University of Virginia Library

MORAL PASTORALS.

PASTORAL THE FIRST. THE SON.

THENOT. COLINET.
Where Sarum's verdant plain extends around,
Like the vast world of waters, without bound;
A turf-built cot, see! Thenot's labour form,
To guard from summer's sun, and winter's storm;
Safe shelter'd there, on rustic pipe he plays,
The while his master's flock securely strays:
A larger flock to field no master leads,
Nor any flock more careful shepherd feeds.
One summer's day, young Colinet, to shun
The melting fervor of the mid-day sun,
In Thenot's cooly hut refreshment sought;
And Thenot's heart, with guiless friendship fraught,
Welcom'd, while room remain'd, each swain with glee,
No snarling cur in lonely manger, he!
Scarce, on the grassy seat, reclin'd, his guest
The hut's reviving cool began to taste,
Ere Thenot cried (for what engrosses thought
By natural instinct to the tongue is brought)
“Oh Colinet,—last night!—But you was there,
“At the sad scene, where clos'd my master's care,
“To earth-cold bed his aged father giv'n,
“Whom his dear love had kept so long from heav'n.”
COLINET.
Yes, Thenot, I was there—and, shepherd, say
Who of the neighbouring hamlets was away?
Nor—tho' I wish'd within my pensive breast
To be young Palamon, so good and blest,—
Could I refrain from oft-repeated sighs,
Or stop the tears fast trickling from my eyes!
Oh, happy son!—what different fates we prove!
I'm forc'd, my Thenot from a father's love;
Far from his dear embrace compell'd to roam
In quest of daily bread, deny'd at home!

THENOT.

COLINET.
No wonder, Thenot: the commandment says
Who love their parents, shall have happy days:
And well the minister observ'd last night,
That God in duteous children takes delight;
And seldom suffers them on earth to prove
Want of his favour and paternal love.

THENOT.
Is not our Palamon, a proof, good swain?
See those brave sheep, that cover all the plain!
How white their fleeces,—and what sturdy lambs
Skip by the sides of their twin-bearing dams:
Look to his herds, what cows such udders bear—
And can you match with his the fattening steer?
See with what stacks his ample yard is crown'd;
Hark, how his barns with constant flails resound!
Peace in his house hath fix'd her dear abode;
His wife is loving, and his children good.
On all he hath, methinks I read imprest,
“Thus is the man, who loves his parents, blest!”
—Told I you, Shepherd, how I heard one day,
(As by the green-wood side I chanc'd to stray)
His filial blessings on his sleeping sire?
—Oh how his goodness did my bosom fire!

COLINET.
Come, let me hear: and I in turn can tell
Something, will please my Thenot full as well.

THENOT.

COLINET.
Not long ago, as happening to pass by,
I saw him—and a tear o'ercharg'd my eye:—
Slow lead his weak old sire to share the sun;
Whom, having seated, with much speed he run,
And from the house a bowl capacious brought
With warm refreshment for his father fraught:
With tender care he gave the genial bowl,
While every gesture spoke his filial soul.
“Blest son, blest father!” said I, sad, and sigh'd;
And full of thought, across the meadow hied.

THENOT.
You bring that famous daughter to my thought,
Who her old father—(as the sermon taught)
So long with milk from her own bosom fed,
At dungeons dauntless, nor by death dismay'd .
And thus affectionate, if right, I ween
In such a case our master would have been.

COLINET.
Joy to his life—but joy will sure attend;
A friend his conscience, and high heav'n a friend:
His sons shall bless him, and his grandsons prove
Zealous to copy and repay his love!
Like some majestic cedar shall he stand,
His numerous branches spreading o'er the land.
And, oh! might Colinet but hope to trace
His blest example, though with distant pace;
Might he but hope his sire again to see,
And tend his wants, good Palamon, like thee!
But, silly shepherd-boy, thy wish how vain—
Who scarce can'st food and sorry raiment gain!

THENOT.

PASTORAL THE SECOND. THE GOOD OLD WOMAN.

SUSAN. LUCY.
LUCY.
No, Susan! no, let happier girls approve
By pleasing gifts their well-accepted love:
Your Lucy no such gentle lot enjoys;
Her hands not Love, but Gratitude employs.

SUSAN.
Oh sweet employ! for what can make us blest,
Like the good feelings of the grateful breast?
Love has its joys,—and, Lucy, it has pains;
But Love, with Gratitude triumphant reigns.
Your work is neat—the yarn, strong, white and clean:—
But say, for whom do you this present mean?

LUCY.
For her, whose kind advice and tender care
Preserv'd me from destruction's artful snare;
From that vile shepherd, who, insidious, strove
Wedded to win me to a wedded love!
Ah, hard of heart, and cruel to deceive;
And simple I, so quickly to believe!
You know the tale—and therefore can divine
For whom this little tribute I design—
By far too mean:—a better could I give,
A better far, you know, she should receive.
But sooner shall this river backward run,
And sooner where he sets, shall rise the sun;
Sooner these sheep shall change their wool for hair,
And those sweet lambs, like wolves, their mothers tear;
Than ever Lucy's heart forgetful prove
Of all our good old woman's care and love!

SUSAN.
You cannot wonder, Lucy, that I hear,
With joy, the praises of a friend so dear:
—But truth it is, she lives on every tongue,
Alike the fav'rite of the old and young.

LUCY.
What marvel, Susan, that the old revere
Wisdom, which dignifies the hoary hair?
Goodness unfeign'd, which vice itself might charm,
And piety, which coldest hearts would warm.
What marvel, that the young admiring see
Youth's sweetness, mix'd with age's gravity?
Such tender care their pleasures to encrease;
Pleasures compleat of innocence and peace:
Such anxious zeal, those dangerous paths to show,
Which, seeming lovely, lead to certain woe!

SUSAN.
Remembers not my Lucy well the day
When you all chose me lady of the May;
How to our sports she came, with smiling face,
And, pleas'd to view our pastime, took her place?—
Her presence joy diffus'd: the shepherds strove
Who most should win her notice and her love:
The maidens danc'd with rapture in her sight;
To gain her notice was to gain delight:
How high our mirth! and yet how decent all!—
Not one foul word ev'n Cornish Ned let fall!
What pow'r has genuine goodness!—and you know,
When from the gladsome plain she rose to go,
All round her came, and thanks and blessings shed,
Innumerous, on her ancient pious head:
While thus she, tenderly, herself express'd,
“Children, farewell: be innocent and blest!”

LUCY.
In age, how rarely, Susan, do we find
These pleasing qualities so sweetly join'd!
Too oft moroseness dwells with wrinkled care,
Envying those pleasures it no more can share;
Old Mopsa shews it,—whose ill-boding tongue
For ever croaks, that all we do is wrong—
Malevolent and harsh, you hear her praise
Times which are past, and censure present days.
—Ah how unlike!—No sentiments severe
From your good grand-dame on the age we hear:
Unless perchance some folly to explode,
To guard from vice, or to inculcate good,
Tales of past times she tells; which old and young,
Attentive hear, nor ever think too long.
—Well—Let me own, that nothing can engage
My heart and love, like wise and chearful age!

SUSAN.
Then, then for ever in my Lucy's heart
Must my lov'd mother claim an ample part;
Her wisdom all the hamlets round confess;
Your own experience, Lucy, speaks no less:
Nay, sigh not, maiden, but rejoice to think
Her counsel sav'd you from destruction's brink:
Learn chearfulness from her; and learn the way
By which serene she regulates each day.
To God her first, her earliest duty giv'n,
Each hour glides on, dependent upon heav'n:
Each social office happily discharg'd,
To all the world her heart humane enlarg'd,
She lives to bless,—far as her pow'r extends,
The best of Christians, and the first of friends.

LUCY.
Yes, Susan, yes, I know how she imparts
The balm of comfort to afflicted hearts:
I know with what delight she brings relief
To beds of sickness, and the house of grief:
When late the rot consum'd our flocks around,
When just before the murrain spread the ground
With carcases of cattle—strangely dead!
And ev'ry farmer hung his drooping head:
Remember, how from house to house she went,
Consoling all, and minist'ring content:
That—to the stroke of Providence resign'd,
A murmurer 'mongst us it was hard to find!
Ah blest good woman!—and for private deeds,
How much her merit all our praise exceeds!
I saw her enter yesterday the door,
Where lies unhappy Lobbin, sick, and poor:
My heart rejoic'd—if envious I could be,
Susan, of girls I most should envy thee!

SUSAN.

LUCY.
Let me not cause her pain, or urge your stay,
Tho' more, much more, methinks I had to say.
But with my present I'll to-morrow come,
'Twill then be finish'd; and you'll be at home?
Our conversation so we may renew—
Your hand, dear Susan—best of girls—adieu!

God bless my dearest Lucy, Susan cry'd;
Then, smiling, cross'd the bridge, and field-ward hy'd.

PASTORAL THE THIRD. THE SERVANT.

LOBBIN. PERIGOT.
PERIGOT.
See, Lobbin, what a numerous flock I keep;
And see, how much the flies torment the sheep:
They gad about so much, that Tray and I
Have work enough all day to keep them nigh:
And almost every minute, as you view,—
Look there—a plague on that old black-fac'd ewe,
She always leads them wrong:—hark—fetch 'em, Tray:
I cannot keep them from the wheat away.
Oh that the time of harvest were but come,
Then might I sit at ease, and see them roam!

LOBBIN.
Phoh! Shepherd, never mind, they do no harm;
Or corn or grass, 'tis all your master's farm.
What matters which they eat—or how they're fed?
Come, come, let's hasten to Duke William's head:
Besides the hat at nine-pins, all who choose
May run in sacks, boy—for a pair of shoes,
New, neat's-skin, and well-nail'd,—but, better still,
Our Surry Dick has challeng'd Kentish Will
To try a bout at single-stick, they say;
Then, Perigot,—what lad would be away?

PERIGOT.
That lad am I;—for tho'—as you can tell
At nine-pins few could Perigot excel:
Tho' well I lov'd our village sports to share,
The first, in merriment, at wake or fair;
My duty, Lobbin, now I better know,
Than to forsake my charge, and idling go
At every call, without my master's leave,
Wasting the moments I can ne'er retrieve;
And bringing home at night—the spend-thrift's part,
A muddled head, and discontented heart.

LOBBIN.
Rare maxims truly! and where got you these?
Preach to your sheep, my boy, and talk to trees!
Our shepherd lads will only laugh to hear
—A master's interests to our sports prefer!—
That will not Lobbin, ever: for I trow
They to our sports such preference will not shew.
Then be they pleas'd or not, I'l have my day:
For if one will not do, another may.

PERIGOT.
Rare maxims too! but know an honest swain
Hears and rejects such maxims with disdain!
Remember, lad, a saying of your own,
“No moss is gather'd by a rolling stone:”
So once you told me, with a piteous face,
When, wand'ring up and down, from place to place,
Your purse was empty, and your cloaths were naught,
And your vain heart was humble, as it ought.
Now, since at Argol's board you live so well,
Your naughty heart again begins to swell,
But, swain, be careful, or too sure you'll find,
You sow the billows, and will reap the wind!

LOBBIN.
Something I reap—for on my back I bear
Cloaths, full as good as thou didst ever wear:
My hat's as fine, my stockings are not worse,
And here, here's money, grey-beard, in this purse!
So cease your saws:—To-day's delights I'll share;
The doubtful morrow for itself may care!

PERIGOT.
Ah silly swain,—and to the future blind,
Sure some black demon hath possess'd your mind!
For grant—tho' Lobbin, I have doubts and fears,—
Your honest hire in that same purse appears:
Yet what you boast is all that you possess;
And how you long to make that little less!
But think, my friend, from service if dismist,
Where will you live, and how will you subsist?
Will the old landlord at yon same Duke's Head,
Who courts your money now, then give you bread?
No, no, be sure, he'll turn you from his door,
When once he finds you pennyless and poor.
Or, if by sickness to your bed confin'd,
What secret anguish will oppress your mind,
To view no hospitable master nigh,
No gentle mistress with a pitying eye,
Anxious their good domestic to restore,
Repaying thus each service o'er and o'er.
Oh pleasing state!—how different thine, to moan
Sick, faint, and poor, neglected and alone.

LOBBIN.
No fancy'd ills, impossible and vain,
Disturb my peace, or give a moment's pain:
We shall catch larks, my lad, when fall the skies;
So save your breath, nor be so wondrous wise:
For, think not, friend, to teach me what to do;
I can both read and write as well as you.

PERIGOT.

LOBBIN.
Why Perigot, my lad, thy flock forsake,
And like the cobler Dick, to preaching take;
Get a joint stool, like his: thou'lt drive a trade,
Nor him alone, but thou wilt much exceed
The bawling parson, who, the other day,
So long on our wind-mill did sing and preach and pray!
There thou hast learnt this gravity, I trow,
And rather after him would'st, groaning, go,
Than share the pastimes at the house below.

PERIGOT.
Spare your vain jibes, for, shepherd, be it known,
I gad not after preachers up and down:
Nor time have I, nor need,—content to hear,
Two sermons every Sabbath thro' the year:
And our good vicar—But why tell it thee,
Who'd'st rather sleep, than at a sermon be?
—Well, well, laugh on:—but they who win should jest;
And sure I am, that Perigot is blest
Far beyond Lobbin in his present state.
In future hopes the difference how great!
—My master's love by confidence is shown,
And all his interests thus become my own:
One of his houshold, his delights I share;
And feel his pleasure, as I feel his care.
Dear are his children; dearer still they prove,
As I experience their unartful love:
And dearer yet they grow, when pleas'd I find
Their gentle mother to my wants so kind.
Connected thus, I act a social part,
And live a life quite suited to my heart!
No solitary elf,—and here I trust
At length to mingle with my native dust:
Rejoic'd if, like Petruchio , who of late
In his good master's house resign'd to fate,
I too,—thrice happy,—should my master have,
With all his family, attend my grave;
Smiting their breasts, and saying, with a tear,
“A good and faithful servant resteth here.”
This be my praise; and for this praise I'll live:
Your pastimes, Lobbin, no such joys can give.

LOBBIN.
Why, Perigot, 'tis truth:—you touch my heart;
Shepherd, indeed you chuse the better part,
I'll think to-morrow well of what you say,—
—But can't forego—the pleasures of to-day!

Thus, with a laugh, the dolt departing cry'd;
While the good shepherd shook his head, and sigh'd!

PASTORAL THE FOURTH. THE MOTHER.

ÆGON. ARGOL.
ARGOL.
Look, Ægon, 'midst the reapers you survey
A woman bear the burden of the day:
Mark how she toils—by true affection drawn,
The same to setting Sun from rising dawn!
In her the mother of the babe you see—
Sweet infant, that, and sweeter mother, she:
The wife of honest Thyrsis; him you know,
Who feeds the flock of Myco there below.

ÆGON.
Then, lovely babe, thy lot is truly blest,
Sleep on secure; of mothers thine the best!
Argol, I know her well; and oft employ'd
(While greater strength my feeble frame enjoy'd,
And I so far could walk) a pleasing hour,
In their neat cot—but now I want the power:
So weak I'm grown—'tis time to quit the stage;
Sad is the burden, son, of helpless age!
And ah, poor babe, what storms remain for thee
To weather out on life's tempestuous sea!
Just launch'd upon its waves, wild, deep and wide;—
While I (thank heav'n) almost in harbour ride!
Thy mother's cares, 'tis true, thy course will aid;
But all her cares that dangerous course will need.

ARGOL.
Ægon, on life whatever perils wait,
You know, we should not murmur at our state:
Much reverence and gratitude we owe
To Him, who fix'd us in our rank below:
And tho' 'tis certain, storms and rocks abound
In yon wide waters, yet a way is found
For ponderous vessels, which the pilot's hand
Safely directs to ev'ry distant land.
So is it said,—“if good instructions show
“The path of wisdom, where the child should go;
“Early train'd up, and travell'd in the way,
“Ne'er from the track deluded will he stray.”
And well, we know, our Thyrsis' careful wife
Directs her children in the road of life:
You've seen her house, and therefore you can tell
How much in reading, working, they excel;
How humble and good-manner'd, clean and neat,—
On Thanet's isle such children you'll not meet.

ÆGON.

ARGOL.

ÆGON.
True mother,—who herself the food supplies,
The daintier lady to her child denies:
By lust, or pride, or folly led astray,
Unnatural more, than monsters of the sea!
Cruel alike both to themselves and young,
Such mothers merit scorn from ev'ry tongue:
Why doth the great Creator, wise and good,
Fill their fair breasts with such salubrious food,
That food if to their offspring they refuse,
And sores and sickness before duty chuse?
Oh Mira, beyond these, how art thou blest,
Thy infant pressing fond thy yielding breast!
With such a woman, Argol, let me say,
'Tis joy to share the labours of the day.
Sure, sensible of this, they all unite
To make her toils, deserving mother! light:
Sure, by each nameless, by each gentle care
They mitigate the ills she needs must bear?

Just as he spoke, the smiling mother came,
Sweet was her aspect, and her words the same:
Her tenderness diffus'd a nameless grace
O'er the fair features of her blooming face,
While at the cradle's side she anxious stood;
When the just-waken'd babe its mother view'd;
And, smiling, with an eager joy, expands,
Sweet innocent! its little dimpled hands.
With rapt'rous bliss she caught it to her breast,
And on the stubble-ground sat down to rest:
The crowing infant to the nipple clung,
While o'er it with fond joy the ravish'd mother hung!
The good old man, enchanted with delight,
Cry'd, “Argol, there,—there, Argol, is a sight!
“Blest mother! may thy labours prosperous prove:
“May all thy children well repay thy love!”
More he'd have said; but lo! a tear would start,
And all his soul rose throbbing in his heart:
The mother, pleas'd, beheld his burden'd eye,
And thank'd him with a tear of social joy.

PASTORAL THE FIFTH. THE HUSBAND AND WIFE.

CHARLOTTE. ELIZA.
CHARLOTTE.
Hard lot, my Betsy: yet I'd rather bear
The taunts for ever, which old maidens share,
Than live enslav'd throughout a wretched life,
The drunkard's, rake's, or tyrant's weeping wife!

ELIZA.
But girls, in our degenerate days, who wed,
Must with such vile associates share their bed:
So void of principle our youth are grown—
They ape the manners of the wicked town!
Lords to their tenants have their vices taught,
And sons and servants have th' infection caught.
Can they but drink and riot, rake and fight;
They scoff with careless scorn at what is right.

CHARLOTTE.
How great the risk which girls in marriage run!
And yet, how great their haste to be undone!
But sure the more the danger which we dare,
The greater in our choice shou'd be our care.
Yet to our sex impartial if we be,
We shall not find them from just censure free:
Were they to virtue constant in their choice,
Gave they their hands, where reason gives her voice;
Were they more nice, distinguishing, retir'd,
The men to emulation wou'd be fir'd;
For they, be sure, will cultivate the arts,
They find most likely to engage our hearts.

ELIZA.

CHARLOTTE.
Fear not, my Betsy; you will shortly find
Returning William to your wishes kind:
And, blest with him, a pattern may you prove
Of conjugal fidelity and love!
Like that blest pair, who live at yonder farm—
Oh how the thoughts of them my bosom warm!
Yes, my dear friend, if, from the former sight,
Marriage appears in sables all bedight;
Turn to that pair, in yon dear mansion blest,
And marriage seems of ev'ry state the best!
This happy pair, their fondness to express,
Labour to build each others happiness.
No separate joys, no separate cares they know,
But share in pleasure, as they share in woe:
Woe! They have none: imparted 'tis no more;
While thus their joys are doubled o'er and o'er.
Blest pair! your loves with rapture, I review,
For sure all Eden is restor'd to you!

ELIZA.
I wonder not, my Charlotte, you are fir'd,—
Who ever knew that pair, and not admir'd?
And who cou'd fail the highest bliss to prove,
If such an husband crown'd her faithful love?
Whene'er his wife is mention'd, you may spy
Bright satisfaction glisten in his eye:
Of her perfections with delight he tells;
And on her praise with tongue enraptur'd dwells.
Whene'er he goes to market, or to fair,
You never find him idly loit'ring there:
Much more in alehouse, treasuring for his wife
Vile drunkenness at night, and noisy strife:
His business done, you'll see him homeward haste
Well knowing that he comes a grateful guest;
And joy'd to think, within his honest mind
He brings the pleasure, which he's sure to find.

CHARLOTTE.
While to the husband just, my Betsy, pray,
To equal merit, equal honour pay:
For wives contribute not than husbands less,
Sure, my good friend, the marriage state to bless:
Oft find we, if good husbands make good wives,
These, in return, reform bad husbands' lives.
But, for our friends, it well may be confest,
If blest the wife, not less the husband's blest;
Affectionate and mild you see her share
One only pleasure, as one only care.
Can she but crown her husband with content,
Make light his troubles, or his joys augment;
She little heeds for all the world beside;
Fond as at first, and as at first a bride;
A bride in neatness, ever nice and clean,
The heart she won, still studious to retain!
And, happy in her husband's high esteem,
She lives, and thinks, and breathes alone for him!
Ne'er in her husband's absence is she found
A gossip, tattling all the village round:
Fomenting strife, and making many a foe:
Nor runs she gadding to each simple show.
By better means his absence she beguiles,
By needful business, and domestic toils:
Causing with transport his big heart to burn,
When, pleas'd surveying on his glad return,
His decent houshold in fair order drest;
He clasps his wife delighted to his breast,
Thanks her kind care, and reads in her full eyes,
That toils thus recompenc'd are truest joys!

ELIZA.
Sure this blest pair, who, “link'd in friendship's tye,
Live each for each, as each for each wou'd die”
Kind nature form'd to make each other blest!—
Or sure the halves have met for once at least!
Charlotte, you know the tale: my William's lays,
When William's verse could speak of Betsy's praise,
Told it us sweetly once,—alas, in better days!

CHARLOTTE.
Ah Betsy! and full oft the halves would meet,
Were women in their choice but more discreet:
But if vile avarice or strong passion lead
The willing victim to the nuptial bed;
Or if that heart licentious rakes obtain,
Which modest merit fruitless strives to gain;
No wonder wedlock is a state accurst;
For the best things corrupted, are the worst.
Bad men, or fools, the idiot, or the rake,
No woman happy ever yet cou'd make:
Nor e'er unhappy, he, whose manly breast,
With sense, with softness, with religion's blest.

ELIZA.
Poor women!—'tis a maxim then with you,
That all their sorrows to themselves are due:
That neither heav'n nor man the blame must bear,
The woes of wedlock when they're doom'd to share:
Oh, Charlotte, you are partial to the men!—
Yet freely will I own,—not one in ten
Of our poor sex such miseries would prove,
If interest less, and more consulting love.
Wretch that she is, who must not her despise,
That Macra, who in arms decrepit lies,
(Spring with old winter,) only to be seen
Drest in fine cloaths, the paltry village queen!

CHARLOTTE.
Scorn to all such! and let all such be told,
They are but lawful prostitutes for gold:
Fools! all true bliss for splendor to forego:
A life of penance for a day of show!
Love, of each pleasure the perpetual spring,
True love, my Betsy, is a different thing:
The heart's dear union, youth with youth combin'd,
Truth meeting truth, and mingling mind with mind!
Thus highest pleasures rise to pure esteem,
And hence of rapture flows the sparkling stream!
Hence too of virtue wells the living flood,
For “who, in marriage, in each state are good.”
'Tis neighbour Watson's saying,—and we prize
Her sayings, Bet, for neighbour Watson's wise—
And never did she know thro' her long life,
On either side, a husband or a wife,
Who in connubial tenderness excell'd,
And yet in other social duties fail'd.

ELIZA.

PASTORAL THE SIXTH. THE BENEVOLENT MAN.

WILLIAM. JOSEPH.
JOSEPH.
No, William—in such times of general need,
With such a family as mine to feed,
'Twou'd ill become me, sure, to make such haste
My time and money at vile shews to waste:
Far better business, thanks to gracious heav'n,
The speed you notice to my feet has giv'n!

WILLIAM.
What better business, Joseph? let me hear,
That in your pleasure I at least may share?

JOSEPH.
Why, our good squire—may heav'n indulgent shed
Ten thousand blessings on his bounteous head—
Desirous to diffuse amidst our youth,
With learning's light, the light of heavenly truth;
And knowing well our poverty and pains,
How hard our labour, and how small our gains;
Wisdom and pity ruling in his soul
For our poor children has endow'd a school!
And Joseph here—God's blessing on the boy,—
Is chosen, Will, the bounty to enjoy!
A toward lad,—he'll take his learning well,—
'Twill please the 'squire to see him, I can tell:
And so I speed, as 'tis my place you know,
At once to thank him, and my son to show.

WILLIAM.
My fancy often on the thought hath run,
That our good squire resembles much the sun;
Who sheds on all around his rays divine,
Imparting life and lustre where they shine.
So do his hands on all around dispense
The blessed beams of warm benevolence:
In good unwearied, he exerts each art
To bless the life, and meliorate the heart;
The body's woe now studious to relieve,
Now, due instruction to the mind to give.
—Yes, Joseph, of his school, I've heard before;
And, if in merit aught could raise him more,
This his last effort wou'd, methinks, approve
His goodness most, and most engage our love.

JOSEPH.
I, who ne'er knew of learning the delight—
Alas, for me! who neither read nor write—
The more this great misfortune I deplore,
I feel his institution's worth the more.
Oh what so blest, so useful and benign,
As on the darken'd mind with truth to shine:
To ope the door, by which the soul may rise
From the dark dungeon, where blind ign'rance lies:
May learn its duty, and securely tread
The paths, that to eternal glory lead!
—Blest knowledge! and blest charity! which brings
The envied pow'r to know such mighty things!
Blest man! whose hands such benefits impart,
What joy must live triumphant at his heart!
He's like the sun—and like the morning dew,
Warming, my William, and refreshing too!

WILLIAM.

JOSEPH.
Young as you are, and stranger to the pain
By which poor men their families maintain;
A stranger, William, to the torturing smart,
Which tears a tender father's bleeding heart,
While round his children croud, with weeping woe,
Asking the food, he hath not to bestow:
You cannot even guess, and I want words
To tell the rapture, which a gift affords,
By the still hand of modest mercy giv'n,
Just in due season, as if dropt from heav'n!
—Oh, William, many such, the season past,
When famine almost laid our village waste,
On secret wings to my poor cottage flew,—
But well from whence they took their flight I knew!

WILLIAM.
Mark you this river, how serene and slow
Its deep still waters thro' the meadows flow:
While in our village the small shallow rill
For ever prattles down the pebbly hill.
In one an image of the squire is seen,
In t'other of that Braggard, proud and vain;
Who hates our master:—for his cancred breast
By the foul fiend of envy is possest!

JOSEPH.
Alas, good William! 'tis a grief to see,
That whitest virtue cannot censure flee:
'Tis nothing strange, that Devils God shou'd hate:
But that frail creatures, in the self-same state,
Alike dependant, form'd alike to share
The sad vicissitude of grief and care;
That mortal men in enmity should swell
'Gainst those in deeds of mercy who excell;
Who strive, with pure benevolence refin'd,
To soften all the sufferings of their kind:
This sure is strange—and stranger still, to view,
What late example here has prov'd too true;—
Those who the common bounty need, and share,
So mutually malicious and severe.

WILLIAM.
You hint the poor blind widow—sad to think,
That she who stood on desperation's brink,
Blind, helpless, friendless, four young orphans round,
Now by our squire's kind aid with comfort crown'd;
That she the malice of the poor shou'd raise;
That he shou'd lose the just reward of praise!
But what is human praise, or human blame?
To heav'ns blest candidate no doubt the same:
Let God approve the action—for the rest,
He'll find applause sufficient in his breast.

JOSEPH.
And yet, methinks, it is but just to shew
To goodness the respect to goodness due:
Frail as I am, cou'd I diffuse my store,
Just praise, I own, wou'd stimulate me more;
I cannot, therefore, without scorn behold,
Those who, to merit like our squire's, are cold:
Unfeeling hearts! but whose licentious tongues
Could blame that deed, to which all praise belongs,
Are devils, and not men—are devils drest
In human shape, without a human breast:
For is not man from fiends infernal known
By godlike, great benevolence alone?

WILLIAM.
Yes, 'tis benevolence that makes him man,
And more will make him, clos'd life's little span;
Make him an angel; as on earth 'twill give
Foretaste of joys, which angels selves receive:
For with benevolence true pleasure dwells,
Each grace that glows, each virtue that excells!
—Oh happy they, in state exalted plac'd,
Philanthropy's soul-warming joys to taste:
We, Joseph, thrown beneath in life's low vale,
At distance only can the glory hail!
For this we'll thankful be, and do our part;
If not the pow'r, bless God, we have the heart!

JOSEPH.
Much rather, William, would I live possest
Of empty hands, and sympathetic breast,
Than like old Ostentatious on the hill,
Possess the mighty pow'r without the will.
But “all have pow'r, in life however low,
“Kind acts of mercy and of love to show,”
To farmer Johnson once our squire reply'd,
Who mourn'd the power of doing good deny'd.
True were his words; for in each state we need,
And therefore shou'd afford each other aid;
In Christian kindness let us do our best,
God knows our strength, and will excuse the rest:
You well remember, where a widow poor
Gave with a mite, than all the wealthy more.

WILLIAM.
How blest a truth!—with right intention giv'n,
A cup of water shall be mark'd in heav'n!
See, 'tis not then the quantity, but heart,
To acts of love which merit can impart.
Blest truth, my Joseph!—thus may we excell,
And poor in wealth, be rich in doing well.

JOSEPH.
But William, think, what joy must he possess,
Who with the power, as well as heart to bless,
To all his high benevolence extends,
The wretched comforts, the opprest defends;
The naked cloaths, the hungry fills with food—
In love unwearied, uniform in good!
Let praise or censure on his deeds descend,
Let disappointment or success attend:
Still he goes on—and views with just regard,
That God, whose approbation is reward.

WILLIAM.
Joseph, you've trac'd the cause, from whence proceeds
His uniformity in virtuous deeds:
For stedfast at one mark whoever aim,
Thro' life's whole circle will be found the same!
—James, who from London t'other day came down,
Told me our squire is more esteem'd in town
For his good actions than amongst us here,
For not a charity but knows him there.
There, where the children of the poor are fed,
At once with heav'nly, and with earthly bread:
Where pain, and all the family of grief,
From skilful med'cine find humane relief:
Where safely screen'd in hospitable cells,
From human view, pride-humbling phrenzy dwells:
Where lab'ring women 'midst their pangs can smile,
And bless the charity which sooths their toil:
Where infants, rescued from an earthly grave,
The tender mercy hymn which stoop'd to save:
Where penitents with tears redeem their shame,
Restor'd to God, their parents, and to same.
Wherever good is done, or good design'd,
His aid benignant you are sure to find:
The doleful prisons too, they tell me, share
His kindly visits, and indulgent care:
Nay, and James found it out, that oft he sends
Young men of toward parts, with meaner friends,
To school and college, where his aid provides
Tutors and learning, and all means besides.

JOSEPH.
A wond'rous man!—if all the world he knew,
To all the world humanity he'd shew:
No sect or party-principles confine,
The glowing radiance of his love divine:
A man, a fellow-creature, and distrest,
Is plea sufficient to affect his breast.

WILLIAM.
Yet, Joseph, I have heard that his estate,
For one so rich in bounty, is not great:
Not half so great as his, of whom before
We spoke,—in money rich, in goodness poor!
But right œconomy, with great or small,
Doubles the income, and is all in all.

JOSEPH.
Ah, William—but God's blessing is much more,
For this augments, nay, doubles all our store:
Who dare be bounteous, God will surely bless
With constant succour, and tenfold encrease:
Their cruse o'erflowing, and augmented meal,
Miraculously blest, shall never fail!
Our good man proves it—and besides he flies
Those scenes of ill, whence vast expences rise:
He wastes no fortune on devouring vice,
On dogs or horses, women, cards or dice.

The little boy, who much attention pay'd
To this encomium, which the shepherds made;
Cried, “father, 'midst his praise, you sure forget
“The church, our squire hath made so fine and neat.”
“Right, my good boy, said William, this too shows,
“The living fountain whence his goodness flows:
“For love of God must kindle virtue's flame,
“Or all benevolence becomes a name!”
Thus as he spoke, a straggling ewe, which stood
Too near the faithless margin of the flood,
Tumbled adown the bank into the deep,
When William cried—“alas, alas, my sheep—
“One of the best of all my flock!—if drown'd—
“I'm ruin'd—for 'tis worth above a pound!”
Joseph beheld it, nor delaying stood,
But leap'd, tho' Sunday-drest, into the flood,
And caught the ewe; when anxious William came,
Lean'd down, and safe receiv'd it from the stream:
Then gave his hand with many a hearty thank,
And, lifting Joseph up the slippery bank,
Strait he conducts him to his cot just by,
And changes all his dripping cloaths for dry.
Then to young Joseph, “for your father's sake,
“This little hautboy as a present take:
“The rings are brass, and boxen is the wood;
“Try it, my lad, you'll find the sound is good:
“And always, when you touch it, bear in mind,
“'Twas by the best means gain'd,—by being kind.”