Malvern Hills :: :: University of Virginia Library

OLD Scrape-all, who had long been ailing,
Was at a trembling debtor railing,
Threatening, if he a mite should fail,
To whelm him in a neighbouring jail,
When Blunt drew near, to wish “Good day;”
The debtor saw, and slipp'd away.
The Miser, now, with sigh profound,
And wheezing cough, a churchyard sound!
Address'd, with lifted hands, his friend—
“I think my griefs will never end!”
“O, yes they will, and quickly too!”
Said Blunt. “Now tell me, how d'ye do?”

“Do!” Scrape-all cried, “why scarce alive,
“But times may mend, and I revive:
“Your ailing people live the longest,
“Though grief will undermine the strongest.

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“Oh! pity me! With all my treasure,
“My sorrows, language scarce can measure.
“The hog that wallows in his sty,
“Has thrice more happiness than I!
“My thoughts are now, while others sleep,
“Not how to gain, but how to keep:—
“Securities are bad, or badly,
“And then the taxes grind me sadly.”

Blunt, (firm resolved, through sheer vexation,
To tell the truth on this occasion,
Nor suffer one, so near his goal,
To breathe false unction to his soul,)
Thus cried, “As usual, still, I see,
“Brim full of care and misery!
“Pity! I more than pity you!
“Mine is commiseration true!
“Nor would I bear your heart's commotion
“For all the mines of earth and ocean.”

“Good neighbour Blunt,” said Scrape-all, staring,
“Like me, be patient, and forbearing.”

Blunt answer'd, chafed, and melancholy,
“No patience can endure your folly.
“Riches, the things which others bless,
“To you bring naught but wretchedness!
“But, though your purse is deep and strong,
“You know you cannot hold it long;
“Your years, on years, have so increased,
“You must be four-score, now, at least.”

“Speak louder, friend, my ears do fail,
“I'm grown as deaf as a door-nail.”

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“I say, your years have so increased,
“You must be four-score, now, at least.”

“Hold, hold!” (he cried) “you're far away!
“I am but seventy-nine, this day,
“And think, whatever others fear,
“I still may reach my hundredth year!”

Said Blunt, “Now make me your confessor!
“Pray, whom do you keep your riches for?
“That mighty hoard of rusty pelf?”—
“Whom for!” cried Scrape-all—“for myself!
“And when, at length, I die—five-score
“Or thereabouts,—say, ten years more,
“My wealth, I do design, shall be
“Placed in my coffin, close by me;—
“'Tis right, you know, that friends should lie
“Near to each other when they die!”

“Nay,” answer'd Blunt, “when you are dead,
“Authority, you'll find, is fled;
“Some one, no doubt, will still contrive
“To keep your slumbering hoards alive.—
“Make, make, your Will!—Howe'er it grieve,
“You must your all, to some one leave!”

“What! make my Will! My all bestow
“On some one else? No! neighbour, no!
“I'll be, whilst these my hands can hold,
“The only keeper of my gold;
“From night to morn, from morn to night,
“I'll keep it close, and hold it tight!”

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“You rightly speak, you are no more
“Than—‘keeper’ to your golden store;
“But, when you die, as soon you must,
“To whom will you bequeath your trust?
“One other word, I just would say,
“How will you meet the Reckoning Day!
“But you, with thousands in your train,
“Regard the Future with disdain.”

“Yes, yes,” said Scrape-all, “'twill not do
“Too far, and close, to stretch one's view.
“'Tis fair enough for thrifty people
“To bear no liking to the Steeple,
“But, at the end, we're sure to meet—
“I mean the Sober, Chaste, Discreet!
“The Sacrament, you know, at last!
“And all things then are tight and fast.

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“Talk not of Gifts, Bequests, and Wills;
“The thought, my soul with tumult fills.

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“My wealth, I never will divide!
“The whole I'll in my coffin hide!

245

“Since Elwes' dead there's no one living
“Who knows the value of a shilling!

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“Were he alive—(it is my whim)
“That noble man! I'd give it him;
“But all, except my honour'd friend,
“Believe that money's made to spend!
“Therefore, in spite of Folly's scoffing,
“I'll put my money in my coffin!—
“I, who have scraped for fifty years,
“With ceaseless toil, and hourly fears,
“Shall I give all away at last?
“No! neighbour, no! I'll hold it fast!
“There's not a soul, not even you,
“That I would give a penny to.”

“I scorn your pence! Now full behold me!
“In that said Corn you lately sold me;
“You served me in a dexterous way,
“By stuffing half the sack with Hay!
“But let that pass, since Scrape-all never
“Again will play me trick so clever.
“Now, father, mark the words I tell,
“And fancy it your funeral knell!
“Strive how you will, your wealth to save,
“You cannot hold it in the grave!
“Although, Old Gripe, it rend your heart,
“Your god and you, at length must part!”

Said Scrape-all, sorrowful and slow,
“Well then! come twenty years, or so,
“And I will think on this affair,
“And, if needs be, appoint my heir.”

Cried Blunt, “No moment lose! you now
“Your head with age, and palsy, bow!—
“I guess, when Jack, your wealth has got,
“He soon will spend it all! a sot!

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“And ere you've closed your eyes a year,
“Behind a prison grate appear!”
He says “Though scarce your eye endures him,
“One little word, ‘I give,’ secures him.”

“O, spare me, friend! that subject frets me;
“The thoughts of Jack, in fever sets me:
“My spend-thrift nephew, here, I swear,
“Shall never be rich Scrape-all's heir!”

“Then make your Will! or, 'twill be so!
“He'll have it all, when you are low.”

“What, make my Will, just past my prime,
“'Twould be to die before my time!”

“Nay,” Blunt replied, “be well content!
“You will not die, nor Jack lament
“The sooner for this instrument:
“And I would more in candour say—
“Do good, friend Scrape-all, while you may!
“Or else, when dead, your wealth bestow;—
“(You will not see the money go!—)
“Erect, and you will gain renown,
“A school, within your native town;
“Then build a hospital, that fame
“May long perpetuate your name;—
“Thus, when has ceased your mortal reign,
“In generous deeds, you'll live again.—
“For you 'twill be a small bequest,
“Your nephew then may spend the rest.”

Cried Scrape-all, “Never, whilst I live,
“Will I a mite to any give!

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“And having saved so long, can I
“Give all, for nothing, when I die?—
“Launch out, at Folly's beck and call!—
“‘Fame!’ ‘generous deeds!’—'Tis nonsense all!
“And as I cannot give, when dead,
“The Law shall give it in my stead!—
“But, as for Jack, again I swear,
“The rogue shall never be my heir!”

One year is past!—Let thirst of gold
Its object, and its end, behold!—
Whilst none their different lots bewail—
Scrape-all is dead, and Jack's in jail!

Mr. BODY's REMONSTRANCE WITH HIS DISSOLUTE MASTER, Mr. MIND.

WRITTEN IN WINTER.

WHY dost thou treat me thus, harsh master, say!
Why, with hard usage, wear me half away?
Perverse of spirit! thou, a jarring wire,
Lov'st what I loathe, and hat'st what I admire.
I like the simple beverage of the spring,
But east, and west, to thee their poisons bring,
And I (oh! woe to tell!) of abject state,
Must ope my mouth and drink, what most I hate.
Now beer, or burton deep, disturbs my crown,
Now porter, gross and heavy, weighs me down,
Now wines, with draught on draught, black, white, and red,
Before my sight a strange confusion spread;
And now (with grief I tell) comes piping toddy,
Or punch, to torture me afresh, poor body!

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Whilst now, at once to undermine my lever,
Up comes sheer brandy, full of fire and fever,
I drink, till madness in my brain I feel,
And to the earth, like lead, instinctive reel!

Now, good my Lord, can I my anguish smother,
That I should pull one way, and thou the other?
While thou dost wrong on wrong regardless heap,
Can I my woes forget, or cease to weep?
Full seventy years compose my mortal day,
But thy intemperance steals them half away.
From good plain beef and solid mutton sent 'e
Thou turnest, and disdain'st the vulgar plenty,
While nought but treble courses will content 'e;
These, to provide, with scout, and busy rover,
Sea, earth, and heaven itself, are ransack'd over,
And when they come, the very blind might stare,
Such loads of fish and fowl, such dainty fare,
Such game and venison, soups and conserves rare!
In truth, the groaning board, to fancy's eye,
Seems piled, like father Atlas, to the sky!

Thou, while my stomach, stretched, spare inch contains,
Right on dost make me eat, till naught remains
But indigestion, source of aches and pains.
Thence sickness I endure, or surfeit, teasing,
Rheum makes me limp, or asthma sets me wheezing,
And now, to crown the sum of my deploring,
With swoln and bolster'd legs (o'er folly poring,)
Old gout, with horrid twitches, keeps me roaring!
I love the early hour, and when the sky
Darkness o'ercasts, in peaceful sleep to lie;

250

Thou scornest day, and (fetter'd still to wrong)
Stunnest dull night with revelry and song,
When, just as others rise, a goodly number,
Thou dragg'st me yawning back, like household lumber,
Amid the sun, in some dark nook to slumber!
Is this the way that we should both agree?
I, suffering, thou, inflicting misery?
Alas! my cruel Lord, that this should be!

I had complain'd that I was forced to go
Without surtout, amid this hour of snow,
But, ere the words I spake, a damsel fair,
Shivering, drew nigh, her arms, her bosom bare,
Following the thoughtless crowd (Oh, wisdom brave!
Who love, with gauze, to dance it to the grave!)
Stamping, I cried, from fashion's slavish chain,
Boldly break loose, and clothing bear again;
Let prudence sway, let modesty restrain!
The damsel, coughing, cried, “Too late I sigh!
My mother taught me how to dress and die!”

THE SPIRIT.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

“NOW which is the road across the common,
“Good woman! in pity declare;
“No path can I trace, for the evening is dark,
“And I fear me, before the far turnpike I mark,
“Some grim-visaged Ghost will appear.”

“The Ghost never walks till the clock strikes twelve,
“And this is the first of the night,”

251

Cried the woman, “Now why dost thou look at me so?
“And why do thine eye-balls so fearfully glow?
“Good stranger, forbear thy affright.

“I tell thee that hence across the common,
“This cart-track thy horse must pursue;
“Till, close by thy feet, two gibbets thou meet,
“Where the rains and the tempests the highwaymen beat,
“That a traveller once murder'd like you.”

The horseman thus answered. “I have no terror
“Of men who in midnight plan;
“But a Ghost that pops on one before or behind,
“And around him sees clearly while mortals are blind,—
“Aye, that tries the heart of the man.

“Must I go close to those dancing gibbets?”
“Quite close, Sir,” the woman replied.
“But though with the wind each murderer swings,
“They both of them are harmless things,
“And so are the ravens beside.”

“What! are there ravens there?—those creatures
“With feathers so glossy blue!
“But are they ravens? I enquire,
“For I have heard by the winter's fire,
“That phantoms the dead pursue.”

The woman replied, “They are night-ravens
“That pick the dead men's eyes;
“And they cry, qua, with their hollow jaw;
“Methinks I one this moment saw!
“To the banquet at hand he flies.

252

“Now fare thee well!” The traveller silent,
Whilst terror consumed his soul,
Went musing on. The night was still,
And every star had drunk his fill,
At the brim of oblivion's bowl.

And now he near to the gibbets approach'd!
The murderers waved in the air;
Though at their black visage he darted a glance,
He heeded them not, though they both seem'd to dance,
For he knew that such figures were there.

“Ah wherefore,” he cried, “should mortals incline
“To fear, where no danger is found!”
He scarce had thus spoken, when in the dark night,
Beside him appear'd, a Spirit in white!
He trembled, but could not look round.

He gallop'd away! the Spirit pursued!
And the irons of the murderers screak!
The gibbets are pass'd, and now fast and more fast,
The horseman and Spirit outstrip the loud blast,
Though neither has courage to speak.

Now both on the verge of the common arrive,
Where a gate the free passage denied.
The horseman his arm outstretch'd to expand
The gate to admit him, when, cold o'er his hand,
The mouth of the Spirit did glide.

He started! and swift through the still-darker lane
Gallop'd fast from the being he fear'd;
But yet, as the shadow the substance pursues,
The Spirit, behind, by a side-glance he views,
And more luminous now it appear'd!

253

The turnpike he reach'd; “Oh tell me,”—he cried,
“I can neither look round, nor go on;
“What spirit is this which has follow'd me here
“From the common? Good master, I dreadfully fear,
“Speak! speak, or my sense will be gone!”

“Ah Jenny,” he cried, “thou crafty old jade!
“Is it thou? I'll beat thy bones bare.
“Good gentleman, fear not, no spirit is nigh,
“Which has follow'd you here from the common hard-by,
“'Tis only old Gaffer's Grey Mare!”

THE SPIDER's WEB.

NOT Spiders only build the Web,
We rear our flimsy structures too;
Our follies, tide-like, rise, and ebb,
And vanities we all pursue.

Some, in their fancies, buy and sell,
And count their profits with amaze!
While some in wishing-webs excel,
And many a gaudy fabric raise.

Some, Fortune's airy levees throng,
And court her smile, or dread her frown,
And weave their webs, in dreaming long,
Of worldly honours, and renown.

Some, with “Accomplishments Divine,”
Their children stuff till “Help” they call;
So artificial, prim, and fine,
When principle is worth it all.

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Some, build the web of lengthen'd life,
And form the age-extended plan;
Forgetful of the toil and strife
That oft, untimely, withers man.

Some, spin a mighty web indeed,
By thinking once, instead of twice;
They build a house as years recede,
When six by two will soon suffice.

Some, weave the webs that only suit
This little inch of time below;
And waste each rapturous pursuit,
On objects, fleeting as the snow.

While some, each Spider's web abjure,
And prize the permanent delight;
They build the webs that will endure,
And seek—“the country out of sight.”

In foresight, some are little skill'd,
Therefore their hearts with folly chime;
But the worst webs are those which build,
Not on Eternity, but Time!

STRAW PICKERS.

A MOTLEY company I see,
All picking straws, and earnestly;
The youth, the middle-aged, and grey,
Make picking straws their only play;
It has a mystic charm, I ween,
For such a sight is always seen.

255

The blast is high, but what to them
Is oak-tree rifted to its stem;
The thunder rattles through the sky;
The lightning flashes fearfully;
Yet nothing from their sport can take 'em,
Not storms that drench, nor winds that shake 'em.

A house adjacent now is flaming,
But trifle this not worth the naming:
A funeral passes slowly near!
And there the orphan train appear!
Yet, dead to each obtruding sight,
They pick their straws from morn to night.

“Was ever folly so degrading!”
But cease this spirit of upbraiding.
Similitudes of fools like these
Are found in men of all degrees;
And few, the polish'd or the rude,
May scorn this straw-pleased multitude.

The hosts who drown in wine their sorrow,
And think not of a worse to-morrow;
The huntsmen who their necks endanger,
By following Brash, and Dash, and Ranger,
Can never laugh, whate'er they say,
At men more rational than they.

And gamesters, whether old or young,
Concerning straws, must hold their tongue;
For they who stake upon a throw
Their children's bread, their all below,
Have lost the very power to feel;
Their breasts are stone, their hearts are steel.

256

The miser, too, whose anger waxes,
At thought of spendthrifts, cheats, and taxes;
Who mourns each penny that he spends,
(As friends bewail departed friends,)
Till heirs, impatient, close his eyes,
He cannot picking straws despise.

And can they boast a nobler treasure,
The men, misnamed, the men of pleasure,
Who, if aroused to see their state,
Repentance purchase when too late!
Can these, with commerce so ungainful,
Upon straw-pickers look disdainful?

While those who leave their proper calling,
On names, and thread-bare dogmas, bawling;
Who, tippling, rapturous hail the story
Of chiefs, and high concerns, and glory,—
With starving wife and child at home,
For fools, such have not far to roam.

Nor wiser they, whose footsteps falter,
Who built the house, again to alter,
With fifty rooms, where ten might do,
(Which once a year they scarce can view)
That ages hence, oh, melancholy!
Might blaze their riches, and their folly.

What can such restless crowds decoy,
From home, the seat of every joy,
Where they, with all a parent's pride,
Might sit beside their own fireside,
But that they distant realms might see,
To pick new straws in luxury?

257

Many there are, of old, as now
Who weave straw-chaplets for their brow?
In quest of food, like roving bird,
Who migrate where the lute is heard;
Wasting whole nights, mid catch and glee,
'Tween tweedledum, and tweedledee.

And what if some who loudest rail
At senseless straws, themselves should fail!
And prove to be, through life's short day,
Straw-pickers, in a different way!
Clear is the truth as yonder sun,
Which those who spell, may read, and run.

Restrain your smile at this rehearsal;
The taste for straws is universal.
This is the sport that suits all ages,
Noviciates, with wits and sages.
From east to west, where'er we turn,
Straw-picking is the great concern.

Ah! now the grand solution rises,
So simple that it half surprises.
Untaught by ages past away,
Men hold the tyrant, Death, at bay,
And, strange to tell, “with strong endeavour,”
Believe their lives will last for ever!

Or, else, e'en brutes would men resemble,
Not at Eternity to tremble!
To stand on Time's uncertain shore,
With mist, and darkness, all, before,
Yet solemn thoughts disturb them never!
They must expect to live for ever.

258

Fresh proofs, and sad, of this confession,
Before me pass in long succession.—
All fools, all abject fools are these!
Each, just regarding what he sees,
Makes this poor world his idol mother,
And never thinks upon another!

NED AND WILL.

(UPON WILL COMPLAINING THAT HE WAS SLIGHTED BY NED.)

WITH kindred pursuits, and with friendships sincere,
Ned and Will, at one desk scribbled many a year,
When Ned, with a bound, o'er his friends, and his foes,
To the top of the lawyer's throng'd ladder arose;
While Will seized the lyre, borne by fancy along,
And all Helicon listen'd, entranced, at his song.

Oh! the friendships, like castles of ice, which decay,
Spite of pledges, and vows, in a season! a day!
My Lord, his new ermine, with grace to sustain,
On the vale-dwelling poet looks down with disdain—
His companions selected, his praises conferr'd
On Sir Dick, and Sir Ben, and such frivolous herd;
But now that the grave veils them both from our sight,
Will shines like a star on the bosom of night.
My Lord now reposes with spirits of yore,
Once commanding, and puissant!—remember'd no more;—
Pass'd away, (like his frowns, which kept senates in awe,)
Or recall'd to enforce some dull precept of law,
But the poet, unmoved by the canker of time,
Firm as Atlas, endures, in fame's temple sublime,
Beholding his verse, like a stream, clear and sweet,
Flow on, while man's heart shall with sympathy beat.

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Of a lord, puff'd with honours, as fickle as vain,
Who but mourns that a bard should have deign'd to complain!
Kings may conjure up chancellors thrice in one year,
But when shall a poet like Cowper appear!