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Her artless manners and her neat attire
So dignified, that she was hardly less
Than the fair shepherdess of old romance,
Is seen no more. The character is lost.
Her head adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft
And ribbands streaming gay, superbly raised
And magnified beyond all human size,
Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand
For more than half the tresses it sustains;
Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form

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Ill propp'd upon French heels; she might be deemed
(But that the basket dangling on her arm
Interprets her more truly,) of a rank
Too proud for dairy-work or sale of eggs.
Expect her soon with footboy at her heels,
No longer blushing for her awkward load,
Her train and her umbrella all her care.

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The town has tinged the country. And the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe,

The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs

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Down into scenes still rural, but alas!

Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now.
Time was when in the pastoral retreat

The unguarded door was safe. Men did not watch
To invade another's right, or guard their own.
Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscared
By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale
Of midnight murther was a wonder heard
With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes.
But farewell now to unsuspicious nights
And slumbers unalarm'd. Now ere you sleep
See that your polish'd arms be primed with care,

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And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad;
And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat
May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear
To horrid sounds of hostile feet within.

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Even daylight has its dangers. And the walk
Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once
Of other tenants than melodious birds

Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.
Lamented change! to which full many a cause
Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.
The course of human things from good to ill 25,
From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.
Increase of power begets increase of wealth,
Wealth luxury, and luxury excess;
Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague
That seizes first the opulent, descends
To the next rank contagious, and in time
Taints downward all the graduated scale
Of order, from the chariot to the plough.
The rich, and they that have an arm to check
The licence of the lowest in degree,

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Desert their office; and themselves intent

On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus

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To all the violence of lawless hands

Resign the scenes their presence might protect.
Authority herself not seldom sleeps,

Though resident, and witness of the wrong.

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The plump convivial parson often bears
The magisterial sword in vain, and lays
His reverence and his worship both to rest

25 Thus will this latter, as the former world,
Still tend from bad to worse.

Par. Lost, xii. 105.

On the same cushion of habitual sloth.

Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;

When he should strike, he trembles, and sets free, 600
Himself enslaved by terror of the band,

The audacious convict whom he dares not bind.
Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,
He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove
Less dainty than becomes his grave outside,
In lucrative concerns. Examine well

His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean,-
But here and there an ugly smutch appears.
Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it. He has touched
Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here
Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,
Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.

But faster far and more than all the rest
A noble cause, which none who bears a spark
Of public virtue ever wish'd removed,
Works the deplored and mischievous effect.
'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd
The heart of merit in the meaner class.
Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage
Of those that bear them, in whatever cause,
Seem most at variance with all moral good,
And incompatible with serious thought.
The clown, the child of nature, without guile,
Blest with an infant's ignorance of all
But his own simple pleasures, now and then
A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair,
Is ballotted, and trembles at the news.
Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears
A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please,

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To do he knows not what. The task perform'd, 630
That instant he becomes the serjeant's care,
His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.

His awkward gait, his introverted toes,

Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,
Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees,
Unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff,
He yet by slow degrees puts off himself,

Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well.
He stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk,
He steps right onward, martial in his air

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His form and movement; is as smart above

As meal and larded locks can make him; wears

His hat or his plumed helmet with a grace,
And his three years of heroship expired,
Returns indignant to the slighted plough.
He hates the field in which no fife or drum
Attends him, drives his cattle to a march,
And sighs for the smart comrades he has left.
"Twere well if his exterior change were all,—
But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost
His ignorance and harmless manners too.
To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home
By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath-breach,
The great proficiency he made abroad,

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To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends,

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To break some maiden's and his mother's heart,

To be a pest where he was useful once,

Are his sole aim and all his glory now.
Man in society is like a flower

Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone
His faculties expanded in full bloom

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Shine out, there only reach their proper use.
But man associated and leagued with man
By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond
For interest-sake, or swarming into clans
Beneath one head for purposes of war,

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Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound
And bundled close to fill some crowded vase,
Fades rapidly, and by compression marred

Contracts defilement not to be endured.

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Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues,
And burghers, men immaculate perhaps

In all their private functions, once combined,

Become a loathsome body, only fit

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For dissolution, hurtful to the main 26.
Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin
Against the charities of domestic life,
Incorporated, seem at once to lose
Their nature, and disclaiming all regard
For mercy and the common rights of man,
Build factories with blood, conducting trade

At the sword's point, and dying the white robe
Of innocent commercial justice red".

Hence too the field of glory, as the world

680

26 There is no corporate conscience. Men who act in bodies, it matters not whether large or small, mobs, senates, or cabinets, will without hesitation take their share in measures which if proposed to any one of them as an individual, would make him reply with the Syrian, "Am I dog, that I should do this thing!", -Southey's Colloquies, vol. ii. p. 193.

27 Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No! this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red.

Macbeth, ii. 2.

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