thought, Plan, Conduct, Language, and Versification. I think it has much
indeed of the philosophic character, poetic spirit, force of coloring,
energy and pathos, which distinguish LUCRETIUS. Of the justness and
spirit of the VERSIFICATION I have already spoken.
The PRINCIPLE of the ESSAY ON WAR appears to me, I will own, more
paradoxical than I should think, to judge from their conduct, it can
appear to the ruling part at least of Mankind in general. I indulge the
hope and expectation that WAR shall one day be universally and finally
extinguish'd. But I will confess also, that appearances would tempt us
to apprehend that day is far distant. And while we make War for Sport on
useful, generous, inoffensive Animals, it is not easy to imagine that we
shall cease to make War on one another.
But whether the Principle of the Poem be well or ill-founded, I can
hardly imagine any abstract proposition to be more poetically, more
forcibly, or more comprehensively maintain'd. And I am either ignorant
wherein Genius consists, or it is manifest in the Idea, the Style and
Numbers, the Design and Conduct of this Poem.
Of HONINGTON GREEN I am to speak next. And here it may be right to
obviate some prejudice against the Poem, which, in the minds of several,
may arise from the subject. I am not an Enemy to Enclosures: if the
RIGHTS and INTERESTS of the POOR, and of SMALL OWNERS, be very carefully
guarded, an ENCLOSURE may be a common Benefit. However, it is very
liable to become otherwise. But be an Enclosure good or bad, (and every
Man has a right to his opinion, and to support it by argument, on this
subject and every other) there are particular circumstances and
considerations which stand clear of the scope of the general question.
The Spot which is the subject of the Ballad is less, I believe, than
Half an Acre. It did certainly ornament the Village; independent of a
just and laudable partiality in the Author. Thus it would have seem'd to
the casual glance of a stranger. To the BLOOMFIELDS every circumstance
gave it peculiar endearment. There the Author of 'THE FARMER'S BOY,' and
of these POEMS, first drew breath. There grew the first Daisies which
their feet pressed in childhood. On this little Green their Parents
look'd with delight: and the Children caught the affection; and learn'd
to love it as soon as they lov'd any thing. By it's smallness and it's
situation it was no object: and could have been left out of Enclosure
without detriment to the General Plan, or to any individual Interest.
I wish it had: and most who love Poetry, and respect Genius, and are
anxious to preserve the little innocent Gratifications of the Poor,
will have the same wish.
As a poetical effusion, it strikes me that it has the tone, simplicity,
and sweetness, and pleasing Melancholy of the Ballad. There is a stroke
or two of indignant severity: but the general character is such as I
have describ'd. And with filial Gratitude and Love there is blended,
in the close, that turn for Reflection which is so remarkable in this
Author.... I wish'd and recommended that some at least of the ornaments
of 'THE FARMER'S BOY' should be sketches of local scenery: knowing
how much more interesting they would have been, and how much more
appropriate to the Poem. In that recommendation I was not successful:
but I am glad, in this instance, to see a faithful and agreeable Sketch
of Honington-Green from a very young pencil[5]. It will be remember'd,
at a far remote Period, that the double Cottage at the end of the Green
was the Birth-place of the BLOOMFIELDS. It is still, (and may it yet be
long so) the habitation of their Mother: and has been repair'd lately
by ROBERT. And I much doubt whether any House or Green will see two such
Poets born of the same Parents.
THE CULPRIT is the next in this Collection, and I had not seen it, nor
was it written, when I saw the two first. They decided my Opinion; and
had no more appeared, they would have been publish'd alone; as they
abundantly deserved.
THE CULPRIT strikes me as an original and highly affecting Poem. The
very attempt to sketch the successive conflicting feelings of one thus
circumstanc'd is no common effort. And what compass of thought; what
energy of expression! ... I do not always admit the justness of the
arguments. But it is a Soliloquy in character: and in judging of it,
as in all pieces of representative Poetry (as Mr. DYER, in his lately
publish'd ESSAY has well term'd it) the imagin'd situation ought to be
consider'd. And it strikes me as closing with a true and aweful Pathos:
not often equall'd.
The YORKSHIRE DIP is, I think, the result of that active but melancholy
Fancy, which can travel far into views of Life and Nature from a slight
occasion. It has a mixture of the Sportive which deepens the impression
of it's melancholy Close. I could have wish'd, as I have said in a short
Note, the Conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of Life less offend
my Taste than its sweets delight it. But when I think what NATHANIEL
must have felt in passing through Life, I more respect the Chearfulness
and habitual Vigor of his Mind, than I am dispos'd to be out of humor
with occasional gloom.
LOVE'S TRIUMPH differs as much in manner as in subject from those which
precede it. Yet a vein of pensive and philosophic thought flows here
also. The SONG OF BALDWIN is well adapted to soothe the fears and the
discontents of Poverty: and to convince those who have not learnt it,
that wealth, and rank, and power, and unlimited indulgence, are not such
Blessings as they are imagin'd to be at a distance: nor Poverty such an
Evil, that the first and best Blessings of Nature should be therefore
thrown aside in despair.
I may doubt on the expediency of the SONG OF BALDWIN being in a
different measure; but I can not doubt of the general merit of the Poem.
The PROVERBS, like other compositions of this kind, must rest chiefly on
their moral Justness, Utility, Simplicity, and Conciseness, rather than
on poetic Excellence: though neither in form nor coloring are they
deficient of that compos'd and grave Beauty which the Nature of the
Subject and Composition admits.
MORE BREAD AND CHEESE contains the Principle of the ESSAY ON WAR, and of
a celebrated ESSAY ON POPULATION, which I dare say the Author never saw.
It is strong, characteristic; and original: and although in the measure
of the humorous Ballad, has much nerve and energy[6].
I have now a Remark to make which relates generally to the
Versification. We may observe of HONINGTON GREEN, and most of the Poems
in rhyme in this Collection, that they are strongly accentuated: and if
red with a close attention to accent and emphasis, the rhythm is musical
and energetic; where to a careless Reader it might appear harsh and
untuneable.
The LYRIC ELEGY which concludes this little Collection is, I think,
animated and pathetic in no common degree. On the Merits of VACCINE
INOCULATION I do not think myself qualify'd to offer an opinion. Great
Doubts have been entertain'd concerning it by medical Men of Abilities
and Experience. Objections apparently strong were urg'd; and of various
kinds. At present it has had Declarations in it's favor from among the
most distinguish'd of it's Opposers. And it seems to have little short
of a general reception in the medical World.... Time and Experience,
the great Test of Truth in such instances, must determine for or against
it. But, important as the Question is, poetical Merit is comparatively
independent on the correctness of a philosophic System or Hypothesis.
And reflecting on his former Losses and present Calamities, the Author
could not but feel a deep Interest in whatever seem'd likely to obviate
such an Evil to others.
I have observ'd some rather striking coincidences with VIRGIL and
LUCRETIUS. I might have pointed out more; and to other classic
Authors. But I should have extended this Preface too far. At the same
time, such a concurrence in the Sentiments and Expressions of Genius in
very distant Ages, and under widely different Circumstances, is always
interesting, even where it can be resolv'd with Certainty, or
Probability, into IMITATION: and much more so, when, as in these Poems,
it is certain that it CAN NOT.
I have very few Words more to say in presenting this little Volume to
the PUBLIC. Specimens they will find in it of such different kinds of
Composition, as the same individual rarely can attempt with success. Yet
through great diversity of Style, Dissimilarity of Measure, and Variety
of Sentiment and Subject, may be seen the same Mind: and Traces of the
same Manner, and that manner peculiarly characteristic...a mixture of
contemplative equanimity, of incidental gleams of vivacity; of energy
frequently pathetic, sometimes sarcastic, and not seldom sublime. And we
have here an additional proof, that a true poetic Spirit, in whatever
Breast it inhabits, will create Thoughts, Language, and Numbers, worthy
of the Muse, however unfavourable the occupation and habits of Life.
Mr. NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD was not without his fears, however, lest it
should be thought, that, although THE MUSE can visit a SHEPHERD'S BOY,
there may be some employments which exclude her influence. That a TAYLOR
should be a POET, he doubted, might appear too startling an Assertion.
And he had said accordingly to his Brother GEORGE, in a Letter, when
this Publication was first going to Press, "I want you to exclude the
word _Taylor_. Let there be no such Word in the Book. But perhaps I am
too late. I know there is in the public Mind as great contempt for him
who bears the appellation of _Taylor_, as STERNE has made old SHANDY
have for SIMKIN, NECKEY, or TRISTRAM. How many CAESARS and POMPEYS, says
he, by mere inspiration of the names, have been rendered worthy of them?
And how many are there who might have done exceedingly well in the
World, had not their Characters and Spirits been totally depress'd and
Nicodemiz'd; and I will add (says Mr. N. BLOOMFIELD) taylor'd into
nothing? In the REHEARSAL, the Author, to make the most ridiculous
part of it still more ridiculous, tells us, that it was written to a
Taylor, and by a Taylor's Wife. And even the discerning SPECTATOR
has given into this common-place raillery in the Monkey's Letter to her
Mistress. He has made the Soul which inhabited Pug's Body, in recounting
the humiliating State it had formerly been in, say, that he had been a
Taylor, a Shrimp, and a Tom-tit. It is from these causes, as well as
from the habits and appearance contracted by a recluse and sedentary
Life, that, in the enlighten'd, as well as the ignorant, the ideas of
Taylor and Insignificance are inseparably link'd together."
I prevail'd, notwithstanding, that this word, whose anti-poetic
influence is so dreaded, should be in the Book. About half a Century
ago, there seem'd a degree of incredulity as to the possibility of
Courage in a Taylor. ELLIOT'S LIGHT HORSE, at that time compos'd of
Taylor-Volunteers. effectually overcame that prejudice. It remain'd
to dissolve another still more irrational prepossession, that a Taylor
cannot be a Poet. And this Volume will be a victorious Host against an
Army of such Prejudices. Indeed the Force is greater than such a Combat
requires: for stubborn as other Prejudices may still be, our litterary
Prejudices have, in this Age, been rapidly giving way to Candour,
Reason, Common-Sense, and the Evidence of Fact. We have long known that
a Scotch Plough-Boy and a Milk-Woman[7] could still be Poets of high
and almost singular Excellence. And if Improbability were any thing
against Fact, it would be far more improbable, that two Brothers should
be such Poets as ROBERT and NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD are, than that a Taylor
should be a Poet. It remains then for Prejudice to vanish like Mists
before the Sun: while the two BROTHERS sociably ascend PARNASSUS
together; higher than ever Brothers have climbed before: I might add,
each of them to an height which but few have ever reach'd[8].
CAPEL LOFFT.
Troston-Hall, 2 Jan: 1803.
[Footnote 1: I had said, and certainly upon full authority, 23rd April;
which the Author his-self believ'd to be the Day: and had remarked
accordingly it was a Day distinguish'd by the Birth and Death
of SHAKESPERE. But Mr. N. BLOOMFIELD discover'd and immediately
communicated the mistake as to the Day. Thus we lose an interesting
coincidence: but we gain what is of greater value; a just and prompt
sacrifice to truth and candor. C.L.]
[Footnote 2: Who is mention'd in the Preface to the Farmer's Boy.
C.L.]
[Footnote 3: If "_True natural Greatness all consists in height_," the
Family of the _Bloomfields_, is most unfortunate. The Father Mr. _George
Bloomfield_ had 2 Inches less of this Greatness.]
[Footnote 4: I had a hint from both the Brothers, GEORGE and ROBERT,
that NATHANIEL had a turn for Poetry, and had written what they believ'd
would much please me. C.L.]
[Footnote 5: A name-sake and relation of the Author: of the Age, as I
understand, of about 14.]
[Footnote 6: I am half tempted to say of it
_A Fist may hit him who a Sermon flies._
Ridiculum aeri Fortius et melius magnas quandoque fecat res. C.L.]
[Footnote 7: BURNS, and Mrs. YEARSLEY.]
[Footnote 8: _Pauci quos aequus amavit Jupiter_, atque ardens evexit
ad aethera Virtus, Felices, potuere!]
* * * * *
CONTENTS
ESSAY ON WAR
HONINGTON GREEN
THE CULPRIT
YORKSHIRE DIP
LOVE'S TRIUMPH
PROVERBS OF THREESCORE
MORE BREAD AND CHEESE
LYRIC ADDRESS TO DR. JENNER
* * * * *
ESSAY ON WAR
[War for room required by encreased Population.--With Arts of Use
and Comfort spring those of War.--Blessings of the Infant State of
Society.--Peace cannot last beyond the Infancy of Society.--War
defined to preserve the equilibrium of Population.--War between hords
of emigrating Stranger Nations.--Invasions on account of violated
Women.--Love the strongest and most natural cause of War.--Violence of
conflicting Passions at sight of an Enemy.--Solitary wounded Combatant
amid the Dying and Dead.--Female Friends seeking for Dead or Wounded
Relatives.--Morning after the Battle--Sympathy--Compassion.--Long
remembrance of the Horrors of War.--Gunpowder; it's tremendous
effects.--Gunpowder, a humane discovery.--Castles &c. proofs of the
continued prevalence of War.--Men quit a peaceful Country to seek War
abroad.--History full of War.--Slavish Peace more cruel and more horrid
than War.--Obligations of Peace to the active Virtues of War.--Havock
of Peace more shocking than that of War.--War between Man and the rest
of the animal Creation.--War of the Elements and natural
Powers.--Recapitulation.... Conclusion.]
* * * * *
Man's sad necessity, destructive War,
Sweeps to the grave the surplus of his sons,
Where'er the kindly clime and soil invite
To Love; and multiply the Human Race.
Around the World, in every happier spot
Where Earth spontaneous gives nutritious fruits.
Her softest verdure courting human feet,
And mossy grot's, beneath protecting shades,
The Stranger's envy, the Possessor's pride;
There, as increasing numbers throng each bower.
Frequent and fatal rivalships arise;
And ruthless War erects his hideous crest.
Soon as Appropriation's iron hand
Assays to grasp the Produce of the Earth;
And youths assert hereditary power,
Propriety exclusive, and in arms
League to defend their patrimonial rights,
Indisputable claim of Fruits and Fields
Contending, oft their massive clubs they raise
Against each other's life: often, alas,
The needy cravings of the unportion'd poor
Provoke their jealous wrath; relentlessly
Tenacious of their store, they shut him out,
'Midst desart Famine, and ferocious Beasts,
To guard his life and till the steril soil;
And thus extend the range of human feet.
Still as Experience, in her tardy school,
Instructs the Shepherd and the Husbandman
To great increase their flocks and herds to rear,
To till the ground, and plant the fruitful tree
In slow progression rising into use,
Nurtur'd by Her the infant Arts appear.
While sage Experience thus teaches Man
The useful and the pleasant Arts of Life,
She in harsh lectures, in the frequent broil,
Enjoins her Pupil still to cultivate
The fatal, necessary Art of War.
The Artizan, who from metallic ores
Forms the sharp implements to dress the glebe,
And prune the wild luxuriance of the tree; ...
By him is made the sword, the spear, the shaft,
By Man worn to defend him against Man.
Most bless'd the country where kind Nature's face
In unsophisticated Freedom smiles:
Happy the tenants of primeval days
When young society is in it's spring:
Where there is room and food for millions more,
Love knows no check, the votaries of Love,
The happy votaries of Wedded Love,
Know not the curse of peopled, polish'd, times:
The curse to wish their children may be few.
Sweet converse binds the cords of social love;
When the rude noise and gestures that ere while
Imperfectly express'd the labouring thought;
By social concourse are improv'd to Speech:
Speech, reasoning Man's distinguishing perfection;
Speech, the inestimable vehicle
Of mental light, and intellectual bliss;
Whence the fair fruits of Holy Friendship grow,
Presenting to fond Hope's enamour'd sight
The fairy prospect of perpetual Peace.
Advanc'd Society's prudential Laws,
The moral virtues of the enlighten'd mind,
And all the ties of Interest and of Love,
In vain conspire to nurse their favourite Peace,
And banish dire Immanity and War.
Strong Nature's bent, continual increase,
Still counteracts Humanity's fond wish,
The perpetuity of Peace, and Love;
Alas! progressive Increase cannot last.
Soon mourns the encumber'd land it's human load:
Too soon arrives the inauspicious hour;
The Natal Hour of the unhappy Man,
Who all his life goes mourning up and down
That there is neither bough, nor mud, nor straw
That he may take to make himself a hut;
No, not in all his native land a twig
That he may take, nor spot of green grass turf,
Where without trespass he may set his foot.
Now Want and Poverty wage War with Love;
And hard the conflict: horrible the thought,
That Love, who boasts of his all-conquering impulse,
Should have to mourn abortive energies...
But in proportion as Mankind increase,
So evils multiply: till Nature's self,
(The native passions of the human mind)
Engender War; which thins, and segregates,
And rectifies the balance of the world:
As thick-sown plants in the vegetable world,
With stretching branches wage continual War;
Each tender bud shrinks from the foreign touch
With a degree of sensitive perception;
Till one deforms, o'er-tops, and kills the other.
Like Summer swarms, that quit their native hives,
The offspring of increasing families,
Who find no room beneath their father's roofs,
No patrimony nor employ at home,
Colleagu'd in bands explore the desart wilds,
To seek adventures; or to seek their food:
If chance they meet with rovers (like themselves)
Whose home is far away in distant vales,
Behind the mountains, or beyond the lake;
Instinctively they war where'er they meet:
The friendly parley cannot intervene;
The unknown tongue does but create alarm:
With jealous fears, stern looks, and brandish'd arms,
They stand aloof: as birds of distant groves
At the strange note prepare for instant War.
At first they skirmishing dispute the right
Of hunting in the unappropriate waste:
But every onset aggravates their hate;
Till each increasing force, whetting their swords,
With purpos'd malice seeking out the foe,
Alternate by reprisal and revenge,
Doubly compensate each discomfiture,
Yet seek not to attack each-other's home,
Where Age, and Infancy, in safety dwell:
They war but with freebooters: private Peace
And Female Covert, Valour scorns to assail.
But when in evil hour some female hand,
Whether by force of Love, or force of Arms,
Is led across the desart by the Foe;
The jealous fury kindles to a flame:
No longer sacred the domestic hearth:
Fire, Death, and Devastation, mark their way,
And all the horrid crimes of savage War.
Now War becomes the business of the State:
The most humane, the most pacific men,
Must arm for War, or lose all they hold dear:
The sorrows of the Aged, Infant cries,
And Female Tears, resistlessly prevail:
Can gentlest natures be in love with Peace,
When Love, most tender Love, excites to War?
No.... When some lov'd and honour'd youth distrest'd,
Raising his head amongst his arm'd compeers,
Tells that the well-known honourable Maid,
The Virgin Mistress of his dearest hopes,
Is ravish'd from him, borne by force away;
Though pierc'd with grief, yet nobly he exclaims,
'Think not I wish to embroil you in my fate:
'For though not one of you espouse my cause,
'I singly will attempt the desperate deed.
'Farewell: I go to find my Love, or die!'
Silent and motionless the legions stand,
By looks examining each-other's heart:
But soon a murmur through the ranks proceeds,
Swelling as quickly a terrific roar;
Like heavy waters breaking from their mounds,
A long, and loud, and inarticulate shout,
While every weapon vibrates in the air,
And hisses it's fierce vengeance at the foe.
The righteous cause admits of no delay;
No tardy foot impedes the immediate march:
The Enemy, not taken by surprise,
Wak'd by the watchful fears of conscious guilt,
On their frontiers await the coming foe.
Now at the near approach of threatening Death,
Full many a thinking, sighing, aching heart,
Indulges secretly the hopeless wish
For Life, and Peace.... Alas! it cannot be:
To advance is to encounter dreadful danger;
But to recede, inevitable death;
His own associates would deal the blow:
Thus led by Fate, behold upon the plain,
The adverse bands in view, and in advance.
Now Fear, Self-pity, and affected Courage,
Speak in their hideous shouts with voice scarce human;
Like that which issues from his hollow throat
Who sleeping bellows in a frightful dream.
More near their glaring eye-balls flashing meet;
Terror and Rage distorting every face,
Inflame each-other into trembling fury.
Soft-ey'd Humanity, oh! veil thy sight!
Tis not in Rationality to view
(Even in thought) the dire ensuing scene;
For Madness, Madness reigns, and urges men
To deeds that Rationality disowns.
Now here and there about the horrid Field,
Striding across the dying and the dead,
Stalks up a man by strength superior,
Or skill and prowess in the arduous fight,
Preserv'd alive: ... fainting he looks around;
Fearing pursuit, nor caring to pursue.
The supplicating voice of bitterest moans,
Contortions of excruciating pain,
The shriek of torture and the groan of death,
Surround him; and as Night her mantle spreads,
To veil the horrors of the mourning Field,
With cautious step shaping his devious way,
He seeks a covert where to hide and rest:
At every leaf that rustles in the breeze
Starting, he grasps his sword; and every nerve
Is ready strain'd, for combat or for flight.
Thus list'ning to ward off approaching foes,
A distant whispering, fighting, murmuring sound
Salutes his ear, and to his throbbing heart
Soft tidings tells of tenderness and love.
For on that fatal day of vengeful ire.
At fearful distance following the host,
From either country came a female throng;
And now beneath the covert of the night
Advancing, guided by the voice of woe,
Where on the earth the wounded mourners lay,
With trembling steps and fearful whispering voice,
Each seeks, and calls him whom she came to seek:
And many a fugitive, whom force or fear
Had driven from the Field, steals softly back,
Anxious to know the fate of some lov'd friend.
Mutual fears appal the mingled group,
Starting alternate at the unknown tongue:
They fear a foe in each uncertain form
That through the gloom imperfectly appears.
The mournful horrors of the doleful night
Melt every heart: ... and when the morning's beam
Shews the sad scene, and gives an interview,
Resentment, that worst torment of the mind,
Resentment ceases, satiate wrath subsides.
Woman is present: and so strong the charm
Of weeping Woman's fascinating tears,
That though surviving Heroes' unwash'd hands
Still grasp the falchion of horrid hue,
And though their fallen brethren from the ground
May seem to call for Vengeance from their hands,
The impulse of Revenge is felt no more;
No more the strange attire, the foreign tongue
Creates alarm: for Nature's-self has writ
In every face; where every eye can read
Repentant Sorrow, and forgiving Love.
Their mingled tears wash the lamented dead:
On every wound they pour soft Pity's balm:
Ere Sorrow's tears are dried, they feel the spring
Of new-born joys, and each expanding heart
Contemplates future scenes of Peace and Love.
Long, even as long as room and food abound,
They interchange their friendly offices
For mutual good; reciprocally kind:
And much they wonder that they e'er were foes.
Still War's terrific name is kept alive:
Tradition, pointing to the rusty arms
That hang on high, informs each list'ning youth
How erst in fatal fields their Grandsires fell;
Childhood attentive hears the tragic tale;
And learns to shudder at the name of War.
GUNPOWDER! let the Soldier's Pean rise,
Where e'er thy name or thundering voice is heard:
Let him who, fated to the needful trade,
Deals out the adventitious shafts of Death,
Rejoice in thee; and hail with loudest shouts
The auspicious era when deep-searching Art
From out the hidden things in Nature's store
Cull'd thy tremendous powers, and tutor'd Man
To chain the unruly element of Fire
At his controul, to wait his potent touch:
To urge his missile bolts of sudden Death,
And thunder terribly his vengeful wrath.
Thy mighty engines and gigantic towers
With frowning aspect awe the trembling World.
Destruction, bursting from thy sudden blaze
Hath taught the Birds to tremble at the sound;
And Man himself, thy terror's boasted lord,
Within the blacken'd hollow of thy tube,
Affrighted sees the darksome shades of Death.
Not only mourning groves, but human tears,
The weeping Widow's tears, the Orphan's cries,
Sadly deplore that e'er thy powers were known.
Yet let thy Advent be the Soldier's song,
No longer doom'd to grapple with the Foe
With Teeth and Nails--When close in view, and in
Each-other's grasp, to grin, and hack, and stab;
Then tug his horrid weapon from one breast
To hide it in another:--with clear hands
He now expertly poizing thy bright tube,
At distance kills, unknowing and unknown;
Sees not the wound he gives, nor hears the shriek
Of him whose breast he pierces.... GUNPOWDER!
(O! let Humanity rejoice) how much
The Soldier's fearful work is humaniz'd,
Since thy momentous birth--stupendous power.
In Britain, where the hills and fertile plains,
Like her historic page, are overspread
With vestiges of War, the Shepherd Boy
Climbs the green hillock to survey his flock;
Then sweetly sleeps upon his favourite hill,
Not conscious that his bed's a Warrior's Tomb.
The ancient Mansions, deeply moated round,
Where, in the iron Age of Chivalry,
Redoubted Barons wag'd their little Wars;
The strong Entrenchments and enormous Mounds,
Rais'd to oppose the fierce, perfidious Danes;
And still more ancient traces that remain
Of Dykes and Camps, from the far distant date
When minstrel Druids wak'd the soul of War,
And rous'd to arms old Albion's hardy sons,
To stem the tide of Roman Tyranny: ...
War's footsteps, thus imprinted on the ground,
Shew that in Britain he, from age to age,
Has rear'd his horrid head, and raging reign'd.
Long on the margins of the silver Tweed
Opposing Ensigns wav'd; War's clarion
Dreadfully echo'd down the winding stream,
Where now sweet Peace and Unity reside:
The happy peasant of Tweed's smiling dale,
Whene'er his spade disturbs a Soldier's bones,
With shudd'ring horror ruminates on War;
Then deeper hides the awful spectacle,
Blessing the peaceful days in which he lives
Since Peace has bless'd the villages on Tweed,
And War has ceas'd to drive his iron car
On Britain's shore, what myriads of men
Over the Eastern and the Western Seas
Have follow'd War, and found untimely graves.
Where'er the jarring interests of States
Excite the brave to' advance their native land
By deeds of arms, Britons are foremost found.
The sprightly bands, hast'ning from place to place,
Gayly carousing in their gay attire,
Invite, not force the train of heedless youths,
Who croud to share their jollity and joy:
To martial music dancing into death,
They fell their Freedom for a holiday;
And with the Rich and Great 'tis Glory charms,
And Beauty's favour that rewards the Brave.
All the historic Records of the World
Are little more than histories of Wars;
Shewing how many thousands War destroy'd,
The time, the place, and some few great ones' names.
The mournful remnants of demolished States,
The Greek, the Roman, and long-exil'd Jew;
Are living monuments of wasting War's
Annihilating power: and while they mourn
Their Grandeur faded, and their Power extinct,
To every State _memento mori_ sounds.
From age to age the habitable World
Has been a constant theatre of War:
In every land with Nature's gifts most blest,
Frequent and fatal Wars destructive rage.
So bland is fair Britannia's genial clime,
So liberal her all-protecting Laws,
So generous the spirit of her Sons,
So fond, so chaste, her Daughters virtuous love,
That human offspring still redundant grows,
And free-born Britons must contend for life.
O! envy not the lands where Slaves reside,
Though their proud Tyrants boast of _peaceful_ reign,
Where hard Oppression, freezing genial love,
Performs the work of War in embryo:
Let not mistaken fondness doat on Peace,
Preserv'd by arts more horrid far than War! ...
Let the dull languor of the pale Chinese
Desert their Infants, and their _Peace_ enjoy!
But, O! let Britons still in Love and War
Exert the generous ardour of the soul;
Protect the Fair, and foster Infancy.
By strenuous enterprize, and arduous toils,
Is public safety purchas'd and secur'd.
Negative merit, "I have done no harm,"
Is an inglorious boast: shall he who sits
Secure, enjoying Plenty in the lap
Of Ease, vaunt his recumbent Virtues? ... He
Brand with harsh epithets the Warrior's toils?
While 'tis to them he owes sincerest thanks
For Peace and Safety, that are earn'd in War....
As well might he who eats the flesh of Lambs,
And smacks the ichor in a savoury dish,
Boast his humanity, and say "My hand
Ne'er slew a Lamb;" and censure as a crime,
The Butcher's cruel, necessary trade.
In Battle, the chance-medley game of Death,
Where every one still hopes 'till he expires,
Less horror shocks the mind contemplative,
Than where, in slow procession's solemn pace,
Doom'd wretches meet their destin'd fate in bonds,
Who know the moment to expect the blow,
And count the moments 'till that moment comes:
Or where Oppression wages War, in Peace,
On the defenceless: on the hapless man
Who holds his breath but by another's will:
Whose Life is only one long cruel Death! ...
Hardly he fares, and hopelessly he toils;
And when his driver's anger, or caprice,
Or wanton cruelty, inflicts a blow,
Not daring to look angry at the whip,
Oh! see him meekly clasp his hands and bow
To every stroke: no lurid deathful scene
In Battle's rage, so racks the feeling heart;
Not all the thunders of infuriate War,
Disploding mines, and crafting, bursting bombs,
Are half so horrid as the sounding lash
That echoes through the Carribean groves.
Incessant is the War of Human Wit,
Oppos'd to bestial strength; and variously
Successful: in these happy fertile climes,
Man still maintains his surreptitious power;
Reigns o'er the Brutes, and, with the voice of Fate,
Says "This to-day, and that to-morrow dies."
Though here our Shambles blazon the Renown,
The Victory, and Rule, of lordly Man;
Far wider tracts within the Torrid Zone
Own no such Lord: where Sol's intenser rays
Create in bestial hearts more fervid fires,
And deadlier poisons arm the Serpent's tooth;
In gloomy shades, impassable to Man,
Where matted foliage exclude the Sun,
The torpid Birds that crawl from bough to bough
Utter their notes of terror: while beneath
Fury and Venom, couch'd in murky dens,
Hissing and yelling, guard the hideous gloom.
O'er dreary wastes, untrod by human feet,
Without controul the lordly Lion reigns;
And every creature trembles at his voice:
When risen from his den, he prances forth,
Extends his talons, shakes his flaky mane,
Then whurrs his tufted tail, and stooping low
His wide mouth near the ground, his dreadful roar
Makes all the desart tremble: he proclaims
His ire--proclaims his strong necessity;
And that surprise or artifice he scorns.
Unskill'd, alas! in philosophic lore,
Unbless'd with scientific erudition;
How can I sing of elemental War,
Or the contending powers of opposite
Attractions, that impel, and poize, and guide,
The ever-rolling Spheres: Animal War,
The flux of Life, devouring and devour'd,
Ceaseless in every tribe, through Earth, and Air,
And Ocean, transcends my utmost ken.
From obvious truths my Song has aim'd to shew
That War is an inevitable Ill;
An Ill through Nature's various Realms diffus'd;
An Ill subservient to the General Good.
With sympathetic sense of human woes
Deeply impress'd, the melancholy Muse
With modesty asserts this mournful Truth:
'Tis not in human wisdom to avert,
Though every feeling heart must sure lament,
The SAD NECESSITY of FATAL WAR.
* * * * *
ELEGY
ON THE ENCLOSURE OF HONINGTON GREEN.
[Motives of Enclosure.--Natural Pleasures and humble Convenience lost by
it.--Recollections of the Spot.... The Mother.--The Father.--Character
of his Mind.--The Widow.... Maternal Cares.--The Green.... It's Beauties
and Pleasures.--The Enclosure in general less an object to the
Poor.--Under whatever Change the Man will adapt itself.--The new Scene
will find it's Admirers.--Pleasures are as the Mind and it's Habits.]
* * * * *
1
Improvement extends it's domain;
The Shepherds of Britain deplore
That the Coulter has furrow'd each plain,
And their calling is needful no more.
"Enclosing Land doubles its use;
When cultur'd, the heath and the moor
Will the Riches of Ceres produce,
Yet feed as large flocks as before."
2
Such a lucrative maxim as this
The Lords of the Land all pursue,
For who such advantage wou'd miss?
Self-int'rest we all keep in view.
By it, they still more wealth amass,
Who possess'd great abundance before;
It gives pow'r to the Great, but alas!
Still poorer it renders the Poor.
3
Taste spreads, her refinements around,
Enriching her favourite Land
With prospects of beautified ground,
Where, cinctur'd, the spruce Villas stand;
On the causeways, that never are foul,
Marshal'd bands may with measur'd pace tread;
The soft Car of Voluptuousness roll,
And the proud Steed of Greatness parade.
4
Those fenc'd ways that so even are made,
The pedestrian traveler bemoans;
He no more the green carpet may tread,
But plod on, 'midst the gravel and stones:
And if he would rest with his load,
No green hillock presents him a seat,
But long, hard, tiresome sameness of road
Fatigues both the eye and the feet.
5
Sighs speak the poor Labourers' pain,
While the new mounds and fences they rear,
Intersecting their dear native plain,
To divide to each rich Man his share;
It cannot but grieve them to see,
Where so freely they rambled before,
What a bare narrow track is left free
To the foot of the unportion'd Poor.
6