University of Virginia Library

LINES ON THE PRESENT DISTRESS OF THE COUNTRY.

What pen, what language, can the sorrows speak,
Of those in poverty, oppress'd and weak
With hearts o'erburthen'd and all credit o'er,
Without employment, destitute and poor?
Wages depress'd, their children's helpless cry,
They answer all their wailings with a sigh.
No hope, no way, but sorrowing to the tomb,
Grief, woe, and sorrow, all that fills each home;
How blest are those that when the week is done,
Their wages same as when they first begun!
The same firm Masters and their wages sure,
These lives rich blessings cheerfully procure.
A happy race these cheerful pass the week,
Nor wander some small charity to seek;
Morning uncertain, sighing on the way,
To whom night brings no rest, nor yet the day.
These once were masters and employment gave,
Now see no hope, nor rest, but in the grave;
Those who could live ere wages were depress'd,
Whose cheerful wives and children all were blest.
Absorb'd in anguish now afflicted stand,
Who late were the foundation of the land,
So hard the pressure, that when those gave way
The middle classes fell as fast as they.
While the pedestal on Industry stood,
The middle of the Pillar then was good;
When that gave way (with trembling be it spoke,)
Trade followed next, and soon the Pillar broke.
But is all o'er?—is hope for ever fled?
Is Commerce gone, and is soft pity dead?
Is she that was the envy of the world
From the proud height of greatest greatness hurl'd?
Nay sure! for England yet some help remains,
To ease its poor, to mitigate their pains!
Shall the true spirit of our land be broke,
And its high Crest bow to some foreign yoke?
What must be done,—can England ever bear
To see distress and never shed a tear?
But what are tears? Can tears improvement give?
Can charity assist the poor to live?
If all the nation at their feet was laid,
How could industry live without a trade?
Oh! for the time when commerce would extend,
Her happy arms and our condition mend.
Ye that have seen—who yet can think and speak,
How lessen'd wages has opprest the weak,
Ere all is lost, and every effort vain,
Oh! strive to make the poor man bless'd again!
Without his wages can the grocer live?
For wholesome food these have no price to give,
When the first link is broke in wealth's strong chain,
Let all unite to piece that link again.
For Yorkshire now breathes forth one heavy sigh,
And sees no bope but her destruction nigh;
Where is the Merchants' gains, the Landlords rent?
Hundreds of sales, when most in law is spent,
Thousands of Paupers now are weekly made,
Who once could live contented,—bless'd with trade;
For workmen now, what comforts can remain,
Their lives are but anxiety and pain.
Deep sunk in debt, their wages all are gone,
They strive in vain for comfort, there is none;
With scarce half time to do their work aright,
Trembling they stand, where once they took delight;
Their masters frown! the foreman's angry words,
Transfix the trembling breasts like sharpest swords.
Returning home, their bosoms fill'd with woe,
Hopeless, Oppressed, scarce knowing where to go;
But England's England yet, although so poor,
The cruel struggle sure will soon be o'er.
The powers above, we trust will interfere,
And wipe from poverty each frozen tear.
Shall foreign merchants ever smile to see
Britons bereft of wealth and dignity?
Shall other nations all advantage take,
And England to her interest never wake?
Sure every Peer, and every Noble Lord
Will pity commerce, and some help afford;
The poor, the mighty balance cannot turn,
So low deprest, these only sit to mourn:
How vain are words, how empty every rhyme!
Language is useless; only wasting time:
No earthly pow'r can now relieve the state,
So sunk, the greatest efforts are too late.
'Tis not for want of corn, no! there's enough,
Had we but trade in cottons, cloth, or stuff
Pleasure would beam in many a tear-wet eye,
And commerce smile to see prosperity.
Oh! that with language, all my efforts could
Improve the trade, and do the poor some good,
Then would I spend the day and solemn night
And humbly sue, or with my tears would write.
I see distress in every varied form;
Who knows the struggles through the winter's storm!
Language can never tell the depth of grief,
Of shiv'ring forms, whose fire gave no relief;
The bell oft tolling, when short life was o'er,
And death, the only refuge of the poor.
Thousands in search of work, in vain apply,
No work afforded, and no help is nigh;
Returning home, their bosoms fill'd with care,
No joy, no hope, their lot is but despair;
The mind distracted, and the spirits broke,
While all paternal feelings are awoke.
Ye blessed few, who can for suff'rings feel,
Whose hearts are flesh, and not case-harden'd steel,
Still bless your workmen while on earth you can,
The prop of masters is the honest man.
Him ye can trust, and both contented live,
Each to the other dares his welfare give;
But few the masters who are not opprest,
Quitting the market with an axious breast.
The manufacturers no more can give
A year of credit, while these scarce can live,
His few dependants trembling, wait to hear
If trade improves, if any hope is near.
“Tis darkness all, he answers with a sigh,
“We soon must part, for ruin now is nigh;
“I hop'd to have what would your wages pay,
“But darker shades roll every market-day;
“Borrow, I can no more—I cannot sell,
“And how we all must live—why, who can tell;
“Should trade improve—so deep are we in debt,
“How can our creditors with gold be met;
“These will expect the amount of all arrears,
“Thus deep despair in darkest form appears.”
Should trade revive, the lab'rour is not blest,
For still he fears the court of old request;
Bailiffs and summonses each day appear,
Take half the wages when some hope is near.
Thus the foundation of our land gives way,
Without the base the copula cannot stay;
Land falls in value—farmers daily fail,
And aggrevate the poor mechanic's tale.
Poor-rates increase, the produce little makes;
The landlord from his dreams of wealth awakes,
Arrears of rent from those who cannot pay,
Whose all is gone, and yet are forc'd to stay;
No other trade, these have no where to turn;
Who liv'd in splendour, now must sit and mourn;
Where mirth sat smiling, now 'tis deep despair,
Go through each village, poverty is there;
Search every town, and hear how great the debt,
You must declare, both high and low are beat.
Upon their workmen masters little thought,
And those who labour'd late, were set at nought;
The weight of England's debts on these were laid,
And many a tax must by the poor be paid.
With patience all is born, and many a care
Is born to heav'n upon the wings of pray'r,
Their tears are number'd and their every sigh,
And all their wants are known to the most high;
The help of Princes and of Kings are vain,
These cannot bring prosperity again.
Rulers may try, with patriotic minds,
But every efforts' tost unto the winds;
The working class, the nations stay is done,
Its noon is set and darken'd England's sun.
Oh! for a trade that millions might be fed,
A double price we then could give for bread;
Could live, and work; and struggle out of debt,
Give England trade and England's never beat.
Take that away, the produce of the land,
If not obtain'd thousands of plows must stand;
The grazier's cattle scarcely pays the rent,
When all the produce of the farm is spent.
T'is lamentation all the kingdom o'er,
For why? Did not the rich oppress the poor?
Lower'd their wages, rais'd the produce high;
Set them at nought and scorn'd to here them cry.
But surely now the gloomy winters' past,
Such deep distress cannot for ever last;
Should trade revive, we then should know its worth,
And learn to save what once we spent in mirth.
Our homes and families engross our care,
And fathers find their chiefest blessings there;
How blest are those who thirty years have been,
Safe at one place and scarce a change have seen;
The family employ'd, together paid,
Of debt and duns these need not be affraid.
The week is ended, all their wages sure,
These feel not what the indigent endure;
No master's cares, far happier than the King,
Cheerful from market they the goods can bring.
All clean and neat can at the Church appear,
'Tis their own fault if any murmer there,
Blessings unseen, their price is never known,
When man's secure, and is ungrateful grown;
Then pride is punished and the blessing fly,
Care rolls like waves when storms are mountains high.
Ingratitude of care is made the sport,
What would these give to be again in Port;
Ye masters if the smallest hope remain,
Oh! strive to make your workmen bless'd again;
Oppress'd and sunk beneath a load of care,
These loose themselves and sink into despair.
Were these once proud? humility has found
The pompous crest and brought it to the ground;
The working class must rise, these cannot die,
'Tis not in England's breast to hear them cry.
In want and rags she cannot see them laid,
Another effort must be tried for trade.
The owners of the land have boasted long,
'Twas Agriculture made the nation strong;
In flowry speeches set the trade aside,
These cannot live without it, though they tried.
The poor have sunk, and soon the strongest link,
The middle class to poverty will sink;
Has England not been proud too greatly blest?
Too greatly honour'd, bore too high her crest?
So Egypt was, and Babilon and Rome,
And mighty Greece where Science made her home;
Carthage, Cairo, Memphis in their turns
Tumbled with pride where now the Briton mourns.
And is it order'd that this nation must,
Be laid in ashes and be sunk in dust;
Praise should arise for every blessing given,
And humble prayers from all ascend to heaven;
That heaven's fierce anger may not always last,
That dark adversity may soon be past.
Behold the cities storm'd! when cruel war
Through Europe drove the desolating car;
What millions slain! what houseless wanderers there!
When no contending hosts were fighting here.
No towns were burnt, no streams of human blood
Purpled our rivers, then the trade was good;
God gave us all our being and our breath,
When Myriads of our brethren sunk in death.
Shall prisons fill with those deep sunk in debt,
Wwithin their walls shall honest men be met;
Opprest with care, their families in tears,
Who struggled to live honestly for years.
No! let soft mercy stop the bailiff's power,
Nor let despair with darker pinions lower;
Willing to pay, what can the do
But struggle on his future days in woe.
But there are those who call'd for one glass more,
Till health and wealth and credit all were o'er;
Who knows the sorrows that their families felt?
Nor prayers nor tears their harden'd hearts could melt.
Death and despair still star'd them in the face,
By friends forsook, the Ale Bench was the place.
That made their children naked, rag'd and poor,
And that curs'd cry of “Bring us one Glass more”;
For such the sober parents have to mourn,
Oft weep and pray that these again may turn.
'Twas when the times were good the greatest ill,
And help'd with curses our blest land to fill;
Forgetful of the blessings we enjoy'd,
With wages good, and every one employ'd.
No forecast then and murmuring at the best,
Unconcious that we were supremely blest;
In dust, in ashes, now the land is laid;
Deep sunk in debt, which never can be paid.
Yet let us all with patience persevere,
And humbly wait till Trade again appear;
Oft has it seem'd for ever flown away,
Then brighter scenes the darkness drove away.
'Tis known through all the land from shore to shore,
The rich will fall when once they lose the poor;
'Tis they who work upon the sea, the land,
Without their efforts trade and all must stand.
Without them landlords cannot have their rent—
Taxes without them never can be sent;
These whose industry decorate the Crown,
To deepest pauperism should not be thrown.
The working class must better wages have,
Nor be sunk down below the meanest slave;
Till then, for better times in vain we wait,
'Tis they who make our money circulate;
When these are blest, old England then will be
A land of Commerce, Wealth, and Liberty.