The poor or, bread. A poem. With notes And illustrations. By Mr. Pratt ... second edition |
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| I. |
| II. | PART II. |
| III. |
 | The poor |  |
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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.
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;
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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!
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!
25
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.
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!”
Where high-born Lucius lays his anguish'd head;
A modest patrimony called him lord,
And frugal plenty smil'd upon his board;
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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:
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“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.
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.
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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.
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.
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,
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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
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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.
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.
On mimic ruins waste your wealth no more;
Your mould'ring monuments no more repair,
Far other ruins henceforth be your care:
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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.
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;
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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.
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;
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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.
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?
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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?
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,
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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.
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?
Th'abundant herbage and luxuriant grain;
Why, when the golden sheaves like mountains rise,—
Bending as if in homage to the skies—
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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?
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?
37
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.
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;
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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.
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:
39
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.
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.
40
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.
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.
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;
41
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
42
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!
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!
43
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!
44
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 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;
45
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—
46
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.
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!
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;
47
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.
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!
48
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.
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;
49
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.
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.
50
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.
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.
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,
51
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.
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
52
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.
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;
53
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.
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.
By magic moves the produce of the plains;
54
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!
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;
55
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.
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.
The rich with wings, above the poor to fly;
56
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.
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,
57
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.
| The poor | |