PART III.

Burials.

Qui vultus Acherontis atri,

Qui Stygia tristem, non tristis, videt,--

--------------------

Par ille Regi, par Superis erit.

Seneca in Agamem.

There was, ’tis said, and I believe, a Time,

When humble Christians died with views sublime;

When all were ready for their Faith to bleed,

But few to write or wrangle for their Creed;

When lively Faith upheld the sinking Heart,

And Friends, assur’d to meet, prepar’d to part;

When Love felt Hope, when Sorrow grew serene,

And all was comfort in the Death-bed scene.

Alas! when now the gloomy King they wait,

’Tis Weakness yielding to resistless Fate;

Like wretched Men upon the Ocean cast,

They labour hard and struggle to the last;

“Hope against Hope,” and wildly gaze around,

In search of Help that never shall be found;

Nor, till the last strong Billow stops the Breath,

Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!

When these my Records I reflecting read,

And find what Ills these numerous Births succeed;

What powerful Griefs these Nuptial Ties attend,

With what regret these painful Journeys end;

When from the Cradle to the Grave I look,

Mine I conceive a melancholy Book.

Where now is perfect Resignation seen?

Alas! it is not on the Village-Green;----

I’ve seldom known, though I have often read

Of, happy Peasants on their Dying-bed;

Whose Looks proclaim’d that Sunshine of the Breast,

That more than Hope, that Heav’n itself express’d.

What I behold are feverish fits of Strife,

’Twixt fears of Dying and desire of Life;

Those earthly Hopes, that to the last endure;

Those Fears, that Hopes superior fail to cure;

At best a sad submission to the Doom,

Which, turning from the Danger, lets it come.

Sick lies the Man, bewilder’d, lost, afraid,

His Spirits vanquish’d and his Strength decay’d;

No Hope the Friend, the Nurse, the Doctor lend--

“Call then a Priest and fit him for his End.”

A Priest is call’d, ’tis now, alas! too late,

Death enters with him at the Cottage-gate;

Or Time allow’d--he goes, assur’d to find,

The self-commending, all-confiding Mind;

And sighs to hear what we may justly call,

Death’s _Common-Place_, the Train of Thought in all.

“True, I’m a Sinner,” feebly he begins,--

“But trust in Mercy to forgive my Sins:”

(Such cool Confession no past Crimes excite!

Such Claim on Mercy, as a Sinner’s Right!)

“I know, Mankind are frail, that GOD is just,

“And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;

“We’re sorely tempted in a World like this,

“All Men have done, and I like all, amiss;

“But now, if spar’d, it is my full intent,

“On all the past to ponder and repent;

“Wrongs against me I pardon great and small,

“And if I die, I die in peace with all.”

His Merits thus and not his Sins confest,

He speaks his Hopes and leaves to Heav’n the rest.

Alas! are these the Prospects, dull and cold,

That dying Christians to their Priests unfold?

Or mends the Prospect when th’ Enthusiast cries,

“I die assur’d!” and in a Rapture dies?

Ah, where that humble, self-abasing Mind,

With that confiding Spirit shall we find;

The Mind that feeling what Repentance brings,

Dejection’s terrors and Contrition’s stings,

Has then the hope that Heav’n its grief approve

And the pure joy that flows from Pardoning Love?

Such have I seen in Death, and much deplore,

So many dying--that I see no more:

Lo! now my Records, where I grieve to trace,

How Death has triumph’d in so short a space;

Who are the Dead, how died they, I relate,

And snatch some portion of their Acts from Fate.

With _Andrew Collet_ we the Year begin,

The blind, fat Landlord of the Old Crown-Inn:

Big as his Butt and for the self-same use,

To take in stores of strong fermenting Juice.

On his huge Chair beside the Fire he sate,

In Revel Chief, and Umpire in Debate;

Each night his string of vulgar Tales he told;

When Ale was cheap and Bachelors were bold;

His Heroes all were famous in their Days,

Cheats were his boast and Drunkards had his praise;

“One in three Draughts, three Mugs of Ale took down,

“As Mugs were then--the Champion of the Crown;

“For thrice three days another liv’d on Ale,

“And knew no Change but that of Mild and Stale;

“Two thirsty Soakers watch’d a Vessel’s side,

“When he the Tap, with dextrous hand, applied;

“Nor from their seats departed, till they found,

“That Butt was out and heard the mournful Sound.”

He prais’d a Poacher, precious child of Fun!

Who shot the Keeper with his own Spring-gun;

Nor less the Smuggler who the Exciseman tied,

And left him hanging at the Birch-wood side,

There to expire;--but one who saw him hang,

Cut the good Cord--a Traitor of the Gang.

His own Exploits, with boastful glee, he told,

What Ponds he empty’d and what Pikes he sold;

And how, when blest with sight alert and gay,

The Night’s Amusements kept him through the Day.

He sang the Praises of those Times, when all

“For Cards and Dice, as for their Drink, might call;

“When Justice wink’d on every jovial Crew,

“And Ten-pins tumbled in the Parson’s view.”

He told, when angry Wives, provok’d to rail,

Or drive a third-day Drunkard from his Ale;

What were his Triumphs and how great the Skill,

That won the vex’d Virago to his Will;

Who raving came;--then talk’d in milder strain,--

Then wept,--then drank and pledg’d her Spouse again.

Such were his Themes: how Knaves o’er Laws prevail,

Or when made captives, how they fly from Jail;

The Young how brave, how subtle were the Old:

And Oaths attested all that Folly told.

On Death like his what name shall we bestow,

So very sudden! yet so very slow?

’Twas slow:--Disease augmenting year by year,

Show’d the grim King by gradual steps brought near:

’Twas not less sudden;--in the night he died,

He drank, he swore, he jested and he lied;

Thus aiding Folly with departing Breath:----

“Beware, _Lorenzo_, the slow-sudden Death.”

Next died the Widow _Goe_, an active Dame,

Fam’d, ten miles round, and worthy all her Fame;

She lost her Husband when their Loves were young,

But kept her Farm, her Credit and her Tongue:

Full thirty years, she rul’d with matchless Skill,

With guiding Judgment and resistless Will;

Advice she scorn’d, Rebellions she suppress’d,

And Sons and Servants bow’d at her behest.

Like that great man’s, who to his SAVIOUR came,

Were the strong Words of this commanding Dame;--

“Come,” if she said, they came; if “go,” were gone;

And if “do this,”--that instant it was done:

Her Maidens told she was all Eye and Ear,

In Darkness saw and could at distance hear;--

No Parish-Business in the Place could stir,

Without Direction or Assent from her;

In turn she took each Office as it fell;

Knew all their Duties and discharg’d them well;

The lazy Vagrants in her presence shook,

And pregnant Damsels fear’d her stern Rebuke;

She look’d on Want, with Judgment, clear and cool,

And felt with Reason and bestow’d by Rule:

She match’d both Sons and Daughters to her mind,

And lent them Eyes, for Love, she heard, was blind;

Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive,

The working Bee, in full or empty Hive;

Busy and careful, like that working Bee,

No time for Love nor tender Cares had she;

But when our Farmers made their amorous Vows,

She talk’d of Market-Steeds and Patent-Ploughs.

Not unemploy’d her Evenings pass’d away,

Amusement clos’d, as Business wak’d the Day;

When to her Toilet’s brief Concern she ran,

And conversation with her Friends, began;

Who all were welcome at her Board to share,

And joyous Neighbours prais’d her Christmas Fare;

That none around might, in their scorn, complain

Of Gossip _Goe_ as greedy in her Gain.

Thus long she reign’d, admir’d, if not approv’d;

Prais’d, if not honour’d; fear’d, if not belov’d;--

When, as the busy Days of Spring drew near,

That call’d for all the Forecast of the Year;

When lively Hope the rising Crops survey’d,

And April promis’d what September pay’d;

When stray’d her Lambs where _Gorse_ and _Greenweed_ grow;

When rose her Grass in richer Vales below;

When pleas’d she look’d on all the smiling Land, }

And view’d the Hinds, who wrought at her command,}

As _Bridget_ churn’d the Butter for her Hand; }

(Geese, Hens, and Turkeys following where she went;)

Then, Dread o’ercame her,--that her Days were spent.

“Bless me! I die and not a Warning giv’n,--

“With _much_ to do on Earth and ALL for Heav’n!

“No Reparation for my Soul’s Affairs,

“No Leave petition’d for the Barn’s Repairs;

“Accounts perplex’d, my Interest yet unpaid,

“My Mind unsettled and my Will unmade;--

“A Lawyer haste, and in your way, a Priest;

“And let me die in one good Work at least.”

She spake and, trembling, dropp’d upon her knees,

Heaven in her Eye and in her Hand her Keys:

And still the more she found her Life decay,

With greater force she grasp’d those Signs of Sway:

Then fell and died!... In haste her Sons drew near,

And dropp’d, in haste, the tributary Tear,

Then from th’ adhering Clasp the Keys unbound,

And Consolation for their Sorrows, found.

DEATH has his Infant-train; his bony Arm

Strikes from the Baby-cheek the rosy Charm;

The brightest Eye his glazing Film makes dim,

And his cold Touch sets fast the lithest limb:

He seiz’d the sick’ning Boy to _Gerard_ lent,[10]

When three Days’ Life, in feeble Cries, were spent;

In Pain brought forth, those painful Hours to stay,

To breathe in Pain and sigh its Soul away!

“But why thus lent, if thus recall’d again,

“To cause and feel, to live and die in, Pain?”

Or rather say, Why grievous these appear,

If all it pays for Heaven’s eternal Year;

If these sad Sobs and piteous Sighs secure

Delights that live, when Worlds no more endure?

The Sister-spirit long may lodge below,

And Pains from Nature, Pains from Reason, know;

Through all the common Ills of Life may run,

By Hope perverted and by Love undone;

A Wife’s Distress, a Mother’s Pangs, may dread,

And Widow-tears, in bitter Anguish, shed;

May at Old Age arrive through numerous Harms,

With Children’s Children in those feeble Arms;

Nor till by Years of Want and Grief opprest,

Shall the sad Spirit flee and be at rest!

Yet happier therefore shall we deem the Boy,

Secur’d from anxious Care and dangerous Joy?

Not so! for then would Love Divine, in vain

Send all the Burthens, weary Men sustain;

All that now curb the Passions when they rage,

The Checks of Youth and the Regrets of Age;

All that now bid us hope, believe, endure,

Our Sorrow’s Comfort and our Vice’s Cure;

All that for Heaven’s high Joys the Spirits train,

And Charity, the Crown of all, were vain.

Blest is the Nurseling never taught to sing,

But thrust untimely from its Mother’s Wing;

Or the grown Warbler, who, with grateful Voice,

Sings its own Joy and makes the Grove rejoice;

Because, ere yet he charm’d th’ attentive Ear,

Hard were his Trials and his Pains severe!

Next died the LADY who yon Hall possess’d;

And here they brought her noble Bones to rest.

In Town she dwelt;--forsaken stood the Hall.

Worms ate the Floors, the Tap’stry fled the Wall:

No Fire the Kitchen’s cheerless Grate display’d;

No cheerful Light the long-clos’d Sash convey’d!

The crawling Worm that turns a Summer-fly,

Here spun his Shroud and laid him up to die

The Winter-death:--upon the Bed of State,

The Batt shrill-shrieking woo’d his flickering Mate:

To empty Rooms the Curious came no more, }

From empty Cellars turn’d the angry Poor, }

And surly Beggars curs’d the ever-bolted Door.}

To one small Room the Steward found his way,

Where Tenants follow’d to complain and pay;

Yet no complaint before the _Lady_ came,

The feeling Servant spar’d the feeble Dame;

Who saw her Farms with his observing Eyes,

And answer’d all Requests with his Replies:--

She came not down, her falling Groves to view;

Why should she know, what One so faithful knew?

Why come, from many clamorous Tongues to hear,

What One so just might whisper in her Ear?

Her Oaks or Acres, why with care explore;

Why learn the Wants, the Sufferings of the Poor;

When One so knowing all their Worth could trace,

And One so piteous govern’d in her Place?

Lo! now, what dismal Sons of Darkness come,

To bear this Daughter of Indulgence home;

Tragedians all and well arrang’d in Black!

Who Nature, Feeling, Force, Expression lack;--

Who cause no Tear, but gloomily pass by,

And shake their Sables in the wearied Eye,

That turns disgusted from the pompous Scene,

Proud without Grandeur, with Profusion, mean!

The Tear for Kindness past Affection owes;

For Worth deceas’d the Sigh from Reason flows;

E’en well-feign’d Passion for our Sorrows call,

And real Tears for mimic Miseries fall:--

But this poor Farce has neither Truth nor Art,

To please the Fancy or to touch the Heart;

Unlike the Darkness of the Sky, that pours

On the dry Ground its fertilizing Showers!

Unlike to that which strikes the Soul with dread,

When Thunders roar and forky Fires are shed;

Dark but not aweful, dismal but yet mean,

With anxious Bustle moves the cumbrous Scene;

Presents no Objects, tender or profound,

But spreads its cold unmeaning Gloom around.

When Woes are feign’d, how ill such forms appear,

And oh! how needless, when the Woe’s sincere.

Slow to the Vault they come with heavy tread,

Bending beneath the _Lady_ and her Lead;

A Case of Elm surrounds that ponderous Chest,

Close on that Case the Crimson Velvet’s press’d;

Ungenerous this, that to the Worm denies,

With niggard-caution his appointed Prize;

For now, ere yet he works his tedious way,

Through Cloth and Wood and Metal to his Prey;

That Prey dissolving shall a Mass remain,

That Fancy loaths and Worms themselves disdain.

But see! the Master-Mourner makes his way,

To end his Office for the coffin’d Clay;

Pleas’d that our Rustic Men and Maids behold

His Plate like Silver, and his Studds like Gold;

As they approach to spell the Age, the Name,

And all the Titles of th’ illustrious Dame.--

This as (my Duty done) some Scholar read,

A Village-Father look’d disdain and said:

“Away, my Friends! why take such pains to know,

“What some brave Marble soon in Church shall show:

“Where not alone her gracious Name shall stand,

“But how she liv’d the Blessing of the Land;

“How much we all deplor’d the noble Dead,

“What Groans we utter’d and what Tears we shed;

“Tears, true as those, which in the sleepy Eyes

“Of weeping Cherubs on the Stone shall rise:

“Tears, true as those, which, ere she found her Grave,

“The noble _Lady_ to our Sorrows gave.”--

Down by the Church-way-Walk and where the Brook

Winds round the Chancel like a Shepherd’s Crook;

In that small House, with those green Pales before,

Where Jasmine trails on either side the Door;

Where those dark Shrubs that now grow wild at will,

Were clipt in form and tantaliz’d with skill;

Where Cockles blanch’d and Pebbles neatly spread,

Form’d shining Borders for the Larkspurs’ Bed;--

There liv’d a _Lady_, wise, austere and nice,

Who shew’d her Virtue by her Scorn of Vice;

In the dear Fashions of her Youth she dress’d,

A pea-green _Joseph_ was her favourite Vest;

Erect she stood, she walk’d with stately Mien,

Tight was her length of Stays and she was tall and lean.

There long she liv’d in Maiden-state immur’d,

From Looks of Love and treacherous Man secur’d:

Though Evil-fame--(but that was long before)

Had blown her dubious Blast at _Catharine_’s Door:

A Captain thither, rich from _India_ came,

And though a Cousin call’d, it touch’d her Fame;

Her annual Stipend rose from his Behest,

And all the long-priz’d Treasures, she possess’d:--

If aught like Joy a while appear’d to stay,

In that stern Face and chase those Frowns away;

’Twas when her Treasures she dispos’d for view,

And heard the Praises, to their Splendour due;

Silks beyond Price, so rich they’d stand alone,

And Diamonds blazing on the buckled Zone;

Rows of rare Pearls by curious Workmen set,

And Bracelets fair in Box of glossy Jet;

Bright polish’d Amber precious from its Size,

Or forms, the fairest Fancy could devise;

Her Drawers of Cedar shut with secret Springs,

Conceal’d the Watch of Gold and rubied Rings;

Letters, long Proofs of Love and Verses fine

Round the pink’d Rims of crisped Valentine.

Her China-Closet, cause of daily Care,

For Woman’s Wonder held her pencill’d Ware;

That pictur’d Wealth of _China_ and _Japan_,

Like its cold Mistress, shunn’d the Eye of Man.

Her neat small Room, adorn’d with Maiden-taste,

A clipt French-Puppey first of Favourites grac’d.

A Parrot next, but dead and stuff’d with Art;

(For Poll, when living, lost the Lady’s Heart,

And then his Life; for he was heard to speak

Such frightful Words as tinge’d his Lady’s Cheek;)

Unhappy Bird! who had no power to prove,

Save by such Speech, his Gratitude and Love.

A grey old Cat his Whiskers lick’d beside;

A type of Sadness in the House of Pride.

The polish’d Surface of an India-Chest,

A glassy Globe, in Frame of Ivory, prest;

Where swam two finny Creatures; one of Gold,

Of Silver one; both beauteous to behold:

All these were form’d the guiding Taste to suit;

The Beasts well-manner’d and the Fishes mute.

A widow’d _Aunt_ was there, compell’d by Need,

The Nymph to flatter and her Tribe to feed;

Who, veiling well her Scorn, endur’d the Clog,

Mute as the Fish and fawning as the Dog.

As Years increas’d, these Treasures her Delight,

Arose in Value in their Owner’s sight:--

A Miser knows that, view it as he will,

A Guinea kept is but a Guinea still:

And so he puts it to its proper Use,

That something more this Guinea may produce:

But Silks and Rings in the Possessor’s Eyes,

The oft’ner seen, the more in Value rise,

And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow,

On Pride that governs, Pleasure that will grow.

But what avail’d their Worth,--if Worth had they,--

In the sad Summer of her slow Decay?

Then we beheld her turn an anxious Look

From Trunks and Chests, and fix it on her Book;

A rich-bound Book of Prayer the Captain gave,

(Some Princess had it, or was said to have,)

And then once more on all her Stores, look round

And draw a sigh so piteous and profound,

That told, “Alas! how hard from these to part,

“And for new Hopes and Habits form the Heart!

“What shall I do (she cried) my Peace of Mind,

“To gain in dying and to die resign’d?”

‘Hear,’ we return’d;--‘these Bawbles cast aside,

‘Nor give thy GOD a Rival in thy Pride;

‘Thy Closets shut and ope thy Kitchen’s Door;

‘_There_ own thy Failings, _here_ invite the Poor;

‘A friend of _Mammon_ let thy Bounty make, }

‘For Widow’s Prayers, thy Vanities forsake;}

‘And let the Hungry of thy Pride, partake: }

‘Then shall thy inward Eye with joy survey,

‘The Angel _Mercy_ tempering _Death_’s Delay!’

Alas! ’twas hard; the Treasures still had Charms,

Hope still its Flattery, Sickness its Alarms;

Still was the same unsettled, clouded View,

And the same plaintive Cry, “What shall I do?”

Nor Change appear’d: for, when her Race was run

Doubtful we all exclaim’d, “What has been done?”

Apart she liv’d and still she lies alone;

Yon earthly Heap awaits the flattering Stone,

On which Invention shall be long employ’d

To shew the various Worth of _Catharine Lloyd_.

Next to these Ladies, but in nought allied,

A noble Peasant, _Isaac Ashford_, died.

Noble he was, contemning all things mean,

His Truth unquestion’d and his Soul serene:

Of no man’s presence _Isaac_ felt afraid;

At no Man’s question, _Isaac_ look’d dismay’d:

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no Disgrace;

Truth, simple Truth, was written in his Face;

Yet while the serious Thought his Soul approv’d,

Cheerful he seem’d and Gentleness he lov’d:

To Bliss domestic he his Heart resign’d,

And with the firmest, had the fondest Mind:

Were others joyful, he look’d smiling on,

And gave Allowance where he needed none;

Good he refus’d with future Ill to buy,

Nor knew a Joy that caus’d Reflection’s Sigh;

A Friend to Virtue, his unclouded Breast

No Envy stung, no Jealousy distress’d;

(Bane of the Poor! it wounds their weaker Mind,

To miss one Favour, which their Neighbours find:)

Yet far was he from Stoic-pride remov’d;

He felt humanely, and he warmly lov’d:

I mark’d his Action, when his Infant died,

And his old Neighbour for Offence was tried;

The still Tears, stealing down that furrow’d 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 gain’d,

In sturdy Boys to virtuous Labours train’d;

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 defy’d,

In fact, a noble Passion, misnam’d _Pride_.

He had no party’s Rage, no Sect’ry’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 ruin’d 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, loath with him to feed,

“Who gains his Plenty by the Sons of Need;

“He who, by Contract, all your Paupers took,

“And guages 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 Heav’n! and let me not complain

“Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain.”

Such were his Thoughts, and so resign’d he grew;

Daily he plac’d the Workhouse in his view!

But came not there, for sudden was his Fate,

He dropp’d 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 honour’d Head;

No more that aweful Glance on playful Wight

Compell’d to kneel and tremble at the sight;

To fold his Fingers all in dread the while,

Till Mister _Ashford_ soften’d 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.

Then died a Rambler; not the One who sails

And trucks, for Female Favours, Beads and Nails;

Not One, who posts from place to place--of Men

And Manners treating with a flying Pen:

Not he, who climbs, for Prospects, _Snowden_’s Height,

And chides the Clouds that intercept the Sight;

No curious Shell, rare Plant or brilliant Spar,

Intic’d our Traveller, from his Home, so far;

But all the Reason, by himself assign’d

For so much Rambling, was, a restless Mind;

As on, from place to place, without intent,

Without Reflection, _Robin Dingley_ went.

Not thus by Nature:--never Man was found

Less prone to wander from his Parish-bound;

_Claudian_’s old Man, to whom all Scenes were new,

Save those where he and where his Apples grew,

Resembled _Robin_, who around would look,

And his Horizon, for the Earth’s mistook.

To this poor Swain a keen Attorney came;--

“I give thee joy, good Fellow! on thy Name;

“The rich old _Dingley_’s dead;--no Child has he,

“Nor Wife nor Will; his ALL is left for thee;

“To be his Fortune’s Heir thy Claim is good;

“Thou hast the Name and we will prove the Blood.”

The Claim was made; ’twas tried, it would not stand;

They prov’d the Blood, but were refus’d the Land.

Assur’d of Wealth, this Man of simple Heart,

To every Friend had predispos’d a Part;

His Wife, had Hopes indulg’d of various kind;

The three Miss _Dingley’s_ had their School assign’d,

Masters were sought for what each Miss requir’d,

And Books were bought and Harpsichords were hir’d;

So high was Hope:--the Failure touch’d his Brain,

And _Robin_ never was himself again:

Yet he no wrath, no angry wish express’d,

But tried in vain, to labour or to rest;

Then cast his Bundle on his back, and went

He knew not whither nor for what Intent.

Years fled;--of _Robin_ all Remembrance past,

When home he wander’d in his Rags at last:

A Sailor’s Jacket on his Limbs was thrown,

A Sailor’s Story he had made his own;

Had suffer’d Battles, Prisons, Tempests, Storms,

Encountering Death in all his ugliest forms;

His Cheeks were haggard, hollow was his Eye,

Where Madness lurk’d, conceal’d in Misery;

Want, and th’ ungentle World, had taught a part,

And prompted Cunning to that simple Heart:

“He now bethought him, he would roam no more,

“But live at Home and labour as before.”

Here cloth’d and fed, no sooner he began

To round and redden, than away he ran:

His Wife was dead, their Children past his aid;

So, unmolested from his Home he stray’d:

Six Years elasp’d, when, worn with Want and Pain,

Came _Robin_, wrapt in all his Rags, again:--

We chide, we pity;--plac’d among our Poor,

He fed again and was a Man once more.

As when a gaunt and hungry Fox is found,

Entrapp’d alive in some rich Hunter’s ground;

Fed for the Field, although each Day’s a Feast,

_Fatten_ you may, but never _tame_ the Beast;

An House protects him, savoury Viands sustain;

But loose his neck and off he goes again:

So stole our Vagrant from his warm Retreat,

To rove a Prowler and be deem’d a Cheat.

Hard was his Fare: for, him at length we saw,

In Cart convey’d and laid supine on Straw:

His feeble Voice now spoke a sinking Heart;

His Groans now told the Motions of the Cart:

And thus he rose, but tried in vain to stand;

Clos’d was his Eye and clench’d his clammy Hand;

Life ebb’d apace and our best Aid, no more,

Could his weak Sense or dying Heart restore:--

But now he fell, a Victim to the Snare,

That vile Attorneys for the Weak prepare;--

They who, when Profit or Resentment call,

Heed not the groaning Victim they enthrall.

Then died lamented, in the Strength of Life,

A valued _Mother_ and a faithful _Wife_;

Call’d not away, when Time had loos’d each Hold

On the fond Heart and each Desire grew cold;

But when, to all that knit us to our Kind,

She felt fast-bound, as Charity can bind;--

Not when the Ills of Age, its Pain, its Care,

The drooping Spirit for its Fate prepare;

And, each Affection failing, leaves the Heart

Loos’d from Life’s Charm and willing to depart;--

But ALL her Ties the strong Invader broke,

In all their Strength, by one tremendous Stroke!

Sudden and swift the eager Pest came on,

And all was Terror, till all Hope was gone;

Was silent Terror, where that Hope grew weak,

Look’d on the Sick and was asham’d to speak.--

Slowly they bore, with solemn Step, the Dead;

When Grief grew loud and bitter Tears were shed:

My Part began; a Crowd drew near the Place,

Awe in each Eye, Alarm in every Face:

So swift the Ill! and of so fierce a kind,

That Fear with Pity, mingled in each Mind;

Friends with the Husband came their Griefs to blend;

For Good-man _Frankford_ was to all a Friend.

The last-born Boy they held above the Bier,

He knew not Grief, but Cries express’d his Fear;

Each different Age and Sex reveal’d its pain,

In now a louder, now a lower Strain;

While the meek Father, listening to their Tones,

Swell’d the full Cadence of the Grief by Groans.

The elder Sister strove her Pangs to hide,

And soothing Words to younger Minds applied:--

“Be still, be patient,” oft she strove to say;

But fail’d as oft and weeping turn’d away.

Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug Hill,

The Village-Lads stood melancholy still;

And idle Children, wandering to-and-fro,

As Nature guided, took the tone of Woe.

Arriv’d at Home, how then they gaz’d around,

In ev’ry place, where she--no more, was found;--

The Seat at Table, she was wont to fill;

The Fire-side Chair, still set, but vacant still;

The Garden-walks, a Labour all her own;

The lattic’d Bower, with trailing Shrubs o’ergrown;

The Sunday-pew, she fill’d with all her Race,

Each Place of hers, was now a sacred Place;

That, while it call’d up Sorrows in the Eyes,

Pierc’d the full Heart, and forc’d them still to rise.

Oh sacred Sorrow! by whom Souls are tried,

Sent not to punish Mortals but to guide;

If Thou art mine, (and who shall proudly dare

To tell his MAKER, he has had his Share?)

Still let me feel for what thy Pangs are sent,

And be my Guide and not my Punishment!

Of _Leah Cousins_ next the Name appears,

With Honours crown’d and blest with Length of Years,

Save, that she liv’d to feel, in Life’s Decay,

The Pleasure die, the Honours drop away:

A Matron she, whom every Village-Wife,

View’d as the Help and Guardian of her Life;

Fathers and Sons indebted to her Aid,

Respect to her and her Profession pay’d;

Who in the House of Plenty largely fed,

Yet took her Station at the Pauper’s Bed;

Nor from that Duty could be brib’d again,

While fear or Danger urg’d her to remain;

In her Experience all her Friends relied,

Heaven was her Help and Nature was her Guide.

Thus _Leah_ liv’d; long trusted, much caress’d,

Till a Town-Dame a youthful Farmer bless’d;

A gay vain Bride, who would Example give,

To that poor Village where she deign’d to live:

Some few Months past, she sent in hour of Need,

For Doctor _Glib_, who came with wondrous speed;

Two days he waited, all his Art applied,

To save the Mother when her Infant died;--

“’Twas well I came,” at last he deign’d to say;

“’Twas wondrous well;”--and proudly rode away.

The News ran round;--“How vast the Doctor’s pow’r!

“He sav’d the Lady in the trying Hour;

“Sav’d her from Death, when she was dead to Hope,

“And her fond Husband had resign’d her up:

“So all, like her, may evil Fate defy,

“If Doctor _Glib_, with saving Hand, be nigh.”

Fame (now his Friend), Fear, Novelty, and Whim,

And Fashion, sent the varying Sex to Him:

From this, Contention in the Village rose;

And _these_, the Dame espous’d; the Doctor _those_:

The wealthier Part, to Him and Science went;

With Luck and _Leah_ the Poor remain’d content.

The Matron sigh’d; for she was vex’d at heart,

With so much Profit, so much Fame to part;--

“So long successful in my Art,” she cried,

“And this proud Man, so young and so untried!”

“Nay, but,” he said, “and dare you trust your Wives,

“The Joy, the Pride, the Solace of your Lives,

“To One who acts and knows no Reason why,

“But trusts, poor Hag!, to Luck for an Ally?--

“Who, on Experience, can her Claims advance,

“And own the Powers of Accident and Chance?

“A whining Dame, who prays in Danger’s view,

“(A Proof she knows not, what beside to do;)

“What’s her Experience? In the Time that’s gone,

“Blundering she wrought and still she blunders on:--

“And what is Nature? One who acts in aid

“Of Gossips half asleep, and half afraid:

“With such Allies I scorn my Fame to blend,

“Skill is my Luck and Courage is my Friend:

“No Slave to Nature, ’tis my chief delight,

“To win my way and act in her despite:--

“Trust then my Art, that, in itself complete,

“Needs no Assistance and fears no Defeat.”

Warm’d by her well-spic’d Ale and aiding Pipe,

The angry Matron grew for Contest ripe.

“Can you,” she said, “ungrateful and unjust,

“Before Experience, Ostentation trust?

“What is your Hazard, foolish Daughters, tell?

“If safe, you’re certain; if secure, you’re well:

“That I have Luck must Friend and Foe confess,

“And what’s good Judgement but a lucky Guess?

“_He_ boasts but what he _can_ do:--will you run

“From me, your Friend! who all _he_ boasts, _have_ done?

“By proud and learned Words his Powers are known;

“By healthy Boys and handsome Girls my own:

“Wives! Fathers! Children!, by my Help, you live;

“Has this pale Doctor more than Life to give?

“No stunted Cripple hops, the Village round;

“Your Hands are active and your Heads are sound;

“My Lads are all your Fields and Flocks require;

“My Lasses all those sturdy Lads admire:

“Can this proud Leech, with all his boasted Skill,

“Amend the Soul or Body, Wit or Will?

“Does he, for Courts the Sons of Farmers frame,

“Or make the Daughter differ from the Dame?

“Or, whom he brings into this World of Woe,

“Prepares he them their Part to undergo?

“If not, this Stranger from your Doors repel,

“And be content to _be_ and to be _well_.”

She spake: but, ah! with Words too strong and plain;

Her Warmth offended and her Truth was vain.

The _many_ left her and the friendly _few_,

If never colder, yet they older grew;

Till, unemploy’d, she felt her Spirits droop,

And took, insidious Aid!, th’ inspiring Cup;

Grew poor and peevish as her Powers decay’d,

And propp’d the tottering Frame with stronger Aid,--

Then died!--I saw our careful Swains convey,

From this our changeful World the Matron’s Clay,

Who to this World, at least, with equal Care,

Brought them its Changes, Good and Ill to share.

Now to his Grave, was _Roger Cuff_ convey’d,

And strong Resentment’s lingering Spirit laid.

Shipwreck’d in Youth, he home return’d and found,

His Brethren three,--and thrice they wish’d him drown’d.

“Is this a Landman’s Love? Be certain then,

“We part for ever!”--and they cried, ‘Amen!’

His Words were Truth’s:--Some forty Summers fled,

His Brethren died; his Kin suppos’d him dead:

Three Nephews these, one sprightly Niece, and one,

Less near in Blood; they call’d him _surly John_;

He work’d in Woods apart from all his Kind,

Fierce were his Looks and moody was his Mind.

For Home, the _Sailor_ now began to sigh;--

“The Dogs are dead and I’ll return and die;

“When all I have, my Gains, in Years of Care,

“The younger _Cuffs_ with kinder Souls shall share;--

“Yet hold! I’m rich;--with one consent they’ll say,

“‘You’re welcome, Uncle, as the Flowers in May.’

“No; I’ll disguise me, be in Tatters dress’d,

“And best befriend the Lads who treat me best.”

Now all his Kindred,--neither rich nor poor,

Kept the Wolf Want some distance from the Door.

In piteous plight he knock’d at _George_’s Gate,

And begg’d for Aid, as he describ’d his State:--

But stern was _George_:--‘Let them who had thee Strong,

‘Help thee to drag thy weaken’d Frame along;

‘To us a Stranger, while your Limbs would move;

‘From us depart and try a Stranger’s Love:”--

‘Ha! do’st thou murmur?’--for, in _Roger_’s throat,

Was “_Rascal!_” rising with disdainful note.

To pious _James_ he then his Prayer address’d;--

‘Good-lack,’ quoth _James_, ‘thy Sorrows pierce my breast;

‘And, had I Wealth, as have my Brethren twain,

‘One Board should feed us and one Roof contain:

‘But plead I will thy Cause and I will pray:

‘And so farewell! Heaven help thee on thy Way!’

“Scoundrel!” said _Roger_, (but apart);--and told

His Case to _Peter_;--_Peter_ too was cold:--

‘The Rates are high; we have a-many Poor;

‘But I will think,----’ he said, and shut the Door.

Then the gay _Niece_, the seeming Pauper press’d;--

“Turn, _Nancy_, turn, and view this Form distrest;

“Akin to thine is this declining Frame,

“And this poor Beggar claims an _Uncle_’s Name.”

‘Avaunt! begone! (the courteous Maiden said,)

‘Thou vile Impostor! Uncle _Roger_’s dead;

‘I hate thee. Beast! thy Look, my spirit shocks;

‘Oh! that I saw thee starving in the Stocks!’

“My gentle Niece!” he said;--and sought the Wood.--

“I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me Food!”

‘Give! am I rich? This Hatchet take and try

‘Thy proper Strength, nor give those Limbs the lie;

‘Work, feed thyself, to thine own Powers appeal,

‘Nor whine out Woes, thine own Right-hand can heal:

‘And while that Hand is thine and thine a Leg,

‘Scorn, of the Proud or of the Base to beg.’

“Come, surly _John_, thy wealthy Kinsman view;”

(Old _Roger_ said:)--“thy Words are brave and true;

“Come, live with me; we’ll vex those Scoundrel-Boys:

“And that prim Shrew shall, envying, hear our Joys.”--

“Tobacco’s glorious Fume, all Day we’ll share,

“With Beef and Brandy kill all kinds of Care,

“We’ll Beer and Biscuit on our Table heap,

“And rail at Rascals, till we fall asleep.”

Such was their Life: but when the Woodman died,

His grieving Kin for _Roger_’s Smiles applied;--

In vain; he shut, with stern Rebuke, the Door,

And dying, built a Refuge for the Poor;

With this Restriction, That no _Cuff_ should share

One Meal or shelter for one Moment there.

My Record ends:--But hark! ev’n now I hear

The Bell of Death and know not whose to fear:

Our Farmers all and all our Hinds were well;

In no Man’s Cottage, Danger seem’d to dwell:--

Yet Death of Man proclaim these heavy Chimes,

For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times.

“Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose Days are sped?”----

“What! he, himself!--and is old _Dibble_ dead?”

His Eightieth Year he reach’d, still undecay’d,

And Rectors five to one close Vault convey’d:--

But he is gone; his Care and Skill I lose,

And gain a mournful Subject for my Muse:

His Masters lost, he’d oft in turn deplore,

And kindly add,--‘Heaven grant, I lose no more!’

Yet while he spake, a sly and pleasant Glance

Appear’d at variance with his Complaisance:

For, as he told their Fate and varying Worth,

He archly look’d,--‘I yet may bear thee forth.’

“When first”--(he so began)--“my Trade I ply’d,

“Good Master _Addle_ was the Parish-Guide;

“His Clerk and Sexton, I beheld with fear

“His Stride majestic and his Frown severe;

“A noble Pillar of the Church he stood,

“Adorn’d with College-gown and Parish-hood;

“Then, as he pac’d the hallow’d Aisles about,

“He fill’d the sevenfold Surplice fairly out:

“But in his Pulpit wearied down with Prayer,

“He sat and seem’d as in his Study’s Chair;

“For while the Anthem swell’d and when it ceas’d,

“Th’ expecting People view’d their slumbering Priest;--

“Who dozing, died.---- Our Parson _Peele_ was next;

“‘_I_ will not spare you,’ was his favourite Text:

“Nor did he spare, but rais’d them many a Pound;

“Ev’n me he mulct for my poor Rood of Ground;

“Yet car’d he nought, but with a gibing Speech,

“‘What should I do,’ quoth he, ‘but what _I_ preach?’

“His piercing Jokes (and he’d a plenteous store)

“Were daily offer’d both to Rich and Poor;

“His Scorn, his Love, in playful Words he spoke:

“His Pity, Praise, and Promise, were a Joke:

“But though so young and blest with spirits high,

“He died as grave as any Judge could die:

“The strong Attack subdu’d his lively Powers,--

“His was the Grave and Doctor _Grandspear_ ours.”

“Then were there golden Times the Village round;

“In his Abundance all appear’d t’ abound;

“Liberal and rich, a plenteous Board he spread,

“Ev’n cool Dissenters at his Table fed;

“Who wish’d,--and hop’d,--and thought a Man so kind,

“A Way to Heaven, though not their own, might find;

“To them, to all, he was polite and free,

“Kind to the Poor, and, ah! most kind to me:--

“‘_Ralph_,’ would he say, ‘_Ralph Dibble_, thou art old;

“‘That Doublet fit, ’twill keep thee from the Cold:

“‘How does my Sexton?--What! the Times are hard;

“‘Drive that stout Pig and pen him in thy Yard.’

“But most, his Reverence lov’d a mirthful Jest;--

“‘Thy Coat is thin; why, Man, thou’rt _barely_ drest;

“‘It’s worn to th’ Thread! but I have nappy Beer;

“‘Clap that within and see how they will wear.’

“Gay Days were these; but they were quickly past:

“When first he came, we found he cou’dn’t last:

“An whoreson Cough (and at the Fall of Leaf)

“Upset him quite:--but what’s the Gain of Grief?

“Then came the _Author-Rector_; his Delight

“Was all in Books; to read them, or to write:

“Women and Men, he strove alike to shun,

“And hurried homeward, when his Tasks were done;

“Courteous enough, but careless what he said,

“For Points of Learning he reserv’d his Head;

“And when addressing either Poor or Rich,

“He knew no better than his Cassock which:

“He, like an Osier, was of pliant kind,

“Erect by Nature, but to bend inclin’d;

“Not like a Creeper falling to the ground,

“Or meanly catching on the Neighbours round;--

“Careless was he of Surplice, Hood, and Band,--

“And kindly took them as they came to hand;

“Nor, like the Doctor, wore a World of Hat,

“As if he sought for Dignity in that:

“He talk’d, he gave, but not with cautious Rules:

“Nor turn’d from Gypsies, Vagabonds, or Fools;

“It was his Nature, but they thought it Whim,

“And so our Beaux and Beauties turn’d from him:

“Of Questions, much he wrote, profound and dark,--

“How spake the Serpent, and where stopp’d the Ark;

“From what far Land the Queen of Sheba came;

“Who Salem’s Priest and what his Father’s Name;

“He made the Song of Songs its Mysteries yield,

“And Revelations to the Word, reveal’d.

“He sleeps i’ the Aisle,--but not a Stone records

“His Name or Fame, his Actions or his Words:----

“And truth, your Reverence, when I look around,

“And mark the Tombs in our Sepulchral Ground,

“(Though dare I not of one Man’s Hope to doubt,)

“I’d join the Party who repose without.

“Next came a _Youth_ from _Cambridge_, and, in truth,

“He was a sober and a comely Youth;

“He blush’d in Meekness as a modest Man,

“And gain’d Attention ere his Task began;

“When preaching, seldom ventur’d on Reproof,

“But touch’d his Neighbours tenderly enough.

“Him, in his youth, a clamorous Sect assail’d,

“Advis’d and censur’d, flatter’d,--and prevail’d.--

“Then did he much his sober Hearers vex,

“Confound the Simple and the Sad perplex;

“To a new Style his Reverence rashly took;

“Loud grew his Voice, to Threat’ning swell’d his Look;

“Above, below, on either side, he gaz’d,

“Amazing all and most himself amaz’d:

“No more he read his Preachments pure and plain,

“But launch’d outright and rose and sank again:

“At times he smil’d in Scorn, at times he wept, }

“And such sad Coil with Words of Vengeance kept,}

“That our best Sleepers started as they slept. }

“‘Conviction comes like Lightning,’ he would cry;

“‘In vain you seek it and in vain you fly;

“‘’Tis like the rushing of the mighty Wind,

“‘Unseen its Progress, but its Power you find;

“‘It strikes the Child ere yet its Reason wakes;

“‘His Reason fled, the antient Sire it shakes;

“‘The proud, learn’d Man, and him who loves to know

“‘How and from whence these Gusts of Grace will blow,

“‘It shuns,--but Sinners in their Way impedes,

“‘And Sots and Harlots visits in their Deeds;

“‘Of Faith and Penance it supplies the place; }

“‘Assures the vilest that they live by Grace, }

“‘And, without running, makes them win the Race.’}

“Such was the Doctrine our young Prophet taught;

“And here Conviction, there Confusion wrought:

“When his thin Cheek assum’d a deadly Hue,

“And all the Rose to one small Spot withdrew:

“They call’d it hectic; ’twas a fiery Flush,

“More fix’d and deeper than the maiden Blush;

“His paler Lips the pearly Teeth disclos’d,

“And lab’ring Lungs the length’ning Speech oppos’d.

“No more his span-girth Shanks and quiv’ring Thighs,

“Upheld a Body of the smaller Size;

“But down he sank upon his Dying-Bed,

“And gloomy Crotchets fill’d his wandering Head.--

“‘Spite of my Faith, all-saving Faith, he cried,

“‘I fear of worldly works, the wicked Pride;

“‘Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind,

“‘The good I’ve wrought still rankles in my Mind;

“‘My Alms-deeds all and every Deed I’ve done,

“‘My Moral-rags defile me every one;

“‘It should not be:--what say’st thou? tell me, Ralph.’

“Quoth I, ‘Your Reverence, I believe, you’re safe;

“‘Your Faith’s your Prop, nor have you pass’d such Time,

“‘In Life’s Good-works as swell them to a Crime.--

“‘If I of Pardon for my Sins were sure,

“‘About my Goodness I would rest secure.’

“Such was his End; and mine approaches fast;

“I’ve seen my best of Preachers,--and my last.”--

He bow’d, and archly smil’d at what he said,

Civil but sly:---- ‘And is old _Dibble_ dead?’

Yes! he is gone: and WE are going all;

Like Flowers we wither and like Leaves we fall:--

Here, with an Infant, joyful Sponsors come,

Then bear the new-made Christian to its Home:

A few short Years and we behold him stand

To ask a Blessing, with his Bride in hand:

A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear

His Widow weeping at her Husband’s Bier:--

Thus, as the Months succeed, shall Infants take

Their Names, while Parents them and us forsake;

Thus Brides again and Bridegrooms blithe shall kneel,

By Love or Law compell’d their Vows to seal,

Ere I again or one like me, explore

These simple Annals of the VILLAGE POOR.

[Illustration: text decoration]

THE

LIBRARY:

A Poem.

ARGUMENT.

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

antient 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.--Antient 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.

THE

LIBRARY.

When the sad Soul, by Care and Grief opprest,

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;

For when the Soul is labouring in Despair,

In vain the Body breathes a purer Air:

No storm-tost Sailor sighs for slumbering Seas,

He dreads the Tempest, but invokes the Breeze;

On the smooth Mirror of the Deep resides}

Reflected Woe, 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,

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,

And anxious searches for congenial Cares;

Those lenient Cares, which, with our own combin’d, }

By mixt 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 ev’n 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?

This, Books can do;--nor this alone; they give

New Views to Life and teach us how to live;

They soothe the Griev’d, 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 shew to Subjects, what they shew to Kings.

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 deceas’d 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 controul

The Cronic Habits of the sickly Soul;

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 compos’d this silent Multitude:--

Silent they are, but, though depriv’d of Sound,

Here all the living Languages abound;

Here all that live no more; preserv’d they lie,

In Tombs that open to the curious Eye.

Blest be the gracious Power, who taught Mankind,

To stamp a lasting Image of the Mind!--

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,

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 nurst through many an anxious day,

Shall all our Labour, all our Cares repay.

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:--

Here come the Griev’d, 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’.

Hail, then, Immortals! ye who shine above,

Each in his Sphere, the literary Jove;

And ye the common People of these Skies,

An 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;

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 Folio’s first, a lordly Band;

Then Quarto’s their well-order’d Ranks maintain,

And light Octavo’s fill a spacious Plain;

See yonder, rang’d in more frequented Rows,

An humbler Band of Duodecimo’s;

While undistinguish’d Trifles swell the Scene,

The last new Play and fritter’d Magazine:

Thus ’tis in Life, where first the Proud, the Great,

In leagu’d Assembly keep their cumbrous State;

Heavy and huge, they fill the World with dread,

Are much admir’d and are but little read:

The Commons next, a middle Rank are found;

Professions fruitful pour their Offspring round;

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-prest Leaves, unclos’d 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:

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,

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,

Poëtic Friends prefix’d each kind Address;

Princes and Kings receiv’d 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.

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[11];

Safe in themselves, the once-lov’d Works remain;

No Readers now invade their still Retreat,

None try to steal them from their Parent-seat;

Like antient 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;

Page after Page, the much-enduring Men

Explor’d, 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 prov’d 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;

Bibles with Cuts and Comments, thus go down;

Ev’n 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, Abridgements, 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 expos’d to view,

And half our Judges are our Rivals too.

Amid these Works, on which the eager Eye

Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by;

When all combin’d, their decent Pomp display,

Where shall we first our early Off’ring 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 griev’d, to pray; when injur’d, to forgive;

And with the World in Charity to live.

Not Truths like these, inspir’d that numerous Race,

Whose pious Labours fill this ample Space;

But Questions nice, where Doubt on Doubt arose,

Awak’d 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 inflam’d a sinful World.--

Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,

With Wit disgusting and despis’d without;

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 prey, they fight, they murder, and they weep,

Wolves in their Vengeance, in their Manners Sheep.

Too well they act the Prophet’s fatal Part,

Denouncing Evil with a zealous Heart;

And each, like Jonas, is displeas’d 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;

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 fir’d,

Are for the Church’s peace, to rest retir’d;

And close beside, a mystic, maudlin Race,

Lie, “Crumbs of Comfort, for the Babes of Grace.”

Against her Foes, Religion well defends

Her sacred Truths, but often fears her Friends;

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 blest 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 shews her Face,

Few sparks of Genius and no spark of Grace;

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;

Insulted Reason fled the grov’ling Soul,

For Fear to guide and Visions to controul:

But now, when Reason has assum’d 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?

Next to the Seats, well stor’d 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:--

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.

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 her’s, 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 describ’d, the torpid Earth appears,

And next, the Vegetable-robe it wears;

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;

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 endu’d

With Knowledge;--Man, poor, ignorant, and rude;

Then, as his State improves, their Pages swell,

And all its Cares and all its Comforts, tell:

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, lur’d by Vice, indulge the low desire;

Whilst others, won by either, now pursue

The guilty Chace, now keep the good in view;

For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,

They lead a puzzled, vext, uncertain Life;

For, transient Vice bequeaths a lingering Pain,

Which transient Virtue seeks to cure in vain.

Whilst thus engag’d, high Views enlarge the Soul,

New Interests draw, new Principles controul;

Nor thus the Soul alone resigns her Grief,

But here the tortur’d Body finds Relief;

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,

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:

_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,

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,

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 subtle 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;

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 Dæmons 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 indulg’d in Song;

Ye first Seducers of my easy Heart,

Who promis’d Knowledge, ye could not impart;

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,

Subtle 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,

And gilds yon Columns, there on either side,

The huge Abridgements 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 mixt with Error, oft with Evil too;

Skill’d in Deceit, and practis’d 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.

“Ah! happy Age,” the youthful Poet sings,

“When the free Nations knew not Laws nor Kings;

When all were blest 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.

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 controul;

A Slave, with Slaves his Monarch’s Throne he rais’d,

And in rude Song his ruder Idol prais’d;

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 Red 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 controul, and these to succour Trade;

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 plac’d on ev’ry side;

Whene’er it breaks the Bounds by these decreed,

New Statutes rise, and stronger Laws succeed;

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;

Primæval 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;

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 plac’d 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!

Satiate with Power, of Fame and Wealth possest,

A Nation grows too glorious to be blest;

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.

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;

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.

Yet well the Muse pourtrays 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;

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 tho’ 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:

Forbid it Shame, forbid it decent Awe,

What seems so grave, should no Attention draw!

Come, let us then with reverend 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, Dæmons, dance before our eyes;

Lo! Magic Verse inscrib’d 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_ with-hold;

“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:--

Dukes, Lords, and Knights in long procession move,

Releas’d 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.

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;

Ev’n the last lingering Fiction of the Brain,

The church-yard Ghost, is now at rest again:

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 enraptur’d on the Dragon’s Wing?

No, ’tis the infant Mind, to Care unknown,

That makes th’ imagin’d Paradise its own;

Soon as Reflections in the Bosom rise,

Light Slumbers vanish from the clouded Eyes:

The Tear and Smile, that once together rose,

Are then divorc’d; 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 fancy’d Empire vain,

With various Thoughts my Mind I entertain;

While Books my Slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,

Pleas’d with the Pride that will not let them please;

Sudden I find terrific Thoughts arise,

And sympathetic Sorrow fills my Eyes;

For, lo! while yet my Heart admits the Wound,

I see the CRITIC Army rang’d 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 paus’d and doubted, and then, tir’d of doubt,

With rage as sudden dash’d the Stanza out;--

If, after fearing much and pausing long,

Ye ventur’d on the World your labour’d Song,

And from the crusty Critics of those Days,

Implor’d the feeble Tribute of their Praise;

Remember now, the Fears that mov’d 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:

Strangers they come, amid a world of Woe,

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 condens’d they seem,

Exhal’d in Summer from the rushy Stream;

Like flowing Robes they now appear, and twine

Round the large Members of a Form divine;

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}

The Wise from Woe, 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, inspir’d by loftier Views,

Life’s little Cares and little Pains refuse?

Shall he not rather feel a double Share

Of mortal Woe, 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;

And lock’d within his Bosom, bears about

A mental Charm for every Care, without.

Ev’n in the Pangs of each domestic Grief,

Or Health or vigorous Hope affords Relief;

And every Wound the tortur’d Bosom feels,

Or Virtue bears, or some Preserver heals;

Some generous Friend, of ample Power possest;

Some feeling Heart, that bleeds for the distrest;

Some Breast that glows with Virtues all divine;

Some noble RUTLAND, Misery’s Friend and thine.

“Nor say, the Muses’ Song, the Poet’s Pen,

Merit the Scorn they meet from little men.

With cautious freedom if the Numbers flow,

Not wildly high, not pitifully low;

If Vice alone their honest Aims oppose,

Why so asham’d 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

The airy Dreams; the World is dreaming too.

Ambition’s lofty Views, the Pomp of State,

The Pride of Wealth, the Splendour of the Great,

Stript 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 World below:

Then, as they break, the Slaves of Care reprove,

And tell them, Such are all the Toys they love.”

[Illustration: text decoration]

THE

NEWSPAPER:

A Poem.

ARGUMENT.

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.

THE

NEWSPAPER.

E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures,

Hi narrata ferunt aliò; mensuráque ficti

Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:

Illìc credulitas, illìc temerarius error,

Vanáque lætitia est, consternatique timores,

Seditióque repens, dubióque auctore susurri.

OVID. Metamorph. Lib. xii.

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;

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 blest 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 enthron’d and _Settle_ read.

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, unblest, the virgin Copies wait,

In vain for Fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.

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;

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 thro’ gaping Streets;

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.

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.

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-liv’d 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;

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 retir’d, thro’ 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:

This Day at least, on nobler Themes bestow,

Nor give to _Woodfall_, or the World below.

But, Sunday past, 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[12],

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;

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;

Inspir’d by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,

And thro’ the Town their Dreams and Omens fly:

So the Sibylline[13] Leaves were blown about,

Disjointed scraps of Fate involv’d 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;

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;

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!

With Clews like these they tread the Maze of State,

These Oracles explore, to learn our Fate;

Pleas’d 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.

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:

Indited Roads and Rates that still increase;

The murmuring Poor, who will not fast in peace;

Election-zeal and Friendship, since declin’d;

A Tax commuted, or a Tithe in Kind;

The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife,

Dull Port and Poachers vile! the serious Ills of Life.

Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleas’d 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.