Where are the swains, who, daily labor done,
With rural games played down the setting sun;
Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball,
Or made the ponderous quoit obliquely fall;
While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong,
Engaged some artful stripling of the throng,
And fell beneath him, foiled, while far around
Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks returned the sound?
Where now are these? Beneath yon cliff they stand,
To show the freighted pinnace where to land;
To load the ready steed with guilty haste,
To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste;
Or when detected in their straggling course,
To foil their foes by cunning or by force:
Or yielding part (which equal knaves demand)
To gain a lawless passport through the land.
Here wandering long, amid these frowning fields,
I sought the simple life that nature yields;
Rapine and wrong and fear usurped her place,
And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;
Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe,
The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,
Wait on the shore, and as the waves run high,
On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye;
Which to their coast directs its venturous way,
Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey.
A SHORE WASTED BY THE SEA, AND DESERTED.
As on the neighboring beach yon swallows stand,
And wait for favoring winds to leave the land;
While still for flight the ready wing is spread :
So waited I the favoring hour, and fled;
Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign,
And cried, Ah! hapless they who still remain ;
Who still remain to hear the ocean roar,
Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore;
Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway,
Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;
When the sad tenant weeps from door to door,
And begs a poor protection from the poor.
STERILITY. AGGRAVATIONS OF THE LOT OF THE POOR.
LABOR AND HEALTH. THE ACHES AND AILS ATTENDANT ON
LABOR; EXPOSURES OF THE LABORER.
Or will you deem them amply paid in health,
Labor's fair child, that languishes with wealth?
Go then! and see them rising with the sun,
Through a long course of daily toil to run;
See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat,
When the knees tremble and the temples beat;
Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er
The labor past, and toils to come explore ;
See them alternate suns and showers engage,
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;
Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue,
When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;
Then own that labor may as fatal be
To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.
THE OVERTASKED LABORER; HIS MANLY PRIDE.
Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride
Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide ;
There may you see the youth of slender frame
Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame ;
Yet urged along, and proudly loath to yield,
He strives to join his fellows of the field;
Till long-contending nature droops at last,
Declining health rejects his poor repast,
His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.
FOOD OF THE POOR OFTEN STINTED AND UNHEALTHY.
Yet grant them health, 't is not for us to tell,
Though the head droops not, that the heart is well :
Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,
Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share?
O trifle not with wants you cannot feel,
Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;
Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, such
As you who praise would never deign to touch.
TRUTH AND POETRY. REAL MISERIES OF POVERTY. — THE
AGED LABORER, WORN OUT, DERIDED. — THE PAUPER SLAVE.
Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,
Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet
please;
Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,
Go look within, and ask if peace be there :
If peace be his-that drooping, weary sire,
Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;
Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand
Turns on the wretched hearth the expiring brand.
Nor yet can time itself obtain for these
Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease;
But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age
Gave a spare portion to the famished land;
Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain
Of fruitless toil, and labor spent in vain ;
Can with no cares except its own engage;
Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see
The bare arms broken from the withering tree;
On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough,
Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.
He once was chief in all the rustic trade,
His steady hand the straightest furrow made;
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud
To find the triumphs of his youth allowed ;
A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes,
He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs:
For now he journeys to his grave in pain;
The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain ;
Alternate masters now their slave command,1
Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand,
And, when his age attempts its task in vain,
With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain.
Oft may you see him when he tends the sheep,
His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep;
Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow
O'er his white locks, and bury them in snow;
When roused by rage and muttering in the morn,
He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn.
DESPAIRING COMPLAINT OF THE AGED PAUPER LABORER.
'Why do I live, when I desire to be
At once from life and life's long labor free?
Like leaves in Spring, the young are blown away,
Without the sorrows of a slow decay;
I, like yon withered leaf, remain behind,
Nipt by the frost, and shivering in the wind;
There it abides till younger buds come on,
As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone ;
Then, from the rising generation thrust,
It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust.
"These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see,
Are others' gain, but killing cares to me;
To me the children of my youth are lords,
Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words;
Wants of their own demand their care, and who
Feels his own want and succors others too?
A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go,
None need my help, and none relieve my woe;
Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,
And men forget the wretch they would not aid.'
Thus groan the old, till, by disease opprest,
They taste a final woe, and then they rest.
THE PARISH POOR-HOUSE DESCRIBED, AND ITS INMATES.
Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapors, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; There children dwell who know no parents' care, Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood-fears; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay.
1The pauper, who, being nearly past labor, is hired to different masters, for a longer or shorter time, as wanted.
SICKNESS IN THE POOR-HOUSE; CONTRASTED WITH THE 'NERVOUS COMPLAINTS OF FASHIONABLES.
Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve; Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mixt with the clamors of the crowd below; Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man : Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny.
Say ye, opprest by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye, to read the distant glance ; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless, ever-new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can cure ; How would ye bear in real pain to lie Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched pave the way for death?
DISCOMFORTS OF THE SICK POOR. SICK GARRET OF THE
Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between ; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; For him no hand the cordial cup applies, Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.
THE POOR-HOUSE DOCTOR AND HIS VISIT DESCRIBED.
But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and business, bustle and conceit;
With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye;
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murderous hand a drowsy Bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.
Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
Impatience marked in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain ;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.
PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. THE PARISH PRIEST, A JOLLY YOUTH, SPORTSMAN AND WHIST-PLAYER.
But ere his death some pious doubts arise, Some simple fears which bold, bad' men despise ; Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove His title certain to the joys above;
For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls The holy stranger to these dismal walls;
And doth not he, the pious man, appear,
He, passing rich with forty pounds a year'?
Ah! no, a shepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;
A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task
As much as God or man can fairly ask ;
The rest he gives to loves and labors light,
To fields the morning and to feasts the night;
None better skilled the noisy pack to guide,
To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide;
A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day,
And, skilled at whist, devotes the night to play ;
Then, while such honors bloom around his head,
Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed
To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that ev'n the pious feel?
THE PAUPER LABORER'S BURIAL. MOURNED BY THE CHILDREN, HIS PLAYMATES. THE PARSON'S NEGLECT.
Now once again the gloomy scene explore, Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er, The man of many sorrows sighs no more. Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below; There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, And the glad parish pays the frugal fee; No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer; No more the farmer claims his humble bow, Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou! Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb;
The village children now their games suspend,
To see the bier that bears their ancient friend;
For he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch ruled their little court;
The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labors all;
Him now they follow to his grave, and stand
Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand;
While, bending low, their eager eyes explore
The mingled relics of the parish poor :
The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round,
Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound;
The busy priest, detained by weightier care,
Defers his duty till the day of prayer;
And, waiting long, the crowd retire distressed,
To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest.
There are found, amid the evils of a laborious life, some scenes of tranquillity and happiness. The repose and pleasure of a summer Sabbath; interrupted by intoxication and dispute. Village detraction. Complaints of the 'Squire. The evening riots. Justice. Reasons for this unpleasant view of rustic life: the effect it should have upon the lower classes; and the higher. These last have their peculiar distresses: exemplified in the life and heroic death of Lord Robert Manners. Concluding Address to his Grace the Duke of Rutland.
THE BRIGHTER HUES OF VILLAGE LIFE. A VILLAGE
SUNDAY.
No longer truth, though shown in verse, disdain, But own the Village Life a life of pain;
I too must yield, that oft amid these woes
Are gleams of transient mirth and hours of sweet re-
Such as you find on yonder sportive green,
The 'Squire's tall gate and churchway-walk between;
Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends,
On a fair Sunday when the sermon ends :
Then rural beaux their best attire put on,
To win their nymphs, as other nymphs are won;
While those long wed go plain, and by degrees,
Like other husbands, quit their care to please.
Some of the sermon talk, a sober crowd,
And loudly praise, if it were preached aloud;
Some on the labors of the week look round,
Feel their own worthy, and think their toil renowned;
While some, whose hopes to no renown extend,
Are only pleased to find their labors end.
THE SABBATH GRUDGED TO THE POOR BY SOME.-ITS USE.
-ITS REST DISTURBED BY BRUTALITY.
Thus, as their hours glide on with pleasure fraught,
Their careful masters brood the painful thought;
Much in their mind they murmur and lament,
That one fair day should be so idly spent ;
And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their
And tax their time for preachers and the poor.
Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your hour,
This is your portion, yet unclaimed of power;
This is Heaven's gift to weary men opprest,
And seems the type of their expected rest:
But yours, alas! are joys that soon decay ;
Frail joys, begun and ended with the day;
Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign,
The village vices drive them from the plain.
See the stout churl, in drunken fury great,
Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate!
His naked vices, rude and unrefined,
Exert their open empire o'er the mind;
But can we less the senseless rage despise,
Because the savage acts without disguise?
VILLAGE DISSIMULATION; SLANDER.
Yet here disguise, the city's vice, is seen, And slander steals along and taints the green. At her approach domestic peace is gone, Domestic broils at her approach come on; She to the wife the husband's crime conveys, She tells the husband when his consort strays;
Her busy tongue, through all the little state,
Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate ;
Peace, timorous goddess! quits her old domain,
In sentiment and song content to reign.
LICENTIOUSNESS; CONTAGIOUS.
Nor are the nymphs that breathe the rural air So fair as Cynthia's, nor so chaste as fair; These to the town afford each fresher face, And the clown's trull receives the peer's embrace; From whom, should chance again convey her down, The peer's disease in turn attacks the clown.
Hear to the 'squire, or 'squire-like farmer, talk, How round their regions nightly pilferers walk; How from their ponds the fish are borne, and all The ripening treasures from their lofty wall; How meaner rivals in their sports delight, Just rich enough to claim a doubtful right; Who take a license round their fields to stray, A mongrel race! the poachers of the day.
A VILLAGE RIOT ON THE VILLAGE GREEN.
And hark! the riots of the green begin, That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn; What time the weekly pay was vanished all, And the slow hostess scored the threatening wall; What time they asked, their friendly feast to close, A final cup, and that will make them foes; When blows ensue that break the arm of toil, And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil.
Save when to yonder hall they bend their way, Where the grave justice ends the grievous fray; He who recites, to keep the poor in awe, The law's vast volume- for he knows the law. To him with anger or with shame repair The injured peasant and deluded fair.
VICE ON THE BENCH AND AT THE BAR.
Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears, Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears; And while she stands abashed, with conscious eye, Some favorite female of her judge glides by ; Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate, And thanks the stars that made her keeper great : Near her the swain, about to bear for life One certain evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife; But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath, Consents to wed, and so secures them both.
VICE ESSENTIALLY LOW AND VULGAR.
Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, Why make the poor as guilty as the great? To show the great, those mightier sons of pride, How near in vice the lowest are allied; Such are their natures, and their passions such, But these disguise too little, those too much : So shall the man of power and pleasure see In his own slave as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxurious lord the servant find
His own low pleasures and degenerate mind;
And each in all the kindred vices trace,
Of a poor, blind, bewildered, erring race!
Who, a short time in varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last.
ENVY OF THE RICH BY THE POOR, DISSUADED FROM.
And you, ye poor, who still lament your fate, Forbear to envy those you call the great; And know, amid those blessings they possess, They are, like you, the victims of distress; While sloth with many a pang torments her slave, Fear waits on guilt, and danger shakes the brave. O, if in life one noble chief appears, Great in his name, while blooming in his years; Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind, And yet to all you feel or fear resigned; Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown, For pains and dangers greater than your own! If such there be, then let your murmurs cease, Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace.
And such there was:-0! grief, that checks our pride,
Weeping we say there was, for Manners died;
Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive,
That sing of thee, and thus aspire to live.
As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form
An ample shade, and brave the wildest storm,
High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow,
The guard and glory of the trees below;
Till on its head the fiery bolt descends,
And o'er the plain the shattered trunk extends;
Yet then it lies, all wondrous as before,
And still the glory, though the guard no more.
So thou, when every virtue, every grace,
Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face;
When, though the son of Granby, thou wert known
Less by thy father's glory than thy own;
When honor loved, and gave thee every charm,
Fire to thy eye and vigor to thy arm;
Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes,
Fate and thy virtues called thee to the skies:
Yet still we wonder at thy towering fame,
And, losing thee, still dwell upon thy name.
O, ever honored, ever valued! say
What verse can praise thee, or what work repay?
Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays,
Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days;
1 Lord Robert Manners, the youngest son of the Marquis of Granby, and the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles, Duke of Somerset, was born the 5th of February, 1758, and was placed with his brother, the late Duke of Rutland, at Eton School, where he acquired, and ever after retained, a considerable knowledge of the classical authors. Lord Robert, after going through the duties of his profession on board different ships, was made captain of the Resolution, and commanded her in nine different actions, besides the last memorable one, on the 2d of April, 1782, when, in breaking the French line of battle, he received the wounds which terminated his life, in the twenty-fourth year of his age. See Dodsley's Annual Register.
Honors for thee thy country shall prepare,
Thee in their hearts the good, the brave, shall bear;
To deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire,
The muse shall mourn thee, and the world admire.
In future times, when, smit with glory's charms,
The untried youth first quits a father's arms;
O, be like him!' the weeping sire shall say,
'Like Manners walk, who walked in honor's way;
In danger foremost, yet in death sedate,
O, be like him in all things, but his fate!'
If for that fate such public tears be shed,
That victory seems to die now thou art dead;
How shall a friend his nearer hope resign,
That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine;
By what bold lines shall we his grief express,
Or by what soothing numbers make it less?
SORROW FOR THE LOVED AND HONORED DEAD.
"T is not, I know, the chiming of a song,
Nor all the powers that to the muse belong,
Words aptly culled and meanings well expressed,
Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast;
But virtue, soother of the fiercest pains,
Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns.
Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart,
To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart;
Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh,
And curb rebellious passion, with reply ;-
Calmly to dwell on all that pleased before,
And yet to know that all shall please no more;
O, glorious labor of the soul to save
Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave!
THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE.
A life of narrow views and paltry fears,
Gray hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,
That take from death the terrors or the sting;
But 't is the generous spirit, mounting high,
Above the world, that native of the sky;
The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave,
Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave;
Such Manners was, so he resigned his breath,
If in a glorious, then a timely, death.
GRIEF REPROBATED; IT SHOULD BE DISPLACED BY HIGHER
AND NOBLER FEELINGS; GOOD EXAMPLE COMPARED TO
THE THAMES.
Cease, then, that grief, and let those tears subside,
If passion rule us, be that passion pride;
If reason, reason bids us strive to raise
Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise;
Or if affection still the soul subdue,
Bring all his virtues, all his worth, in view,
And let affection find its comfort too :
For how can grief so deeply wound the heart,
When admiration claims so large a part'?
Grief is a foe, expel him then thy soul,
Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control;
O, make the age to come thy better care,
See other Rutlands, other Granbys, there;
And as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide,
See other heroes die as Manners died:
And, from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow,
As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below;
Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride,
Sees his young streams run warbling at his side;
Though some, by art cut off, no longer run,
And some are lost beneath the Summer's sun-
Yet the pure stream moves on, and as it moves,
To such, these thoughts will lasting comfort give- Its power increases and its use improves ;
Life is not measured by the time we live ;
'Tis not an even course of three-score years,
While plenty round its spacious waves bestow,
Still it flows on, and shall forever flow.
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