No longer Truth, though shewn in Verse, disdain,
But own the Village Life a life of pain;
I too must yield, that oft amid these woes
Are gleams of transient Mirth and hours of sweet Repose,
Such as you find on yonder sportive Green,
The ‘Squire’s tall gate and Churchway-walk between;
Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends,
On a fair Sunday when the Sermon ends:
Then Rural Beaux their best attire put on,
To win their Nymphs, as other Nymphs are won;
While those long wed go plain, and by degrees,
Like other Husbands quit their care to please.
Some of the Sermon talk, a sober crowd,
And loudly praise, if it were preach’d aloud;
Some on the Labours of the Week look round,
Feel their own worth, and think their toil renown’d;
While some, whose hopes to no renown extend,
Are only pleas’d to find their Labours end.
Thus, as their hours glide on with pleasure fraught,
Their careful Masters brood the painful thought;
Much in their mind they murmur and lament,
That one fair day should be so idly spent;
And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their store
And tax their Time for Preachers and the Poor.
Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your Hour,
This is your Portion, yet unclaim’d of Power;
This is Heaven’s gift to weary men opprest,
And seems the type of their expected Rest:
But yours, alas! are joys that soon decay;
Frail joys, begun and ended with the Day;
Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign,
The Village vices drive them from the plain.
See the stout Churl, in drunken fury great,
Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate!
His naked vices, rude and unrefin’d,
Exert their open empire o’er the mind;
But can we less the senseless rage despise,
Because the savage acts without disguise?
Yet here Disguise, the City’s vice, is seen,
And Slander steals along and taints the Green.
At her approach domestic Peace is gone,
Domestic Broils at her approach come on;
She to the Wife the Husband’s crime conveys,
She tells the Husband when his Consort strays;
Her busy tongue, through all the little state,
Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate;
Peace, tim’rous Goddess! quits her old domain,
In Sentiment and Song content to reign.
Nor are the Nymphs that breathe the Rural air
So fair as Cynthia’s, nor so chaste as fair;
These to the Town afford each fresher face,
And the Clown’s trull receives the Peer’s embrace;
From whom, should chance again convey her down,
The Peer’s disease in turn attacks the Clown.
Here too the ’Squire, or ’squire-like Farmer, talk,
How round their regions nightly pilferers walk;
How from their ponds the fish are borne, and all
The rip’ning treasures from their lofty wall;
How meaner rivals in their sports delight,
Just rich enough to claim a doubtful right;
Who take a licence round their fields to stray,
A mongrel race! the Poachers of the day.
And hark! the riots of the Green begin,
That sprang at first from yonder noisy Inn;
What time the weekly pay was vanish’d all,
And the slow Hostess scor’d the threat’ning wall;
What time they ask’d, their friendly feast to close,
A final cup, and that will make them foes;
When blows ensue that break the arm of Toil,
And rustic battle ends the boobies’ broil.
Save when to yonder Hall they bend their way;
Where the grave Justice ends the grievous fray;
He who recites, to keep the Poor in awe,
The Law’s vast volume—for he knows the Law.—
To him with anger or with shame repair
The injur’d Peasant and deluded Fair.
Lo! at his throne the silent Nymph appears,
Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears;
And while she stands abash’d, with conscious eye,
Some favourite Female of her Judge glides by:
Who views with scornful glance the strumpet’s fate,
And thanks the stars that made her Keeper great:
Near her the Swain, about to bear for life
One certain evil, doubts ’twixt War and Wife;
But, while the faultering Damsel takes her oath,
Consents to wed, and so secures them both.
Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate,
Why make the Poor as guilty as the Great?
To shew the Great, those mightier sons of Pride,
How near in vice the lowest are allied;
Such are their natures and their passions such,
But these disguise too little, those too much:
So shall the man of Power and Pleasure see
In his own Slave as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxurious Lord the Servant find
His own low pleasures and degenerate mind:
And each in all the kindred vices trace,
Of a poor, blind, bewilder’d, erring Race;
Who, a short time in varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last.
And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fate,
Forbear to envy those you call the Great;
And know, amid those blessings they possess,
They are, like you, the victims of distress;
While Sloth with many a pang torments her slave,
Fear waits on Guilt, and Danger shakes the brave.
Oh! if in life one noble Chief appears,
Great in his name, while blooming in his years;
Born to enjoy whate’er delights Mankind,
And yet to all you feel or fear resign’d;
Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown,
For pains and dangers greater than your own;
If such there be, then let your murmurs cease,
Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace.
And su

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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