The poor or, bread. A poem. With notes And illustrations. By Mr. Pratt ... second edition |
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| I. | PART I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | The poor |  |
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.
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.
2
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.
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.
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:
3
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.
E'erwhile, and not remote, a blithsome band,
A ruddy, reckless, merry-hearted crew,
Fresh as their herbage wash'd in morning dew,
4
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.
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,
5
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 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.
6
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.
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.
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.
7
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.
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.
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,
8
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,
9
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.
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;
10
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:
11
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.
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?
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?
12
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.
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.
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.
Thy labour-cheering draughts of vigorous ale;
13
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.
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.
Favourites of fortune, denizens of fate,
Who lavish thousands to adorn a Place,
And ask a Repton's aid to give it grace;
14
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!
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!
No fruitful orchard, and no smiling ground;
15
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.
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,
16
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.
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.
The poor man's dwelling like his heart to rend,
17
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?
Proud of his ruby cheek and sinews strong?
And where is Jollity, his twin compeer,
Whose heart was wont to dance throughout the year?
18
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.
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;
19
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.
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!
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;
20
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.
And prison stern, the matron seeks her straw;
21
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;
22
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.
| The poor | |