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 bless'd the bards of that poetic time,

When all found readers who could find a rhyme;

Green grew the bays on every teeming head,

And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read.

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,

I sing of News, and all those vapid sheets

The rattling hawker vends through 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.

But, Sunday pass'd, what numbers flourish then,

What wond'rous labours of the press and pen!

Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords,

Some only once—O avarice of words!

When thousand starving minds such manna seek[18],

To drop the precious food but once a week.

Endless it were to sing the powers of all,

Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall:

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,

Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose

A cause and party, as the bard his muse;

Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,

And through the town their dreams and omens fly:

So the Sibylline leaves were blown about[19],

Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt;

So idle dreams, the journals of the night,

Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with right.

Some champions for the rights that prop the crown,

Some sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down;

Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught,

Wishing for war, but willing to be bought:

While some to every side and party go,

Shift every friend, and join with every foe;

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,

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:

[Indicted] roads and rates that still increase;

The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace;

Election-zeal and friendship, since declined;

A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind;

The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife;

Dull port and poachers vile, the serious ills of life.

Here comes the neighbouring justice, pleased to guide

His little club, and in the chair preside.

In private business his commands prevail,

On public themes his reasoning turns the scale;

Assenting silence soothes his happy ear,

And, in or out, his party triumphs here.

Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops,

But flits along from palaces to shops;

Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,

And spread their plague and influenzas round;

The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant plain,

Breeds the Whig-farmer and the Tory-swain;

Brookes' and St. Alban's boasts not, but, instead,

Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney's Head:—

Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he

Who owns the little hut that makes him free;

Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile

Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye trust;

So wise their counsel, their reports so just:—

Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure,

Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure;

Merit they have, to mightier works unknown,

A style, a manner, and a fate their own.

We, who for longer fame with labour strive,

Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive;

Studious we toil, with patient care refine,

Nor let our love protect one languid line.

Severe ourselves, at last our works appear,

When, ah! we find our readers more severe;

For after all our care and pains, how few

Acquire applause, or keep it if they do!—

Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate,

Praised through their day, and but that day their date;

Next, in what rare production shall we trace

Such various subjects in so small a space?

As the first ship upon the waters bore

Incongruous kinds who never met before;

Or as some curious virtuoso joins,

In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins,

Birds, beasts, and fishes; nor refuses place

To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race:

So here, compress'd within a single sheet,

Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet:

'Tis this which makes all Europe's business known,

Yet here a private man may place his own;

And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, he

May tell their honours that he sells rappee.

Add next th' amusement which the motley page

Affords to either sex and every age:

Lo! where it comes before the cheerful fire—

Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire

(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew),

Ere we can read the wonders that ensue:

Then, eager, every eye surveys the part,

So charm the News; but we, who, far from town,

Wait till the postman brings the packet down,

Once in the week a vacant day behold,

And stay for tidings, till they're three days old:

That day arrives; no welcome post appears,

But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears;

We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,

To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;

Sullen, we ponder o'er a dull repast,

Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.

A master-passion is the love of news,

Not music so commands, nor so the Muse:

Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;

Feed the musician, and he's out of tune;

But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd,

Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest.

Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose

These rival sheets of politics and prose.

First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw,

A mutual theft that never fear'd a law;

Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall,

And read it once, you read it through them all:

For this their runners ramble day and night,

To drag each lurking deed to open light;

For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,

Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie.

Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring—

No anxious virgin flies to "fair Tweed-side";

No injured husband mourns his faithless bride;

No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed,

But through the town transpires each vent'rous deed.

Should some fair frail-one drive her prancing pair,

Where rival peers contend to please the fair;

When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,

And beauty decks with all that beauty buys—

Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,

Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels.

To these a thousand idle themes succeed,

Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed.

Here stocks, the state-barometers, we view,

That rise or fall, by causes known to few;

Promotion's ladder who goes up or down;

Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town;

What new-born heir has made his father blest;

What heir exults, his father now at rest;

That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives,

And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives.

So grows the work, and now the printer tries

His powers no more, but leans on his allies.

When, lo! the advertising tribe succeed,

Pay to be read, yet find but few will read;

And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pills

Have patent powers to vanquish human ills:

These, with their cures, a constant aid remain,

To bless the pale composer's fertile brain;

Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil

Requires some pause, some intervals from toil;

And they at least a certain ease obtain

From Katterfelto's skill, and Graham's glowing strain.

I too must aid, and pay to see my name

Such help the STAGE affords; a larger space

Is fill'd by PUFFS and all the puffing race.

Physic had once alone the lofty style,

The well-known boast, that ceased to raise a smile;

Now all the province of that tribe invade,

And we abound in quacks of every trade.

The simple barber, once an honest name—

Cervantes founded, Fielding raised his fame—

Barber no more, a gay perfumer comes,

On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms;

Here he appears, each simple mind to move,

And advertises beauty, grace, and love.

—"Come, faded belles, who would your youth renew,

And learn the wonders of Olympian dew;

Restore the roses that begin to faint,

These Roman souls, like Rome's great sons, are known

To live in cells on labours of their own.

Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief,

Feeds, for his country's good, on legs of beef;

Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay,

Yet fights the public battles twice a day;

E'en now the godlike Brutus views his score

Scroll'd on the bar-board, swinging with the door;

Where, tippling punch, grave Cato's self you'll see,

And Amor PatriÆ vending smuggled tea.

Last in these ranks and least, their art's disgrace,

Neglected stand the Muse's meanest race:

Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye

Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by:

This Poet's Corner is the place they choose,

A fatal nursery for an infant Muse;

Unlike that corner where true poets lie,

These cannot live, and they shall never die;

Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade,

And win to verse the talents due to trade.

Curb, then, O youth! these raptures as they rise;

Keep down the evil spirit and be wise;

Follow your calling, think the Muses foes,

Nor lean upon the pestle and compose.

I know your day-dreams, and I know the snare

Go! to your desks and counters all return;

Your sonnets scatter, your acrostics burn;

Trade, and be rich; or, should your careful sires

Bequeath you wealth, indulge the nobler fires;

}

Should love of fame your youthful heart betray,

}

Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way,

}

Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray.

Of all the good that mortal men pursue,

The Muse has least to give, and gives to few;

Like some coquettish fair, she leads us on,

With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are gone;

Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pair

Forget how constant one, and one how fair:

Meanwhile, Ambition, like a blooming bride,

Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side;

And, though she smiles not with such flattering charms,

The brave will sooner win her to their arms.

Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the bands,

Go spread your country's fame in hostile lands;

Her court, her senate, or her arms adorn,

The year revolves, and I again explore

The simple annals of my parish poor:

What infant-members in my flock appear;

What pairs I bless'd in the departed year;

And who, of old or young, or nymphs or swains,

Are lost to life, its pleasures and its pains.

No Muse I ask, before my view to bring

The humble actions of the swains I sing—

How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days;

Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise;

Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts;

What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their parts;

By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd,

Full well I know—these records give the rest.

With evil omen we that year begin:

A Child of Shame—stern Justice adds, of Sin—

Is first recorded; I would hide the deed,

But vain the wish; I sigh and I proceed:

And could I well th' instructive truth convey,

'Twould warn the giddy and awake the gay.

Of all the nymphs who gave our village grace,

The Miller's daughter had the fairest face.

Proud was the Miller; money was his pride;

He rode to market, as our farmers ride;

And 'twas his boast, inspired by spirits, there,

His favourite Lucy should be rich as fair;

But she must meek and still obedient prove,

And not presume, without his leave, to love.

Next, with their boy, a decent couple came,

And call'd him Robert, 'twas his father's name;

Three girls preceded, all by time endear'd,

And future births were neither hoped nor fear'd.

Bless'd in each other, but to no excess,

Health, quiet, comfort, form'd their happiness;

Twin-infants then appear: a girl, a boy,

Th' o'erflowing cup of Gerard Ablett's joy.

One had I named in every year that pass'd

Since Gerard wed, and twins behold at last!

Well pleased, the bridegroom smiled to hear—"A vine

Fruitful and spreading round the walls be thine,

And branch-like be thine offspring!"—Gerard then

Look'd joyful love, and softly said, "Amen."

Now of that vine he'd have no more increase,

Those playful branches now disturb his peace:

Them he beholds around his table spread,

But finds, the more the branch, the less the bread;

And while they run his humble walls about,

They keep the sunshine of good-humour out.

Cease, man, to grieve! thy master's lot survey,

Whom wife and children, thou and thine, obey;

A farmer proud beyond a farmer's pride,

Of all around the envy or the guide;

"Ah!" quoth our village Grocer, rich and old,

"Would I might one such cause for care behold!"

To whom his Friend, "Mine greater bliss would be,

Would Heav'n take those my spouse assigns to me."

Aged were both, that Dawkins, Ditchem this,

Who much of marriage thought, and much amiss;

Both would delay, the one, till, riches gain'd,

The son he wish'd might be to honour train'd;

His Friend—lest fierce intruding heirs should come,

To waste his hoard and vex his quiet home.

Dawkins, a dealer once on burthen'd back

Bore his whole substance in a pedler's pack;

To dames discreet, the duties yet unpaid,

His stores of lace and hyson he convey'd.

When thus enrich'd, he chose at home to stop,

Then with their infants three, the parents came,

And each assign'd—'twas all they had—a name:

Names of no mark or price; of them not one

Shall court our view on the sepulchral stone,

Or stop the clerk, th' engraven scrolls to spell,

Or keep the sexton from the sermon bell.

An orphan-girl succeeds; ere she was born

Her father died, her mother on that morn;

The pious mistress of the school sustains

Her parents' part, nor their affection feigns,

But pitying feels; with due respect and joy,

I trace the matron at her loved employ.

}

What time the striplings, wearied e'en with play,

}

Part at the closing of the summer's day,

}

And each by different path returns the well-known way—

Then I behold her at her cottage-door,

Frugal of light, her Bible laid before,

When on her double duty she proceeds,

Of time as frugal, knitting as she reads.

Pride lives with all; strange names our rustics give

To helpless infants, that their own may live;

Pleased to be known, they'll some attention claim,

And find some by-way to the house of fame.

The straightest furrow lifts the ploughman's art;

The hat he gain'd has warmth for head and heart;

The bowl that beats the greater number down

Of tottering nine-pins, gives to fame the clown;

Last in my list, five untaught lads appear;

Their father dead, compassion sent them here—

For still that rustic infidel denied

To have their names with solemn rite applied.

His, a lone house, by Deadman's Dyke-way stood;

And his, a nightly haunt, in Lonely-wood.

Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast,

That he believed in neither God nor ghost;

That, when the sod upon the sinner press'd,

He, like the saint, had everlasting rest;

That never priest believed his doctrines true,

But would, for profit, own himself a Jew,

Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen do;

These have we named; on life's rough sea they sail,

With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale!

Where passion soon, like powerful winds, will rage,

And prudence, wearied, with their strength engage.

Then each, in aid, shall some companion ask,

For help or comfort in the tedious task;

And what that help—what joys from union flow,

What good or ill, we next prepare to show;

And row, meantime, our weary bark ashore,

As Spenser his—but not with Spenser's oar[21].

"Disposed to wed, e'en while you hasten, stay;

There's great advantage in a small delay:"—

Thus Ovid sang, and much the wise approve

This prudent maxim of the priest of Love.

If poor, delay for future want prepares,

And eases humble life of half its cares;

If rich, delay shall brace the thoughtful mind,

T' endure the ills that e'en the happiest find:

Delay shall knowledge yield on either part,

And show the value of the vanquished heart;

The humours, passions, merits, failings prove,

And gently raise the veil that's worn by Love;

Love, that impatient guide—too proud to think

Of vulgar wants, of clothing, meat and drink—

Urges our amorous swains their joys to seize,

And then, at rags and hunger frighten'd, flees.—

Yet not too long in cold debate remain:

Till age, refrain not—but if old, refrain.

For this, blithe Donald southward made his way,

And left the lasses on the banks of Tay;

Him to a neighbouring garden fortune sent,

Whom we beheld, aspiringly content:

Patient and mild, he sought the dame to please,

Who ruled the kitchen and who bore the keys.

Fair Lucy first, the laundry's grace and pride,

With smiles and gracious looks, her fortune tried;

But all in vain she praised his "pawky eyne,"

Where never fondness was for Lucy seen:

Him the mild Susan, boast of dairies, loved,

And found him civil, cautious, and unmoved:

From many a fragrant simple, Catharine's skill

Drew oil and essence from the boiling still;

Next at our altar stood a luckless pair,

Brought by strong passions and a warrant there;

By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the bride,

From ev'ry eye what all perceived to hide;

While the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his pace,

Now hid awhile and then exposed his face;

As shame alternately with anger strove

The brain confused with muddy ale to move.

In haste and stammering he perform'd his part,

And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart;

(So will each lover inly curse his fate,

Too soon made happy and made wise too late;)

I saw his features take a savage gloom,

And deeply threaten for the days to come.

Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the while,

Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile;

With soften'd speech and humbled tone she strove

To stir the embers of departed love:

While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before,

Felt the poor purse and sought the public door,

She, sadly following, in submission went,

And saw the final shilling foully spent;

Then to her father's hut the pair withdrew,

And bade to love and comfort long adieu!

Ah! fly temptation, youth, refrain! refrain!

I preach for ever; but I preach in vain!

Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas Fair,

The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there,

When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green,

In haste to see and happy to be seen:

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black,

And torn green gown loose hanging at her back,

One who an infant in her arms sustains,

And seems in patience striving with her pains;

Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread,

Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled;

Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,

And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;

Serene her manner, till some sudden pain

Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again.—

Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,

And every step with cautious terror makes;

For not alone that infant in her arms,

But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.

With water burthen'd, then she picks her way,

Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;

Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound,

And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground;

Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,

While hope the mind, as strength the frame, forsakes:

For, when so full the cup of sorrow grows,

Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.

And now her path, but not her peace, she gains,

Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains;

Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,

But who this child of weakness, want, and care?

'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair;

Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes,

Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies.

Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart,

For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart:

And then his prayers! they would a savage move,

And win the coldest of the sex to love.

But ah! too soon his looks success declared,

Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired;

The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot,

A captious tyrant or a noisy sot:

If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd;

If absent, spending what their labours gain'd;

Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,

And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.

Then fly temptation, youth; resist, refrain!

Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!

Next came a well-dress'd pair, who left their coach,

And made, in long procession, slow approach;

For this gay bride had many a female friend,

And youths were there, this favoured youth t' attend.

How fair these names, how much unlike they look

To all the blurr'd subscriptions in my book:

The bridegroom's letters stand in row above.

Tapering yet stout, like pine-trees in his grove;

While free and fine the bride's appear below,

As light and slender as her jasmines grow.

For Lucy Collins happier days had been,

Had Footman Daniel scorn'd his native green;

Or when he came an idle coxcomb down,

Had he his love reserved for lass in town;

To Stephen Hill she then had pledged her truth,—

A sturdy, sober, kind, unpolish'd youth;

But from the day, that fatal day she spied

The pride of Daniel, Daniel was her pride.

}

In all concerns was Stephen just and true;

}

But coarse his doublet was and patch'd in view,

}

And felt his stockings were, and blacker than his shoe;

While Daniel's linen all was fine and fair—

His master wore it, and he deign'd to wear;

(To wear his livery, some respect might prove;

To wear his linen, must be sign of love:)

Now to be wed a well-match'd couple came;

Twice had old Lodge been tied, and twice the dame;

Tottering they came and toying, (odious scene!)

And fond and simple, as they'd always been.

Children from wedlock we by laws restrain;

Why not prevent them, when they're such again?

Why not forbid the doting souls, to prove

Th' indecent fondling of preposterous love?

In spite of prudence, uncontroll'd by shame,

"But ever frowns your Hymen? man and maid,

Are all repenting, suffering, or betray'd?"

Forbid it, Love! we have our couples here

Who hail the day in each revolving year:

These are with us, as in the world around;

They are not frequent, but they may be found.

Our farmers, too; what, though they fail to prove,

In Hymen's bonds, the tenderest slaves of love,

(Nor, like those pairs whom sentiment unites,

Feel they the fervour of the mind's delights:)

Yet, coarsely kind and comfortably gay,

They heap the board and hail the happy day:

And, though the bride, now freed from school, admits

Of pride implanted there some transient fits;

Yet soon she casts her girlish flights aside,

And in substantial blessings rests her pride.

No more she moves in measured steps, no more

Runs, with bewilder'd ear, her music o'er;

No more recites her French the hinds among,

But chides her maidens in her mother-tongue;

Her tambour-frame she leaves and diet spare,

Plain work and plenty with her house to share;

Yet not to those alone who bear command

Heaven gives a heart to hail the marriage band;

Among their servants, we the pairs can show,

Who much to love and more to prudence owe.

Reuben and Rachel, though as fond as doves,

Were yet discreet and cautious in their loves;

Nor would attend to Cupid's wild commands,

Till cool reflection bade them join their hands.

When both were poor, they thought it argued ill

Of hasty love to make them poorer still;

Year after year, with savings long laid by,

They bought the future dwelling's full supply;

Her frugal fancy cull'd the smaller ware,

These are the happier pairs: their life has rest,

Their hopes are strong, their humble portion bless'd;

While those, more rash, to hasty marriage led,

Lament th' impatience which now stints their bread.

When such their union, years their cares increase;

Their love grows colder, and their pleasures cease;

In health just fed, in sickness just relieved;

By hardships harass'd and by children grieved;

In petty quarrels and in peevish strife

The once fond couple waste the spring of life;

But, when to age mature those children grown,

Find hopes and homes and hardships of their own,

The harass'd couple feel their lingering woes

Receding slowly, till they find repose.

Complaints and murmurs then are laid aside,

(By reason these subdued, and those by pride;)

And, taught by care, the patient man and wife

Agree to share the bitter-sweet of life;

(Life that has sorrow much and sorrow's cure,

Where they who most enjoy shall much endure;)

Their rest, their labours, duties, sufferings, prayers,

Compose the soul, and fit it for its cares;

Last on my list appears a match of love,

And one of virtue—happy may it prove!—

Sir Edward Archer is an amorous knight,

And maidens chaste and lovely shun his sight;

His bailiff's daughter suited much his taste,

For Fanny Price was lovely and was chaste;

To her the Knight with gentle looks drew near,

And timid voice assumed, to banish fear.—

"Hope of my life, dear sovereign of my breast,

Which, since I knew thee, knows not joy nor rest;

Know, thou art all that my delighted eyes,

My fondest thoughts, my proudest wishes prize;

And is that bosom—(what on earth so fair!)

To cradle some coarse peasant's sprawling heir?

To be that pillow which some surly swain

May treat with scorn and agonize with pain?

Art thou, sweet maid, a ploughman's wants to share,

To dread his insult, to support his care;

To hear his follies, his contempt to prove,

And (oh! the torment!) to endure his love;

Till want and deep regret those charms destroy,

That time would spare, if time were pass'd in joy?

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, assured to meet, prepared 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!

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, assured 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 seems the 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 spared, it is my full intent

On all the past to ponder and repent:

Wrongs against me I pardon great and small,

With Andrew Collett 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 lived 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 dexterous hand, applied;

Nor from their seats departed, till they found

That butt was out and heard the mournful sound."

He praised a poacher, precious child of fun!

Who shot the keeper with his own spring-gun;

Next died the Widow Goe, an active dame,

Famed 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 ruled, 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.

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 seized the sick'ning boy to Gerard lent[25],

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;

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-closed 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 bat 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 cursed 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 spared the feeble dame;

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 clipp'd in form and tantalized with skill;

Where cockles blanch'd and pebbles neatly spread,

Form'd shining borders for the larkspurs' bed—

There lived a Lady, wise, austere, and nice,

Who show'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 lived in maiden-state immured,

From looks of love and treacherous man secured;

Though evil fame (but that was long before)

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 approved,

Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved.

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 refused with future ill to buy,

Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast

No envy stung, no jealousy 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 removed;

He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.

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,

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, Snowd[o]n's height,

And chides the clouds that intercept the sight;

No curious shell, rare plant, or brilliant spar,

Enticed 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."

Then died lamented, in the strength of life,

A valued Mother and a faithful Wife;

Call'd not away, when time had loosed 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

Loosed 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 terror grew, till every hope was gone;

Still those around appear'd for hope to seek!

But view'd the sick, and were afraid 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;

Of Leah Cousins next the name appears,

With honours crown'd and bless'd with length of years,

Save that she lived 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 paid;

Who in the house of plenty largely fed,

Yet took her station at the pauper's bed;

My record ends:—But hark! e'en now I hear

The bell of death, and know not whose to fear.

Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well;

Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing

The passions all, their bearings and their ties;

Who could in view those shadowy beings bring,

And with bold hand remove each dark disguise,

Wherein love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies:

Guide him to Fairy-land, who now intends

That way his flight; assist him as he flies,

To mark those passions, Virtue's foes and friends,

By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.

Yes! they appear, I see the fairy-train!

And who that modest nymph of meek address?

Not Vanity, though loved by all the vain;

Not Hope, though promising to all success;

Nor Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress;

Thee, sprightly syren, from this train I choose,

Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess;

'Tis not in thy mild nature to refuse,

In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain,

Dwelt, in the house of Care, a sturdy swain;

A hireling he, who, when he till'd the soil,

Look'd to the pittance that repaid his toil;

And to a master left the mingled joy

And anxious care that follow'd his employ.

Sullen and patient he at once appear'd,

As one who murmur'd, yet as one who fear'd;

Th' attire was coarse that clothed his sinewy frame,

Rude his address, and Poverty his name.

In that same plain a nymph, of curious taste,

A cottage (plann'd with all her skill) had placed;

Strange the materials, and for what design'd

The various parts, no simple man might find;

What seem'd the door, each entering guest withstood,

What seem'd a window was but painted wood;

But by a secret spring the wall would move,

And day-light drop through glassy door above.

'Twas all her pride, new traps for praise to lay,

And all her wisdom was to hide her way;

In small attempts incessant were her pains,

And Cunning was her name among the swains.

Now, whether fate decreed this pair should wed,

And blindly drove them to the marriage-bed;

Or whether love in some soft hour inclined

The damsel's heart, and won her to be kind,

Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match'd pair,

But both disposed to wed—and wed they were.

Yet, though united in their fortune, still

Their ways were diverse; varying was their will;

Nor long the maid had bless'd the simple man,

Before dissensions rose, and she began:—

"Oh! vaunt of worthless art," the swain replied,

Scowling contempt, "how pitiful this pride!

What are these specious gifts, these paltry gains,

But base rewards for ignominious pains?

With all thy tricking, still for bread we strive;

Thine is, proud wretch! the care that cannot thrive;

By all thy boasted skill and baffled hooks

Thou gain'st no more than students by their books;

No more than I for my poor deeds am paid,

Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid.

"Call this our need, a bog that all devours—

Then what thy petty arts but summer-flowers,

Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray

The place they make unprofitably gay?

Who know it not, some useless beauties see—

But ah! to prove it, was reserved for me."

Unhappy state! that, in decay of love,

Permits harsh truth his errors to disprove;

While he remains, to wrangle and to jar

Is friendly tournament, not fatal war;

Love in his play will borrow arms of hate,

Anger and rage, upbraiding and debate;

And by his power the desperate weapons thrown,

Become as safe and pleasant as his own;

Time fled, and now the swain compell'd to see

New cause for fear—"Is this thy thrift?" quoth he.

To whom the wife with cheerful voice replied:—

"Thou moody man, lay all thy fears aside,

I've seen a vision;—they, from whom I came,

A daughter promise, promise wealth and fame;

}

Born with my features, with my arts, yet she

}

Shall patient, pliant, persevering be,

}

And in thy better ways resemble thee.

The fairies round shall at her birth attend;

The friend of all in all shall find a friend;

And, save that one sad star that hour must gleam

On our fair child, how glorious were my dream!"

This heard the husband, and, in surly smile,

Aim'd at contempt, but yet he hoped the while:

For as, when sinking, wretched men are found

To catch at rushes rather than be drown'd;

So on a dream our peasant placed his hope,

And found that rush as valid as a rope.

Swift fled the days, for now in hope they fled,

When a fair daughter bless'd the nuptial bed;

Her infant-face the mother's pains beguiled,

She look'd so pleasing, and so softly smiled;

Those smiles, those looks, with sweet sensations moved

The gazer's soul, and, as he look'd, he loved.

And now the fairies came, with gifts, to grace

So mild a nature and so fair a face.

They gave, with beauty, that bewitching art,

That holds in easy chains the human heart;

They gave her skill to win the stubborn mind,

To make the suffering to their sorrows blind,

To bring on pensive looks the pleasing smile,

And Care's stern brow of every frown beguile.

These magic favours graced the infant-maid,

Now Fortune changed, who, were she constant long,

Would leave us few adventures for our song.

A wicked elfin roved this land around,

Whose joys proceeded from the griefs he found;

Envy his name:—his fascinating eye

From the light bosom drew the sudden sigh;

Unsocial he, but with malignant mind,

He dwelt with man, that he might curse mankind;

Like the first foe, he sought th' abode of Joy,

Grieved to behold, but eager to destroy;

Round blooming beauty, like the wasp, he flew,

Soil'd the fresh sweet, and changed the rosy hue;

The wise, the good, with anxious heart, he saw,

And here a failing found, and there a flaw;

Discord in families 'twas his to move,

Distrust in friendship, jealousy in love;

He told the poor, what joys the great possess'd,

The great—what calm content the cottage bless'd;

To part the learned and the rich he tried,

Till their slow friendship perish'd in their pride.

Such was the fiend, and so secure of prey,

That only Misery pass'd unstung away.

Soon as he heard the fairy-babe was born,

Scornful he smiled, but felt no more than scorn;

For why, when Fortune placed her state so low,

In useless spite his lofty malice show?

Why, in a mischief of the meaner kind,

Exhaust the vigour of a ranc'rous mind?

But, soon as Fame the fairy-gifts proclaim'd,

Quick-rising wrath his ready soul inflamed,

To swear, by vows that e'en the wicked tie,

The nymph should weep her varied destiny;

That every gift, that now appear'd to shine

In her fair face, and make her smiles divine,

Should all the poison of his magic prove,

And they should scorn her, whom she sought for love.

He spake and vanish'd, other prey to find,

And waste in slow disease the conquer'd mind.

Awed by the elfin's threats, and fill'd with dread,

The parents wept, and sought their infant's bed:

Despair alone the father's soul possess'd,

But hope rose gently in the mother's breast;

For well she knew that neither grief nor joy

Pain'd without hope, or pleased without alloy;

And while these hopes and fears her heart divide,

A cheerful vision bade the fears subside.

She saw descending to the world below

An ancient form, with solemn pace and slow.

"Daughter, no more be sad," (the phantom cried,)

"Success is seldom to the wise denied;

In idle wishes fools supinely stay—

Be there a will, and wisdom finds a way:

Why art thou grieved? Be rather glad, that he,

The Vision fled; the happy mother rose,

Kiss'd the fair infant, smiled at all her foes,

And Flattery made her name:—her reign began,

Her own dear sex she ruled, then vanquish'd man;

A smiling friend, to every class, she spoke,

Assumed their manners, and their habits took;

Her, for her humble mien, the modest loved;

Her cheerful looks the light and gay approved;

The just beheld her, firm; the valiant, brave;

Her mirth the free, her silence pleased the grave;

Zeal heard her voice, and, as he preach'd aloud,

Well-pleased he caught her whispers from the crowd—

(Those whispers, soothing-sweet to every ear,

Which some refuse to pay, but none to hear);

Shame fled her presence; at her gentle strain,

Care softly smiled, and guilt forgot its pain;

The wretched thought, the happy found her true;

The learn'd confess'd that she their merits knew;

The rich—could they a constant friend condemn?

The poor believed—for who should flatter them?

Thus on her name though all disgrace attend,

In every creature she beholds a friend.

When all the fiercer passions cease

(The glory and disgrace of youth);

When the deluded soul, in peace,

Can listen to the voice of truth;

When we are taught in whom to trust,

And how to spare, to spend, to give,

(Our prudence kind, our pity just)—

'Tis then we rightly learn to live.

Its weakness when the body feels,

Nor danger in contempt defies;

To reason when desire appeals,

When on experience hope relies;

When every passing hour we prize,

Nor rashly on our follies spend;

By long experience taught, we now

Can rightly judge of friends and foes,

Can all the worth of these allow,

And all their faults discern in those;

Relentless hatred, erring love,

We can for sacred truth forego;

We can the warmest friend reprove,

And bear to praise the fiercest foe:

To what effect? Our friends are gone,

Beyond reproof, regard, or care;

And of our foes remains there one,

The mild relenting thoughts to share?

Now 'tis our boast that we can quell

The wildest passions in their rage;

Can their destructive force repel,

And their impetuous wrath assuage:

Ah! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now

This bold rebellious race are fled;

Yet is there nothing men can do,

When chilling Age comes creeping on?

Cannot we yet some good pursue?

Are talents buried? genius gone?

If passions slumber in the breast,

If follies from the heart be fled:

Of laurels let us go in quest,

And place them on the poet's head.

Yes, we'll redeem the wasted time,

And to neglected studies flee;

We'll build again the lofty rhyme,

Or live, Philosophy, with thee;

For reasoning clear, for flight sublime,

Eternal fame reward shall be;

And to what glorious heights we'll climb,

Th' admiring crowd shall envying see.

Begin the song! begin the theme!—

Alas! and is Invention dead?

Dream we no more the golden dream?

Is Mem'ry with her treasures fled?

For, all that's gain'd of all that's good,

When time shall his weak frame destroy,

(Their use then rightly understood,)

See! I am calm as infant-love,

A very child, but one of wo,

Whom you should pity, not reprove:—

But men at ease, who never strove

With passions wild, will calmly show

How soon we may their ills remove,

And masters of their madness grow.

Some twenty years I think are gone;—

(Time flies, I know not how, away;)—

He had a frank and pleasant look,

A cheerful eye and accent bland;

His very speech and manner spoke

The generous heart, the open hand;

About him all was gay or grand,

He had the praise of great and small;

He bought, improved, projected, plann'd,

And reign'd a prince at Greyling Hall.

My lady!—she was all we love;

All praise (to speak her worth) is faint;

Her manners show'd the yielding dove,

Her morals, the seraphic saint;

She never breathed nor look'd complaint;

No equal upon earth had she:—

Now, what is this fair thing I paint?

Alas! as all that live shall be.

There was, beside, a gallant youth,

And him my bosom's friend I had:—

Oh! I was rich in very truth,

It made me proud—it made me mad!—

Yes, I was lost—but there was cause!—

Where stood my tale?—I cannot find—

But I had all mankind's applause,

There were two cherub-things beside,

A gracious girl, a glorious boy;

Yet more to swell my full-blown pride,

To varnish higher my fading joy,

Pleasures were ours without alloy,

Nay, Paradise,—till my frail Eve

Our bliss was tempted to destroy,

Deceived and fated to deceive.

But I deserved; for all that time,

When I was loved, admired, caress'd,

There was within each secret crime,

Unfelt, uncancell'd, unconfess'd:

I never then my God address'd,

In grateful praise or humble prayer;

And, if His Word was not my jest,

(Dread thought!) it never was my care.

I doubted—fool I was to doubt!—

If that all-piercing eye could see;

If He who looks all worlds throughout,

Would so minute and careful be,

As to perceive and punish me:—

With man I would be great and high,

But with my God so lost, that He,

In his large view, should pass me by.

Thus bless'd with children, friend, and wife,

Bless'd far beyond the vulgar lot;

Of all that gladdens human life,

Where was the good, that I had not?

But my vile heart had sinful spot,

And Heaven beheld its deep'ning stain;

Eternal justice I forgot,

And mercy sought not to obtain.

Come near—I'll softly speak the rest!—

Alas! 'tis known to all the crowd,

Her guilty love was all confess'd,

I call'd on Vengeance; at the word

She came:—Can I the deed forget?

I held the sword, th' accursed sword,

The blood of his false heart made wet;

And that fair victim paid her debt;

She pined, she died, she loath'd to live;—

I saw her dying—see her yet:

Fair fallen thing! my rage forgive!

Those cherubs still, my life to bless,

Were left; could I my fears remove,

Sad fears that checked each fond caress,

And poison'd all parental love?

Yet that with jealous feelings strove,

And would at last have won my will,

Had I not, wretch! been doom'd to prove

Th' extremes of mortal good and ill.

In youth! health! joy! in beauty's pride!

They droop'd: as flowers when blighted bow,

The dire infection came.—They died,

And I was cursed—as I am now.—

Nay, frown not, angry friend—allow

That I was deeply, sorely tried;

Hear then, and you must wonder how

I could such storms and strifes abide.

Storms!—not that clouds embattled make,

When they afflict this earthly globe;

But such as with their terrors shake

Man's breast, and to the bottom probe:

They make the hypocrite disrobe,

They try us all, if false or true;

For this, one devil had pow'r on Job;

And I was long the slave of two.

And shall I then the fact deny?

I was,—thou know'st—I was begone,

Like him who fill'd the eastern throne,

To whom the Watcher cried aloud[27];

That royal wretch of Babylon,

Who was so guilty and so proud.

Like him, with haughty, stubborn mind,

I, in my state, my comforts sought;

Delight and praise I hoped to find,

In what I builded, planted, bought!

Oh! arrogance! by misery taught—

Soon came a voice! I felt it come:

"Full be his cup, with evil fraught,

"Demons his guides, and death his doom!"

Then was I cast from out my state;

Two fiends of darkness led my way;

They waked me early, watch'd me late,

My dread by night, my plague by day!

Oh! I was made their sport, their play,

Through many a stormy troubled year;

And how they used their passive prey

Is sad to tell;—but you shall hear.

And first, before they sent me forth,

Through this unpitying world to run,

They robb'd Sir Eustace of his worth,

Lands, manors, lordships, every one;

So was that gracious man undone,

Was spurn'd as vile, was scorn'd as poor,

Whom every former friend would shun,

Then those ill-favour'd Ones[28], whom none

But my unhappy eyes could view,

Led me, with wild emotion, on,

And, with resistless terror, drew.

Through lands we fled, o'er seas we flew,

And halted on a boundless plain;

Where nothing fed, nor breathed, nor grew,

But silence ruled the still domain.

Upon that boundless plain, below,

The setting sun's last rays were shed,

And gave a mild and sober glow,

Where all were still, asleep, or dead;

Vast ruins in the midst were spread,

Pillars and pediments sublime,

Where the grey moss had form'd a bed,

And clothed the crumbling spoils of time.

There was I fix'd, I know not how,

Condemn'd for untold years to stay:

Yet years were not;—one dreadful now

Endured no change of night or day;

The same mild evening's sleeping ray

Shone softly-solemn and serene,

And all that time I gazed away,

The setting sun's sad rays were seen.

At length a moment's sleep stole on—

Again came my commission'd foes;

Again through sea and land we're gone,

No peace, no respite, no repose:

Above the dark broad sea we rose,

We ran through bleak and frozen land;

I had no strength their strength t' oppose,

An infant in a giant's hand.

They placed me where those streamers play,

Those nimble beams of brilliant light;

It would the stoutest heart dismay,

Slowly that darkness pass'd away,

When down upon the earth I fell;—

Some hurried sleep was mine by day;

But, soon as toll'd the evening bell,

They forced me on, where ever dwell

Far-distant men in cities fair,

Cities of whom no trav'lers tell,

Nor feet but mine were wanderers there.

Their watchmen stare, and stand aghast,

As on we hurry through the dark;

The watch-light blinks as we go past,

The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark;

The watch-tower's bell sounds shrill; and, hark!

The free wind blows—we've left the town—

A wide sepulchral ground I mark,

And on a tombstone place me down.

What monuments of mighty dead!

What tombs of various kinds are found!

And stones erect their shadows shed

On humble graves, with wickers bound;

Some risen fresh, above the ground,

Some level with the native clay,

What sleeping millions wait the sound,

"Arise, ye dead, and come away!"

Alas! they stay not for that call;

Spare me this wo! ye demons, spare!—

They come! the shrouded shadows all—

'Tis more than mortal brain can bear;

Rustling they rise, they sternly glare

At man, upheld by vital breath;

Who, led by wicked fiends, should dare

Yes, I have felt all man can feel,

Till he shall pay his nature's debt:

Ills that no hope has strength to heal,

No mind the comfort to forget:

Whatever cares the heart can fret,

The spirits wear, the temper gall,

Wo, want, dread, anguish, all beset

My sinful soul!—together all!

Those fiends upon a shaking fen

Fix'd me, in dark tempestuous night;

There never trod the foot of men;

There flock'd the fowl in wint'ry flight;

There danced the moor's deceitful light

Above the pool where sedges grow;

And, when the morning-sun shone bright,

It shone upon a field of snow.

They hung me on a bough so small.

The rook could build her nest no higher;

They fix'd me on the trembling ball

That crowns the steeple's quiv'ring spire;

They set me where the seas retire,

But drown with their returning tide;

And made me flee the mountain's fire,

When rolling from its burning side.

I've hung upon the ridgy steep

Of cliffs, and held the rambling brier;

I've plunged below the billowy deep,

Where air was sent me to respire;

I've been where hungry wolves retire;

And (to complete my woes) I've ran

Where Bedlam's crazy crew conspire

Against the life of reasoning man.

I've furl'd in storms the flapping sail,

By hanging from the topmast-head;

I've served the vilest slaves in jail,

On sand, where ebbs and flows the flood,

Midway they placed and bade me die;

Propp'd on my staff, I stoutly stood,

When the swift waves came rolling by;

And high they rose, and still more high,

Till my lips drank the bitter brine;

I sobb'd convulsed, then cast mine eye,

And saw the tide's re-flowing sign.

And then, my dreams were such as nought

Could yield but my unhappy case;

I've been of thousand devils caught,

And thrust into that horrid place,

Where reign dismay, despair, disgrace;

Furies with iron fangs were there,

To torture that accursed race,

Doomed to dismay, disgrace, despair.

Harmless I was, yet hunted down

For treasons, to my soul unfit;

I've been pursued through many a town,

For crimes that petty knaves commit;

I've been adjudged t' have lost my wit,

Because I preach'd so loud and well;

And thrown into the dungeon's pit,

For trampling on the pit of hell.

Such were the evils, man of sin.

That I was fated to sustain;

And add to all, without—within,

A soul defiled with every stain

That man's reflecting mind can pain;

That pride, wrong, rage, despair, can make;

In fact, they'd nearly touch'd my brain,

But pity will the vilest seek,

If punish'd guilt will not repine;—

I heard a heavenly teacher speak,

And felt the Sun of Mercy shine:

I hail'd the light! the birth divine!

And then was seal'd among the few;

Those angry fiends beheld the sign,

And from me in an instant flew.

Come, hear how thus the charmers cry

To wandering sheep, the strays of sin,

While some the wicket-gate pass by,

And some will knock and enter in:

Full joyful 'tis a soul to win,

For he that winneth souls is wise;

Now, hark! the holy strains begin,

And thus the sainted preacher cries[29]:—

"Pilgrim, burthen'd with thy sin,

Come the way to Zion's gate,

There, till Mercy let thee in,

Knock and weep, and watch and wait.

Knock!—He knows the sinner's cry;

Weep!—He loves the mourner's tears;

Watch!—for saving grace is nigh;

Wait!—till heavenly light appears.

"Hark! it is the Bridegroom's voice;

Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest;

Now within the gate rejoice,

Safe and seal'd, and bought and bless'd!

Safe—from all the lures of vice;

Seal'd—by signs the chosen know;

Bought—by love and life the price;

Bless'd—the mighty debt to owe.

"Holy Pilgrim! what for thee

In a world like this remain?

From thy guarded breast shall flee

But though my day of grace was come,

Yet still my days of grief I find;

The former clouds' collected gloom

Still sadden the reflecting mind;

The soul, to evil things consign'd.

Will of their evil some retain;

The man will seem to earth inclined,

And will not look erect again.

Thus, though elect, I feel it hard

To lose what I possess'd before,

To be from all my wealth debarr'd:—

The brave Sir Eustace is no more.

But old I wax and passing poor,

Stern, rugged men my conduct view;

They chide my wish, they bar my door,

'Tis hard—I weep—you see I do.—

Must you, my friends, no longer stay?

Thus quickly all my pleasures end;

But I'll remember, when I pray,

My kind physician and his friend;

And those sad hours you deign to spend

With me, I shall requite them all;

Sir Eustace for his friends shall send,

And thank their love at Greyling Hall.

No! for the more he swell'd with pride,

The more he felt misfortune's blow;

Disgrace and grief he could not hide,

And poverty had laid him low:

Thus shame and sorrow working slow,

At length this humble spirit gave;

Madness on these began to grow,

And bound him to his fiends a slave.

Though the wild thoughts had touch'd his brain,

Then was he free.—So, forth he ran;

To soothe or threat, alike were vain:

He spake of fiends; look'd wild and wan;

Year after year, the hurried man

Obey'd those fiends from place to place;

Till his religious change began

To form a frenzied child of grace.

For, as the fury lost its strength,

The mind reposed; by slow degrees

Came lingering hope, and brought at length,

To the tormented spirit ease:

This slave of sin, whom fiends could seize,

Felt or believed their power had end;—

"'Tis faith," he cried, "my bosom frees,

And now my Saviour is my friend."

But ah! though time can yield relief,

And soften woes it cannot cure,

Would we not suffer pain and grief,

To have our reason sound and sure?

Then let us keep our bosoms pure,

My crime!—This sick'ning child to feed,

I seized the food your witness saw;

I knew your laws forbade the deed,

But yielded to a stronger law.

In this, th' adopted babe I hold

With anxious fondness to my breast,

My heart's sole comfort I behold,

More dear than life, when life was bless'd;

I saw her pining, fainting, cold,

I begg'd—but vain was my request.

I saw the tempting food, and seized—

My infant-sufferer found relief;

And, in the pilfer'd treasure pleased,

Smiled on my guilt, and hush'd my grief.

But I have griefs of other kind,

Troubles and sorrows more severe;

Give me to ease my tortured mind,

Lend to my woes a patient ear;

And let me—if I may not find

A friend to help—find one to hear.

Yet nameless let me plead—my name

Would only wake the cry of scorn;

A child of sin, conceived in shame,

Brought forth in wo, to misery born.

My mother dead, my father lost,

I wander'd with a vagrant crew;

A common care, a common cost,

Their sorrows and their sins I knew;

With them, by want on error forced,

Like them, I base and guilty grew.

Few are my years, not so my crimes;

The age, which these sad looks declare,

Is Sorrow's work, it is not Time's,

And I am old in shame and care.

Taught to believe the world a place

So through the land I wandering went,

And little found of grief or joy;

But lost my bosom's sweet content

When first I loved—the Gipsy-Boy.

A sturdy youth he was and tall,

His looks would all his soul declare;

His piercing eyes were deep and small,

And strongly curl'd his raven-hair.

Yes, Aaron had each manly charm,

All in the May of youthful pride;

He scarcely fear'd his father's arm,

And every other arm defied.—

Oft, when they grew in anger warm,

(Whom will not love and power divide?)

I rose, their wrathful souls to calm,

Not yet in sinful combat tried.

His father was our party's chief,

And dark and dreadful was his look;

His presence fill'd my heart with grief;

Although to me he kindly spoke.

With Aaron I delighted went,

His favour was my bliss and pride;

In growing hope our days we spent,

Love growing charms in either spied;

It saw them, all which Nature lent,

It lent them all which she denied.

Could I the father's kindness prize,

Or grateful looks on him bestow,

Whom I beheld in wrath arise,

When Aaron sunk beneath his blow?

He drove him down with wicked hand,—

The night was dark, the lanes were deep,

And one by one they took their way;

He bade me lay me down and sleep,

I only wept and wish'd for day.

AccursÈd be the love he bore.

AccursÈd was the force he used;

So let him of his God implore

For mercy, and be so refused!

You frown again;—to show my wrong,

Can I in gentle language speak?

My woes are deep, my words are strong;—

And hear me, or my heart will break.

Come, now again thy woes impart,

Tell all thy sorrows, all thy sin;

We cannot heal the throbbing heart

Till we discern the wounds within.

Compunction weeps our guilt away,

The sinner's safety is his pain;

Such pangs for our offences pay,

And these severer griefs are gain.

The son came back—he found us wed;

Then dreadful was the oath he swore;—

His way through Blackburn Forest led;—

His father we beheld no more.

Of all our daring clan not one

Would on the doubtful subject dwell;

For all esteem'd the injured son,

And fear'd the tale which he could tell.

(Yes! we were wed, I know my crime,—

We slept beneath the [elmen] tree;

But I was grieving all the time,

And Aaron frown'd my tears to see.

For he not yet had felt the pain

That rankles in a wounded breast;

He waked to sin, then slept again,

Forsook his God, yet took his rest.—

But I was forced to feign delight,

And joy in mirth and music sought;

And mem'ry now recalls the night,

With such surprise and horror fraught,

That reason felt a moment's flight,

And left a mind to madness wrought.)

When waking, on my heaving breast

I felt a hand as cold as death;

A sudden fear my voice suppress'd,

A chilling terror stopp'd my breath.—

I seem'd—no words can utter how!

For there my father-husband stood—

And thus he said:—"Will God allow,

"The great avenger, just and good,

A wife to break her marriage vow,

A son to shed his father's blood?"

I trembled at the dismal sounds,

But vainly strove a word to say;

So, pointing to his bleeding wounds,

The threat'ning spectre stalk'd away[30].

'Twas false—we wander'd far and wide,

Through town and country, field and fen,

Till Aaron, fighting, fell and died,

And I became a wife again.

I then was young:—my husband sold

My fancied charms for wicked price;

He gave me oft, for sinful gold,

The slave, but not the friend, of vice—

Behold me, Heaven! my pains behold,

And let them for my sins suffice!

The wretch, who lent me thus for gain,

Despised me when my youth was fled;

Then came disease, and brought me pain—

Come, death, and bear me to the dead!

For, though I grieve, my grief is vain,

And fruitless all the tears I shed.

True, I was not to virtue train'd;

Yet well I knew my deeds were ill;

By each offence my heart was pain'd—

I wept, but I offended still;

My better thoughts my life disdain'd,

But yet the viler led my will.

My husband died, and now no more

My smile was sought, or ask'd my hand—

A widow'd vagrant, vile and poor,

Beneath a vagrant's vile command.

Ceaseless I roved the country round,

To win my bread by fraudful arts,

And long a poor subsistence found,

By spreading nets for simple hearts.

Though poor, and abject, and despised,

At length for arts like these confined

In prison with a lawless crew,

I soon perceived a kindred mind,

And there my long-lost daughter knew:

His father's child, whom Aaron gave

To wander with a distant clan,

The miseries of the world to brave,

And be the slave of vice and man.

She knew my name—we met in pain;

Our parting pangs can I express?

She sail'd a convict o'er the main,

And left an heir to her distress.

This is that heir to shame and pain,

For whom I only could descry

A world of trouble and disdain—

Yet, could I bear to see her die,

Or stretch her feeble hand in vain,

And, weeping, beg of me supply?

No! though the fate thy mother knew

Was shameful! shameful though thy race

Have wander'd all, a lawless crew,

Outcasts, despised in every place:

Yet, as the dark and muddy tide,

When far from its polluted source,

Becomes more pure, and, purified,

Flows in a clear and happy course—

Place the white man on Afric's coast,

Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,

Who of their scorn to Europe boast,

And paint their very demons white:

There, while the sterner sex disdains

To soothe the woes they cannot feel,

Woman will strive to heal his pains,

And weep for those she cannot heal.

Hers is warm pity's sacred glow;

From all her stores she bears a part,

And bids the spring of hope re-flow,

That languish'd in the fainting heart.

"What, though so pale his haggard face,

So sunk and sad his looks,"—she cries—

"And far unlike our nobler race,

With crisped locks and rolling eyes:

Yet misery marks him of our kind;

We see him lost, alone, afraid;

And pangs of body, griefs in mind,

Pronounce him man, and ask our aid.

"Perhaps, in some far-distant shore,

There are who in these forms delight;

Whose milky features please them more,

Thus her compassion woman shows,

Beneath the line her acts are these;

Nor the wide waste of Lapland-snows

Can her warm flow of pity freeze:—

"From some sad land the stranger comes,

Where joys, like ours, are never found;

Let's soothe him in our happy homes,

Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.

"'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,

To see the famish'd stranger fed;

To milk for him the mother-deer,

To smooth for him the furry bed.

The powers above our Lapland bless

With good no other people know,

T' enlarge the joys that we possess,

By feeling those that we bestow!"

Thus, in extremes of cold and heat,

Where wandering man may trace his kind;

Wherever grief and want retreat,

In Woman they compassion find;

She makes the female breast her seat,

And dictates mercy to the mind.

Man may the sterner virtues know,

Determined justice, truth severe;

But female hearts with pity glow,

And Woman holds affliction dear.

For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,

And suffering vice compels her tear;

'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,