The poor :: :: University of Virginia Library

The poor

or, bread. A poem. With notes And illustrations. By Mr. Pratt ... second edition

(1749-1814)

[epigraph]

II.

III.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

BREAD.

I. PART I.

Spirits of Pity! whereso'er ye dwell,
With sunbeams crown'd, or thron'd in hearts, that feel
The spark sublime, by heav'n's own lustre fed,
With brighter glories than e'er sunbeams shed;
Thy spark, divine Benevolence! whose ray
Quenches the orb of summer's proudest day;
O with unwonted powers assist my song,
Tune your own harps, to you the notes belong.
I sing the Poor! for them invite the lyre,
For them alone I ask the poet's fire;
For them, at hours forbade to touch the string,
Late from the grave escap'd, I yearn to sing.

And thou blest muse of Sympathy! again,
Inspire and patronize a kindred strain.
No idle plumage pluck'd from fancy's wing,
No playful bubbles from the fabled spring,
Thy bard now seeks. Ah no! far other themes
Than verdant meads, or fiction's fairy dreams,
Now prompt the numbers: Truths, that may impart
A touch of mercy to the hardest heart;
Teach avarice to feel the social sigh,
And bathe his cheek in dews of charity;
Such dews, as falling on compassion's shrine,
Gush from the smitten rock in drops divine:
The cause your own then, ev'ry muse attend,
For every muse should be the poor man's friend.

O England! earth, more dear than all beside,
Whose matchless bounties, with a filial pride,
My eager voice has told with raptur'd tongue,
My pen has painted, and my muse has sung,
And fondly tried their fervors to impart,
Feebly, perchance, but with a willing heart,
With rapture dwelt on all thy deeds of arms,
And with a lover's passion own'd thy charms:

Thy fruitful fields, that open'd on the view
Soft scenes of beauty and of comfort too;
Thy fertile hills, and wide-extended plains,
That us'd to exercise and chear the swains;
Their wholesome labour, bed and food supply,
And yield to wealth a fair sufficiency;
Thy forests, deep and vast, whose dark-green robe
Encanopy the oaks that awe the globe,
Those oaks, to which old ocean bows the knee,
And with that globe thy foe still keep thee free;
Thy commerce too, that from each alien shore
Wafts to thine own a never-failing store:
And O the crown of all, the central ray
That o'er thy laurels spreads effulgent day,
Thy gracious charities, whose splendid glow,
Gilds an immortal wreath to deck thy brow;—
All these, full oft, have raised the plausive strain,
These still are thine—but ah! bestowed in vain.

I sing the Poor! thy poor my native land,
E'erwhile, and not remote, a blithsome band,
A ruddy, reckless, merry-hearted crew,
Fresh as their herbage wash'd in morning dew,

Light, buoyant, airy, as their upland gales,
Firm as their hills, and teeming as their vales:
Their lambs less gamesome, when day-labour done,
They sought the shade, or frolick'd, where the sun
Threw his last beams on flower-wreath'd casements small,
Gilt the young leaves, or play'd on cottage wall;
Less gay the birds that carol'd o'er their heads,
Built in their bowers, or nested round their sheds.

All day they toil'd; at eve new labours prest,
For then their little garden grounds were drest;
Scanty and narrow scraps of earth 'tis true,
Yet there their comforts, there their treasures grew:
The white rose and the red, and pink so sweet,
Herbs for each day, and fruit for sabbath treat:
The currant bush, and gooseberry so fine,
Affording summer fruit, and winter wine;
The cooling apple too, and grateful pear,
And pea, for beauty and for use, were there;
And formal box, and bloomy thrift were seen,
Bord'ring the flow'r-bed and the path-way green;
And elder flowers, to make fair maids more fair,
The glossy berry, still the matron's care,

In dark drear nights to give, when spirits fail,
A chearful drop to thaw the gossip's tale,
When ghosts have ic'd the blood of youth and age,
Who, with a thousand goblins would engage,
And boldly bid them stalk from where they lurk,
When once the charmed cup begins to work;
'Till those, who had aver'd the flame glar'd blue,
Close huddled round it, as the terrors grew,
Wish'd, that some sneaking spectre dar'd appear,
And on each other flung the coward's fear.

Beside their garden, dwelt their living stock,
The petted lambkin from the smiling flock,
The peasant youngling's joy to see its race,
Its antic gambols, or its sauntring pace,
Or mount its back, or smooth its woolly coat,
Or twine a garland round its fleecy throat,
Or pat its visage fair, that seem'd so mild,
Tho', in the frolick mood, so archly wild,
That oft, the sulky dog, and cat demure,
Betray'd to romps, have fall'n into the lure.

The rich man's pastimes, are the poor man's wealth,
And yield him plenty, happiness, and health,
The fattening porket, and prolific sow,
The brooding hen, and balmy-breathing cow,
The proud, vain turkey, tyrant of the green,
The good old market mare, and sheep serene;
These fill'd the home-stall spare, with life and glee,
These gave enough—enough's prosperity!
These rais'd the hind, and lifted him to man,
And these were his, till traitors chang'd the plan,
Their country's traitors! who with dire design—
But check awhile, my heart, th'indignant line.

Ah lead me back, ye muses, to the bower,
Just as the swain, return'd at evening hour,
Felt the soft dew descending on his head,
When twilight's mantle o'er his cot was spread:
And tho' perchance, soft mists obscur'd the place,
The home-way path, the rustic's heart could trace,
Clear thro' a thousand vapours of the night,
Affection saw it, and still view'd it bright,
A leading star it glow'd within his breast,
Shone on his hearth, and beam'd upon his rest.

Then was the poor man rich, and fondly smil'd,
As in the varied forms of wife and child,
His cultur'd orchard, and his little field,
His tenfold joys, and treasures, were reveal'd.
The day shut in, he own'd a lord no more,
Freedom began, and servitude was o'er;
At night enfranchis'd, he resum'd his throne,
And reign'd o'er hearts as happy as his own;
There sat the harmless monarch of his shed,
Peace crown'd his slumbers, and love blest his bed,
And tho', at morn's return, no monarch he,
Awhile laid by his little sov'reignty,
Again at early eve he gently sway'd,
Alternate rul'd, was govern'd and obey'd.

And when a neighbour chanc'd to wend that way,
What time the sunset clos'd the cares of day,
Or sweet-heart guest, to woo the damsel fair,
How blithe with such the cottage meal to share!
No sense of morn or noon-tide toils remain,
But pleasure beats renew'd in every vein!
Round goes the home-brew'd, with the light regale,
And mirthful thoughts, and artless jests prevail,

The peasant sire, and matron, as they quaff
Good luck to lovers, mingle many a laugh,
With winks and nods the bashful maid to cheer,
While the flush'd youth in whispers wins her ear;
And as the time to bid farewell drew nigh,
The pitying father heard the lover's sigh,
And at the warning click to strike, he strove
With generous haste the hour-hand back to move,
And still the tender respite to prolong,
The matron kind would claim the maiden's song;
And still, in fond return, the grateful swain,
Would pour his passion in some artless strain,
Some soothing ditty that might hope inspire,
Or, in his turn, might call upon the sire,
Who in his age, rememb'ring days of youth,
Would troll his ballad fill'd with love and truth,
That very ballad which declar'd his flame,
When to the matron he a wooing came;
She, pleas'd to hear the recollected lay,
Prolong'd the parting hour by fresh delay,
Trill'd her own madrigal with joyous sound,
'Till all the cottage took the chorus round,

At length, with promise of returning soon,
The swain hied home beneath the fav'ring moon.

And, when the Fair return'd, how blithe to see,
This from the plough, and that the wheel set free;
To hear how echo sent the mingled sound,
O'er hill and vale, to woods and streams around.
Lo, in gay groups the harmless people go,
Prepar'd for every prank and every shew;
All up betimes, and like the morning drest,
In nature's vermeil robe and lillied vest.
How sweet for early passenger to trace,
Th'anticipated day in every face!
In every honest countenance reveal'd,
To read, whate'er the light-wing'd hours might yield;
The hallow'd keep-sake, ever-sacred thing!
The motto'd garter, and the posied ring;
The bloomy ribbon, and the bonnet gay,
And hose, with figur'd clock, for holy day;
The father's duffel stout, and matron's gown
Of goodly grey, or sober-seeming brown;
The jovial feasting, and the foaming ale,
The loud-sung roundelay, the merry tale;

The feats of merryman, the furious strife,
Warning, I ween, to maids! of punch and wife!
The bridal day pronounc'd, the banns arrang'd,
The vow repeated, and the kiss exchang'd;
Then to their cots, unmindful of the dews,
Pockets with fairings, and heads cramm'd with news,
For kin-folk dear at home, who pining there
Haply sit up to hear about the fair!
And then for grandsire old, and granny grey,
Came forth the soft memorials of the day;
The polish'd snuff-box, with its pungent store,
The sweetmeats rare, and bravely gilded o'er;
While those too young, like those too old to rove,
Receive their tokens of remember'd love;
The shrilly whistle, and more manly toy,
For the weak infant, and the sturdy boy,
These, lightly slumbr'ing, or their little eyes
By hope unclos'd, beheld, with glad surprize
Those tokens gay, and half asleep, would take,
The luscious lozenge, or the tempting cake,
The orange sweet, or golden gingerbread,
And strew with many a crumb the tiny bed:

Small gifts! yet ah, how priz'd! and brought to view,
As treasures promis'd, and expected too!
For still from youth to nature's latest hour,
The Little Cares preserve their magic power.

So stole the time in rural happiness,
When love and pleasure lur'd to soft excess;
Ah, trespass rare, by tenfold labours bought,
A passing sun-beam in a tempest caught:
The fleeting jubilee of one brief day,
On which the peasant loos'd his soul to play;
On which, the long-revolving months to cheer,
He felt the pause that soften'd all his year.

Yes, those were times when peasants could afford
The blest division of the social board;
Those were the days when men might work and live,
And the kind amities receive and give;
Friend, neighbour, lover, were by turns caress'd,
And rural comfort was the poor man's guest.
O days of soft content, so late our own!
O times of rapture! whither are ye flown?

Thrice-happy Abbot! aid me to relate,
In faithful numbers, thy distinguish'd state;
The varied charm, and treasures spread around
Thy blissful cottage, and thy rood of ground,
Thy three-fold hives of honey-making bees,
Thy single quickset, and thy fruitful trees,
Thy thrifty housewife, and her duteous train,
And all the blessings of thy small domain.

Illustrious swain! 'twas thine, from youth to age,
In hard, yet wholesome labour to engage;
With spirit steady, and with patient hand,
To raise an Eden on a nook of land,
A flowery nook, with nature's bounty grac'd,
Meed of thy toil, and rescued from the waste;
'Twas thine, for half a century to prove,
O strange to tell! the joys of wedded love,
And faith sincere, and social happiness,
And children good, thy silver hairs to bless.

Hail, venerable cottager! and, hail,
Thy labour-cheering draughts of vigorous ale;

Hail too, the secret cause of all thy wealth,
The constant toil that brought thee constant health;
Thrice hail thy speck of earth, so sweet to thought,
By a long life of honest labour bought;
And yet more sweet the liberty, that gave
Thy soul its peace, and made thee spurn the slave.

And Fairfax hail to thee, whose gen'rous mind,
At little cost, thus rais'd th'industrious hind.
Ah were the rich, like thee, their aid to lend,
The weak to strengthen, and the poor befriend,
Like thy own swain the peasantry might live,
And liberal share the comforts which they give;
Like him, his cot might build, his garden dress,
His patron honour, and his offspring bless;
Like him, might look with pride on his retreat,
And the hut flourish near the rich man's gate.

Ye, who by random chance of birth are great,
Favourites of fortune, denizens of fate,
Who lavish thousands to adorn a Place,
And ask a Repton's aid to give it grace;

Say, can your idle vista, pigmy dome,
That ape the pageantries of Greece and Rome,
So fair an object to the view display,
As one small tenement of white-wash'd clay,
Which, if the simple group it shields are blest,
Shall rear a temple in each grateful breast?
And ah! what ornament on earth can vie,
Or bring such pictures to the gladden'd eye,
As wholesome cots, by happy beings fill'd;
As a small speck by happy beings till'd!
Blest who like thee, O Carrington, afford,
The plots that make the peasants love their lord.

Not such I sing! ah, no! a different race,
Grief at their hearts, and famine in their face;
A meagre, lifeless, melancholy clan,
Robb'd of each right that God bestows on man;
Of every shrub despoil'd, and every flower,
The wretched paupers of the Present Hour!

No petted lamb is theirs to sport around,
No fruitful orchard, and no smiling ground;

Nor balmy-breathing cow, nor swine appear,
Nor profitable poultry, clucking near;
Nor e'en the family musician sweet,
Who gives the cottager a tuneful treat
All the long year, tho' oft his noiseless song
Is lost; amidst the summer's blended throng,
Domestic Redbreast! who, at eve and morn,
As meek he sits upon the naked thorn,
A neighbour sweet, and welcome to the poor;
Ev'n he, lorn bird! can gain his crumb no more;
That crumb the hungry babes were wont to spare,
Till left themselves to comfortless despair;
Nor houshold dog, the cottage now can boast,
The poor man's last, best friend in need, is lost!
But luxuries these, and these the poor may spare,
And oh, that these were all they had to bear!

Behold the hamlets, where unroof'd they stand,
Fit habitations for a starving band;
What tho' around them scenes of plenty rise,
And fair above expand benignant skies,
Tho' to their thresholds Ceres leads her train,
And o'er their windows waves th'aspiring grain,

Tho' all they wish, and all they want, be near,
Ah fruits forbidden! view'd thro' many a tear;
Tho' bounties seem around their cot to wait,
Behold a gorgon frowns at every gate,
A more than fiery dragon guards the store,
To seize the hard-earn'd morsel of the poor.

O pass these goodly prospects, and survey,
Of England's peasantry, the dire decay:
Quit the gay rounds of pleasure for a while,
Where frolic sports, and fortune wears a smile,
Where the smooth hours, devote to varied play,
On downy pinions move, and melt away;
Fatigued with fullness, or with plenty tir'd,
With wealth encumber'd, or with passion fir'd,
O thou World's Man, a moment's pause bestow,
Whilst the muse guides to scenes of instant woe,
Of woe, too vast for patience 'self to bear,
Ah! haste to view the mansions of despair.

Lo, the gapp'd walls! where time and wealth contend,
The poor man's dwelling like his heart to rend,

Approach that door, where late the jasmine threw
Its fragrant scent, and where the woodbine grew
To shade the bench, at which the matron gay,
And maiden blithe, sang half their hours away,
And work'd the while, 'till labour-time was o'er;
Ah! labours seen, and ditties heard no more;
Labours too soft, and songs too sweet were they,
To close, O Drudgery! thy iron day.
Trill'd from the joyous vale, no more you hear
The burst of mirth assail the gladden'd ear;
Labour and laughter mingle now no more;
The heartless swain scarce gains his hovel door,
And ah! when gain'd, what guests await him there,
To smooth his sleep, or cheer his waking care?
For, tho' the hop and elder ripen near,
Denied the rural wine and strength'ning beer;
Purloin'd each cordial, every comfort gone,
Nor aught to greet him when his work is done.

And where is Health, that us'd to bound along,
Proud of his ruby cheek and sinews strong?
And where is Jollity, his twin compeer,
Whose heart was wont to dance throughout the year?

And Temperance, goddess of the golden mien,
To lead her moonlight revels o'er the green?
And where that sabbath of the peasant's year,
When the last corn-load hous'd, has banish'd fear?
The joyous harvest-home, with garlands bound,
By plenty woven, and by pleasure crown'd;
The swain and maiden on the top, conceal'd
Midst fragrant boughs, or by their sports reveal'd?
And where the festival, for ages given,
To sing the bounty of indulgent heav'n;
When hind and husbandman, and lord and swain,
Were softly blended on the social plain;
Or in the good old hall assembled free,
To join and share the poor man's jubilee?

Ah change severe! the ancient customs fail,
And loftier manners, prouder modes prevail;
Tyrant o'er tyrants, lord o'er lords are seen,
That once were friends and neighbours of the green;
And less distinct are now their hills and plains,
Than the proud husbandmen and lowly swains;
The social level of the land is gone,
Alike the farm and farmers are o'ergrown;

While the spurn'd cottagers and cottage, whirl'd
With all their claims, are into chaos hurl'd.
No morning carol now regales the ear,
And nought at eve but sounds of grief you hear;
And nought but haggard shapes and forms you see,
And spectres thin of hollow penury.

Lo! as the fainting labourer stoops to reap,
The deadly drops his clay-cold temples steep;
In pride of youth the tyrant Want prevails,
The sickle falls, and harrass'd nature fails;
No aid at hand, his fellow-suff'rers round,
Behold him stretch'd a corpse upon the ground:
O for one cordial drop! in vain the pray'r!
Death, death alone, has sav'd him from despair.

And, hark, to yonder agonizing cries!
By famine struck, the mountain peasant lies;
Spent is his force that us'd the winds to brave,
And dead are half his limbs e'er in the grave.
Able no more to earn their daily bread,
The shiv'ring children cling about his bed;

The rose has wither'd on the daughter's cheek,
Yet the poor father's heart wants force to break;
Languid and faint life lingers in his veins,
And what the tongue conceals, the look explains;
The voice exhausted feebly heaves a sigh,
And Want has dug his cavern in the eye;
On childhood's polish'd brow sits wrinkled care,
And in the mother's bosom broods despair:
Unhappy matron! doom'd by fiends to know,
The dire excesses of a parent's woe!
Long time she toils, and waits in patient grief,
And vainly tries and vainly hopes relief:
“Bread for my children; Give me bread!” she cries,
“Ev'n now by hunger struck my husband dies;
“His wife must follow fast; yet save, O save
“These orphan little ones, and this poor babe,
“This helpless suckling, starving on my breast.”
Her prayer is scorn'd, her sorrows made a jest,
The jest of that proud plunderer, who braves
The poor man's curse, nor heeds when famine craves!

Nor only spurn'd, but menac'd with the law,
And prison stern, the matron seeks her straw;

Returns to view her starvelings as they lie,
Worse lodg'd and fed than inmates of the sty
In Cottage Days! ah days, when each retreat,
Without was simple, and within was neat;
When food and raiment, plentiful tho' plain,
At once gave pride and vigour to the swain;
For tho' the mendings of each suit might bear
True witness of the housewife's timely care,
Still was the working-coat of patches clean,
And sabbath-dress, without a darn was seen:
Spruce, strong, and glossy, and of colour true,
Unfading brown, or never-changing blue;
And waistcoat, flaming as the orb of day,
And jet-black shoes, with ample buckles gay,
Broad as the feet, and made to last them out,
And over all the brave surtout so stout,
That scarce three farmers, of this polish'd age,
When sheer undressing seems the general rage,
The weight could bear! ah cottage days farewel,
Far other times, the Muse, e'er long, shall tell;

Far other manners soon shall stoop to trace,
Far other men,—a smooth, degenerate race!
Yet fondly ling'ring, still would pause to view
The much-lov'd cottage days which late she drew;
In mem'ry's mirror, retrospective trace,
Each genuine pleasure, and each simple grace;
All that once charm'd the rich, and blest the poor,
And sigh to think those happy days are o'er.

II. PART II.

But not to peasantry these ills confin'd,
The artizan partakes them with the hind;
City and country share one common fate,
The same effects on the same causes wait.
Chain'd in his noisome shop to stagnant air,
The Petty Tradesman pines in deep despair;
Now in some dark and vap'rous cell below,
Now in some loft above, he hides his woe;
Or midst his cares, is urg'd, alas! the while,
As interest prompts, to force the specious smile.
But ah! tho' thus to general eyes unknown,
In one poor gloomy nook his griefs are shown,
There, in a crouded room, his children keep
Together huddled, there they starve and weep;

Still taught the stranger's wond'ring gaze to shun,
Like guilty creatures banish'd from the sun;
A generous shame the struggling father feels,
And from the world his tatter'd race conceals;
Or, if a shiv'ring spectre dares the day,
The blushing mother frowns the shade away;
Till, press'd too hard, their famine must appear,
And all that industry most dreads is near:
Writs, executions, bankruptcies ensue;
The father's heart shrinks, breaking, from the view:
His fall once publish'd, all aghast he flies,
To hide his shame, or in a workhouse dies;
While his lost progeny, from door to door,
Beg their hard bread, or join the public poor.

And, ah! survey another dire excess,
Another victim of the time's distress,
Another grief—the hydra of the rest—
Upon the muse's aking sight is press'd.
Spirits of Pity! O from heav'n descend,
On the dove's pinion, and her plumes extend,
Yon sad and desolated group to shield,
Amid the ruins of their house conceal'd!

Mark yon grey dome, which still attempts to hide
Its drooping honours from insulting pride;
And tho', alas! the shell alone remains,
Of what was once the wonder of the plains,
Still does the wreck affect an air of state,
The gapp'd park paleing, and the gapeing gate,
The towers dismantled, and the crumbling wall,
The mould'ring pillars, menacing a fall,
The garden, weeded half, and half in flower,
The broken statues, and disorder'd bower,
The vista trees hewn down beside the way,
E'en like their lord, majestic in decay;
And, as in better days, the warning bell,
That us'd the hour of social joy to tell,
When gay Festivity pour'd forth his trains,
And gave a general welcome to the swains,
Now sending forth, alas! an empty sound,
To screen the ruin from the neighbours round.

But oh! heart piercing sight! see yonder bed,
Where high-born Lucius lays his anguish'd head;
A modest patrimony called him lord,
And frugal plenty smil'd upon his board;

That plenty, well a numerous race supplied,
Nothing superfluous, nothing was denied
Which virtue wish'd, or nature pure might claim,
And smooth his life till public robbers came;
Till trebled each demand for daily bread,
And not increas'd the means by which they fed;
Then sire and husband in his breast contend,
While brooding misery excludes a friend;
To her who shar'd them, scarce he dares impart
The thronging horrors that devour his heart.
In some dim room, with ragged tapestry spread,
As if already number'd with the dead,
On his dire fate, he seeks to muse alone,
While at each thought bursts forth a dismal groan;
The dread of want comes rushing to his brain,
He smites his boding heart, and groans again!
His children hear, and hasting to his side,
Assert their claims, and may not be denied;
The suppliant mother too, with tears appeals,
Bathes his cold hand, and with submission kneels;
Around the sire, as wife and children move,
His bosom swells with terror and with love:

“And oh, sustaining pillar of our life!
“Behold,” they cry, “thy children and thy wife!
“What tho' the fates, or men more stern than they.
“Have swept the half of all our means away;
“Tho' press'd by need, and griefs unfelt before,
“Early and sudden number'd with the poor,
“Still is our comfort lodg'd within thy breast;
“Sustain misfortune, and we still are blest!”

Dark though his thoughts, and dire his looks be
Touch'd by their prayer, again resign'd, he bore
The thousand sorrows that insidious wait
On the reverses of the fallen Great;
Love bids him still uncounted wrongs endure;
But ah! a wounded spirit who can cure?
And sure, of all whom indigence has curs'd,
A Gentleman reduc'd is still the worst:
The man, of feelings great, and fortunes small,
Still forc'd to live, as if no ills at all
Press'd on his mind, that death-blow to escape,
The “oppressor's contumely,” in pity's shape,
That fraudful pity, smiling on the sore,
Which upstarts bring on the illustrious poor.

And oh, what numbers now are doom'd to feel,
This keenest torture on misfortune's wheel;
This rending rack of body and of mind,
The last excess of tyranny refin'd!
No coup de grace, alas! these victims know,
A noble pauper leads a life of woe:
His pains increase with ev'ry rising year;
The more his need, the less it must appear:
For, as his goodly sons, and daughters fair,
The cause of all his joys, and all his care,
Approach to womanhood, and man's estate,
And touch the awful crisis of their fate,
How must each minute of a father's hours—
If spoilers undermine his scanty powers,
While slender means must mighty ends supply—
Be pass'd in dread, and counted with a sigh.

Ah, little know the rich, what pains molest,
In times like these, a parent's throbbing breast;
Ah, little think they, as in rooms of state,
Midst flatt'ring mirrors, and unwieldy plate;
Or, fagg'd with yawning indolence, supine
On yielding down repose; from silver dine,

While swoln abundance the gorg'd banquet spreads,
And favoring fortune cloudless sunshine sheds
Thro' life, perchance, but as one summer day,
And every hour is taught to smile away;
Ah, little can they judge what Lucius knew,
As near his tott'ring hall fierce Famine drew;
Or, to prevent the fiend from ent'ring there,
And save his offspring from the last despair,
What thoughts annoy, what bitter fears invade,
What arts are tried, what sacrifices made;
How the fond mother, tho' to softness bred,
Turns every thrifty talent into bread;
And every present, e'en of bridal days,
Converts to housewifery a thousand ways;
Or, how the daughters, from the world to keep
Their father's wrongs and sorrows, work and weep;
And, lest those wrongs and sorrows should be told,
Turn every youthful ornament to gold:
The hoarded tokens, and the keepsakes dear,
And love's soft pledge is sold without a tear;
Save that one precious drop perchance may rise,
When at their father's feet their small supplies

They blushing lay, and as they trembling kneel,
Daughters alone can tell what daughters feel.
While the lorn father, still from foes to hide,
And spare the cureless wound of generous pride;
Yet more from friends, to vail his home-felt woes,
His food, his raiment, and his rest foregoes.

Yet ah, with stern economy extreme,
How hard to shun a grief still more supreme!
The frantic father sudden snatch'd away;
The daughters made of villany the prey;
The sons, still buffeting misfortune's flood,
Or their hands bath'd in a betrayer's blood;
The widow to her morsel left alone,
Or, with her beauteous wrecks, promiscuous thrown
On the hard world, with every shock beside
Of fallen fortunes, and of wounded pride.

Ye happier beings! blest in fortune's store,
On mimic ruins waste your wealth no more;
Your mould'ring monuments no more repair,
Far other ruins henceforth be your care:

Search for the failing towers of human kind,
And save that noblest edifice, the mind;
The central column of the dome defend,
Nor let the glory of the fabric bend:
The fabric nods! ah, leave your barren walls,
And prop the throne of reason e're it falls!
Such be th'improvements of your vast domain;
Without them, parks and palaces are vain:
O be the generous architects, to plan
How best to renovate decaying man;
The fragments gather, where in dust they lie,
And heav'n shall bless the work of charity.

Such are the Poor I sing. The poor! vain phrase,
Which more man's pride, than nature's truth displays,
Which more man's pride, than heav'n itself design'd,
When first it gave creation to our kind;
Gave it to sov'reign man in trust, to spare
Bird, beast, fish, insect, their appropriate share.
A mighty mass of wood-land and of wave,
Where food and drink, a cradle and a grave
The savage sought, and as he roam'd around,
Bold, and at large, the undivided ground;

No check he knew, the world seem'd his alone,
The land, the water, and the skies his own;
And tho' a myriad more pursued the plan,
And felt, like him, the claims of natural man;
Tho' tyrants chain'd at last the free-born soul,
'Twas long e'er men from men would brook controul;
Equal at first by nature as by birth,
Long e'er they fought for morsels of the earth;
Thro' the dark wilderness—a world of wood!
The war was wag'd alone for needful food,
Yet 'twas not right, 'twas violence, 'twas wrong,
And all the assassin passions in a throng,
Led on by murder, whose unnatural strife,
Open'd the horrors with a brother's life,
Broke thy soft bonds, O Peace! destroy'd thy charms,
And brought upon the earth the curse of arms.

Then, all at once let loose, the furies reign'd,
And the polluted earth with blood was stain'd;
Then was superior strength the better cause,
And ravish'd spoils were charter'd by the laws;
Such laws as tygers, and as wolves obey,
Who make the weaker animals their prey;

Plunder was property; yet rich and poor
Remain'd unclass'd, till innocence was o'er.
Talk'st thou of first establishments? Beware!
All, all the crimson marks of force declare;
To fix them, fraud and tyranny combin'd,
The strong insisted, and the weak resign'd;
Call them encroachments, gain'd by wily art,
Or deeds of blood, unsanction'd by the heart:
The sceptre snatch'd from nature's equal hand,
A bold usurper stilted to command.
The rightful power dethron'd, distinctions came:
Proud wealth! thy source should tinge thy cheek with shame;
And tho' thy golden streams now own a bound,
Which social order has embank'd around,
The troubled waters still some foulness shew,
To note the sullied fountain whence they flow.

Yet vast is privilege! by time maintain'd,
And strong is power! by time and laws sustain'd.
What fortune-favour'd mortal would forego
The proud supremacy of high o'er low?

The awful barrier plac'd 'twixt mine and thine,
Is now enjoy'd, as if by right divine,
And may no shock disturb th'adjusted plan,
The settled compact betwixt man and man!
Whate'er the vice that first exacted claim,
Virtue and order are at length the same;
Long may they stand from each new system free,
If revolutions bring back anarchy!
When fiery spirits a new world arrange,
Tho' grand the aim, how perilous the change!
Tho' darkling chaos, beauteous rose from night,
It claim'd the God to place the atoms right.

Would power retain th'advantage it has gain'd?
Be it with liberal modesty sustain'd:
To reach the end of all man's wealth and care,
The means how easy—to enjoy and share.
The polish'd links that form the social chain,
For ages still to ages may remain,
Nor snapt by rage, nor undermin'd by art,
If well the rivets join in every part;
But if those links that would the peasant bind,
Gall his chaf'd body, and corrode his mind,

The poor man's iron, and the rich man's gold,
Say, who the future changes may unfold?

O more than blind, who would not freely share!
O more than base, who bid the poor despair!
Hope smiling by, with energy they toil;
Their hands, their hearts, their lives are in the soil;
From every acre dress'd, they see their wealth,
And every acre clear'd, adds joy to health;
Bride, children, friends, urge every generous pow'r,
And do the work of summers in an hour:
Scorch'd by the sun, or freezing in the wind,
The stern extremes are baffled by the mind.
Sweet to the sense, the fond possessions come,
The cooling arbour, and the warming home;
That grants the shade, and this the blazing fire,
And nature's genuine joys, that never tire.

Ask we the cause why earth supplies in vain,
Th'abundant herbage and luxuriant grain;
Why, when the golden sheaves like mountains rise,—
Bending as if in homage to the skies—

Those golden sheaves refuse their aid to yield,
To such alone as sow and reap the field?
Why, though unnumber'd sheep the hills bestow,
And herds unrivall'd in the vallies lowe;
Half of our unfed Britons pining stand,
As if vile outcasts on a desert land?
Why, as if thrown on some malignant rock,
The shepherd starves encircled by his flock?
Why, myriads fainting with unceasing toil,
Which us'd to feed them, famish on the soil?
And why, when heav'n has blest the bounteous earth,
The Poor still find an universal dearth?

Say, can the Nine, though all should lend their aid,
To paint the varied ills which now invade
Th'uncheery hut, tell the dire cares that wait
Upon the pillag'd peasant's hapless state?
O can their powers combin'd, suffice to trace
Britannia's scourge, the empire's deep disgrace;
Or half the death-dark villanies unfold
Of trade's stern tyrants, and the slaves of gold?

Ascend yon hill, and give thy straining eye
To view the stretching landscapes as they lie,
In many an ample sweep of varying ground,
With all the flocks and herds that graze around;
The level pastures, and the mountains steep,
The intermediate vales, and forests deep.
Time was, when twice ten husbandmen were fed,
And all their wholesome progeny found bread,
And a soft home, each in his modest farm,
By tillage of those lands—and raiment warm;
The cloak of scarlet die, so bright and clean,
And one of silk, on sabbath only seen;
And yet a third, of goodly camblet neat,
For winter days, extending to the feet.
Then took at plough the son and sire their turn,
The wife then milk'd the cow, and work'd the churn;
And many a mile the daughter trudg'd with ease,
To vend her butter, chickens, eggs, and cheese;
And, home returning, heavy laden, brought
Full many an article at market bought;
And tho' she bow'd beneath her basket's weight,
Oft would she sing the country maiden's fate;

And haply, sweetheart, who in ambush lay,
To ease her load, would join her on the way:
Well-pleas'd was he, that useful load to bear,
Yet saw, with wise delight, the damsel's care:
Good signs of future helpmate there were shown,
And, as he smil'd, he mark'd her for his own;
Whisper'd his wish to share her toils for life,
Purchas'd the ring with speed, and call'd her wife.

Nor came she portionless; nor to his arms
Brought only virtue, love, and native charms;
Tho' these were wealth, but kin, on either side
Enrich'd the bridegroom, and endow'd the bride:
Of kine a pair to each, of sheep a score,
The parents furnish'd from their well-earn'd store:
A waggon this, and that a team bestow'd,
While from the heart's pure source each love-gift flow'd:
Of linen too a stock, and spun at home,
And a best bed, to deck the nuptial room;
Yet quilt and curtains, by the matron wrought,
And nothing but the wood and ticking bought;
From their well-feather'd flock the pillow's down,
And all the toilet ornaments their own:

And polish'd looking-glass and pictures gay,
For parlour, us'd alone on holy day!
Or christmas time, or merry-making sweet,
When the kind landlord deign'd to share the treat;
And joy'd to see the harvest-barn was fill'd,
And felt at heart how well his farm was till'd:
His little farm, which ease and health display'd,
And happy tenants, happy landlords made.

And thus from three-score acres, duly dress'd,
The numerous tribe of old and young were bless'd;
And all the country gaily smil'd to see
The country's wealth—a thriving peasantry!
Lords, swains, and husbandmen each other cheer'd.
And mutual profits mutual cares endear'd;
By day the labourer at the farm was fed,
In his own cottage found a nightly bed;
And all his sun-tann'd children, and his wife,
Gave zest to toil, and energy to life;
And thus for ages far'd the rural train,
Nor plague, nor famine, scourg'd the blissful plain.

Past are these scenes, the bloomy substance fled,
Lo! the thin shadows offer'd in their stead.
See from the summit where thou stand'st, the pride
That arrogantly grasps the prospect wide:
Ah me! that lofty mountain but commands
One tyrant husbandman's half-cultur'd lands;
Insatiate giant of the plunder'd plains,
At once the scourge and terror of the swains;
A vain usurper of the country round,
Possessing, yet encumbering the ground,
In deep carousal, high above his lord,
This village despot can each vice afford,
That luxury suggests to ill-got wealth,
The bane at once of virtue and of health.

The horn invites! the tyrant scours the lawn,
While his poor vassals, up at peep of dawn,
With trembling hands the heavy plough-share guide,
Each cheary hope, each cordial thought deny'd;
For pleasure foremost of the noisy throng,
The farmer-sportsman whirls his steed along;

Purse-proud and vain, behold he takes the field,
And joys to see the 'squire and huntsman yield;
And as he stretches o'er his rented grounds,
Mark'd for his own, he cheers the panting hounds,
Than they more fell, and eager in the chace,
Nor gate, nor stream, obstruct his headlong pace.
His drudging slaves at plough, their master spy,
And work the furrow as he gallops by;
And as at eve they pass his mansion proud,
They scent the feast, and hear the orgies loud
Of wanton jests, deep draughts, and toasts prophane,—
“Ruin to landlords,” and, “the farmers gain;”
And see the smoaking viands, costly wine,
And fragments that might all their households dine,
Yet not one meal their fainting hearts to cheer,
But unsubstantial roots, and meagre beer;
While through the night this tyrant of the plain,
Till nature sickens holds his revel reign,
Then reels to rest, with feverish mixtures fill'd,
His mind disorder'd, and his body swill'd;
Nor does he rise from his enfeebling bed,
Till the poor victim-swain had left his shed

Full many a weary hour, and sat him down
On the brown glebe, to eat his crust more brown;
Dark, coarse, and scanty, and in sorrow earn'd,
And harder than the clod e'er yet up-turn'd:
Such thro' the year is that poor victim's plan,
And such the life of farmer-gentleman.

But, for the ladies! come ye muses nine,
Soften the numbers, and the song refine;
O deign, with bright Apollo at your head,
In beauty's cause, my great attempt to aid;
Fain would I reach a theme yet new to rhime,
The lady-farmers of the present time!
No village dames and maidens now are seen,
But madams, and the misses of the green!
Farm-house, and farm too, are in deep disgrace,
'Tis now the Lodge, the Cottage, or the Place!
Or if a farm, ferme ornee is the phrase!
And if a Cottage, of these modern days,
Expect no more to see the straw-built shed,
But a fantastic villa in its stead!

Pride, thinly veil'd in mock humility;
The name of cot, without its poverty!
By affectation, still with thatching crown'd;
By affectation, still with ivy bound;
By affectation, still the mantling vine
The door-way and the window-frames entwine;
Yet hawthorn bowers, and benches near the grove,
Give place to temples, and the rich alcove;
A naked Venus here, a Bacchus there,
And mimic ruins, kept in good repair;
The real rustic's sweet, and simple bounds,
Quick-set and garden chang'd to pleasure-grounds,
And the fresh sod, that form'd the walls so green.
The strawberry bed, and currant-bush between,
The honey-suckle hedge, and lily tall,
Yield to the shrubbery, and high-rais'd wall:—
This for exotics, of botanic fame,
Of which the lady hardly knows the name;
Yet, as with country friend she goes the round,
She christens them with words of learned sound:
The wall, in foreign fruits so rich and fine,
Forms the desert, when farmer-gentry dine!

And then for water! geese and ducks no more
Have leave to puddle round a modern door;
Fair on a glassy lake they sail in state,
And seem to know a prouder change of fate;
From thence, on china serv'd, they grace the dish,
And Vie in honours with the silver fish:
What animal would scruple to resign
Its transient life, for gentlefolk so fine!

Thrice hail, ye dainty dames, your favour'd lots!
But who shall paint the interior of your cots?
The farm-ville furniture! O bounteous nine,
Again I supplicate your smiles divine;
Grant me to sing the sideboards, sofas, chairs,
Where charming ladies play off charming airs;
Grant me to sing the celleret's supply,
Where, duly rang'd, stands each day's luxury:
The cherry-bounce, for sportsman's whet at dawn,
Hung beef, the relish, and the tempting brawn;
The rich Noyaux, for madam at her routs,
The soothing Nantz, for madam in her pouts;
The luscious shrub, to take of punch a tiff,
When farmer-gentleman and lady miff;

For who could deem that so polite a pair,
Without some acid, all their sweets could bear?
Or who could think a couple so well-bred,
Without some polish'd strife at board or bed?
Nor leave me, muses, but my steps attend,
Whilst I essay the chambers to ascend—
Apartments sacred to the farming fair,
When for the monthly ball the belles prepare!
And, O pale peasant, could you enter too,
And, at high toilet-time, the proud-one view,
Just as from glossy drawers, with gilded locks,
The crouded wardrobe, and the essenc'd box,
She takes her pageantries and costly toys,
Which folly buys, and vanity enjoys:
The ostrich feathers, nodding on her crest,
And gaudy baubles, dangling at her breast;
How could thy grief-wrung heart its scorn retain?
What could thy just, indignant rage restrain?
To see, exhausted on one loaded head,
More than would fill with joy thy empty shed!
To see the wealth, thy industry has made—
Fruit of thy scythe, thy sickle, and thy spade—

All, all laid waste to ape gentility,
And ah, far worse, to make a slave of thee!

But lo! my lady stands prepar'd to go;
And fluttering joins, full-plum'd, some farmer-beau;
Trick'd off, like madam, for the important night,
To all, but to himself and her, a fright;
Some farmer-beau, but not her own great man,
True to the mode, he forms a seperate plan,
Enjoys a private party snug at home,
Or, about midnight, strolls into the room,
With bungling nonchalance, and saucy air,
To loll, to lounge, to saunter, and to stare,
Aloud to prattle, voluble and free,
With friend—as much the gentleman as he.

Hail, Nonchalance! dear care-for-nothing power!
Tranquil associate of the vacant hour!
Ease, bore thee to indifference, thy sire,
And both a torpid apathy inspire;
No sights, or scenes, thy senses are to move,
Nor storms of rage, nor gales of gentle love;

No thought thy sober pulses are to fire,
Thine the old wisdom—nothing to admire!
In prime of youth, thy languid limbs move slow,
And in a sleep, thro' life thou seemst to go;
Guest, friend, and stranger, all alike to thee,
Thou'rt too much in the ton to hear or see;
That glass around thy neck, no doubt, supplies
The fashionable dimness of thy eyes;
'Tis vulgar, too, to speak above the breath!
And be the subject, battle, murder, death,
When thousands fell, unpleasant is the word,
Really unpleasant! and that scarcely heard.
Ah! long our farmer-beaux and belles must strain,
E'er they such well-bred imperfections gain!

But hark! the ball-hour strikes! yet how the place
To gain in style, and with a decent grace!
Heav'ns! shall a couple so be-deck'd and gay,
Like vulgar beings, move jog-trot away,
Deign, in a bobbing, one-horse-chaise to ride,
Like clod-born spouse and help-mate, side by side?
Forbid it fashion! haste, the Gig prepare,
Harness the pamper'd ponies to the car!

Behold they come, and sweetly-pawing stand,
While to her 'squire the lady gives her hand;
Bungling she tries the fashionable bound,
Yet new to flight, she just escapes the ground;
Bodies terrestrial shew their mortal birth,
Mount heavy, and soon gravitate to earth;
Her seat secur'd, she manages the thong,
And guides the reins, and proudly drives along;
Feather'd and fierce like warriors they appear,
The hero he, and she the charioteer;
At length they stop triumphant at the door,
Scoff of the rich, and horror of the poor.

But lo! she enters! realms of gay delight,
O spare her senses, nor o'er-power them quite;
The first in glitter, tho' the last in place,
In vain she strives to be the first in grace;
Affected, aukward, romping, and yet prim,
Labouring she tries to catch the easy swim,
The step of breeding, and the port serene,
The educated air, and fashion'd mein,
The wond'rous magic, that, by sweet surprise,
From look, from motion, and from silence rise;

The eloquence that wins without a sound,
And the soft charms, in gentle manners found.
But ah! 'twixt ladies born, and newly made,
Less wide the line 'twixt buckram and brocade:
Tho' this, perchance, more stately may appear,
A goodly richness still attends the wear;
Its vulgar stiffness that awhile retains,
And nothing soon but flimsiness remains.

Yet happy vanity, and kind self-love,
A tender couple! all they do, approve;
Conscious alone of merit and of charms,
Nor sneers abash, nor ridicule alarms;
And when the public laughter they provoke,
To serious praise they turn the taunting joke;
Or, should grave wisdom hiss them as they go,
Still smooth in Flatt'ry's glass, their follies shew.
Blest mirror! which can thus, with magic pow'r,
Give the rank weed the fragrance of the flow'r;
And from deformities,—without, within,
Spots in the mind, or specks upon the skin—
Can all that's good, and all that's fair reflect,
And change to beauty, every dark defect.

Her own fond image in this prism survey'd,
The farmer-lady sees a grace display'd;
Sees, that the general gaze her beauty draws,
And in the general titter, hears applause;
Clumsy, yet strong, like her own team at plough,
She fags the fidler and runs down the beaux,
'Till having nobly danc'd each couple out,—
E'en like her merry lord his drinking rout,—
With shawls and swan-downs fenc'd from morning air,
Again she mounts the corn-defrauded car;
Then seeks, full speed, her ornamented bed,
While plenty twines a wheatsheaf round her head.

But the tir'd hunt allows a vacant day;
Trade takes its turn, and interest has its sway.
The bold monopolist, and jobber sly,
Resum'd—(the farmer-gentleman laid by)
The varied wiles of avarice are tried,
And the forestallers subtlest engines plied;
Regraters, dealers—an insidious train!
Middle and mealmen yield the soul to gain;
Bakers and badgers—each inferior slave,
The humble drudges of a prouder knave,

Ready and eager for each crime as he,
The mean jackalls of loftier perfidy;
Prompt to provide their rabid masters fell,
As hell's grim lord employs the slaves of hell.
Thrift is the word—the bottle and the friend,
The hound and hunter, to the idol bend;
The golden idol, at whose shrine they vow,
E'en as the foul banditti suppliant bow,
That hecatombs on hecatombs shall bleed,
When the rich crops the swains no longer need;
Bound by a horrid league—the harvest o'er,—
To offer up in sacrifice—The Poor.

And see that league to prosper, how they toil,
Strip bare their parent earth, and the rich spoil,
Convey by miscreant stealth, those stores design'd
By bounteous heav'n, to feed and cloath mankind!
As the deep warehouse opes its massy doors,
Far from pale famine, plenty sends its stores:
Roll'd to the busy wharfs, the ready barge,
Upon the smooth canal receives the charge;
The fraudful hoards deep laden to the brim,
Sacks pil'd on sacks, as heavily they swim

Far from the starving town—the thronging poor
In dire dismay stand gazing on the shore.
With ragged garments, and with haggard mein,
From alleys dark and foul, and lanes obscene,
In squallid groups they eager press around,
Silent awhile from horror too profound
For words or voice, but as the freight moves by,
And wealth observes it with triumphant eye,
A growing murmur gathers on the strand,
And mingled anguish stirs the meagre band;
The ruffian dealers see the tempest near,
And as the thunders of the mob they hear
Begin to burst, the conscious cowards fly,
With all the speed of trembling infamy.

But hark! the storm is up! 'tis Hunger raves!
The phrenzied power that every peril braves;
Press'd by the irritating want he feels,
Daring he moves—the rabble at his heels:
But wildly hurried to each desperate deed,
Too oft the guiltless, with the guilty bleed,
Till outrag'd order, in the public cause,
To check huge uproar, calls the aiding laws;

To the loud trumpet, and resounding drum,
Dreadful in arms! behold they marshall'd come;
Kindling in rage, ah! see they rush along,
And with superior force disperse the throng.
Ill-fated tribes! to their dark cells they go,
With mingled groans and curses on their foe;
While the triumphant plunderers conceal'd,
Securely skulk behind the legal shield.

O alter'd England! sudden, dire, and strange,
Dishonouring to thy generous heart, the change!
Scarce can thy peasants know thee for their own—
For many an age, their castle and their throne.
Two sin-got monsters, imp'd by force and guile,
With giant footsteps stalk thy injured isle;
Both the foul offspring of the miser's hoard,
Gaunt Famine here, and there the flaming Sword;
Twin centinels! to grind, not guard the poor,
And drive each angel guest from labour's door.

But soft, 'tis midnight! and while sleep the swains,
By magic moves the produce of the plains;

Deep groan the waggons with their pondrous loads,
As their dark course they bend along the roads;
Wheel following wheel, in dread procession slow,
With half a harvest, to their points they go,
Their magic points—by water and by land—
Known to the tyrants and their hireling band.
The secret expedition, like the night
That covers its intents, still shuns the light;
And, e'er the morning blushes on the deed,
The teams return, and all the plots succeed,
While the poor ploughman, when he leaves his bed,
Sees the huge barn as empty as his shed.

Dark Night! couldst thou unfold the darker tale,
Of craft and fraud thy raven pinions vail;
Or thou, pale moon! take up the guilty theme,
When the stol'n goods, beneath thy trembling beam,
Pass thief-like on, to work a people's woe,
Where small canals to mighty rivers flow;
Thence, could parental Thames, or Severn, tell
What freights of villany their bosoms swell;
What hoarded stores, that might a people save,
There find, alas! a banishment or grave;

Rat-gnaw'd and rotted—lost to human use,
Accursed Avarice! by thy base abuse;
O what tremendous scenes would meet the view,
To make wrong'd England start, and tremble too!

Nor solely from these deeds of darkness flow.
A nation's famine, and a people's woe;
Full many a mystic stratagem beside,
Conspire to spread the public pest more wide;
The wealthy speculator buys the grain
Of the poor tenant, e'er it leaves the plain;
E'en as the tender blade begins to rise,
The dealer sees it with a dealer's eyes;
Contracts for all the tillage as it grows,
For how shall penury the rich oppose?
The slender farmer, by his wants oppress'd,
Weigh'd down by children, and by debts distress'd,
His future hopes must sell for present bread,
Or leave, alas! his family unfed.

But see, the rural Banks! these, prompt supply
The rich with wings, above the poor to fly;

On pinions, not of gold, ambitious grown,
They speed to many a burg and market town:
Thus, shop-keepers are public treasurers made,
And banking dwindles to a vulgar trade.
Lo! just in twain the country counter splits,
And here a banker, there a grocer sits;
Or, in one shop two different crafts are plied,
A draper's this, and that the banker's side;
And, while the wife the gauze and ribbon measures,
The husband, snug embox'd, deals out the treasures:
Congenial trades! both airy, thin, and light;
Yet one advent'rous as a paper-kite!
But like a kite, alas! will often fall
Becalm'd, and shiver paper, kite and all;
Th'elastic pow'r that made it mount so fair,
Once dropt, the pompous plaything's lost in air.

Yet these alone the opulent befriend;
Ah! who to foil the rich, the poor will lend?
The needy farmer when his crop is sold,
Sad and reluctant takes the tempting gold;
And as each day still makes his little less,
While nature's smiles the growing plenty bless,

The prospect seems upon his eye to low'r,
And vain the soft supplies of sun and shower;
No more he views the scene with fond delight;
Thick fill the ears—he sickens at the sight;
And when ripe autumn brings the harvest on,
Feebly he toils—his energy is gone;
His very hopes are sold; no more the field
Tho' crown'd with sheaves, a master's joy can yield;
He seems to take an hireling servant's place,
His wife and children, share the deep disgrace;
Till sunk at last, and spent his scanty store,
He stoops to glean the fields he farm'd before.

III. PART III.

The fateful causes such, and such the train
Of dire effects; the remedies remain.
Yet, think not mighty maladies like these,
Which fierce and fell, the mind and body seize,
Can, without timely skill, admit a cure:
Dispatch! no more the patient can endure.
Ye state-physicians, haste, with wisest care
Your healing balms, and lenitives prepare;
Inflam'd and deep, and gangren'd is the sore,
Prescribe the caustic and the probe no more;
With mildest balms, ah! bathe the deep-mouth'd wound,
And gently wrap the softest bandage round,

By bland degrees relieve the aching sense,
And instant banish all corrosives hence.

Avaunt Coercion! woo each kinder power,
And lead her smiling to the peasant's door:
Tyrant avaunt! to other regions fly,
Or to thy frozen, or thy torrid sky;
To harams, cloisters, nunneries, and caves,
Where equal beings sink to couching slaves,
And superstition's melancholy train,
Pine and decay that hypocrites may reign:
Speed baneful monster with thy hated band—
But tremble to approach fair Albion's land;
Dare not to blast Britannia's humblest flower,
A goddess arm'd, late shielded every bower;
Britannia and fair Freedom were the same,
Sacred allies that differ'd but in name.

Thinkst thou by vestrys, and the penal code,
The slave's correction, and the negro's rod,
Russia's fell knout, or Afric's hateful sway,
To force an English peasant to obey?

To bend his spirit, and to bow his knee,
Taught but to worship God and Liberty?
An hundred years twice told, have proved how vain
The beadle's lash, the prison, and the chain;
Compulsion's cruel system has but shewn,
The ploughman's heart is lofty as thine own;
At bonds, with pride like thine, his bosom swells,
Tis a rich touch of England that rebels;
Tis kindred honour gives the quick alarm,
When-e'er oppression lifts the tyrant arm:
Check not the virtuous principle which leads,
The brave plebeian to patrician deeds;
The hind who draws the harrow o'er the land,
May be the first to lead a warlike band;
Or on the foamy flood, or tented field,
In glory's hour, may be the last to yield;
With skill encourag'd, and with skill reprov'd,
Right may be strengthen'd, wrong may be remov'd;
But vile Coercion!—where's the honest mind,
That is by choice to tyranny resign'd?
Where the gall'd wretch that does not curse his fate,
And silent bear th'oppressor deadliest hate;

Where e'en the tyrant, 'midst his pride and pelf,
Conscious of crime, who does not scorn himself?

Ask thy own heart what most its love inspires?
What most its generous indignation fires?
Honest to nature; see the prompt reply
Glows in the smile, or struggles in the sigh;
And this great truth forever shall remain,
The mark alike of sovereign and of swain—
Choice and free-will, and kindness make the brave;
Compulsion, harshness, tyranny, the slave.

Misdeem not of the Poor: the pendant globe,
From labour borrows its resplendent robe;
The fruits and flowers that on its surface rise,
The generous labour of the swain supplies;
The forests which now grace, now guard the land,
Owe all their pride and power to labour's hand;
The quarry'd stone, hid deep beneath the soil,
Yields but to labour's persevering toil;
The sparkling gem embowell'd late in earth,
To labour owes its honours and its birth;

Drossy and dark still had it gloom'd unknown,
Nor grac'd the beauty, nor enrich'd the throne,
Nor had the landscape charm'd the painter's eye,
But for thy aid, O patient Drudgery!
Bow'd by thy axe, the oaks stupendous fall,
And mount again Britannia's proudest wall;
Fresh from thy plough the faithful seeds arise;
Rich from thy sickle the ripe harvest lies;
Beneath thy scythe peeps forth the tender green;
Fair from thy spade expands each beauteous scene;
To thee the poet owes his favourite flower,
Science her studious walk, and love his bower;
Peace, war, and solitude, and social ease,
Pleasure and health, and sorrow and disease;
The couch's softness and the pillow's down,
From thee derive a lustre not their own.

Ah! say, are nature's bloomy days forgot,
When powers august, were inmates of the cot;
And fix'd in rustic sheds their equal throne,
E'er cities, palaces, or courts were known;
When nature chose, and crown'd her scepter'd three,
And nam'd them Labour, Health, and Liberty;

Her own triumvirate, who awful sate,
With in-born majesty, and simple state?

Sweet to command, yet sweeter to obey,
When happy subjects yield to happy sway:
Rude tho' the soil, they tam'd it while they sung,
And all the echoes of their empire rung:
A forest-empire! but the lusty stroke
Repeated strong, th'umbrageous horror broke;
The vista opened, and at every fall
Of mingled trees, uprose a verdant wall:
Celestial light, a willing entrance gain'd,
Where brooding darkness in her den had reign'd;
Beside new path-ways sprung the sportive shade,
Sunbeams shot in, and with the foliage play'd;
And as by due degrees the woods were clear'd,
Labour, and Health, and Liberty were cheer'd:
Their sturdy arms and dauntless hearts engag'd
With the fierce 'pard, or tyger when enrag'd;
In native courage mail'd, unaw'd they stood,
Before the monarch-monster of the wood,
Madd'ning with passion, till their arrows sped,
Or gor'd and cow'd, the vanquish'd savage fled.

Triumphant chiefs! 'twas then their huts arose,
'Twas then they tasted soft and short repose;
Their sylvan foes subdu'd, they swift began
The brute to limit, and enlarge the man:
Forth came the Plough—thrice honour'd be its birth!
The friend, the tutor of maternal earth;
Cheer'd by its pow'r the barren mother smil'd,
And saw new blessings rise for every child:
From her full breast her myriad tribes were fed;
Soft on that breast those myriads found a bed;
She saw her limbs array'd in beauty's dress,
Her deserts bloom'd, her sons were taught to bless;
Till smooth'd and soften'd all her features bore
A livelier cast, the savage traits were o'er;
Huts grew to hamlets, hamlets to a town,
Illustrious Three! till London was your own.

Then learn at length to reverence the Poor,
And weave a garland round the cottage door;
Let grateful wealth do homage to the bower,
From whose first lords came riches, ease, and power.

Yes, reverence the Poor! but ah! how wide,
The barrier stands 'twixt equity and pride!
The means of life the Poor are now refus'd,
Power, riches, ease, and plenty, all abus'd;
Yet were what appetite exacts bestow'd,
A mere sufficiency of drink and food,
Thinkst thou, O little skill'd in human kind!
The rational, who can perceive a mind
Stir as the god within, like beasts can feed,
The harness'd oxen, or the bridled steed,
And then, a pause of reason and of sense?
O be such tyrant precepts banish'd hence;
Far, far, from England be such maxims sown,
There, still may sense and reason have a throne!
The veriest carl that nature ever made,
Heir to the flail, the wallet, and the spade,
Boasts in fair freedom's isle a free-born mind,
And sighs to share the birth-right of his kind;
With daily bread, sweet liberty must come,
And happy choice, to eat that bread at home,
In his own ground, his own kind cow must graze,
On his own hearth the frugal faggot blaze;

In his own garden must his herbs have grown,
Alike the labours and rewards his own.

Nor think that public charities supply,
Like these, the wants of Britain's peasantry;
“The poor-house coat, 'tis true, is whole and fine,
“But ah,” exclaims the peasant, “'tis not mine!
“For some,” he cries, “such borrow'd robes may charm,
“Yet save me from that badge upon the arm!
“The work-house rooms more amply are display'd,
“But all the paupers are promiscuous laid;
“A hundred strangers in one mansion penn'd,
“Without a neighbour, and without a friend;
“Nor wife, nor child to cheer with tender power,
“The weak, the sad, and solitary hour;
“My cottage diet too more coarse and scant,
“But ate at will, and not too coarse for want;
“Let all of mine by their own hands be fed,
“And give me still my labour and my shed.”

The Work-house too! “In pity, O forbear,”
Exclaims the mother, “to remove me there;

“In all my sickness, and in all my pain,
“Let these poor tatter'd boys and girls remain
“To share my crust, and sleep upon my bed,
“O do not steal my children from my shed;
“Respect a mother's love, a mother's pride,
“To see her sons and daughters by her side;
“Her love to view them, tho' in tatters blown;
“Her pride to think those tatters are their own.”

With all the burthens of a parent's care,
Such are the parent's grief, the parent's prayer;
Nor think them vain; 'tis nature that inspires
The love which sorrows, but which never tires;
The love of progeny—a sacred power!
Felt from the natal to the mortal hour.
Tho' stinted bread, and water from the well,
Were all their food and drink, no tongue can tell
What mothers feel, who see the babes they bred,
Throng to the knee, and clamour round the bed;
Cling to the bosom for their nurture dear,
And something claim each hour, to warm and cheer;
Claims that, alas! each day must multiply,
But want the means their clamours to supply.

Yet think'st thou she who knows a mother's love,
To ease her griefs, her burthens would remove;
Send from her sight the infant that has drawn
Her matron breast, in helpless childhood's dawn;
Or, from her ragged offspring e'er could part,
Without a streaming eye, an anguish'd heart?
Oh no! the more they need her fostering aid,
The more the ills of childhood's hour invade;
More eager she to spread the clasping arm;
More warm the instinct, and more strong the charm:
Nature that gives the transport, soothes the pain,
And helps her own lov'd burthens to sustain.
Avaunt then systems! barb'rous as unwise,
To move the infant from its mother's eyes;
Tho' born but yesterday, that pledge in view,
Strong the maternal power, to nature true,
And one soft pressure of its little hand,
E'er yet its tongue can lisp, its feet can stand;
Or one sweet smile upon its baby brow,
Is to a mother more than mines bestow.

Again the earth with food is cover'd o'er,
Even till her matron breast can hold no more;

The heapy corn-sheaf crowns her radiant head,
And her capacious arms are fill'd with bread;
In plenty's form methinks I see her stand
The guardian genius of the burnish'd land;
Thro' plenty's horn, methinks I hear her sound
A gladsome summons to her race around,
“Prepare, prepare my progeny,” she cries,
“Lo, at your feet the gorgeous harvest lies;
“Proud to the sickle springs the ten-fold ear,
“And heav'n augments the blessings of the year;
“And favouring suns, and fostering show'rs combine,
“Bounteous to give, and make that bounty thine;
“Along the mead, and up the mountain's brow,
“Beside the stream, and down the vale below,
“Where-ever spreads my beautiful domain,
“See the ripe harvest wooes the generous swain;
“Scarcely he stoops to reap th'abundant soil,
“High to his breast it waves to court his toil.

Our common mother thus, her sons to chear,
Hail'd the rich promise of her golden year,
And at her bidding, while each anxious swain,
Is snatch'd from Famine, learns to hope again.

Sweet Hope! methinks I see thee from the skies,
Tint their pale cheeks, and light their languid eyes;
As from their death-beds, at the morning's break,
Along the dewy meads their course they take.
But ah! not gay as er'st they leap'd along,
When heart's were happy, and when limbs were strong;
More weak and weary now they reach the soil,
Than when in Cottage-Days they left their toil:
And yet, than sorrow stronger, Hope inspires,
The fainting matrons and the sickly sires,
And withering children, staggering try to walk,
Like frost-nipt buds that tremble on the stalk;
And, as at length they view the goodly shew,
Of full-ripe corn in rich luxuriance glow;
As with the beards the breeze begins to play,
Bright burnish'd by the orient sunny ray,
Hope comes more closely to the poor man's breast,
And smiling whispers—he shall still be blest;
Youth looks to joy, and age suspends its grief,
For who denies to smiling Hope belief?
All rally round her, and return her smile,
Tho' trembling near her stands pale Fear the while.

Yet wherefore should the peasant slaves prepare
To reap the harvest if they may not share;
Why waste the slender tide that yet remains
Of ebbing life, to fill th'oppressor's veins?
Plund'rers abhorr'd! if your dark threats portend,
Another season from the poor to rend;
Ye jobbers' vile! or by whatever name,
Ye stand recorded on the lists of shame;—
Ye who ne'er labour on the teeming plain,
But like dire locusts, only eat the grain!
Ye more than savage cannibals, who feed
Upon your kind, without the savage need;
Devour in fullness, and with tyrant art,
Suck the warm life-blood of your country's heart;
With more than demon wiles can undermine,
Gifts of the God, and make creation thine;
Its fruits increase, diminish or supply,
While captive earth shall at your mercy lie;
If all a poor man's hopes must be o'erthrown,
By yet another famine of your own;
O spare for once the long-deluded train,
Nor let them work the unrequiting plain.

Even as the groupes now rang'd before thee stand,
For once have pity and dismiss the band;
Bathe not their bosoms in a thriftless cause,
But grant to withering life, a moment's pause:
Ah! let them die upon their natal spot,
And let each victim perish in his cot.

Yes, wanton Locusts of a foodful isle!
Where upon Freedom, Plenty us'd to smile;
Where Plenty still supplies her utmost store,
Broad, deep, and vast, to all—but to the Poor.
If every blessing now beneath the sky,
Be doom'd to sate thy sordid gluttony;
Let thy own pamper'd hand the harvest reap,
And thy own heartless breast the toil-drops steep;
Let thy own bloated limbs, by vice unbrac'd,
Or, by thy miser's, or thy spendthrift waste;
Take from thy vassal hinds their useless trade,
The fork, the rake, the plough-share and the spade—
And let them starve; or, if thy luxury
Demand the fiend-like joy to see them die,
Pronounce their fate when they have dress'd thy grain,
And each shall sink a corpse upon the plain.

Savage! behold thy triumph, yet beware!
Oft is the spider taken in her snare;
In her own subtle web has oft been found,
E'en as she threw her latent poisons round.
Hail to the Laws! the guardians of the land,
And doubly hail'd the props on which they stand;
Hail Order's fabric! by true wisdom made;
And curs'd be they who would the dome invade!
Yet laws there are, whose power each being feels,
Impress'd on every heart with Nature's seals;
Enroll'd in nature's chancery sublime,
Sanction'd by truth, and unimpair'd by time.
O Man preserve thyself in time of need!
In awful characters so stands the deed:
For this the lamb has bled, the fawn has fought,
And set the tyrant of the woods at naught;
The timid hare upon the wolf has sprung,
While deep-ton'd howlings thro' the forest rung;
And O! what has not Man atchiev'd for this,
On fortune's height, in penury's abyss?
The trembling coward, and the bending slave,
For this have felt the courage of the brave.

A fiend there is—the despot of our frame,
More fell than death—and Famine is his name!
Stung by the rav'nous principle he goes,
Furious and fierce, nor check nor fear he knows;
The strongest bonds and laws before him fall,
The laws of Famine supersede them all;
With keener energy he sweeps along
As goads the madd'ning power of hunger strong;
To bloody victim, victims still succeed,
And bed-rid parents, cradled infants bleed;
Like the gaunt lion on his prey he pours,
And his own flesh in agony devours:
But for his tyrant—foes of man beware,
Nor dare the view of famine in despair!

Let trembling memory retrace the hour,
When rash rebellion rose on cruel power;
When son and sire against each other stood,
And Britons waded deep in British blood;
When ruthless murder dy'd the sanguine plain,
Stained the soft flower and clotted all the grain;
When England bled, and nature seemed to mourn,
O never, never, may those scenes return!

Yet urge not to extremities, but dread
To plunge thy country in a war of Bread!
What can be hop'd from combat or from flight,
'Gainst Famine arm'd and terrible in might?
And what are swords the fury to oppose,
When the fiend springs in vengeance on his foes?—
“For children living, and for children dead;
“For matrons starving, on a widow'd bed;
“For dire necessity, not wanton rage,”
Exclaim the Poor, “for Life the war we wage:
“We break the social, but not nature's laws,
“And heav'n itself will sure befriend our cause!

Rebellion must be crush'd! the maxim's true;
But must not Tyranny be vanquish'd too?
Rebellion's treason; Tyranny is more—
That 'scapes the traitor's fate, yet robs the Poor.
Treason should suffer, Tyranny replies;
'Tis just—a traitor in each tyrant lies.
Punish all traitors; but more blest his cause,
Who helps the wretched to respect the laws;
By generous succour and by timely care,
Who rescues want from vice and from despair:

War, famine, treason, kindness may prevent,
And in their place fix comfort and content.

Such was thy bounty Way, already known
To smiling heaven, who makes the deed its own;
But let the widow and her train appear,
To speak their thanks for many a blissful year;
And lo, with twice-seven rose-cheek'd children round,
Where Suffolk spreads its unaspiring ground,
I see the dame assiduous at her churn,
While all the little hands begin to earn
The bread they take, save the fair suckling small,
And she, well pleased, is nursed in turn by all;
Shifted from arm to arm with sportive glee,
As each may pause from stronger industry,
Dandled and danced with lullabies and song,
As right the fondness as the language wrong,
And all the nurse-taught eloquence so shrill,
Of potent charm to make the bantling still;
Or draw its little eyes to sleep, and then,
Cradled and safe—all hands to work again!

Two bounteous cows, and two green pastures fair,
Were all this widow's wealth, and all her care;
But see the power of willing toil, and prove
The force and feeling of maternal love;
Children twice seven—and fatherless—to feed,
Yet all were kept from nakedness and need;
See them beneath her care in stature grow
And their young minds with grateful duty glow:
The feeble race grew stronger by degrees,
And what at first was labour, smooth'd to ease.
No parish burthens from her cottage came,
For public alms was felt as public shame;
No little duns of hers were seen to wait,
At the throng'd cross-way, or the crowded gate;
Nor tale-taught brats beset the rich man's door;
Nor could the wealthy rank them with the poor,—
By their own labour were they cloath'd and fed;
By their own labour they maintain'd their shed.

Blest widow! may thy table long be crown'd
With all thy goodly plants soft-branching round;
Beneath the shadow of a vine thine own,
Thy olives flourish near thy rustic throne!

Like hers of holy fame, may grace prevail,
The meal unwasted, and the cruse ne'er fail;
Or, should a dearth—a famine of the skies,
Or, of perfidious men—in Suffolk rise;
Sky-favor'd! midst thy kinfolk may'st thou find
A Ruth unshaken, and a Boaz kind;
And if, e'er half the span of life be run,
A death-like sickness should o'ertake thy son,
O may the prophet's mantle still be given,
With power to save, or bear thy child to heaven!

And may such gracious blessings be the meed,
Of all who aid the Poor Man in his need;
Of all who thus their blessings can bestow,
And the rich joy of well-plac'd bounty know:
Of noble Winchelsea who still remains
The pride and honour of his native plains;
Whom, even oblivious plenty, has not taught,
To waste the god-like power that plenty brought:
And generous Warwick, who indignant stood,
Bold and unaw'd to check corruption's flood;
When flush'd with plenty, an insulting band
Pour'd the foul tide of luxury o'er the land;

And, mad with riot, wanton'd with the store,
That might have nourish'd the defrauded poor:
Of sacred Glasse, thrice venerable man!
From youth to suffering age, still first to plan,
The rich man's good, the pauper's happiness,
Friend to the wise, and patron of distress!
When winter's icy hand benumbs the year,
His genial blaze the cottage hearth shall chear;
The shiv'ring multitude to him shall fly,
Whose generous store-shop shall their wants supply.
Illustrious sage! should such benevolence,
Pass the dim world, without its recompence;
O what rewards the inspirer has in store,
When the dim world and all its clouds are o'er;
While Durham who has made the Poor his own,
A kindred spirit! shall partake thy throne.

And ye who share Britannia's fertile land,
What patriot-sages, such as these have plann'd,
Adopt with liberal zeal; yet check the proud,
Nor fear the whisperer base, nor boaster loud—
Vaunting he holds his thousand acres clear,
And thrice can net his thousand pounds a year;

And tells what better treats he can afford,
Than thou, his deep-tax'd and declining lord;
Yet still, tho' late, 'tis left thee to impart,
One useful lesson to his purse-proud heart:
Into ten equal parts divide thy grounds,
And let each boaster farm his hundred pounds;
Tell him, the happiest days his fathers knew,
From modest profits and possessions grew;
That calm content, with moderate gain, is wealth,
And decent joy, as moderate bulk, is health;
Peace to the mind, and to the body ease,
While overgrowth in either is disease;—
Tell him, that merit on such gain may thrive,
And industry upon a tythe can live:
So shall nine starving families be blest,
If thou in fair proportions part the rest;
So shall each rood unwonted care employ,
And fill thy coffers and thy soul with joy.

But to the drooping peasantry be kind,
The poor, by heav'n, are to the rich assigned;
Bequeath'd, as if in trust, their wealth to share,
In still small aids that fortune well may spare.

And ah! how oft in fortune's changeful hour,
Are riches weak, and poverty in power?
The shipwreck'd monarch, buffeting the wave,
Death full in view, the mendicant may save;
O think what varied ills around thee wait—
The viewless ministers of awful fate—
Should one of these beguile thy feet astray,
And lead thee darkling thro' some dangerous way;
Where is the clown who would not ope his shed,
And freely share his homely board and bed?
E'en had his weary eyes begun to close,
And his worn limbs to take their short repose;
What hind that heard the lonely stranger's cry,
Would not with winged speed attempt to fly?
Swift would he haste, pursue the piteous sound,
Nor heed the fiery tempest raging round:
Then as he gain'd at length his cottage door,
Hawl his last faggot from his little store;
Chafe the numb'd limbs till genial warmth return'd,
While in his breast a nobler ardour burn'd.

Lo then the spell to charm the peasant mind,
Fulfil the awful trust by Heav'n assign'd!

If thou wilt fix his magic interest there,
Soon shall his country be the Poor Man's care;
That talismanic tie, however small,
Shall bind in rosy bonds that never gall;
Like love's own fetters, shall endear the soil,
Sinew his arm and sweeten every toil;
Shall blend what only Freedom can inspire,
The labourer's patience with the patriot's fire;
That hallow'd ardour, cherish'd, nurs'd, supply'd,
And well attemper'd, is our nature's pride;
As the flame languishes, the man decays,
But strengthens as the beam of Freedom plays;
Yet, nor the dog-star's rage, nor meteor's glare,
That withers earth, and desolates the air;
But, shining clear, like the sun's steady light,
In a pure firmament, benignly bright.

O give the heirs of poverty their cots,
Attach them fondly to their native spots;
Amidst their thorny paths entwine a flower—
Theirs soft submission, thine attemper'd power;
Force them no more like banish'd men to roam,
But give to each that balm of life—a Home!

A Home, tho' rocking on the mountain's brow,
Or plac'd obscure in woodland vales below;
If Loving-kindness smiling steps between,
A guardian visitant! to chear the scene;
If pity's boon the dreary hearth illumes,
And fashion drops one feather from her plumes,
One useless golden feather as she flies,
Compassion's tax on superfluities—
Labour, and Liberty, and radiant Health,
Shall fill the country with a country's wealth.
As the swain views his speck of property,
In the rude hut a palace shall he see;
Near it shall raise his flow'rs, and nurse his field,
And smile, tho' tempests rage, on what they yield;
From peace-crown'd dwellings of an humbler size,
Shall pleased behold more lofty mansions rise;
Shall gaze, unenvying, on the rich domain,
Yet of his own a fonder sense retain;
For ah! it stands on consecrated ground,
A charmed circle, tho' a narrow round!
Where, if he finds, in kind benevolence,
Against the beating storm, a generous fence,

In glad return for all thy bounty shewn,
The grateful rustic's hand and heart thy own.

Methinks I see the beauteous tribes that wait,
To crown with joy so blest a change of fate,
Content and Neatness, cottage gods! shall grace,
And Hope with Heav'ns own bloom shall mark the place;
And with them fair Frugality shall come,
And sage Œconomy resume her home;
And careful youth, like age, shall learn to hoard,
That yet a dearer guest may bless his board;
That Love himself may there a throne obtain,
When Industry the envied sum shall gain,
And honour'd Hymen shall at length advance,
Led on by Beauty in the rural dance;
'Till, in succession sweet, as time glides on,
The bliss descends enlarg'd from sire to son.

O days devoutly wish'd, when hinds shall feel
A generous passion for the public weal;
When uncorrupted and toil-harden'd trains,
Shall form an army of embattl'd swains;

When—should their country call them to the field,
The scythe and sickle to the sword shall yield;
When soaring high above their humble lot,
Each youth shall rise a patriot of the cot;
Confess, unforc'd, the love-excited glow—
A Cincinnatus from the British plough.
From the lorn shed that now a ruin lies,
When other Duncans, Nelsons, shall arise,
A brave, intrepid, voluntary band,
Patient to till, and bold to guard the land.

And ah! more fondly wish'd! the blissful hours,
When laurel'd labour shall devote his pow'rs
To every smiling art; when war is o'er,
And the fell trumpet asks his aid no more;
When PEACE shall spread her conquests o'er the land,
And wash the blood-spots from Britannia's hand;
When youth and age shall swell the tidings round,
And nought but PEACE and PLENTY's horn resound!

And hark! those blissful hours at length appear,
That burst extatic, speaks the cherub near;

From heav'n she comes, her blessings to impart,
And twine her olive round each Briton's heart;
Nor Britons only, but the nations wide,
Whom furious enmities no more divide;
Soft'ning to social leagues, the wreathe shall share,
And earth's remotest bounds the joy declare:
While he the kingly Father! gracious bends,
To hail what heav'n by its best angel sends.

And thou, the King of Kings! O pow'r divine,
As thine the harvest, be the homage thine!
Thine all the bounties of the laughing mead,
The suns that ripen, and the dews that feed;
Thine the favonian winds that save the grain,
And thine the show'rs that saturate the plain;
And O from THEE, now speeds the Seraph Dove,
Her mission fraught with pity and with love.

Parent and sov'reign of th'obedient earth,
Who bid'st the myriad-bounties spring to birth;
Who pour'st thy brooding spirit o'er the breeze,
The balmy herbage, and the fruitful trees;

And with too vast a store now crown'st the soil,
For fraud to cover, or for waste to spoil;
Ah! while we view the blessings of the year,
Chasten the smile of joy with virtue's tear;
And as we take the heav'n-conferr'd supplies,
Let soft compassion in our bosoms rise;
Since from thy hand unsparing we receive,
O teach our hearts unsparingly to give:
With souls uplifted while the knee we bend,
May grateful incense to thy Throne ascend,
And may thy suppliants find acceptance there,
As warm with pious love, they breathe a pray'r—
With Thee may every thought begin and end,
O First and Last! Creator, Father, Friend!

END OF THE POEM.