His patrimonial timber cast its leaf,
Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile Then advertised, and auctioneered away.
Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price. O innocent, compared with arts like these, Crape, and cocked pistol, and the whistling ball Sent through the traveller's temples! He that finds One drop of heaven's sweet mercy in his cup,
The country starves, and they, that feed th' o'er- Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content,
And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. The wings, that waft our riches out of sight, Grow on the gamester's elbows; and th' alert And nimble motion of those restless joints, That never tire, soon fans them all away. Improvement too, the idol of the age, Is fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes! The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears! Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode Of our forefathers-a grave whiskered race, But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, But in a distant spot; where more exposed It may enjoy th' advantage of the north, And aguish east, till time shall have transformed Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn; Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise; And streams, as if created for his use, Pursue the tract of his directing wand, Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,
So he may wrap himself in honest rags At his last gasp; but could not for a world Fish up his dirty and dependent bread From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, Sordid and sickening at his own success. Ambition, avarice, penury incurred
By endless riot, vanity, the lust Of pleasure and variety, despatch, As duly as the swallows disappear, The world of wandering knights and squires to
London ingulfs them all! The shark is there, And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leech
That sucks him; there the sycophant, and he Who with barcheaded and obsequious bows Begs a warm office, doomed to a cold jail And groat per diem, if his patron frown. The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp Were charactered on every statesman's door, 'Battered and bankrupt fortunes mended here! These are the charms, that sully and eclipse
Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades-The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe,
E'en as he bids! Th' enraptured owner smiles. "Tis finished, and yet, finished as it seems, Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, A mine to satisfy th' enormous cost. Drained to the last poor item of its wealth, He sighs, departs, and leaves th' accomplished plan
That he has touched, retouched, many a long day Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams, Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven
He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy! And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, When, having no stake left, no pledge t' endear Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause A moment's operation on his love,
He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal To serve his country. Ministerial grace Deals him out money from the public chest; Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse Supplies his need with a usurious loan, To be refunded duly, when his vote,
That lean, hard-handed Poverty inflicts, The hope of better things, the chance to win, The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, That at the sound of Winter's hoary wing Unpeople all our counties of such herds Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose, And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast And boundless as it is, a crowded coop.
O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, Checkered with all complexions of mankind, And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see Much that I love, and more that I admire, And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair, That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I can laugh, And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee! Ten righteous would have saved a city once, And thou hast many righteous.-Well for thee- That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour, Than Sodom in her day had power to be, For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain
The post comes in.-The newspaper is read.-The world contemplated at a distance.-Address to Winter.-The rural amusements of a winter evening compared with the fashionable ones.Address to Evening.-A brown study.-Fall of snow in the evening.-The wagoner.-A poor family-piece. The rural thief.-Public houses.-The multitude of them cen. sured. The farmer's daughter; what she was what she is.-The simplicity of country manners almost lost.-Causes of the change. Desertion of the country by the rich.-Neglect of magistrates-The militia principally in fault.-The new recruit and his transformation.-Reflection on bodies corporate.-The love of rural objects natural to all, and never to be totally extinguished.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
News from all nations lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close packed load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn; And, having dropped th' expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks, Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But O, th' important budget! ushered in With such heart-shaking music, who can say, What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plumed And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh-I long to know them all; I burn to set th' imprisoned wranglers free, And give them voice and utterance once again. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 'That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in; Not such his evening, who with shining face
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work, Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fest bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it, but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, That tempts ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes: He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved, T'engross a moment's notice; and yet begs, Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives. Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; The dearth of information and good sense, That it foretells us, always comes to pass. Cataracts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost; While fields of pleasantry amuse us there With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks, And lilies for the brows of faded age, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am still. The sound of war Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride And avarice that makes man a wolf to man; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, By which he speaks the language of his heart, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flower to flower, so he from land to land: The manners, customs, policy of all Pay contribution to the store he gleans; He sucks intelligence in every clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return-a rich repast for me. He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred heart Suffers his woes, and share in his escapes; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
O Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy checks Fringed with a beard made white with other
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive case, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts, that the lowly roof of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours
|Of long uninterrupted evening, know. No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; No powdered pert proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well depicted flower, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath that can not fade, of flowers, that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page by one Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;
And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume closed, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal; Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoyed, spare feast! a radish and an egg. Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or prescribes the sound of mirth. Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them, an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliverance found Unlooked for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed The Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply, More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumined, and with nobler truths, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng, To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? The self-complacent actor, when he views
(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) The slope of faces from the floor to th' roof (As if one master-spring controlled them all) Relaxed into a universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy Half so refined or so sincere as ours.
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks, That idleness has ever yet contrived To fill the void of an unfurnished brain, To palliate dullness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound; But the world's Time is Time in masquerade! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged With motley plumes; and, where the peacock
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form, Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace Well does the work of his destructive scythe. Thus decked, he charms a world whom fashion blinds
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most; Whose only happy are their wasted hours. E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore The backstring and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school Of card-devoted Time, and night by night Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? As he who travels far oft turns aside, To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower, Which seen delights him not; then coming homie, Describes and prints it, that the world may know How far he went for what was nothing worth; So I, with brush in hand, and palette spread, With colours mixed for a far different use, Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thing, That Fancy finds in her excursive flights.
Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step slow moving, while the Night Treads on thy sweeping train! one hand employed In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorned, not needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems; A star or two just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: And, whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; Or twining silken threads round ivory reels. When they command whom man was born tc please
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, Goliah, might have seen his giant bulk Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. Not undelighted is an hour to me
So spent in parlour twilight: such a gloom Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, The mind contemplative, with some new theme Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers, That never felt a stupor, know no pause, Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess Fearless, a soul that does not always think. Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wild Soothed me with a waking dream of houses, towers, Trees, churches, and strange visages, expressed In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gazed, myself creating what I saw. Nor less amused have I quiescent watched The spoty films, that play upon the bars Pendulous, and foreboding in the view Of superstition, prophesying still, Though still deceived, some stranger's near ap- proach,
'Tis thus the understanding takes repose In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps, and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask Of deep deliberation, as the man
Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost. Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hour
At evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home The recollected powers; and snapping short The glassy threads, with which the fancy weaves Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. How calm is my recess; and how the frost, Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear The silence and the warmth enjoyed within? I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show; the meadows green, Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved
The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, Upturned so lately by the forceful share. I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With verdure not unprofitable, grazed
By flocks, fast feeding; and selecting each His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change! Which even now, though silently performed, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Of universal nature undergoes. Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes Descending, and, with never-ceasing lapse, Softly alighting upon all below, Assimilate all objects. Earth receives Gladly the thickening mantle; and the green And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.
In such a world, so thorny, and where none Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, Without some thistly sorrow at its side, It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Against the law of love, to measure lots With less distinguished than ourselves; that thus We may with patience bear our moderate ills, And sympathize with others suffering more. Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregated loads adhering close
To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong Forced downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks and teeth
Presented bare against the storm, plods on. One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. O happy; and in my account denied That sensibility of pain, with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired. The learned finger never need explore The vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east, That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.
Thy days roll on exempt from household care; Thy wagon is thy wife; and the poor beasts; That drag the dull companion to and fro, Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. Ah treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st, Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great,
With needless hurry whirled from place to place, Hunane as they would seem, not always show Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warmed, while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad and fed but sparely, time too cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. The few small embers left she nurses well; And, while her infant race, with outspread hands, And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil; Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguished, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end Just when the day declined; and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauce Of savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still; Sleep seems their only refuge; for alas! Where penury is felt the thought is chained, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care Ingenious parsimony takes, but just Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms From grudging hands; but other boast have none To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.
I praise you much, ye weak and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard earned, And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs Of knaves in office, partial in the work Of distribution; liberal of their aid To clamorous Importunity in rags,
But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blushi To wear a tattered garb, however coarse, Whom famine can not reconcile to filth: These ask with painful shyness, and, refused Because deserving, silently retire!
But be ye of good courage! Time itself Shall much befriend you. Time shall give in.
And all your numerous progeny, well trained But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, And labour too. Mean-while ye shall not want What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man, who, when the distant poor Need help, denies them nothing but his name. But poverty with most, who whimper forth
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