The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks re- prove: 30
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:
These were thy charms- but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along the glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made: But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health; 61 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, And every want to opulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 81 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew: 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could gauge; 210 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 236
Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed - In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and an happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains! This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; 276 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies; While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 285
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 290 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band, And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 301 a garden and a grave. The country blooms - Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 305 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare-worn common is denied. what waits him there? If to the city sped To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign
Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train: Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine 325 eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, 331 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Far different there from all that charm'd before The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 360 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
That called them from their native walks away; 365 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main, And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear, Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 385 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy!
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize; Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor
Who left a pledge behind.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table; 20 Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth.
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find them out; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them,
That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them.
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