POEMS

Free from envy, strife and sorrow,

Jealous doubts, and heart-felt fears;

Free from thoughts of what to-morrow

May o'er-charge the soul with cares—

Live I in a peaceful valley,

By a neighbouring lonely wood;

Giving way to melancholy,

(Joy, when better understood).

Near me ancient ruins falling

From a worn-out castle's brow;

Once the greatest [chiefs] installing,

Where are all their honours now?

Here in midnight's gloomy terror

I enjoy the silent night;

Darkness shews the soul her error,

Darkness leads to inward light.

Here I walk in meditation,

Pond'ring all sublunar things,

From the silent soft persuasion,

Which from virtue's basis springs. 20

What, says truth, are pomp and riches?

Guilded baits to folly lent;

Honour, which the soul bewitches,

When obtain'd, we may repent.

By me plays the stream meand'ring

Slowly, as its waters glide;

And, in gentle murmurs wand'ring,

Lulls to downy rest my pride.

Silent as the gloomy graves are

Now the mansions once so loud;

Still and quiet as the brave, or

All the horrors of a croud.

This was once the seat of plunder,

Blood of heroes stain'd the floor;

Heroes, nature's pride and wonder,

Heroes heard of now no more.

Owls and ravens haunt the buildings,

Sending gloomy dread to all;

Yellow moss the summit yielding,

Pellitory decks the wall.

Time with rapid speed still wanders,

Journies on an even pace;

Fame of greatest actions squanders,

But perpetuates disgrace.

Sigh not then for pomp or glory;

What avails a heroe's name?

Future times may tell your story,

To your then disgrace and shame.

Chuse some humble cot as this is,

In sweet philosophic ease;

With dame Nature's frugal blisses

Live in joy, and die in peace.

I.

As Chloe fair, a new-made bride,

Sat knotting in an arbour,

To Colin now the damsel ty'd,

No strange affection harbour.

II.

"How poor," says [she, "'s a] single life,

A maid's affected carriage;

Spent in sighs and inward strife,

Things unknown in marriage.

III.

None so much confin'd are;

Lovers kind and good may be,

Husbands may be kinder.

IV.

"Then shun not wedlock's happy chain,

Nor wantonly still fly man;

A single life is care and pain,

Blessings wait on Hymen."

View, my fair, the fading flower,

Clad like thee in [beauty's] arms,

Idle pageant of an hour;

Soon shall time its tints devour,

And what are then its charms?

Early pluck'd, it might produce

A remedy to mortal pain,

Afford a balmy cordial juice,

That might celestial ease diffuse,

Nor blossom quite in vain.

So 'tis with thee, my Emma fair,

If nature's law's unpaid,

If thou refuse our vows to hear

And steel thy heart to ev'ry pray'r,

A cruel frozen maid.

But yield, my fair one, yield to love,

And joys unnumber'd find,

In Cupid's mystic circle move,

Eternal raptures thou shalt prove,

Which leave no pang behind.

What is he, who clad in arms,

Hither seems in haste to move,

Bringing with him soft alarms,

Fears the heart of man to prove;

Yet attended too by charms—

Is he Cupid, God of Love?

Yes, it is, behold him nigh,

Odd compound of ease and smart;

Near him [stands] a nymph, whose sigh

Grief and joy, and love impart;

Pleasure dances in her eye,

Yet she seems to grieve at heart.

Lo! a quiver by his side,

Arm'd with darts, a fatal store!

See him, with a haughty pride,

Ages, sexes, all devour;

Yet, as pleasure is describ'd,

Glad we meet the tyrant's power.

Doubts and cares before him go,

Canker'd jealousy behind;

Round about him spells he'll throw,

Scatt'ring with each gust of wind

On the motley crew below,

Who, like him, are render'd blind.

This is love! a tyrant kind,

Giving extacy and pain;

Fond deluder of the mind,

Ever feigning not to feign;

Whom no savage laws can bind,

None escape his pleasing chain.

Cease to bid me not to sing.

Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre:

Hither, god of music, bring

Food to feed the gentle fire;

And on Pægasean wing

Mount my soul enraptur'd higher.

Some there are who'd curb the mind,

And would blast the springing bays;

All essays are vain, they'll find,

Nought shall drown the muse's lays,

Nought shall curb a free-born mind,

Nought shall damp Apollo's praise.

My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped

Ere you or your whimsies got into my head;

I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest,

And my heart play'd a regular tune in my breast.

But now, lack-a-day! what a change for the worse,

'Tis as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse.

My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind,

Could guide my pen gently to what I design'd.

I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle,

Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle.

But, since this vile Cupid has got in my brain,

I beg of the gods to assist in my strain.

And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves,

And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My Mira, shepherds, is as fair

As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale,

As sylphs who dwell in purest air,

As fays who skim the dusky dale,

As Venus was when Venus fled

From watery Triton's oozy bed.

My Mira, shepherds, has a voice

As soft as Syrinx in her grove,

As sweet as echo makes her choice,

As mild as whispering virgin-love;

As gentle as the winding stream

Or fancy's song when poets dream.

 * * * * * * * * *

The mighty Spirit and its power which stains[1]

The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains,

I sing. Say ye, its fiery Vot'ries true,

The jovial Curate, and the shrill-tongu'd Shrew;

Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst,

Where Bowl the second charms like Bowl the first;

Say, how and why the sparkling ill is shed,

The Heart which hardens, and which rules the Head.

When Winter stern his gloomy front uprears,

A sable void the barren earth appears;

The meads no more their former verdure boast,

Fast bound their streams, and all their Beauty lost;

The herds, the flocks, their icy garments mourn,

And wildly murmur for the Spring's return;

The fallen branches from the sapless tree

With glittering fragments strow the glassy way;

From snow-top'd Hills the whirlwinds keenly blow,

Howl through the Woods, and pierce the vales below;

Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,

Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;

The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,

[Pg 14]And shed their substance on the floating air;

The floating air their downy substance glides

Through springing Waters, and prevents their tides;

Seizes the rolling Waves, and, as a God,

Charms their swift race, and stops the refl'ent flood;

The opening valves, which fill the venal road,

Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood;

The labouring Pulse a slower motion rules,

The Tendons stiffen, and the Spirit cools;

Each asks the aid of [Nature's] sister Art,

To Cher the senses, and to warm the Heart.

The gentle fair on nervous tea relies,

Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes;

An inoffensive Scandal fluttering round,

Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound;

Champain the Courtier drinks, the spleen to chase,

The Colonel burgundy, and port his Grace;

Turtle and 'rrack the city rulers charm,

Ale and content the labouring peasants warm;

O'er the dull embers happy Colin sits,

Colin, the prince of joke and rural wits;

Whilst the wind whistles through the hollow panes,

He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains;

And tells the Tale, from sire to son retold,

Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold;

Of moon-clad Imps, that tremble by the dew,

Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue.

The throng invisible, that doubtless float

By mould'ring Tombs, and o'er the stagnant moat;

Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain,

And all the dreadful nothing of the Green.

And why not these? Less fictious is the tale,

Inspir'd by Hel'con's streams, than muddy ale?

Peace be to such, the happiest and the best,

Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest;

Who wage no war with an Avenger's Rod,

Nor in the pride of reason curse their God.

When in the vaulted arch Lucina gleams,

And gaily dances o'er the azure streams;

[Pg 15]When in the wide cerulean space on high

The vivid stars shoot lustre through the sky;

On silent Ether when a trembling sound

Reverberates, and wildly floats around,

Breaking through trackless space upon the ear—

Conclude the Bacchanalian Rustic near;

O'er Hills and vales the jovial Savage reels,

Fire in his head and Frenzy at his heels;

From paths direct the bending Hero swerves,

And shapes his way in ill-proportion'd curves;

Now safe arriv'd, his sleeping Rib he calls,

And madly thunders on the muddy walls;

The well-known sounds an equal fury move,

For rage meets rage, as love enkindles love;

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The buxom Quean from bed of flocks descends

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With vengeful ire, a civil war portends,

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An oaken plant the Hero's breast defends.

In vain the 'waken'd infant's accents shrill

The humble regions of the cottage fill;

In vain the Cricket chirps the mansion through,

'Tis war, and Blood and Battle must ensue.

As when, on humble stage, him Satan hight

Defies the brazen Hero to the fight;

From twanging strokes what dire misfortunes rise,

What fate to maple arms, and glassen eyes;

Here lies a leg of elm, and there a stroke

From ashen neck has whirl'd a Head of oak.

So drops from either power, with vengeance big,

A remnant night-cap, and an old cut wig;

Titles unmusical, retorted round,

On either ear with leaden vengeance sound;

'Till equal Valour equal Wounds create,

And drowsy peace concludes the fell debate;

Sleep in her woolen mantle wraps the pair,

And sheds her poppies on the ambient air;

Intoxication flies, as fury fled,

On rocky pinions quits the aching head;

Returning Reason cools the fiery blood,

And drives from memory's seat the rosy God.

Yet still he holds o'er some his madd'ning rule,

[Pg 16]Still sways his Sceptre, and still knows his Fool;

Witness the livid lip and fiery front,

With many a smarting trophy plac'd upon't;

The hollow Eye, which plays in misty springs,

And the hoarse Voice, which rough and broken rings.

These are his triumphs, and o'er these he reigns,

The blinking Deity of reeling brains.

See Inebriety! her wand she waves,

And lo! her pale, and lo! her purple slaves;

Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape,

Of every order, station, rank, and shape;

The King, who nods upon his rattle-throne;

The staggering Peer, to midnight revel prone;

The slow-tongu'd Bishop, and the Deacon sly,

The humble Pensioner, and Gownsman dry;

The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great,

Swell the dull throng, and stagger into state.

Lo! proud Flaminius at the splendid board,

The easy chaplain of an atheist Lord,

Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense,

And clouds his brain in torpid elegance;

In china vases see the sparkling ill,

From gay Decanters view the rosy rill;

The neat-carv'd pipes in silver settle laid,

The screw by mathematic cunning made;

The whole a pompous and enticing scene,

And grandly glaring for the surplic'd Swain;

Oh! happy Priest whose God like Egypt's lies,

At once the Deity and sacrifice!

But is Flaminius, then, the man alone,

To whom the Joys of swimming brains are known?

Lo! the poor Toper whose untutor'd sense[2]

Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense;

Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer

[Pg 17]Beyond the muddy extacies of Beer;

But simple nature can her longing quench

Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench;

Some kitchen-fire diffusing warmth around,

The semi-globe by Hieroglyphics crown'd;

Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd,

Nor Waiters rave, nor Landlords thirst for gold;

Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine,

He asks no limpid Punch, no rosy Wine;

But sees, admitted to an equal share,

Each faithful swain the heady potion bear.

Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of taste

Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest.

Call vulgar palates, what thou judgest so;

Say, beer is heavy, windy, cold and slow;

Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence,

Yet cry when tortur'd, where is Providence?

If thou alone art, head and heel, not clear,

Alone made steady here, untumour'd there;

Snatch from the Board the bottle and the bowl,

Curse the keen pain, and be a mad proud Fool.

In various forms the madd'ning Spirit moves,

This drinks and fights, another drinks and loves.

A bastard Zeal of different kinds it shows,

And now with rage, and now Religion glows;

The frantic Soul bright reason's path defies,

Now creeps on Earth, now triumphs in the Skies;

Swims in the seas of error and explores,

Through midnight mists, the fluctuating Shores;

From wave to wave in rocky Channel glides,

And sinks in woe, or on presumption slides;

In Pride exalted, or by Shame deprest,

An Angel-Devil, or a human-Beast.

Without a pilot who attempts to steer,

Has small discretion or has little care;

That pilot Reason, in the erring Soul,

Is lost, is blinded in the steaming Bowl,

Charm'd by its power, we cast our guide away,

And at the mercy of conjecture lay;

Discretion dies with reason, Revel wakes!

And o'er the head his fiery banners shakes.

With him come frenzy, folly and excess,

Blink-ey'd conceit and shallow emptiness;

At Folly's beck a train of Vices glide,

Murder in madness cloak'd, in choler, Pride;

Above, Impiety, with curses bound,

Lours at the skies, and whirls Damnation round.

Some rage, in all the strength of folly mad,

[Pg 19]Some love stupidity, in silence clad,

Are never quarrelsome, are never gay,

But sleep and groan and drink the Night away;

Old Torpio nods, and, as the laugh goes round,

Grunts through the nasal Duct, and joins the sound;

Then sleeps again, and, as the liquors pass,

Wakes at the friendly Jog, and takes his Glass;

Alike to him who stands, or reels, or moves;

The elbow chair, good wine and Sleep he loves;

Nor cares of state disturb his easy head,

By grosser fumes and calmer follies fed;

Nor thoughts, of when, or where, or how to come,

The Canvass general, or the general Doom;

Extremes ne'er reach'd one passion of his Soul;

A villain tame, and an unmettled fool,

To half his Vices he has but pretence,

For they usurp the place of common sense;

To half his little Merits has no claim

But very Indolence has rais'd his name,

Happy in this, that under Satan's sway

His passions humble, but will not obey.

The Vicar at the table's front presides,

Whose presence a monastic life derides;

The reverend Wig, in sideway order plac'd,

The reverend Band, by rubric stains disgrac'd,

The leering Eye, in wayward circles roll'd,

Mark him the Pastor of a jovial Fold,

Whose various texts excite a loud applause,

Favouring the Bottle, and the good old Cause.

See! the dull smile which fearfully appears,

When gross Indecency her front uprears;

The joy conceal'd the fiercer burns within,

As masks afford the keenest gust to Sin;

Imagination helps the reverend Sire,

And spreads the sails of sub-divine desire.

But when the gay immoral joke goes round,

When Shame and all her blushing train are drown'd,

Rather than hear his God blasphem'd he takes

The last lov'd Glass, and then the board forsakes:

[Pg 20]Not that Religion prompts the sober thought,

But slavish Custom has the practice taught.

Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion

Has a true levite Bias for promotion;

Vicars must with discretion go astray,

Whilst Bishops may be d——n'd the nearest way;

So puny robbers individuals kill,

When hector-Heroes murder as they will.

Good honest Curio elbows the [divine,]

And strives, a social sinner, how to shine;

The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthen'd tale,

That Wilton Farmers give you with their ale:

How midnight Ghosts o'er vaults terrific pass,

Dance o'er the Grave, and slide along the grass;

How Maids forsaken haunt the lonely wood,

And tye the Noose, or try the willow flood;

How rural Heroes overcame the giants,

And through the ramshorn trumpet blew defiance;

Or how pale Cicely, within the wood,

Call'd Satan forth and bargain'd with her blood.

These, honest Curio, are thine, and these

Are the dull Treasures of a brain at peace.

No wit intoxicates thy gentle skull,

Of heavy, native, [unwrought] folly full;

Bowl upon Bowl in vain exert their force;

The breathing Spirit takes a downward course,

Or, vainly soaring upwards to the head,

Meets an impenetrable tence of lead.

Hast thou, Oh Reader! search'd o'er gentle Gay,

Where various animals their powers display?

In one strange Group, a chattering race was hurl'd,

Led by the Monkey who had seen the world.

He, it is said, from woodland shepherds stole,

And went to Court, to greet each fellow fool.

Like him, Fabricio steals from guardian's side,

Swims not in [pleasure's] stream, but sips the tide;

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He hates the Bottle, yet but thinks it right

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To boast next day the honours of the night;

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[Pg 21]None like your Coward can describe a fight.

See him, as down the sparkling potion goes,

Labor to grin away the horrid dose;

In joy-feign'd gaze his misty eye-balls float,

Th' uncivil Spirit gurgling at his throat;

So looks dim Titan through a wintry scene,

And faintly cheers the woe-foreboding swain;

But now, Alas! the hour, th'increasing flood,

Rolls round and round, and cannot be withstood;

Thrice he essays to stop the ruby flow,

To stem its Force, and keep it still below;

In vain his Art, it comes! at [distance] gaze,

Ye stancher Sots, and be not near the place.

As when a flood from Ossa's pendant brow

Rolls rapid to its fellow streams below,

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It moves tempest'ous down the Mountain's sides,

}

O'er lesser hills and vales like light'ning glides,

}

And o'er their beauties fall'n triumphant rides,

Each verdant spot and sunny bank defaces,

And forms a minor Ocean at its basis;

So from his rueful lips Fabricio pours,

With melancholy Force, the tinctur'd showers;

O'er the embroider'd vest they take their way,

And in the grave its tinsel honours lay.

No Nymph was there, to hold the helpless face,

Or save from ruin's spoil the luckless lace;

No guardian Fair, to turn the head aside

And to securer paths the torrent glide;

From silk to silk it drove its wayward Course,

And on the diamond buckle spent its Force.

Ah! gentle Fop! what luckless fate was thine

To sin through fashion, and in woe to shine.

But all our Numbers why should rascals claim[3]?

Rise, honest Muse, and sing a nobler name.

Pleas'd in his Eye good humour always smiles,

[Pg 22]And Mirth unbought with strife the hour beguiles,

Who smoothed the frown on yonder surly brow?

From the dry Joke who bade gay Laughter flow?

Not of affected, empty rapture full,

Nor in proud Strain magnificently dull,

But gay and easy, giving without Art

Joy to each sense, and Solace to the heart.

Thrice happy Damon, able to pursue

What all so wish, but want the power to do.

No cares thy Head, no crimes thy Heart torment,

At home thou'rt happy, and abroad content;

Pleas'd with thyself, and therefore form'd to please,

With Moderation free, and gay with Ease,

Wise in a medium, just to an extreme,

"The soul of Humour, and the life of Whim,"

Plac'd from thy Sphere, amid the sons of shame,

Proud of thy Jest, but prouder of thy Name.

Pernicious streams from healthy fountains rise,

And Wit abus'd degenerates into vice;

Timon, long practic'd in the School of art,

Has lost each finer feeling of the Heart,

Triumphs o'er shame, and with delusive whiles,

Laughs at the Idiot he himself beguiles.

So matrons, past the awe of Censure's tongue,

Deride the blushes of the fair and young.

Few with more Fire on every subject spoke,

But chief he lov'd the gay immoral joke;

The Words most sacred, stole from holy writ,

He gave a newer form, and call'd them Wit;

Could twist a Sentence into various meaning,

And save himself in dubious explaining;

Could use a manner long taught art affords,

[Pg 23]And hint Impiety in holy words.

Vice never had a more sincere ally,

So bold no Sinner, yet no Saint so sly;

Sophist and Cynic, mystically cool,

And still a very Sceptic at the soul;

Learn'd but not wise, and without Virtue brave,

A gay, deluding, philosophic Knave.

When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire,

They stir a new, but still a false desire;

The place of malice ridicule then holds,

And woe to teachers, ministers and scolds;

And, to the comfort of each untaught Fool,

Horace in English vindicates the Bowl.

"The man" (says Timon) "who is drunk is blest[4],

No fears [disturb], no cares destroy his rest;

In thoughtless joy he reels away his life,

Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife.

Of late I sat within the jangling bar,

And heard my Rib's hoarse thunder from afar;

Careless I spoke, and, when she found me drunk,

She breath'd one Curse, and then away she slunk,

Oh! place me, Jove, where none but women come,

And thunders worse than thine afflict the room;

Where one eternal Nothing flutters round,

And senseless [titt'rings] sense of mirth confound;

Or lead me bound to Garret, babel-high,

Where frantic Poet rolls his crazy eye;

Tiring the Ear, with oft-repeated chimes,

And smiling at the never ending rhymes;

E'en here or there, I'll be as blest as Jove,

Give me tobacco, and the wine I love."

Applause from Hands the dying accents break

Of stagg'ring sots, who vainly try to speak;

From Milo, him who hangs upon each word,

And in loud praises splits the tortur'd board,

Collects each sentence, ere it's better known,

[Pg 24]And makes the mutilated joke his own,

At weekly club to flourish, where he rules

The glorious president of grosser fools.

But cease, my Muse; of those or these enough,

The fools who listen, and the knaves who Scoff;

The jest profane, that mocks th' offended God,

Defies his power, and [sets] at nought his rod.

The empty Laugh, discretion's vainest foe,

From fool to fool re-echo'd to and fro;

The sly Indecency, that slowly springs

From barren wit, and halts on trembling wings:

Enough of these, and all the charms of Wine;

Be sober joys and social evenings mine,

Where peace and Reason unsoil'd mirth improve,

The powers of friendship and the joys of love;

Where thought meets thought ere Words its form array,

And all is sacred, elegant, and gay;

Such pleasure leaves no Sorrow on the mind,

Too great to [pall], to sicken too [refin'd],

Too soft for Noise, and too sublime for art,

The social solace of the feeling Heart,

For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high,

'Tis Virtue's Pleasure, and can never die.

Now soar, my Muse! and leave the meaner crew[5],

To aim at bliss, and vainly bliss pursue;

Let us (since Man no privilege can claim,

Than a contended, half superior name)

Expatiate o'er the raptures of the Fair,

Vot'ries to stolen joys, but yet sincere;

In secret Haunts, where never day-light gleams

By bottles, tempting with forbidden streams,

Together let us search; above, below,

Try what the Closets, what the Cellars show;

The latent vault with piercing view explore

Of her who hides the all reviving store.

Eye Beauty's walks, when round the welkin rolls,

And catch the stumbling Charmer as she falls;

Laugh where we must, but pity where we can,

And vindicate the sweet soft souls to Man.[Pg 26]

Pardon, ye Fair, the Poet and his Muse,

And what ye can't approve, at least excuse;

Far be from him the iron lash of Wit,

The jokes of Humour, and the sneers that hit;

He speaks of Freedom, and he speaks to you,

His Verse is simple, but his Subject new;

And novelty, ye Fair, beyond a doubt,

Is philosophic truth, the World throughout.

Hard is the lot of Woman, so have sung

The pensive old, and the presuming young;

Born without privilege, in bondage bred,

Slave from the Cradle to the marriage Bed;

Slave from the hour hymeneal to the grave,

In age, in youth, in infancy a Slave.

Happy the Bard, who, bold in pride of song

Shall free the chain, by Custom bound so long,

And show the Fair, to mean tradition prone,

Though Virtue may have sex, yet Vice has none.

If Man is licenc'd to confuse his mind,

Say, why should female Frailty be confin'd?

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Is't right that she who dearly bought the fruit,

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Of all our wayward appetites the root,

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Who first made Man a fool and then a brute;

Who fair in spells of tender kind can slay,

Like Israel's Judge, her thousands in a day;

Nay farther, has a far superior Pow'r,

And almost thousands in a day can cure;

She, the bright cause of fury in Man's breast;

And brighter cause who bids that fury rest;

Who raises peace or war at her command,

And bids a sword destroy a tipsy Land;

Say, is it right that she who kills and saves,

Makes wise Men mad, and takes the veil from Knaves,

Should want the pow'r, the magic, which alone,

Can Conquests boast more fatal than her own?

For Man alone did earth produce her fruit,

The sole, as well as the superior, brute;

Does he alone the glorious licence claim,

To put the human off, and loose his Name?[Pg 27]

Woman in Knowledge was the earlier curst,

And tasted of forbidden Fruit the first;

Prior to Man, the law she disobey'd,

And shall she want the Freedom she convey'd?

By her first Theft each fiery ill we feel,

And yet compel the gen'rous Fair to steal;

First made by her for soaring actions fit,

Woman! the spring of super-human wit,

Shall we from her each dear bought bliss withhold,

As Spaniards use the Indians for their Gold?

Ungrateful Man! in pride so high to aim,

As to be sole inheritor of shame!

And you, ye Fair! why slumber on disdain,

Forbear to vindicate, yet can't refrain?

Why should Papilla seek the vaulted hoard,

And but in secret ape her honest Lord?

Why should'st thou, Celia, to thy stores repair,

And sip the generous Spirit in such fear?

Reform the Error, and revoke your plan,

And as ye dare to imitate, be——Man.

First know yourselves, and frame your passions all[6],

In proper order, how to rise and fall;

Woman's a Being, dubiously great,

Never contented with a passive state;

With too much Knowledge to give Man the sway,

With too much Pride his humours to obey,

She hangs in doubt, [too] humble or [too] brave;

In doubt to be a Mistress or a Slave;

In doubt herself or Husband to controul;

Born to be made a tyrant or a fool;[Pg 28]

In one extreme, her Power is always such

Either to show too little, or too much;

Bred up in Passions, by their sway abus'd,

The weaker for the stronger still refus'd;

Created oft' to rise, and oft' to fall,

Changing in all things, yet alike in all;

Soft Judge of right or wrong, or blest or curst,

The happiest, saddest, holiest, or the worst.

And why? because your failings ye suppress,

And what ye dare to act, dare not confess.

Would you, ye Fair, as Man your vices boast,

And she be most admir'd, who sins the most;

Would ye in open revel gaily spring,

And o'er the wanton Banquet vaunting sing;

The doubtful Precedence we then should own,

And you be first in [Error's] mazes known.

But why to Vices of the boist'rous kind

Tye the soft Soul, and urge the gentle Mind?

Forbid it, Nature! to the Fair I speak,

By her made strong, by Custom rendered weak;

Whose passions, trembling for unbounded sway,

Will thank the Bard, who points the nearest way;

All Vice through Folly's regions first should pass,

And Folly holds her sceptre o'er the glass.

Drink then, ye Fair! and nature's laws fulfill;

Be ev'ry thing at once, and all ye will;

Put off the mask that hides the Sex's claim

And makes Distinction but an empty name.[Pg 29]

Go, wond'rous Creature! where the potion glides[7]

From Bowls unmeasured in illumin'd tides;

Instruct each other, in your due degrees;

Correct old Rules, and be e'en what you please;

Go, drink! for who shall jointed power contest?

Drink to the passable, the good, the best.

And, quitting Custom and her idle plan,

Call drowning reason imitating Man;

Like lovers' brains in giddy circles run,

And, all exhausting, imitate the Sun;

Go, and be Man in noise and glorious strife,

Then drop into his Arms and be a——Wife.

Ye Gods! what scenes upon my Fancy press,

The Consequence of unconfin'd excess;

When Vice in common has one general name,

And male and female Errors be the same;

For, as the strength of Spirit none contest,

That daring Ill shall introduce the rest;

Then, what a field of glory will arise,

What dazzling scenes, ye Fair, before your eyes:

As female duels, Jockies——what besides?

Gamblers in petticoats, and booted brides;

The tender Billet to the gentle swain,

That boldly dares avouch the am'rous pain;

Soft Beaux intreated, gentle Coxcombs prest,

And Fops asham'd half blush to be addrest.

Thus to sweet Strephon will his Chloris say,[Pg 30]

One cup of Nectar having pav'd the way;

"Oh! why so dead to my emploring eyes,

Deaf to my prayer, and speechless to my sighs?

Sure never Nymph of old, my darling Boy,

When Men intreated, and when we were coy,

Was prest so warmly by a bleeding swain,

Or shot from killing eyes such cold disdain."

And thus will run wild Flavia's Billetdoux,

The writing bold, and e'en the spelling true:

"No more, my Belmour, shun these longing arms,

Thou quintessence of all thy Sex's charms;

At ten—behind the elm, where echoes sigh,

Shall, taught [by] me, teach thee my swain to die;

The conscious Moon shall fill her lucid horn,

And join thy Blush to mock the crimson morn;

The limpid Stream shall softly move along,

And hear its own sweet warble from thy tongue;

There come, dear boy, or vainly flow the streams,

There come, or vainly sheds the moon her beams;

Vainly on her my Moments I shall waste,

She who like thee is cold, and who like thee is chaste."

But then what tender Stripling shall escape?

What blushing Boy avoid a Lady-Rape?

Where shall each lisping creature hide his head,

To amazonian desires betray'd?

Where from the wily Heroine remove,

Clad in the fortitude of Wine and Love?

Oh! hapless Lad, what refuge canst thou find

Too soft, too mild, too tender to be kind?

Yet this is no objection understood,

"For partial Evil's universal Good."

Nor think of Nature's state I make a jest[8]:

The state of Nature is a state undrest;

The love of Pleasure at our birth began,

Pleasure the aim of all things, and of Man.[Pg 31]

Law then was not, the swelling flame to kill,

Man walk'd with beast, and—so he always will;

And Woman too, the same their board and bed,

And would be now, but Folks are better bred;

In some convenient grot, or tufted wood,

All human beings Nature's circuit trod;

The shrine was her's, with no gay vesture laid;

Unbrib'd, unmarried stood the willing maid;

Her attribute was universal Love,

And man's prerogative to range and rove.

But how unlike the Pairs of times to come,

Wedded, yet separate, abroad at home,

Who foes to Nature, and to evil prone,

Despising all, but hating most their own.

A wayward craving this Neglect succeeds,

As every Monster monst'rous children breeds;

Strange motly passions from this vice began,

And Man unnatural turn'd to worship Man.

For this the Muse now calls the Fair to rise,

To shew our failings, and to make us wise;

Be now to Bacchus, now to Venus prone,

[Pg 32]And share each folly Man has thought his own;

Shame him from Vice, by shewing him your shame,

And part with yours, to reinstate his Fame;

Be generously vile, and this your view:

That Man may hate his errors seen in you.

Say, when the Coxcomb flatters and adores,

When (taking snuff) your pity he implores;

With many a gentle Dem'me swears to die,

And humbly begs Destruction from your eye;

When your own arts he takes, and speaks in smiles,

With Softness woos, and with a Voice beguiles;

Does it not move your pity and disdain,

Such flow'ry passion, and such mincing pain;

Your various Follies you with anger scan,

So shewn by one whom Nature meant for Man.

E'en so do we our faults in you despise,

And Vice has double malice in those Eyes.

When Chloe toasts her Beau, or raves too loud;

When Flavia leaves her home, and joins a croud;

When Silvia fearless rolls the roguish eye,

And Damon's want of confidence supply;

When betts, and duns, and every rougher name,

Sound in the ear of either Sex the same;

How should we tell, when thus you love and hate,

Who acts the Man, and who's effeminate?

Drink, then! disclaim your Sex, be Man in all,

Shew us at once, distinction ought to fall;

And from the humble things ye were of old,

Be reeling Cæsars in a cyprian mould.

Better for us, 'tis granted, it might be[9],

Were you all Softness, and all Honour we;

That never rougher Passion mov'd your mind;

[Pg 33]That we were all or excellent or blind;

But, as we now subsist by passions strife,

Which are (Pope writes) the elements of life,

The general order, since the whole began,

Should be dissolv'd, and Manners make the Man.

Nor fear, if once ye break through general Laws,

To draw in thousands, and gain our applause;

Nor fear but Fame your merits shall make known,

And female Bravos trample Hectors down;

From Man himself you'll learn the art he boasts,

Rule in his room, and govern in his posts.

Thus does the Muse in vein didactic speak——[10]

"Go, from proud Man thy full instructions take;

Learn from the Law, what gain its mazes yield;

Learn of the Brave the police of the field;

Thy arts of shuffling from the Courtier get;

Learn of his Grace to stare away a debt;

Learn from the Sot his poison to caress,

Shake the mad room, and revel in excess;

From Man all forms of grand deception find,

And so be tempted to delude Mankind.

Here frantic schemes of wild Ambition see;

There all the plots, my Fair! he lays for thee.

[Pg 34]Learn each small People's genius, humours, aims,

The Jocky's dealing, and Newmarket games;

How there in common wealth in currents go,

And poverty and riches ebb and flow;

And these for ever, though a Saint deny'd,

To splendour or contempt their Masters guide;

Mark the nice rules of modern honour well,

Rules which the laws of Nature far excel.

In vain thy fancy finer whims shall draw;

Good-breeding is as difficult as Law,

And, form'd so complex, makes itself a science,

To bid the Scholar and the Clown defiance.

Go then, and thus thy present Lords survey,

And let the Creatures feel they must obey;

Learn all their Arts, be these thy choicest hoard,

Be fear'd for these, and be for these ador'd."

And where are these? within the Bowl they lie;

Thence spring ambitious thoughts, there doubtings die;

From thence we trace the horrors of a War,

Chaotic counsel, ministerial jar;

This makes a gambling Lord, a Patriot vain,

The Soldier's fury, and the Lover's pain;

Fills Bedlam's wards with souls of ærial mould;

This makes the Madman, this supplies the Scold;

Here rules the one grand Passion in extreme,

[Pg 35]A love of lucre, or a love of fame;

The Scholar's boast, the Politician's plan;

Here shines the Bubble, and here falls the Man.

Oh! happy fall of insolence and pride,

Which makes the humblest with the great allied;

Which levels like the Grave all earthly things,

For drunken Coblers are as proud as Kings;

Which plucks the sons of grandeur from their sphere,

For who is lower than a stagg'ring Peer?

Yet here, ye Fair, tho' ev'ry Soul's the same,

And Prince and Pedlar differ but in name,

Folly with Fashion is discreetly grac'd,

And, if all sin, not all can sin in taste;

For who, ye Gods! would ever go astray,

If 'twas not something in a modish way?

Oh! Fashion, caprice, pride—whate'er we call—

Thou something, nothing, dear attractive all;

Thou serious trifle of the gentle Soul,

Worship'd, yet changing, varying to controul;

Sweet Child of wanton fancy, artful whim,

Bred in an instant, born in an Extreme;

Folly's best friend, and luxury's ally,

Who, dying always, prov'st thou canst not die;

Attend us here; let us grow mad in Form,

Rage with an Air, and elegantly storm;

Invoke destruction with a Grace divine,

And call for Satan as a child of thine;

Genteely stagger from the common road;

And ape the brute, but ape him in the mode;

With a Court-grace make every action known,

For who'd be d——n'd for sins they blush to own?

Far as the power of human vice extends[11],

Her scale of sensual vanity ascends;

Mark how it rises to the gilded Throne,

[Pg 36]From the poor wretch who dully topes alone.

What modes of folly, each in one extreme,

The sots dim sense, th' Epicurean's dream;

Of scent, what difference 'twixt the pungent rum

And noxious vapours of fermenting stum;

Of hearing, to Champain's decanted swell

From the dull gurgle of expiring ale?

The touch, how distant in the mean and great,

Who feel all roughness, or who feed from plate;

In the nice Lord, behold what arts produce;

From vases carv'd is quaff'd the balmy juice;

How palates vary in the poor Divine,

Compar'd, half-reasoning Nobleman! with thine.

Thus every sense is fill'd in due degree,

And proper barriers bound his Grace and me;

Here every Passion is at length display'd,

Nations are ruin'd, Ministers betray'd;

And what, ye Fair, concerns your pleasures most,

Intrigues are plan'd, and Reputations lost:

By you persuaded, Man was overcome,

And conquer'd once, received a general doom;

Requite the deed, partake a general Curse;

We fell with you, and you should fall with us.

Ye gentle Gales, that softly move,

Go whisper to the Fair I love;

Tell her I languish and adore,

And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request,

Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest—

My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim,

And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still, if she rests in mute disdain,

And thinks I feel a common pain—

Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly,

And tell the haughty Fair I die.

Oh, Thou! who taught my infant eye

To pierce the air, and view the sky,

To see my God in earth and seas,

To hear him in the vernal breeze,

To know him midnight thoughts among,

O guide my soul, and aid my song!

Spirit of Light! do thou impart

Majestic truths, and teach my heart;

Teach me to know how weak I am,

How vain my powers, how poor my frame;

Teach me celestial paths untrod—

The ways of glory and of God.

No more let me, in vain surprise,

To heathen art give up my eyes—

To piles laborious science rear'd

For heroes brave, or tyrants fear'd;

But quit Philosophy, and see

The Fountain of her works in Thee.

Fond man! yon glassy mirror eye—

Go, pierce the flood, and there descry

The miracles that float between

The rainy leaves of wat'ry green;

Old Ocean's hoary treasures scan;

See nations swimming round a span.

Then wilt thou say—and rear no more

Thy monuments in mystic lore—

My God! I quit my vain design,

And drop my work to gaze on Thine:

Henceforth I'll frame myself to be,

Oh, Lord! a monument of Thee.

Friendship is like the gold refined,

And all may weigh its worth;

Love like the ore, brought undesign'd

In virgin beauty forth.

Friendship may pass from age to age,

And yet remain the same;

Love must in many a toil engage,

And melt in lambent flame.

You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true,

When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you?

Read first—if my lectures your fancy delight—

Your taste is diseased, can your cure be to write?

You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engage

The attention of wits and the smiles of the age:

Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,

Why—every man thinks just the same of his own.

You imagine that Pope—but yourself you beguile—

Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style.

Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope—

Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.

You think of my muse with a friendly regard,

And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward:

But let not his glory your spirits elate,

When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.

The wintry winds have ceased to blow,

And trembling leaves appear;

And fairest flowers succeed the snow,

And hail the infant year.

So, when the world and all its woes

Are vanish'd far away,

Fair scenes and wonderful repose

Shall bless the new-born day—

When, from the confines of the grave,

The body too shall rise,

No more precarious passion's slave,

Nor error's sacrifice.

'Tis but a sleep—and Sion's king

Will call the many dead;

'Tis but a sleep—and then we sing

O'er dreams of sorrow fled.

Yes!—wintry winds have ceased to blow,

And trembling leaves appear,

And Nature has her types to show

Throughout the varying year.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread,

The toiling year has pass'd and fled:

And, lo! in sad and pensive strain,

I sing my birth-day date again.

Trembling and poor, I saw the light,

New waking from unconscious night;

Trembling and poor I still remain,

To meet unconscious night again.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers,

To cheer or cheat the weary hours;

And those few strangers, dear indeed,

Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.

The Hebrew king, with spleen possest,

By David's harp was soothed to rest;

Yet, when the magic song was o'er,

The soft delusion charm'd no more;

The former fury fired the brain,

And every care return'd again.

But had he known Eliza's skill

To bless the sense and bind the will,

To bid the gloom of care retire,

And fan the flame of fond desire,

Remembrance then had kept the strain,

And not a care return'd again.

O sacred gift of God to man,

A faith that looks above,

And sees the deep amazing plan

Of sanctifying love.

Thou dear and yet tremendous God,

Whose glory pride reviles;

How did'st thou change thy awful rod

To pard'ning grace and smiles!

Shut up with sin, with shame below,

I trust, this bondage past,

A great, a glorious change to know,

And to be bless'd at last.

I do believe, that, God of light!

Thou didst to earth descend,

With Satan and with Sin to fight—

Our great, our only friend.

I know thou did'st ordain for me,

Thy creature, bread and wine;

The depth of grace I cannot see,

But worship the design.

The sober stillness of the night

That fills the silent air,

And all that breathes along the shore,

Invite to solemn prayer.

Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!

Which points the sacred way,

And let thy creatures here below

Instruct me how to pray.

Life is a Dream;—it steals upon the Man,

He knows not how, but thinks himself awake;

'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep,

That turns its glossy surface to the Sun,

Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proud

Of momentary Being—then it breaks—

To some tremendous Billow drops a prey,

And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.

But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care,

How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream,

And some—hard Fortune theirs—of Care alone.

Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake,

A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep;

While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad,

And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive Flight

Through Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her,

Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose Touch

Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits

On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.

Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines

The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave

Of the departed Lover; nor more mild

Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,

That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,

Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,

Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,

The Song shall please; and I will paint the Dream

That Midnight gave thee, when with wintry Wing

She swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew

Upon the frozen Garment of the pool;

And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine,

And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale,

And dress me in the Livery of the Dead;

And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee;

Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares,

And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons,

Who feed on Adulation—let them feed,

Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash,

And sickens with Repletion.—

I will ask,

No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song,

Nor Court Applause—Meonides had Fame,

And with her poverty and pain and Care,

Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph,

Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note;

From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key,

And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries;

Ambition started when he sang of War,

In Language all her own; and o'er his Lyre

Hung Devastation, glowing at the Sound,

And frantic for the Field; and there Distress,

As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man,

With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse;

And chiding Fame, by whispering to the Soul

Domestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise,

And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World,

Led the blind Bard in Sadness to the Tomb.—

I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver Wing

To bear me in some rapid even flight

Thro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard

That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang,

Transported, [wanders], feeling power divine

New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.

Imagination turns the Tide of Time,

Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,

And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear,

And falling Rome works back, till Nature smiles

And [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene,

And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen Boughs

That Shade the [Nereids] listning from their Streams.—

Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn

And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,

Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream

Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,

Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,

And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,

From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,

Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,

Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.

Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,

That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom,

Shot devious o'er the fervent Page of Young—

Young, Thought's Œconomist, who wove reproof

Her [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone;

Whose Invitation was assault: he found

The World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.

Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream,

The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blend

With his Creation; when he led the Eye

Through the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring;

And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream,

And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her Leaf

Unfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rills

Unmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace.

Ah! who with mingled Modesty and Love

So paints the bathing Maid; who so describes

The new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb?

Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's Wing

Of Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm;

But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,

And led thy weary plowman from the field,

And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,

And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough,

And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds,

Rustling along the golden [Valley], bear

The Grain just dropping from its withering Glume.

And Winter too was thine! permit me there

To bear a part, for mine are wintry Thoughts.—

Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire,

Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd

Imagination's pleasures to its Eye;

His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine;

His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns;

And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike,

At that dread Hour when the officious Friend,

Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss,

May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul,

And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies,

Whisper a noble [Challenge] to the Tomb.—

Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same,

And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls,

Both sentenc'd to Contempt—unletter'd pride—

Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to him

Who soars above or labours in the Clouds,

Who travels the sublime, or dives profound

In the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream:

He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill

That owns him Lord untasted steals away,

Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.

Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down

The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy

And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song

Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night.

This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,

Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,

Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,

To dive into the Depths of your profound,

And with a vile assemblage gather'd there

Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ring Bays.—

Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,

In repetition mawkish, or who tir'd

Thinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the Hand

Of [Disappointment] snatches from the Vice

That waits on power? or who has lost a friend,

And mingles with the dew that wets his Tomb

A frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mild

And melancholy Bias from the Womb

Was fashioned for the View of serious Things,

And with the sober chiding of his eye,

Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek,

And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity?

Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul,

EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and give

The Living Youth the Manners of my Friend.

From the Enshrouded Tenant of the Sod

I'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart,

The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the Form

That, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile,

That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt,

Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear.

Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound,

Halting in frozen regions of the Air,

Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,

Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n

For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,

To grasp Delusion in her Guise of Gold.—

The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill

Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms

She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip

Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart

Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View.

In other Climates, from the rays of Noon

Embower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palm

Drinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the Brow

Of shadied Weariness; and distant now

Draws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow,

The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun,

Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths,

The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light.

'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim

And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gild

The restless Bosom of the briny Deep.

The fiery Meteor in the foggy Air

Rides emulous of Fame and apes the Star,

Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish,

It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream,

Within the bosom of Oblivion.

The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff,

Unconscious of the Surge that grates below

The frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds,

As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul,

The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,

Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is now

The awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's Grave

Rolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,

That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,

Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,

Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;

Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of Light

Imprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,

And now escaping, when the parent Sun

Flings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,

Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.

Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,

Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy net

The wintry Fern, and throws along the Heath

A Hoary Garment, nor less fair than Spring

Drops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.

The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd Air

Shed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece

The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak,

Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,

With [age's] stern and touching Eloquence

The ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.

The winds that in converging Furrows plough

The freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,

Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings.

In Winter's Livery sleeps this earthly Scene—

And, save where Ocean rolls his restless Flood,

The horizontal Eye grasps all things grey.—

Eugenio, see—for thou shalt bear His Name

Who sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was my Friend—

The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thou

A Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb;

For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead,

Where Vanity amid the Mouldring Scrolls

Of Genealogy and mingled Bones

Moves in a formal join'd Solemnity,

House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man;

And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell,

Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth,

Stirs busy Memory to con o'er Deeds

Of high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love;

Which in th' eternal Records of the Just,

Are written with an Angels pen, and sung

With [Symphony] of Harp, and there is Joy

And Gratulation with the Sons of God.—

Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene],

How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade!

No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale

With Fragrance, nor invites the roving Bee

To taste its Sweets—and why this direful waste

Of Verdure? why this Vegetable Death?

Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin?

All in rebellion rise?—and tepid Meads,

And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field,

And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods,

Spurn God's Command and drink forbidden Dew?—

There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair,

(A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race)

A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love:

Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care,

The Sward was not—and Desolation slept

Till by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en Song

Wore Semblatude of War;—Eternal Spring

From the unfurrow'd Field the heavy Ear

Drew smiling, and the undistinguish'd year

Brought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she then

A Common Call, enamour'd of her plough.

The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm

E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant Lap

The tributary Grape, yet growing, laid.

The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay;

Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside,

The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains,

And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride.

Eugenio, thus they taught; and after this

A silver age arose, and hers the Scenes

Not Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid,

Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night,

And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye.

The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow,

And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care began

To plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age,

And Falshood from the female Eye to steal

The silent Tear; then prudence took her Seat

Within the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room.

Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bend

The ready Ear to tales of her own praise;

Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery,

But was, as Modesty is now, afraid

The Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much.

Then young Ambition wore his Russet Gown

Only in better Form, and Infant pomp

But saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom,

And propt his Cottage with a taller pier.—

Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of Sin

And foul Deformity, the Breast of Man

And the Sad Surface of the Earth enrobes.—

From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt

Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first,

Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood;

And treachery, breaking up the League of Friends

And rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ,

With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale,

A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care.

Hence War, in all her guilty Majesty

In slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land,

With all the murderous Whispers of the Camp

And shout of Ambush, castigates the Night.—

And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell,

That prey upon Mankind.—Eugenio, give

Thy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things,

To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air,

And we will mark the dreary Train that vex

The mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp,

Frowning upon the Midnight's murky Wing.—

And who is he, from yonder antient roof,

With Horror in his Eye, who steals around

Each hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace

Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the Foe

Of Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night,

And Superstition call'd, a Giant fond

Of Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness],

Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel,

And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a Groan

Resounding loud, affright the Coward Soul

From Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he Mourns

The fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure,

With Indolence and Folly, social pair,

Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who built

The Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'd

The drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or Eve

Hail'd the arising or descending Sun

With gothic Note, harmoniously sad.

But now no more the Votive Maiden clasps

The clay cold Saint, and mingles with her Vow

The Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realms

No more the power-compelling Bigot plucks

The robe from Kings, and consecrates the Tomb

That hides a Brother-Saint with Zeal-enforc'd

And ceremonious Solemnity.—

O'er the Opaque of Nature and of Night

Fair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born Art

That shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprest

Within the Volumes' varied Character,

Where to the wondering Eye the Soul reveals

Her Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shone

And Newton thro' the World, and Light on Light

Pour'd on the human Breast, as when of old,

From the Eternal Fountains of the God,

Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass;

Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'd

The first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things,

Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'd

Without a Station, and without a Name.

Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,

To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the arm

Of Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,

Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke

The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword,

Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,

And oft drew back, his silver wing born down

By the foul Breath of Malice; till at length

The Monster, rousing in Collected Might,

Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the Sound

Red Tyranny, and Torture, with his Limbs

Disjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blast

For every Fire, prepar'd each bloody Form

Of Death, and woo'd Destruction for her Wheel.—

Then on the Father dead the dying Son

Implor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrill

Shot from the lurid Flame, and to the Skies

Sail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's Eye

Met the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's Fear

Of Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply,

Forbidding Hope, on the affrightned Soul

Flung Terror; till, in pity to the World,

Came Wisdom, whispering to the Ear of power,

And peace arose; and then the Brother wept

A Brother's Death, for distant seem'd his own.

And now the Spirit of uneasy Man,

That weds Extreme, and, ever on the Wing

For Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the Cells

Of monkish Zeal, built with the base remains

The tow'ring Palace of Impiety.

There Jest profane, and Quibbling Mockery

Of all divine grew fast, as from the Earth

Enrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools,

Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth,

And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene.

To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success,

A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form,

And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a Lye

With Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth;

They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite,

With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man,

Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal,

Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!—

And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view

Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind,

And heedless of its Force. Upon the Brow

Of yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels,

And urges the departed Saints who sleep,

To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth,

Her Son, but late th' adopted of her dark

And gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the Crime

Of Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed!

And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep,

Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind

A thousand sooty Images of Death,

All horrible, and making Guilt's repose

Like to the fearfull rest the Vessel feels

In the dread Chasm of the tempestuous Sea,

Arch'd by the Wave that pauses o'er the Gulph,

While Sea-men urge their momentary prayer,

And with Heart-shrinking Horror view their Grave.

But hark, he speaks—attend the Wretches Tale—

Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night,

And seeking peace by giving Themes of pain

To the rude Air:

"Come, all ye little Ills,

Contempt, and poverty, and pale Disease

With Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applause

That sickens on the World, and all of Care

That shed your daily Drops of bitter Dew

Upon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike,

That I may feel your force, and call it Joy,

So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt,

With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart,

And when a momentary Comfort strives,

Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing,

Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought,

And nips the still-born Joy.—

"To me no more

The Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace,

Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard;

And did I think a base and sordid Heap

Had in it the Ability to pluck

The Sting from Guilt, and smother how it came

In the vile Knowledge that it came to me?

It was a Madman's Dream—O ye good Gods!

If Envy knew her Mark, she would beset

The poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut,

Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast,

Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep,

At their still howling North; and leave the Throne,

The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plant

The Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State,

On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep,

And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinkle there.—

"When shall I rest—O! let me, Night, [besiege]

Thy drowsy Ear with wailing, but be thou

[Tenacious] of my Guilt; and with her Band

Let everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue;

The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leap

Murder's Discretion, and with fearfull Speech

To free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death:

[Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man,

The base assassin, gives, and after longs

With Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine,

And I will yield all Hope of After-Life,

All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung—

Elysium water'd with immortal Streams,

And gifted with Eternity of peace,

Balm-breathing Fields, and Bowers of soft repose,

Walks amaranthine, and the pillowy Moss,

On Banks where Harpers, to celestial Strings

Attuning Nature, warble Notes of Love,

The Anodyne to all-rebellious Thought.—

"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with these

Foregoing pain eternal. Why then strive

From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care,

When Life and Care may be remov'd together?—

If I were not a very Coward Wretch,

A very Shadow of the Man, a thing

Made to feel Burdens of my Fear, and drag

A hated Being on—'twere but to leap

From this rough [Eminence], and all is done—

All that is done on this Side of the Bier.

But there, surrounded with impervious Fog,

Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come;

Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes,

Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease,

Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride,

Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice,

Slay in thy path; within thy Sepulchre

Mould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs,

Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity!

But what comes then? O for a Seraph's Eye

That, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things,

Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light,

And in its Immaterial Robe detect

The Spirit, stript of the encumbring Clay."—

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,

Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;

The rest we seek in our reflecting View

Of Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.

How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!

Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,

Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,

Meets—may he not?—the jovial Eye of Day,

With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek,

Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates

Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores

That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,

And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,

But, take it patient with a sober hope,

That soon Distress may vary his assault,

Or soon the Welcome Tomb exclude Distress.—

But see another Son of Night and Care,

A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold,

Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.

Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feels

The gentler Blows of Nature, and receives

The Common Visit of Calamity.

The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said,

How soon the happiest hours are fled!

On wings of down they lately flew,

But then their moments pass'd with you;

And still with you could I but be,

On downy wings they'd always flee.

Say, did you not, the way you went,

Feel the soft balm of gay content?

Say, did you not all pleasures find,

Of which you left so few behind?

I think you did: for well I know

My parting prayer would make it so.

"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake;

Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake—

The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live,

With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

What vulgar title thus salutes the eye,

The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy?

The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,

For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse;

The dull description of a scribbler's brain,

And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain;

A glowing chart of fairy-land estate,

Romantic scenes, and visions out of date,

Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers,

Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers?

Not thus! too long have I in fancy wove

My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love;

Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,

And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant;

Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again,

And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain!

"Gain by the Muse!"—alas! thou might'st as soon

Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon;

As soon grow rich by ministerial nods,

As soon divine by dreaming of the gods,

As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,

Or preaching moral documents to youth;

To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires,

As Tully's flourishes to country squires;

As simple truth within St. James's state,

Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate.

"Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope!

Who ever gain'd by poetry—but Pope?

And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part;

No potent Dean commends thy head or heart!

What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor?

They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,

They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.

What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say?

What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay?

For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give?

Or how did Johnson—how did Otway live?

Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good,

Their thin revénue never understood;

Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know;

Like thee, repining at each puny blow;

Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,

Upon their wits—but with a larger stock.

No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,

With supple acts to supple minds repair;

Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,

And deck thee with the livery genteel;

Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,

Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.

Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw

Give nations language, and great cities law;

Whom gods, they said—and surely gods—inspired,

Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired,

Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,

But vassals are, who judges were before.

Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,

As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste;

Though still some good the trial may produce,

To shape the useful to a nobler use.

Some few of these a statue and a stone

Has Fame decreed—but deals out bread to none.

Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,

Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;

Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,

Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:

Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,

And wily sergeants by the craft within:

Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led,

Starve by the means they use to gain their bread?

Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fate

Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;

Of children stinted in their daily meal,—

The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel.

Portentous spoke that pity in my breast,

And pleaded self—who ever pleads the best.

No! thank my stars, my misery's all my own—

To friends, to family, to foes unknown;

Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,

Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine.

One trial past, let sober Reason speak:

Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek?

Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain

A placid harbour from the stormy main;

Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep,

And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

* *  * *  * *  * *  * *  * *

Who thus aspiring sings, would'st thou explore?

A Bard replies, who ne'er assumed before—

One taught in hard affliction's school to bear

Life's ills, where every lesson costs a tear;

Who sees from thence the proper point of view,

What the wise heed not, and the weak pursue.

* *  * *  * *  * *  * *  * *

"And now farewell," the drooping Muse exclaims;

She lothly leaves thee to the shock of war,

And, fondly dwelling on her princely tar,

Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share,

Without her misery and without her care.

For, ah! unknown to thee, a rueful train,

Her hapless children sigh, and sigh in vain;

A numerous band, denied the boon to die,

Half-starved, half-fed by fits of charity.

Unknown to thee! and yet, perhaps, thy ear

Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to hear,

How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease;

How some, like Savage, sicken'd by degrees;

How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed

The proud, big tear on song-extorted bread;

Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose

Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse.

One of this train—and of these wretches one—

Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son—

Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed

On Henry, laurels, on his poet, bread!

Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse;

Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;

Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex,

And every friend, and every brother vex—

Each fond companion?—No, I thank my God.

There rests my torment—there is hung the rod.

To friend, to fame, to family unknown,

Sour disappointments frown on me alone.

Who hates my song, and damns the poor design,

Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine!

Pardon, sweet Prince! the thoughts that will intrude,

For want is absent, and dejection rude.

Methinks I hear, amid the shouts of Fame,

Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name;

And Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day,

One British bard should grieve when all are gay.

No! let him find his country has redress,

And bid adieu to every fond distress;

Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes retire,

Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire!

Why, true, thou say'st the fools, at Court denied,

Growl vengeance—and then take the other side;

The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power,

As sweets unshelter'd run to vapid sour.

But thou, the counsel to my closest thought,

Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought.

The Muse I court ne'er fawn'd on venal souls,

Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls;

She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream,

Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme.

But, when she sees a titled nothing stand

The ready cipher of a trembling land—

Not of that simple kind that, placed alone,

Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none;

But those which, join'd to figures, well express

A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress,

Grow in proportion to their number great,

And help each other in the ranks of state—

When this and more the pensive Muses see,

They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee;

To Court on wings of agile anger speed,

And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed.

Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest,

And fright base action from sin's wavering breast;

For, though the Knave may scorn the Muse's arts,

Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts.

Some, though they wish it, are not steel'd enough,

Nor is each would-be villain conscience-proof.

And what, my friend, is left my song besides?

No school-day wealth that roll'd in silver tides,

No dreams of hope that won my early will,

Nor love, that pain'd in temporary thrill;

No gold to deck my pleasure-scorn'd abode,

No friend to whisper peace, to give me food.

Poor to the World, I'd yet not live in vain,

But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain.

Yet shall not Satire all my song engage

In indiscriminate and idle rage;

True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line,

And long—if Vanity deceives not—shine.

For, though in harsher strains, the strains of woe,

And unadorn'd my heart-felt murmurs flow,

Yet time shall be when this thine humbled friend

Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend.

A Man—for other title were too poor—

Such as 'twere almost virtue to adore,

He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale,

As the sun vapours from the dew-press'd vale;

Himself uninjuring, shall new warmth infuse,

And call to blossom every want-nipp'd Muse.

Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice,

His name harmonious thrill'd on Mira's voice;

Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring,

And Shelburne's fame through laughing valleys ring.

Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care,

Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where?

As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote

On the fair type, or the embroider'd coat;

Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly,

Where princely Popes and mighty Miltons lie?

Taught but to sing, and that in simple style,

Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile,

Go, then! and taste a yet unfelt distress,

The fear that guards the captivating press;

Whose maddening region should ye once explore,

No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more.

But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript,

"Ah, would to Heaven, we'd died in manuscript!"

Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee

—For few will read, and none admire like me.—

Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe.

Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmore's Job;

Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform,

Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm;

Then sent disgraced—the unpaid printer's bane—

To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane,

On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire,

Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire,

Who half reluctant has his care resign'd,

Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind.

Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth.

View the strange land, and tell us of its worth;

And, should he there barbarian usage meet,

The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat.

And thou, the first of thy eccentric race,

A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place,

Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard,

Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard.

Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize,

The Muses yield, as the Hesperides;

Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's done,

For every maid is willing to be won.

Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand,

And beg our passage through the fairy land:

Beg more—to search for sweets each blooming field,

And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield;

To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow,

And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow;

Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,

Soothe without fear, and without trembling hope.

The pious pilot, whom the Gods provide,

Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide,

Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep,

Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep;

But, whilst with nicest skill he steers his way,

The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray.

Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome,

The God relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb.

Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer,

I dread the storm, that ever rattles here;

Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul

Has felt the Muse's soft, but strong, control;

Nor think enough that manly strength and ease,

Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please;

But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow,

Here burn my incense, and here pay my vow;

That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er,

And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no more.

And ye, whom authors dread or dare in vain,

Affecting modest hopes or poor disdain,

Receive a bard, who, neither mad nor mean,

Despises each extreme, and sails between;

Who fears; but has, amid his fears confess'd,

The conscious virtue of a Muse oppressed;

A Muse in changing times and stations nursed,

By nature honour'd and by fortune cursed.

No servile strain of abject hope she brings,

Nor soars presumptuous, with unwearied wings;

But, pruned for flight—the future all her care—

Would know her strength, and, if not strong, forbear.

The supple slave to regal pomp bows down,

Prostrate to power, and cringing to a crown;

The bolder villain spurns a decent awe,

Tramples on rule, and breaks through every law;

But he whose soul on honest truth relies,

Nor meanly flatters power, nor madly flies.

Thus timid authors bear an abject mind,

And plead for mercy they but seldom find.

Some, as the desperate to the halter run,

Boldly deride the fate they cannot shun;

But such there are, whose minds, not taught to stoop,

Yet hope for fame, and dare avow their hope;

Who neither brave the judges of their cause,

Nor beg in soothing strains a brief applause.

And such I'd be;—and, ere my fate is past,

Ere clear'd with honour, or with culprits cast,

Humbly at Learning's bar I'll state my case,

And welcome then distinction or disgrace!

When in the man the flights of fancy reign,

Rule in the heart, or revel in the brain,

As busy Thought her wild creation apes,

And hangs delighted o'er her varying shapes,

It asks a judgment, weighty and discreet,

To know where wisdom prompts, and where conceit;

Alike their draughts to every scribbler's mind

(Blind to their faults as to their danger blind)—

We write enraptured, and we write in haste,

Dream idle dreams, and call them things of taste;

Improvement trace in every paltry line,

And see, transported, every dull design;

Are seldom cautious, all advice detest,

And ever think our own opinions best;

Nor shows my Muse a muse-like spirit here,

Who bids me pause, before I persevere.

But she—who shrinks, while meditating flight

In the wide way, whose bounds delude her sight,

Yet tired in her own mazes still to roam,

And cull poor banquets for the soul at home—

Would, ere she ventures, ponder on the way,

Lest dangers yet unthought-of flight betray;

Lest her Icarian wing, by wits unplumed,

Be robb'd of all the honours she assumed,

And Dulness swell—a black and dismal sea,

Gaping her grave, while censures madden me.

Such was his fate, who flew too near the sun,

Shot far beyond his strength, and was undone;

Such is his fate, who creeping at the shore

The billow sweeps him, and he's found no more.

Oh! for some God, to bear my fortunes fair

Midway betwixt presumption and despair!

"Has then some friendly critic's former blow

Taught thee a prudence authors seldom know?"

Not so! their anger and their love untried,

A wo-taught prudence deigns to tend my side:

Life's hopes ill-sped, the Muse's hopes grow poor,

And though they flatter, yet they charm no more;

Experience points where lurking dangers lay,

And as I run, throws caution in my way.

There was a night, when wintry winds did rage,

Hard by a ruin'd pile I met a sage;

Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd,

Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard;

Whose fate-lopp'd brow, the bat's and beetle's dome,

Shook, as the hunted owl flew hooting home.

His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast,

And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past;

His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound,

And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground;

Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow,

He shook, from locks as white, December's snow;

Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease,

But lock'd within him meditated peace.

"Father," I said—for silver hairs inspire,

And oft I call the bending peasant Sire—

"Tell me, as here beneath this ivy bower,

That works fantastic round its trembling tower,

We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders roar,

Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor;

For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu,

And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you.

"There was a time when, by Delusion led,

A scene of sacred bliss around me spread;

On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood,

And saw my Canaan there, my promised good.

A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd,

And wine and oil through vision's valleys flow'd;

As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd,

And gazed upon the good I ne'er possess'd:

On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand,

Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land."

"Son," said the Sage—"be this thy care suppressed;

The state the Gods shall choose thee is the best:

Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more,

And would thy patience, when they make thee poor.

But other thoughts within thy bosom reign,

And other subjects vex thy busy brain;

Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite,

And thy sad stars have destined thee to write.

Then, since that task the ruthless fates decree,

Take a few precepts from the Gods and me!

"Be not too eager in the arduous Chase:

Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race;

Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth,

And let thy labours one by one go forth;

Some happier scrap capricious wits may find

On a fair day, and be profusely kind;

Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng,

Had pleased as little as a new-year's song,

Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet,

Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet.

Merit not always—Fortune feeds the bard,

And, as the whim inclines, bestows reward;

None without wit, nor with it numbers gain;

To please is hard, but none shall please in vain.

As a coy mistress is the humour'd town,

Loth every lover with success to crown;

He who would win must every effort try,

Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fly;

Must gay or grave to every humour dress,

And watch the lucky Moment of Success;

That caught, no more his eager hopes are crost;

But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost."

}

Thus said the God; for now a God he grew,

}

His white locks changing to a golden hue,

}

And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-blue.

His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed

Of dove-like Delia, when her doubts reposed;

Mira's alone a softer lustre bear,

When wo beguiles them of an angel's tear;

Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood,

Then sought on airy wing his blest abode.

Ah! truth distasteful in poetic theme,

Why is the Muse compell'd to own her dream?

Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line,

I only wish to make its moral mine.

Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed,

May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed?

Say, shall my name, to future song prefix'd,

Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd?

Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage,

My graver numbers move the silver'd sage,

My tender themes delight the lover's heart,

And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart?

For O! thou, Hope's—thou, Thought's eternal King,

Who gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing,

Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar,

And in my happier transports I adore;

Mercy thy softest attribute proclaim,

Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name;

That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray,

As the foil moon-beam gilds the watery way.

And then too, Love, my soul's resistless lord,

Shall many a gentle, generous strain afford,

To all the soil of sooty passions blind,

Pure as embracing angels, and as kind;

Our Mira's name in future times shall shine,

And—though the harshest—Shepherds envy mine.

Then let me (pleasing task!) however hard,

Join, as of old, the prophet and the bard;

If not, ah! shield me from the dire disgrace

That haunts the wild and visionary race;

Let me not draw my lengthen'd lines along,

And tire in untamed infamy of song;

Lest, in some dismal Dunciad's future page,

I stand the Cibber of this tuneless age;

Lest, if another Pope th' indulgent skies

Should give, inspired by all their deities,

My luckless name, in his immortal strain,

Should, blasted, brand me as a second Cain;

Doom'd in that song to live against my will,

Whom all must scorn, and yet whom none could kill.

The youth, resisted by the maiden's art,

Persists, and time subdues her kindling heart;

To strong entreaty yields the widow's vow,

As mighty walls to bold besiegers bow;

Repeated prayers draw bounty from the sky,

And heaven is won by importunity.

Ours, a projecting tribe, pursue in vain,

In tedious trials, an uncertain gain;

Madly plunge on through every hope's defeat,

And with our ruin only, find the cheat.

"And why then seek that luckless doom to share?"

Who, I?—To shun it is my only care.

I grant it true, that others better tell

Of mighty Wolfe, who conquer'd as he fell[12];

Of heroes born their threaten'd realms to save,

Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose grave;

Of crimson'd fields, where Fate, in dire array,

Gives to the breathless the short-breathing clay;

Ours, a young train, by humbler fountains dream,

Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian stream;

When Rodney's triumph comes on eagle-wing,

We hail the victor, whom we fear to sing;

Nor tell we how each hostile chief goes on,

The luckless Lee, or wary Washington;

How Spanish bombast blusters—they were beat,

And French politeness dulcifies—defeat.

My modest Muse forbears to speak of kings,

Lest fainting stanzas blast the name she sings;

For who, the tenant of the beechen shade,

Dares the big thought in regal breasts pervade?

Or search his soul, whom each too-favouring God

Gives to delight in plunder, pomp, and blood?

No; let me, free from Cupid's frolic round,

Rejoice, or more rejoice by Cupid bound;

Of laughing girls in smiling couplets tell,

And paint the dark-brow'd grove, where wood-nymphs dwell,

Who bid invading youths their vengeance feel,

And pierce the votive hearts they mean to heal.

Such were the themes I knew in school-day ease,

When first the moral magic learn'd to please;

Ere Judgment told how transports warm'd the breast,

Transported Fancy there her stores imprest;

The soul in varied raptures learn'd to fly,

Felt all their force, and never question'd why.

No idle doubts could then her peace molest;

She found delight, and left to heaven the rest.

Soft joys in Evening's placid shades were born,

And where sweet fragrance wing'd the balmy morn.

When the wild thought roved vision's circuit o'er,

And caught the raptures, caught, alas! no more:

No care did then a dull attention ask,

For study pleased, and that was every task;

No guilty dreams stalk'd that heaven-favour'd round,

Heaven-guarded too; no Envy entrance found;

Nor numerous wants, that vex advancing age,

Nor Flattery's silver'd tale, nor Sorrow's sage;

Frugal Affliction kept each growing dart,

T' o'erwhelm in future days the bleeding heart.

No sceptic art veil'd Pride in Truth's disguise,

But prayer, unsoil'd of doubt, besieged the skies;

Ambition, avarice, care, to man retired,

Nor came desires more quick, than joys desired.

A summer morn there was, and passing fair;

Still was the breeze, and health perfumed the air;

The glowing east in crimson'd splendour shone,

What time the eye just marks the pallid moon;

Vi'let-wing'd Zephyr fann'd each opening flower,

And brush'd from fragrant cups the limpid shower;

}

A distant huntsman fill'd his cheerful horn,

}

The vivid dew hung trembling on the thorn,

}

And mists, like creeping rocks, arose to meet the morn.

Huge giant shadows spread along the plain,

Or shot from towering rocks o'er half the main.

There to the slumbering bark the gentle tide

Stole soft, and faintly beat against its side;

Such is that sound, which fond designs convey,

When, true to love, the damsel speeds away;

The sails, unshaken, hung aloft unfurl'd,

And, simpering nigh, the languid current curl'd;

A crumbling ruin, once a city's pride,

The well-pleased eye through withering oaks descried,

Where Sadness, gazing on time's ravage, hung,

And Silence to Destruction's trophy clung—

Save that, as morning songsters swell'd their lays,

Awaken'd Echo humm'd repeated praise.

}

The lark on quavering pinion woo'd the day,

}

Less towering linnets fill'd the vocal spray,

}

And song-invited pilgrims rose to pray.

Here at a pine-prest hill's embroider'd base

I stood, and hail'd the Genius of the place.

Then was it doom'd by fate, my idle heart,

Soften'd by Nature, gave access to Art;

The Muse approach'd, her syren-song I heard,

Her magic felt, and all her charms revered:

E'er since she rules in absolute control,

And Mira only dearer to my soul.

Ah! tell me not these empty joys to fly;

If they deceive, I would deluded die;

To the fond themes my heart so early wed,

So soon in life to blooming visions led,

So prone to run the vague uncertain course—

'Tis more than death to think of a divorce.

What wills the poet of the favouring gods,

Led to their shrine, and blest in their abodes[13]?

What, when he fills the glass, and to each youth

Names his loved maid, and glories in his truth?

Not India's spoils, the splendid nabob's pride,

Not the full trade of Hermes' own Cheapside,

Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves,

Or shrouds, well shrouded in his sacred waves;

Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in trim array,

Which the more noble Thames bears far away.

Let those whose nod makes sooty subjects flee,

Hack with blunt steel the savory callipee;

Let those whose ill-used wealth their country fly,

Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy:

Favour'd by fate, let such in joy appear,

Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year;

Disdaining these, for simpler food I'll look,

And crop my beverage at the mantled brook.

O Virtue! brighter than the noon-tide ray,

My humble prayers with sacred joys repay!

Health to my limbs may the kind Gods impart,

And thy fair form delight my yielding heart!

Grant me to shun each vile inglorious road,

To see thy way, and trace each moral good;

If more—let Wisdom's sons my page peruse,

And decent credit deck my modest Muse.

Nor deem it pride that prophesies, my song

Shall please the sons of taste, and please them long.

Say, ye, to whom my Muse submissive brings

Her first-fruit offering, and on trembling wings,

May she not hope in future days to soar,

Where fancy's sons have led the way before?

Where genius strives in each ambrosial bower

To snatch with agile hand the opening flower?

To cull what sweets adorn the mountain's brow,

What humbler blossoms crown the vales below?

To blend with these the stores by art refined,

And give the moral Flora to the mind?

Far other scenes my timid hour admits,

Relentless critics, and avenging wits;

E'en coxcombs take a licence from their pen,

And to each "let-him-perish" cry Amen!

And thus, with wits or fools my heart shall cry,

For if they please not, let the trifles die—

Die, and be lost in dark oblivion's shore,

And never rise to vex their author more.

I would not dream o'er some soft liquid line,

Amid a thousand blunders form'd to shine;

}

Yet rather this, than that dull scribbler be,

}

From every fault, and every beauty free,

}

Curst with tame thoughts and mediocrity.

Some have I found so thick beset with spots,

'Twas hard to trace their beauties through their blots;

And these, as tapers round a sick-man's room,

Or passing chimes, but warn'd me of the tomb!

O! if you blast, at once consume my bays,

And damn me not with mutilated praise.

With candour judge; and, a young bard in view.

Allow for that, and judge with kindness too.

Faults he must own, though hard for him to find,

Not to some happier merits quite so blind;

These if mistaken Fancy only sees,

Or Hope, that takes Deformity for these;

If Dunce, the crowd-befitting title, falls

His lot, and Dulness her new subject calls:

To the poor bard alone your censures give—

Let his fame die, but let his honour live;

Laugh if you must—be candid as you can,

And when you lash the Poet, spare the Man.

When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,

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-toss'd sailor sighs for slumbering seas—

He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;

}

On the smooth mirror of the deep resides

}

Reflected wo, 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 combined,

}

By mix'd 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 e'en 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 grieved, 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 show to subjects, what they show 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 diseased 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 control

The chronic 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 composed this silent multitude:—

Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound,

Here all the living languages abound,

Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,

In tombs that open to the curious eye.

Bless'd 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 nursed through many an anxious day,

Shall all our labour, all our care 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 grieved, 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,

A 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 folios first, a lordly band,

Then quartos, their well-order'd ranks maintain,

And light octavos fill a spacious plain;

See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,

A humbler band of duodecimos;

While undistinguished trifles swell the scene,

The last new play and fritter'd magazine.

Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,

In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state;

Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,

Are much admired, 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-press'd leaves, unclosed 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;

Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address;

Princes and kings received 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[14];

Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain;

No readers now invade their still retreat,

None try to steal them from their parent-seat;

Like ancient 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

Explored 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 proved 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:

E'en 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, abridgments, 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 exposed 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 combined, their decent pomp display,

Where shall we first our early offering 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 grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive;

And with the world in charity to live.

Not truths like these inspired that numerous race,

Whose pious labours fill this ample space;

But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,

Awaked 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 inflamed a sinful world—

Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,

With wit disgusting and despised 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 pray, 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 displeased, 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 fired,

Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired;

And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race,

Lie, "Crums 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 bless'd 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 shows 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 control.

But now, when Reason has assumed 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 stored 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 hers 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 described, 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 endued

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, lured by vice, indulge the low desire;

Whilst others, won by either, now pursue

The guilty chase, now keep the good in view;

For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,

They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life;

For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain,

Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.

Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul,

New interests draw, new principles control:

Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief,

But here the tortured 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 subtile 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 demons 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 indulged in song;

Ye first seducers of my easy heart,

Who promised 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,

Subtile 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 abridgments 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 mix'd with error, oft with evil too,

Skill'd in deceit, and practised 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 bless'd 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 control;

A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised,

And in rude song his ruder idol praised;

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 bed 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 control, 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 placed 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;

Primeval 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 placed 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 possess'd,

A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd;

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 portrays 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, though 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 [reverent] 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, demons, dance before our eyes;

Lo! magic verse inscribed 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 withhold?

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,

Released 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;

E'en 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 enraptured on the dragon's wing?

No, 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown,

That makes th' imagined 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 divorced; 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 fancied empire vain,

With various thoughts my mind I entertain;

While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,

Pleased 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 ranged 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 paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt,

With rage as sudden dash'd the stanza out—

If, after fearing much and pausing long,

Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song,

And from the crusty critics of those days

Implored the feeble tribute of their praise:

Remember now the fears that moved 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 wo,

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 condensed they seem,

Exhaled 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 wo, 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, inspired by loftier views,

Life's little cares and little pains refuse?

Shall he not rather feel a double share

Of mortal wo, 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.

E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,

Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;

And every wound the tortured bosom feels,

Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;

Some generous friend, of ample power possess'd;

Some feeling heart that bleeds for the distress'd;

Some breast that glows with virtues all divine;

Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine.

"Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen,

Merit the scorn they meet from little men.

With cautious freedom if the numbers flow,

Not wildly high, nor pitifully low;

If vice alone their honest aims oppose,

Why so ashamed 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

Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too.

Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,

The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great,

Stripp'd 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 worlds below;

Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,

And tell them, Such are all the toys they love."

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,

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, unbless'd, 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 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.

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-lived 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 retired, through 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 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,

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;

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,

These oracles explore, to learn our fate;

Pleased 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:

[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

Of mightier men, and never waste the while;

Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate,

A little prop and pillar of the state.

Here he delights the weekly news to con,

And mingle comments as he blunders on;

To swallow all their varying authors teach,

To spell a title, and confound a speech:

Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,

And claims his nation's licence to abuse;

Then joins the cry, "That all the courtly race

Are venal candidates for power and place";

Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice,

That his own vote will bring its wonted price.

These are the ills the teeming press supplies,

The pois'nous springs from learning's fountain rise;

Not there the wise alone their entrance find,

Imparting useful light to mortals blind;

But, blind themselves, these erring guides hold out

Alluring lights, to lead us far about;

Screen'd by such means, here Scandal whets her quill,

Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she will;

Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive,

And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe.

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;

Their careless authors only strive to join

As many words as make an even line[20];

As many lines as fill a row complete;

As many rows as furnish up a sheet:

From side to side, with ready types they run,

The measure's ended, and the work is done;

Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest!

Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest.

To you all readers turn, and they can look

Pleased on a paper, who abhor a book;

Those, who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse,

Would think it hard to be denied their news;

Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak,

Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek;

This, like the public inn, provides a treat,

Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat;

And such this mental food, as we may call

Something to all men, and to some men all.

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,

That brings its favourite subject to the heart;

Grave politicians look for facts alone,

And gravely add conjectures of their own:

The sprightly nymph, who never broke her rest

For tottering crowns, or mighty lands oppress'd,

Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all

For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball;

The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale

For "Money's wanted," and "Estates on Sale";

While some with equal minds to all attend,

Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an end.

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—

Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;

Home to their several cells they bear the store,

Cull'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.

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

Hung in these dirty avenues to fame;

Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen

And sung, could make those avenues more clean;

Could stop one slander ere it found its way,

And gave to public scorn its helpless prey.

By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends,

And kindly tells the banquet she intends;

Thither from real life the many run,

With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon;

Pleased, in fictitious joy or grief, to see

The mimic passion with their own agree;

To steal a few enchanted hours away

From care, and drop the curtain on the day.

But who can steal from self that wretched wight,

Whose darling work is tried, some fatal night?

Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss,

He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss;

Then groans succeed; not traitors on the wheel

Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel.

Nor end they here: next day he reads his fall

In every paper; critics are they all;

He sees his branded name, with wild affright,

And hears again the cat-calls of the night.

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,

Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint;

Your former features, airs, and arts assume,

Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom.

—Come, batter'd beaux, whose locks are turn'd to grey,

And crop Discretion's lying badge away;

Read where they vend these smart engaging things,

These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs;

No female eye the fair deception sees,

Not Nature's self so natural as these."

Such are their arts, but not confined to them,

The Muse impartial must her sons condemn:

For they, degenerate! join the venal throng,

And puff a lazy Pegasus along:

More guilty these, by Nature less design'd

For little arts that suit the vulgar-kind;

That barbers' boys, who would to trade advance,

Wish us to call them, smart Friseurs from France;

That he who builds a chop-house, on his door

Paints "The true old original Blue Boar!"

These are the arts by which a thousand live,

Where Truth may smile, and Justice may forgive;

But when, amid this rabble-rout, we find

A puffing poet to his honour blind;

Who [slily] drops quotations all about,

Packet or Post, and points their merit out;

Who advertises what reviewers say,

With sham editions every second day;

Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,

But hurries into fame with all his might;

Although the verse some transient praise obtains,

Contempt is all the anxious poet gains.

Now, puffs exhausted, advertisements past,

Their correspondents stand exposed at last;

These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown,

Who for the public good forego their own;

Who, volunteers, in paper-war engage,

With double portion of their party's rage:

Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear

Wooing the printer for admission here;

Whose generous souls can condescend to pray

For leave to throw their precious time away.

Oh! cruel Woodfall! when a patriot draws

His grey-goose quill in his dear country's cause,

To vex and maul a ministerial race,

Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place?

Alas! thou know'st not with what anxious heart

He longs his best-loved labours to impart;

How he has sent them to thy brethren round,

And still the same unkind reception found:

At length indignant will he damn the state,

Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate.

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

Hid in your flow'ry path, and cry "Beware."

Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind,

A sudden couplet rushes on your mind;

Here you may nameless print your idle rhymes,

And read your first-born work a thousand times;

Th' infection spreads, your couplet grows apace—

Stanzas to Delia's dog or Celia's face;

You take a name: Philander's odes are seen,

Printed, and praised, in every magazine;

Diarian sages greet their brother sage,

And your dark pages please th' enlighten'd age.—

Alas! what years you thus consume in vain,

Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain!

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,

And let her foes lament that you were born:

Or weigh her laws, their ancient rights defend,

Though hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason's friend;

Arm'd with strong powers, in their defence engage,

And rise the Thurlow of the future age!

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.

Is there a place, save one the poet sees,

A land of love, of liberty and ease;

Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress

Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness;

Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state,

Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate,

Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng,

And half man's life is holiday and song?

Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,

By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears;

Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd.

Auburn and Eden can no more be found.

Hence good and evil mix'd, but man has skill

And power to part them, when he feels the will!

Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few,

Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.

Behold the cot! where thrives th' industrious swain,

Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain;

Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray

Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;

Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop,

And turn their blossoms to the casement's top:

All need requires is in that cot contain'd,

And much that taste, untaught and unrestrain'd,

Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace,

In one gay picture, all the royal race;

Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;

The print that shows them and the verse that sings.

Here the last Lewis on his throne is seen,

And there he stands imprison'd, and his queen;

To these the mother takes her child, and shows

What grateful duty to his God he owes;

Who gives to him a happy home, where he

Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free;

When kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried,

Are all these blessings of the poor denied.

There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules,

Who proved Misfortune's was the best of schools:

And there his son, who, tried by years of pain,

Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain.

The magic-mill that grinds the gran'nams young,

Close at the side of kind Godiva hung;

She, of her favourite place the pride and joy,

Of charms at once most lavish and most coy,

By wanton act the purest fame could raise,

And give the boldest deed the chastest praise.

There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed;

There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel-bred;

And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries live

In all the joys that ale and skittles give.

Now, lo! in Egypt's coast that hostile fleet,

By nations dreaded and by Nelson beat;

And here shall soon another triumph come,

A deed of glory in a day of gloom—

Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate!

The proudest conquest, at the dearest rate.

On shelf of deal, beside the cuckoo-clock,

Of cottage-reading rests the chosen stock;

Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind

For all our wants, a meat for every mind:

The tale for wonder and the joke for whim,

The half-sung sermon and the half-groan'd hymn.

No need of classing; each within its place,

The feeling finger in the dark can trace;

"First from the corner, farthest from the wall":

Such all the rules, and they suffice for all.

There pious works for Sunday's use are found,

Companions for that Bible newly bound:

That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved,

Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved;

Has choicest notes by many a famous head,

Such as to doubt have rustic readers led;

Have made them stop to reason, why? and how?

And, where they once agreed, to cavil now.

Oh! rather give me commentators plain,

Who with no deep researches vex the brain;

Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,

And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun;

Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons back,

And guard the point no enemies attack.

Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that shelf upon;

A genius rare but rude was honest John:

Not one who, early by the Muse beguiled,

Drank from her well the waters undefiled;

Not one who slowly gain'd the hill sublime,

Then often sipp'd and little at a time;

But one who dabbled in the sacred springs,

And drank them muddy, mix'd with baser things.

Here, to interpret dreams we read the rules—

Science our own, and never taught in schools;

In moles and specks we Fortune's gifts discern,

And Fate's fix'd will from Nature's wanderings learn.

Of Hermit Quarle we read, in island rare,

Far from mankind and seeming far from care;

Safe from all want, and sound in every limb;

Yes! there was he, and there was care with him.

Unbound and heap'd, these valued works beside,

Lay humbler works the pedler's pack supplied;

Yet these, long since, have all acquired a name:

The Wandering Jew has found his way to fame;

And fame, denied to many a labour'd song,

Crowns Thumb the great, and Hickerthrift the strong.

There too is he, by wizard-power upheld,

Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd:

His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed;

His coat of darkness on his loins he braced;

His sword of sharpness in his hand he took,

And off the heads of doughty giants stroke:

Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;

No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear;

No English blood their pagan sense could smell,

But heads dropp'd headlong, wondering why they fell.

These are the peasant's joy, when, placed at ease,

Half his delighted offspring mount his knees.

To every cot the lord's indulgent mind

Has a small space for garden-ground assign'd;

Here—till return of morn dismiss'd the farm—

The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,

Warm'd as he works, and casts his look around

On every foot of that improving ground:

It is his own he sees; his master's eye

Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;

Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;—

Hope, profit, pleasure,—they are all his own.

Here grow the humble [chives], and, hard by them,

The leek with crown globose and reedy stem;

High climb his pulse in many an even row,

Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below;

And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste

Give a warm relish to the night's repast;

Apples and cherries grafted by his hand,

And cluster'd nuts for neighbouring market stand.

Nor thus concludes his labour: near the cot,

The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot;

}

Where rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes,

}

Proud hyacinths, the least some florist's prize,

}

Tulips tall-stemm'd and pounced auriculas rise.

Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,

Meet and rejoice a family of friends;

All speak aloud, are happy and are free,

And glad they seem, and gaily they agree.

What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,

Where all are talkers and where none can teach;

Where still the welcome and the words are old,

And the same stories are for ever told—

Yet theirs is joy that, bursting from the heart,

Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart;

That forms these tones of gladness we despise,

That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;

That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays,

And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.

Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long;

But vice and misery now demand the song,

And turn our view from dwellings simply neat,

To this infected row we term our street.

Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew

Each evening meet: the sot, the cheat, the shrew;

Riots are nightly heard—the curse, the cries

Of beaten wife, perverse in her replies;

While shrieking children hold each threat'ning hand,

And sometimes life, and sometimes food, demand:

Boys, in their first-stol'n rags, to swear begin,

And girls, who heed not dress, are skill'd in gin:

Snarers and smugglers here their gains divide;

Ensnaring females here their victims hide;

And here is one, the sibyl of the row,

Who knows all secrets, or affects to know.

Seeking their fate, to her the simple run,

To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun;

Mistress of worthless arts, depraved in will,

Her care unbless'd and unrepaid her skill,

Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops,

And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes.

Between the road-way and the walls, offence

Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense:

There lie, obscene, at every open door,

Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor;

And day by day the mingled masses grow,

As sinks are disembogued and kennels flow.

There hungry dogs from hungry children steal;

There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal;

There dropsied infants wail without redress,

And all is want and wo and wretchedness:

Yet, should these boys, with bodies bronzed and bare,

High-swoln and hard, outlive that lack of care,

Forced on some farm, the unexerted strength,

Though loth to action, is compell'd at length,

When warm'd by health, as serpents in the spring

Aside their slough of indolence they fling.

Yet, ere they go, a greater evil comes—

See! crowded beds in those contiguous rooms;

Beds but ill parted by a paltry screen

Of paper'd lath or curtain dropp'd between;

Daughters and sons to yon compartments creep,

And parents here beside their children sleep.

Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part,

Nor let the ear be first to taint the heart!

Come! search within, nor sight nor smell regard;

The true physician walks the foulest ward.

See! on the floor what frouzy patches rest!

What nauseous fragments on yon fractured chest!

What downy dust beneath yon window-seat!

And round these posts that serve this bed for feet;

This bed, where all those tatter'd garments lie,

Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by!

See! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head,

Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed;

The mother-gossip has the love suppress'd

An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast;

And daily prattles, as her round she takes,

(With strong resentment) of the want she makes.

Whence all these woes?—From want of virtuous will,

Of honest shame, of time-improving skill;

From want of care t'employ the vacant hour,

And want of ev'ry kind but want of power.

Here are no wheels for either wool or flax,

But packs of cards—made up of sundry packs;

Here is no clock, nor will they turn the glass.

And see how swift th'important moments pass;

Here are no books, but ballads on the wall

Are some abusive, and indecent all;

Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks,

Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks;

An ample flask, that nightly rovers fill

With recent poison from the Dutchman's still;

}

A box of tools, with wires of various size,

}

Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise,

}

And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize.

To every house belongs a space of ground,

Of equal size, once fenced with paling round;

That paling now by slothful waste destroy'd,

Dead gorse and stumps of elder fill the void,

Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay

Hide sots and striplings at their drink or play.

Within, a board, beneath a tiled retreat,

Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat;

Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows;

Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows;

Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile,

The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile;

Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door,

And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor.

Here his poor bird th'inhuman cocker brings,

Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings;

With spicy food th'impatient spirit feeds,

And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds.

Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes,

The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies;

Must faintly peck at his victorious foe,

And reel and stagger at each feeble blow.

When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes,

His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes;

And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake,

And only bled and perish'd for his sake.

Such are our peasants, those to whom we yield

Praise with relief, the fathers of the field;

And these who take, from our reluctant hands,

What Burn advises or the Bench commands.

Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain,

Like other farmers, flourish and complain.—

These are our groups; our portraits next appear,

And close our exhibition for the year.

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.

A youthful Sailor heard him;—"Ha!" quoth he,

"This Miller's maiden is a prize for me;

Her charms I love, his riches I desire,

And all his threats but fan the kindling fire;

My ebbing purse no more the foe shall fill,

But Love's kind act and Lucy at the mill."

Thus thought the youth, and soon the chase began,

Stretch'd all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan:

His trusty staff in his bold hand he took,

Like him and like his frigate, heart of oak;

Fresh were his features, his attire was new;

Clean was his linen, and his jacket blue:

Of finest jean, his trowsers, tight and trim,

Brush'd the large buckle at the silver rim.

He soon arrived, he traced the village-green;

There saw the maid, and was with pleasure seen;

Then talk'd of love, till Lucy's yielding heart

Confess'd 'twas painful, though 'twas right, to part.

"For ah! my father has a haughty soul;

Whom best he loves, he loves but to control;

Me to some churl in bargain he'll consign,

And make some tyrant of the parish mine:

Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe

Has often forced but never shed the tear;

Save, when my mother died, some drops express'd

A kind of sorrow for a wife at rest.—

To me a master's stern regard is shown,

I'm like his steed, prized highly as his own;

Stroked but corrected, threaten'd when supplied,

His slave and boast, his victim and his pride."

"Cheer up, my lass! I'll to thy father go—

The Miller cannot be the Sailor's foe;

Both live by Heaven's free gale, that plays aloud

In the stretch'd canvas and the piping shroud;

The rush of winds, the flapping sails above,

And rattling planks within, are sounds we love;

Calms are our dread; when tempests plough the deep,

We take a reef, and to the rocking sleep."

"Ha!" quoth the Miller, moved at speech so rash,

"Art thou like me? then, where thy notes and cash?

Away to Wapping, and a wife command,

With all thy wealth, a guinea, in thine hand;

There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer,

And leave my Lucy for thy betters here."

"Revenge! revenge!" the angry lover cried,

Then sought the nymph, and "Be thou now my bride."

Bride had she been, but they no priest could move

To bind in law the couple bound by love.

What sought these lovers then by day, by night,

But stolen moments of disturb'd delight—

Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly prized,

Transports that pain'd, and joys that agonized:

Till the fond damsel, pleased with lad so trim,

Awed by her parent, and enticed by him,

Her lovely form from savage power to save,

Gave—not her hand, but ALL she could, she gave.

Then came the day of shame, the grievous night,

The varying look, the wandering appetite;

The joy assumed, while sorrow dimm'd the eyes;

The forced sad smiles that follow'd sudden sighs;

And every art, long used, but used in vain,

To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain.

Too eager caution shows some danger's near,

The bully's bluster proves the coward's fear;

His sober step the drunkard vainly tries,

And nymphs expose the failings they disguise.

First, whispering gossips were in parties seen;

Then louder Scandal walk'd the village-green;

Next babbling Folly told the growing ill,

And busy Malice dropp'd it at the mill.

"Go! to thy curse and mine," the Father said,

"Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed;

Want and a wailing brat thy portion be,

Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me.—

Where skulks the villain?"—"On the ocean wide

My William seeks a portion for his bride."—

"Vain be his search! but, till the traitor come,

The higgler's cottage be thy future home;

There with his ancient shrew and care abide,

And hide thy head—thy shame thou canst not hide."

Day after day was pass'd in pains and grief;

Week follow'd week—and still was no relief.

Her boy was born—no lads nor lasses came

To grace the rite or give the child a name;

Nor grave conceited nurse, of office proud,

Bore the young Christian roaring through the crowd:

In a small chamber was my office done,

Where blinks through paper'd panes the setting sun;

Where noisy sparrows, perch'd on penthouse near,

Chirp tuneless joy, and mock the frequent tear;

Bats on their webby wings in darkness move,

And feebly shriek their melancholy love.

No Sailor came; the months in terror fled!

Then news arrived: he fought, and he was DEAD!

At the lone cottage Lucy lives, and still

Walks for her weekly pittance to the mill;

A mean seraglio there her father keeps,

Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps,

And sees the plenty, while compell'd to stay,

Her father's pride become his harlot's prey.

Throughout the lanes she glides, at evening's close,

And softly lulls her infant to repose;

Then sits and gazes, but with viewless look,

As gilds the moon the rippling of the brook;

And sings her vespers, but in voice so low,

She hears their murmurs as the waters flow:

And she too murmurs, and begins to find

The solemn wanderings of a wounded mind.

Visions of terror, views of wo succeed,

The mind's impatience, to the body's need;

By turns to that, by turns to this, a prey,

She knows what reason yields, and dreads what madness may.

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;

Love, all made up of torture and delight,

Was but mere madness in this couple's sight:

Susan could think, though not without a sigh,

If she were gone, who should her place supply;

And Robert, half in earnest, half in jest,

Talk of her spouse when he should be at rest:

Yet strange would either think it to be told,

Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold.

Few were their acres,—but, with these content,

They were, each pay-day, ready with their rent;

And few their wishes—what their farm denied,

The neighbouring town, at trifling cost, supplied.

If at the draper's window Susan cast

A longing look, as with her goods she pass'd,

And, with the produce of the wheel and churn,

Bought her a Sunday-robe on her return;

True to her maxim, she would take no rest,

Till care repaid that portion to the chest:

Or if, when loitering at the Whitsun-fair,

Her Robert spent some idle shillings there;

Up at the barn, before the break of day,

He made his labour for th'indulgence pay:

Thus both—that waste itself might work in vain—

Wrought double tides, and all was well again.

Yet, though so prudent, there were times of joy,

(The day they wed, the christening of the boy,)

When to the wealthier farmers there was shown

Welcome unfeign'd, and plenty like their own;

For Susan served the great, and had some pride

Among our topmost people to preside.

Yet in that plenty, in that welcome free,

There was the guiding nice frugality,

That, in the festal as the frugal day,

Has, in a different mode, a sovereign sway;

As tides the same attractive influence know,

In the least ebb and in their proudest flow:

The wise frugality, that does not give

A life to saving, but that saves to live;

Sparing, not pinching, mindful though not mean,

O'er all presiding, yet in nothing seen.

Recorded next, a babe of love I trace,

Of many loves the mother's fresh disgrace.—

"Again, thou harlot! could not all thy pain,

All my reproof, thy wanton thoughts restrain?"

"Alas! your reverence, wanton thoughts, I grant,

Were once my motive, now the thoughts of want;

Women, like me, as ducks in a decoy,

Swim down a stream, and seem to swim in joy;

Your sex pursue us, and our own disdain;

Return is dreadful, and escape is vain.

Would men forsake us, and would women strive

To help the fall'n, their virtue might revive."

For rite of churching soon she made her way,

In dread of scandal, should she miss the day.—

Two matrons came! with them she humbly knelt,

Their action copied and their comforts felt,

From that great pain and peril to be free,

Though still in peril of that pain to be;

Alas! what numbers, like this amorous dame,

Are quick to censure, but are dead to shame!

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;

Who trots to market on a steed so fine,

That when I meet him, I'm ashamed of mine;

}

Whose board is high up-heap'd with generous fare,

}

Which five stout sons and three tall daughters share:

}

Cease, man, to grieve, and listen to his care.

A few years fled, and all thy boys shall be

Lords of a cot, and labourers like thee:

Thy girls, unportion'd, neighb'ring youths shall lead

Brides from my church, and thenceforth thou art freed;

But then thy master shall of cares complain,

Care after care, a long connected train;

His sons for farms shall ask a large supply,

For farmers' sons each gentle miss shall sigh;

Thy mistress, reasoning well of life's decay,

Shall ask a chaise, and hardly brook delay;

The smart young cornet who, with so much grace,

Rode in the ranks and betted at the race,

While the vex'd parent rails at deeds so rash,

Shall d—n his luck, and stretch his hand for cash.

Sad troubles, Gerard! now pertain to thee,

When thy rich master seems from trouble free;

But 'tis one fate at different times assign'd,

And thou shalt lose the cares that he must find.

"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,

And fleece his neighbours in a new-built shop;

Then woo'd a spinster blithe, and hoped, when wed,

For love's fair favours and a fruitful bed.

Not so his Friend;—on widow fair and staid

He fix'd his eye; but he was much afraid,

Yet woo'd; while she his hair of silver hue

Demurely noticed, and her eye withdrew.

Doubtful he paused—"Ah! were I sure," he cried,

"No craving children would my gains divide:

Fair as she is, I would my widow take,

And live more largely for my partner's sake."

With such their views, some thoughtful years they pass'd,

And hoping, dreading, they were bound at last.

And what their fate? Observe them as they go,

Comparing fear with fear and wo with wo.

"Humphrey!" said Dawkins, "envy in my breast

Sickens to see thee in thy children bless'd;

They are thy joys, while I go grieving home

To a sad spouse, and our eternal gloom.

We look despondency; no infant near,

To bless the eye or win the parent's ear;

Our sudden heats and quarrels to allay,

And soothe the petty sufferings of the day.

Alike our want, yet both the want reprove;

Where are, I cry, these pledges of our love?

When she, like Jacob's wife, makes fierce reply,

Yet fond—'Oh! give me children, or I die';

And I return—still childless doom'd to live,

Like the vex'd patriarch—'Are they mine to give?'

Ah! much I envy thee thy boys, who ride

On poplar branch, and canter at thy side;

And girls, whose cheeks thy chin's fierce fondness know,

And with fresh beauty at the contact glow."

"Oh! simple friend," said Ditchem, "would'st thou gain

A father's pleasure by a husband's pain?

Alas! what pleasure—when some vig'rous boy

Should swell thy pride, some rosy girl thy joy—

Is it to doubt who grafted this sweet flower,

Or whence arose that spirit and that power?

"Four years I've wed; not one has pass'd in vain:

Behold the fifth! behold, a babe again!

My wife's gay friends th' unwelcome imp admire,

And fill the room with gratulation dire.

While I in silence sate, revolving all

That influence ancient men, or that befall,

A gay pert guest—Heav'n knows his business—came;

'A glorious boy,' he cried, 'and what the name?'

Angry I growl'd, 'My spirit cease to tease,

Name it yourselves,—Cain, Judas, if you please;

His father's give him—should you that explore,

The devil's or yours,' I said, and sought the door.

My tender partner not a word or sigh

Gives to my wrath, nor to my speech reply;

But takes her comforts, triumphs in my pain,

And looks undaunted for a birth again."

Heirs thus denied afflict the pining heart,

And, thus afforded, jealous pangs impart;

Let, therefore, none avoid, and none demand

These arrows number'd for the giant's hand.

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.

Her idle neighbours, who approach to tell

Some trifling tale, her serious looks compel,

To hear reluctant—while the lads who pass,

In pure respect walk silent on the grass.

Then sinks the day; but not to rest she goes,

Till solemn prayers the daily duties close.

But I digress, and lo! an infant train

Appear, and call me to my task again.

"Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?"

I ask'd the Gardener's wife, in accents mild.

"We have a right," replied the sturdy dame—

And Lonicera was the infant's name.

If next a son shall yield our Gardener joy,

Then Hyacinthus shall be that fair boy;

And if a girl, they will at length agree,

That Belladonna that fair maid shall be.

High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets,

And at his club to wondering swains repeats;

He then of Rhus and Rhododendron speaks,

And Allium calls his onions and his leeks;

Nor weeds are now, for whence arose the weed,

Scarce plants, fair herbs, and curious flowers proceed;

Where Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions sprung,

(Gross names had they our plainer sires among,)

There Arums, there Leontodons we view,

And Artemisia grows, where Wormwood grew.

But though no weed exists his garden round,

From Rumex strong our Gardener frees his ground;

Takes soft Senicio from the yielding land,

And grasps the arm'd Urtica in his hand.

Not Darwin's self had more delight to sing

Of floral courtship, in th' awaken'd Spring,

Than Peter Pratt, who, simpering, loves to tell

How rise the Stamens, as the Pistils swell;

How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse,

And give and take the vegetable vows;

How those esteem'd of old but tips and chives,

Are tender husbands and obedient wives;

Who live and love within the sacred bower—

That bridal bed the vulgar term a flower.

Hear Peter proudly, to some humble friend,

A wondrous secret in his science lend:—

"Would you advance the nuptial hour, and bring

The fruit of Autumn with the flowers of Spring:

View that light frame where Cucumis lies spread,

And trace the husbands in their golden bed,

Three powder'd Anthers;—then no more delay,

But to the Stigma's tip their dust convey;

Then by thyself, from prying glance secure,

Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure;

A long-abiding race the deed shall pay,

Nor one unbless'd abortion pine away."

T' admire their friend's discourse our swains agree,

And call it science and philosophy.

'Tis good, 'tis pleasant, through th' advancing year,

To see unnumber'd growing forms appear.

What leafy-life from Earth's broad bosom rise!

What insect-myriads seek the summer skies!

}

What scaly tribes in every streamlet move!

}

What plumy people sing in every grove!

}

All with the year awaked to life, delight, and love.

Then names are good; for how, without their aid,

Is knowledge, gain'd by man, to man convey'd?

But from that source shall all our pleasures flow?

Shall all our knowledge be those names to know?

Then he, with memory bless'd, shall bear away

The palm from Grew, and Middleton, and Ray.

No! let us rather seek, in grove and field,

What food for wonder, what for use they yield;

Some just remark from Nature's people bring,

And some new source of homage for her King.

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;

Or, foil'd in these, he opes his ample jaws,

And lets a frog leap down, to gain applause;

Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week;

Or challenges a well-pinch'd pig to squeak.

Some idle deed, some child's preposterous name,

Shall make him known, and give his folly fame.

To name an infant meet our village-sires,

Assembled all, as such event requires;

Frequent and full, the rural sages sate,

And speakers many urged the long debate.

Some harden'd knaves, who roved the country round,

Had left a babe within the parish-bound.—

First, of the fact they question'd—"Was it true?"

The child was brought—"What then remain'd to do?

Was't dead or living?" This was fairly proved:

'Twas pinch'd, it roar'd, and every doubt removed.

Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call

Was long a question, and it posed them all;

For he who lent it to a babe unknown,

Censorious men might take it for his own:

They look'd about, they gravely spoke to all,

And not one Richard answer'd to the call.

Next they inquired the day, when, passing by,

Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry:

This known, how food and raiment they might give,

Was next debated—for the rogue would live;

}

At last, with all their words and work content,

}

Back to their homes the prudent vestry went,

}

And Richard Monday to the workhouse sent.

There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and fed,

And duly took his beatings and his bread;

Patient in all control, in all abuse,

He found contempt and kicking have their use—

Sad, silent, supple, bending to the blow,

A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;

His pliant soul gave way to all things base;

He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace.

It seem'd, so well his passions he suppressed,

No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast;

Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat,

He was a footstool for the beggar's feet;

His were the legs that ran at all commands;

They used on all occasions Richard's hands.

His very soul was not his own; he stole

As others order'd, and without a dole;

In all disputes, on either part he lied,

And freely pledged his oath on either side;

In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest,

In all detections Richard first confess'd.

Yet, though disgraced, he watch'd his time so well,

He rose in favour, when in fame he fell;

Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,

And all despised and fed the pliant boy.

At length, "'tis time he should abroad be sent,"

Was whisper'd near him—and abroad he went.

One morn they call'd him, Richard answered not;

They deem'd him hanging, and in time forgot;

Yet miss'd him long, as each, throughout the clan,

Found he "had better spared a better man."

Now Richard's talents for the world were fit,

He'd no small cunning, and had some small wit;

Had that calm look which seem'd to all assent,

And that complacent speech which nothing meant;

He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide,

How best for Richard Monday to provide.

Steel, through opposing plates, the magnet draws,

And steely atoms culls from dust and straws;

And thus our hero, to his interest true,

Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew;

But, still more surely round the world to go,

This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe.

Long lost to us, at last our man we trace—

Sir Richard Monday died at Monday-place.

His lady's worth, his daughter's, we peruse,

And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews;

He gave reforming charities a sum,

And bought the blessings of the blind and dumb;

Bequeathed to missions money from the stocks,

And Bibles issued from his private box;

But, to his native place severely just,

He left a pittance bound in rigid trust—

Two paltry pounds, on every quarter's-day,

(At church produced) for forty loaves should pay:

A stinted gift, that to the parish shows

He kept in mind their bounty and their blows!

To farmers three, the year has given a son:

Finch on the Moor, and French, and Middleton.

Twice in this year a female Giles I see:

A Spalding once, and once a Barnaby—

A humble man is he, and, when they meet,

Our farmers find him on a distant seat;

There for their wit he serves a constant theme—

They praise his dairy, they extol his team,

They ask the price of each unrivall'd steed.

And whence his sheep, that admirable breed?

His thriving arts they beg he would explain,

And where he puts the money he must gain.

They have their daughters, but they fear their friend

Would think his sons too much would condescend;

They have their sons who would their fortunes try,

But fear his daughters will their suit deny.

So runs the joke, while James, with sigh profound,

And face of care, looks moveless on the ground;

His cares, his sighs, provoke the insult more,

And point the jest—for Barnaby is poor.

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;

That fools alone on future worlds rely,

And all who die for faith, deserve to die.

These maxims, part th' attorney's clerk profess'd;

His own transcendent genius found the rest.

Our pious matrons heard, and, much amazed,

Gazed on the man, and trembled as they gazed;

And now his face explored, and now his feet,

Man's dreaded foe, in this bad man, to meet.

But him our drunkards as their champion raised,

Their bishop call'd, and as their hero praised;

Though most, when sober, and the rest, when sick,

Had little question whence his bishopric.

But he, triumphant spirit! all things dared,

He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snared;

'Twas his, at cards, each novice to trepan,

And call the wants of rogues the rights of man;

Wild as the winds, he let his offspring rove,

And deem'd the marriage-bond the bane of love.

What age and sickness, for a man so bold,

Had done, we know not—none beheld him old.

By night, as business urged, he sought the wood—

The ditch was deep—the rain had caused a flood—

The foot-bridge fail'd—he plunged beneath the deep,

And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep.

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.

}

By no such rule would Gaffer Kirk be tried;

}

First in the year he led a blooming bride,

}

And stood a withered elder at her side.

Oh! Nathan! Nathan! at thy years, trepann'd

To take a wanton harlot by the hand!

Thou, who wert used so tartly to express

Thy sense of matrimonial happiness,

Till every youth, whose bans at church were read,

Strove not to meet, or meeting, hung his head;

And every lass forbore at thee to look,

A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook;—

And now at sixty, that pert dame to see

Of all thy savings mistress, and of thee;

Now will the lads, rememb'ring insults past,

Cry, "What, the wise-one in the trap at last!"

Fie! Nathan! fie! to let an artful jade

The close recesses of thine heart invade;

What grievous pangs, what suffering, she'll impart,

And fill with anguish that rebellious heart;

For thou wilt strive incessantly, in vain,

By threatening speech, thy freedom to regain:

But she for conquest married, nor will prove

A dupe to thee, thine anger, or thy love.

Clamorous her tongue will be;—of either sex,

She'll gather friends around thee, and perplex

Thy doubtful soul; thy money she will waste

In the vain ramblings of a vulgar taste;

And will be happy to exert her power,

In every eye, in thine, at every hour.

Then wilt thou bluster—"No! I will not rest,

And see consumed each shilling of my chest":

Thou wilt be valiant—"When thy cousins call,

I will abuse and shut my door on all";

Thou wilt be cruel—"What the law allows,

That be thy portion, my ungrateful spouse!

}

Nor other shillings shalt thou then receive,

}

And when I die—What! may I this believe?

}

Are these true tender tears? and does my Kitty grieve?

Ah! crafty vixen, thine old man has fears;

But weep no more! I'm melted by thy tears;

Spare but my money; thou shalt rule ME still,

And see thy cousins—there! I burn the will."—

Thus, with example sad, our year began,

A wanton vixen and a weary man;

But had this tale in other guise been told,

Young let the lover be, the lady old,

And that disparity of years shall prove

No bane of peace, although some bar to love:

'Tis not the worst, our nuptial ties among,

That joins the ancient bride and bridegroom young;—

Young wives, like changing winds, their power display,

By shifting points and varying day by day;

Now zephyrs mild, now whirlwinds in their force,

They sometimes speed, but often thwart our course;

And much experienced should that pilot be,

Who sails with them on life's tempestuous sea.

But like a trade-wind is the ancient dame,

Mild to your wish, and every day the same;

Steady as time, no sudden squalls you fear,

But set full sail and with assurance steer;

Till every danger in your way be pass'd,

And then she gently, mildly breathes her last;

Rich you arrive, in port awhile remain,

And for a second venture sail again.

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;

But not her warmth, nor all her winning ways,

From his cool phlegm could Donald's spirit raise:

Of beauty heedless, with the merry mute,

To Mistress Dobson he preferr'd his suit;

There proved his service, there address'd his vows,

And saw her mistress—friend—protectress—spouse;

A butler now, he thanks his powerful bride,

And, like her keys, keeps constant at her side.

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 Phœbe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green,

In haste to see and happy to be seen:

Her air, her manners, all who saw admired,

Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired;

The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd,

And ease of heart her every look convey'd;

A native skill her simple robes express'd,

As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd;

The lads around admired so fair a sight,

And Phœbe felt, and felt she gave, delight.

Admirers soon of every age she gain'd,

Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd;

Envy itself could no contempt display,

They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away.

Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place

Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;

But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour,

With secret joy she felt that beauty's power,

When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,

That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.—

At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast,

Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd;

With looks less timid made his passion known,

And pleased by manners most unlike her own;

Loud though in love, and confident though young;

Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;

By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,

He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he made:

Yet now, would Phœbe her consent afford,

Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;

With her should years of growing love be spent,

And growing wealth—she sigh'd and look'd consent.

Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the green,

(Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen—

Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,)

Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid.

Slow through the meadows roved they many a mile,

Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile;

Where, as he painted every blissful view,

And highly colour'd what he strongly drew,

The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,

Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears.—

Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till, lingering late,

The lover loiter'd at the master's gate;

There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,

Till chidden—soothed—entreated—forced away,

He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,

And oft retire and oft return again;

When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind,

The grief assumed, compell'd her to be kind!

For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,

That she resented first and then forgave,

And to his grief and penance yielded more

Than his presumption had required before.—

Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain,

Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!

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,

And, placing first her infant on the floor,

She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,

And sobbing struggles with the rising fits.

In vain, they come; she feels th'inflating grief,

That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;

That speaks in feeble cries a soul distressed,

Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.

The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies

With all the aid her poverty supplies;

Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys,

Not led by profit, nor allured by praise;

And, waiting long, till these contentions cease,

She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.

Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid,

She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

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

'Tis Phœbe 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.

Silent, nor wanting due respect, the crowd

Stood humbly round, and gratulation bow'd;

But not that silent crowd, in wonder fix'd,

Not numerous friends, who praise and envy mix'd,

Nor nymphs attending near to swell the pride

Of one more fair, the ever-smiling bride;

}

Nor that gay bride, adorn'd with every grace,

}

Nor love nor joy triumphant in her face,

}

Could from the youth's sad signs of sorrow chase.

Why didst thou grieve? wealth, pleasure, freedom thine;

Vex'd it thy soul, that freedom to resign?

Spake Scandal truth? "Thou didst not then intend

So soon to bring thy wooing to an end"?

Or, was it, as our prating rustics say,

To end as soon, but in a different way?

'Tis told, thy Phillis is a skilful dame,

Who play'd uninjured with the dangerous flame:

That, while, like Lovelace, thou thy coat display'd,

And hid the snare for her affection laid,

Thee, with her net, she found the means to catch,

And, at the amorous see-saw, won the match[22].

Yet others tell, the Captain fix'd thy doubt,

He'd call thee brother, or he'd call thee out.—

But rest the motive—all retreat too late,

Joy like thy bride's should on thy brow have sate;

}

The deed had then appear'd thine own intent,

}

A glorious day, by gracious fortune sent,

}

In each revolving year to be in triumph spent.

Then in few weeks that cloudy brow had been

Without a wonder or a whisper seen;

And none had been so weak as to inquire,

"Why pouts my Lady?" or "why frowns the Squire?"

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.

Mark now in what confusion, stoop or stand,

The crooked scrawls of many a clownish hand;

Now out, now in, they droop, they fall, they rise,

Like raw recruits drawn forth for exercise;

Ere yet reform'd and modell'd by the drill,

The free-born legs stand striding as they will.

Much have I tried to guide the fist along,

But still the blunderers placed their blottings wrong:

Behold these marks uncouth! how strange that men,

Who guide the plough, should fail to guide the pen.

For half a mile the furrows even lie;

For half an inch the letters stand awry;—

Our peasants, strong and sturdy in the field,

Cannot these arms of idle students wield;

Like them, in feudal days, their valiant lords

Resign'd the pen and grasp'd their conqu'ring swords;

They to robed clerks and poor dependent men

Left the light duties of the peaceful pen;

Nor to their ladies wrote, but sought to prove,

By deeds of death, their hearts were fill'd with love.

But yet, small arts have charms for female eyes;

Our rustic nymphs the beau and scholar prize;

Unletter'd swains and ploughmen coarse they slight,

For those who dress, and amorous scrolls indite.

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:)

Blue was his coat, unsoil'd by spot or stain;

His hose were silk, his shoes of Spanish-grain;

}

A silver knot his breadth of shoulder bore;

}

A diamond buckle blazed his breast before—

}

Diamond he swore it was! and show'd it as he swore;

Rings on his fingers shone; his milk-white hand

Could pick-tooth case and box for snuff command:

And thus, with clouded cane, a fop complete,

He stalk'd, the jest and glory of the street.

Join'd with these powers, he could so sweetly sing,

Talk with such toss, and saunter with such swing;

Laugh with such glee, and trifle with such art,

That Lucy's promise fail'd to shield her heart.

Stephen, meantime, to ease his amorous cares,

Fix'd his full mind upon his farm's affairs;

Two pigs, a cow, and wethers half a score,

Increased his stock, and still he look'd for more.

He, for his acres few, so duly paid,

That yet more acres to his lot were laid;

Till our chaste nymphs no longer felt disdain,

And prudent matrons praised the frugal swain;

Who, thriving well, through many a fruitful year,

Now clothed himself anew, and acted overseer.

Just then poor Lucy, from her friend in town,

Fled in pure fear, and came a beggar down;

}

Trembling, at Stephen's door she knock'd for bread—

}

Was chidden first, next pitied, and then fed;

}

Then sat at Stephen's board, then shared in Stephen's bed

All hope of marriage lost in her disgrace,

He mourns a flame revived, and she a love of lace.

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,

The amorous senior woos the toothless dame,

Relating idly, at the closing eve,

The youthful follies he disdains to leave;

Till youthful follies wake a transient fire,

When arm in arm they totter and retire.

So a fond pair of solemn birds, all day,

Blink in their seat and doze the hours away;

Then, by the moon awaken'd, forth they move,

And fright the songsters with their cheerless love.

So two sear trees, dry, stunted, and unsound,

Each other catch, when dropping to the ground;

Entwine their wither'd arms 'gainst wind and weather,

And shake their leafless heads, and drop together.

So two cold limbs, touch'd by Galvani's wire,

Move with new life, and feel awaken'd fire;

Quivering awhile, their flaccid forms remain,

Then turn to cold torpidity again.

"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;

Till, all her varnish lost, in few short years,

In all her worth, the farmer's wife appears.

Yet not the ancient kind; nor she who gave

Her soul to gain—a mistress and a slave:

Who not to sleep allow'd the needful time;

To whom repose was loss, and sport a crime;

Who, in her meanest room (and all were mean),

A noisy drudge, from morn till night was seen;—

But she, the daughter, boasts a decent room,

Adorn'd with carpet, form'd in Wilton's loom;

}

Fair prints along the paper'd wall are spread

}

There, Werter sees the sportive children fed,

}

And Charlotte, here, bewails her lover dead.

'Tis here, assembled, while in space apart

Their husbands, drinking, warm the opening heart,

Our neighbouring dames, on festal days, unite

With tongues more fluent and with hearts as light;

Theirs is that art, which English wives alone

Profess—a boast and privilege their own;

An art it is, where each at once attends

To all, and claims attention from her friends,

When they engage the tongue, the eye, the ear,

Reply when list'ning, and when speaking hear:

The ready converse knows no dull delays,

"But double are the pains, and double be the praise[23]."

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,

The weightier purchase ask'd her Reuben's care;

Together then their last year's gain they threw,

And lo! an auction'd bed, with curtains neat and new.

Thus both, as prudence counsell'd, wisely stay'd,

And cheerful then the calls of Love obey'd:

What if, when Rachel gave her hand, 'twas one

Embrown'd by Winter's ice and Summer's sun?

What if, in Reuben's hair, the female eye

Usurping grey among the black could spy?

What if, in both, life's bloomy flush was lost,

And their full autumn felt the mellowing frost?

Yet time, who blow'd the rose of youth away,

Had left the vigorous stem without decay;

Like those tall elms, in Farmer Frankford's ground,

They'll grow no more—but all their growth is sound;

By time confirm'd and rooted in the land,

The storms they've stood, still promise they shall stand.

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;

Their graves before them, and their griefs behind,

Have each a med'cine for the rustic mind;

Nor has he care to whom his wealth shall go,

Or who shall labour with his spade and hoe;

But, as he lends the strength that yet remains,

And some dead neighbour on his bier sustains,

(One with whom oft he whirl'd the bounding flail,

Toss'd the broad coit, or took th' inspiring ale,)

"For me," (he meditates,) "shall soon be done

This friendly duty, when my race be run;

}

'Twas first in trouble as in error pass'd,

}

Dark clouds and stormy cares whole years o'ercast,

}

But calm my setting day, and sunshine smiles at last:

My vices punish'd and my follies spent,

Not loth to die, but yet to live content,

I rest";—then, casting on the grave his eye,

His friend compels a tear, and his own griefs a sigh.

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?

With him, in varied pains, from morn till night,

Your hours shall pass, yourself a ruffian's right;

Your softest bed shall be the knotted wool;

Your purest drink the waters of the pool;

Your sweetest food will but your life sustain,

And your best pleasure be a rest from pain;

While, through each year, as health and strength abate,

You'll weep your woes and wonder at your fate;

And cry, 'Behold, as life's last cares come on,

My burthens growing when my strength is gone!'

"Now turn with me, and all the young desire,

That taste can form, that fancy can require;

All that excites enjoyment, or procures

Wealth, health, respect, delight, and love, are yours:

Sparkling, in cups of gold, your wines shall flow,

Grace that fair hand, in that dear bosom glow;

Fruits of each clime, and flowers, through all the year,

Shall on your walls and in your walks appear;

Where all, beholding, shall your praise repeat,

No fruit so tempting and no flower so sweet.

The softest carpets in your rooms shall lie,

Pictures of happiest loves shall meet your eye,

And tallest mirrors, reaching to the floor,

Shall show you all the object I adore;

Who, by the hands of wealth and fashion dress'd,

By slaves attended and by friends caress'd,

Shall move, a wonder, through the public ways,

And hear the whispers of adoring praise.

Your female friends, though gayest of the gay,

Shall see you happy, and shall, sighing, say,

While smother'd envy rises in the breast—

'Oh! that we lived so beauteous and so bless'd!'

"Come then, my mistress, and my wife; for she

Who trusts my honour is the wife for me;

Your slave, your husband, and your friend employ,

In search of pleasures we may both enjoy."

To this the damsel, meekly firm, replied:

"My mother loved, was married, toil'd, and died;

With joys, she'd griefs, had troubles in her course,

But not one grief was pointed by remorse;

My mind is fix'd, to Heaven I resign,

And be her love, her life, her comforts mine."

Tyrants have wept; and those with hearts of steel,

Unused the anguish of the heart to heal,

Have yet the transient power of virtue known,

And felt th' imparted joy promote their own.

Our Knight, relenting, now befriends a youth,

Who to the yielding maid had vow'd his truth;

And finds in that fair deed a sacred joy,

That will not perish, and that cannot cloy—

A living joy, that shall its spirit keep,

When every beauty fades, and all the passions sleep.

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!

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 Heaven 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, assured to find

The self-commending, all-confiding mind;