The few small embers left she nurses well; And, while her infant race, with outspread hands, And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil; Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end.
Just when the day declined; and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce Of savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still; Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas, Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. With all this thrift they thrive not.
All the care Ingenious parsimony takes, but just
Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms
From grudging hands; but other boast have none, To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs Of knaves in office, partial in the work Of distribution; liberal of their aid To clamorous importunity in rags,
But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blush To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse,
Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth;
These ask with painful shyness, and, refused
Because deserving, silently retire!
But be ye of good courage! Time itself
Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase; And all your numerous progeny, well-train'd
But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,
And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man, who, when the distant poor Need help, denies them nothing but his name.* But poverty with most, who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted wo; The effect of laziness or sottish waste. Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad For plunder; much solicitous how best He may compensate for a day of sloth By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong. Wo to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge, Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stakes Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength, Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil, An ass's burden, and when laden most And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away. Nor does the boarded hovel better guard The well stack'd pile of riven logs and roots From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave Unwrench'd the door, however well secured, Where Chanticleer amidst his haram sleeps In unsuspecting pomp. 'Twitch'd from the perch, He gives the princely bird, with all his wives, To his voracious bag, struggling in vain And loudly wondering at the sudden change. Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse Did pity of their sufferings warp aside His principle, and tempt him into sin For their support, so destitute. But they Neglected pine at home; themselves, as more Exposed than others, with less scruple made His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst Of ruinous ebriety that prompts His every action, and imbrutes the man. Oh, for a law to noose the villain's neck, Who starves his own, who persecutes the blood Mr Thornton. See Life.
He gave them in his children's veins, and hates And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love.
Pass where we may, through city or through town, Village, or hamlet, of this merry land,
Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff Of stale debauch, forth issuing from the styes That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. There sit, involved and lost in curling clouds Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman there Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil:
Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, And he that kneads the dough- all loud alike, All learned, and all drunk! The fiddle screams Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail'd Its wasted tones and harmony unheard; Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, Perch'd on the signpost, holds with even hand Her undecisive scales. In this she lays A weight of ignorance; in that, of pride; And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound, The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised As ornamental, musical, polite,
Like those which modern senators employ, Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame! Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, Once simple, are initiated in arts,
Which some may practise with politer grace, But none with readier skill!—'tis here they learn The road that leads from competence and peace To indigence and rapine; till at last Society, grown weary of the load,
Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. But censure profits little; vain the attempt To advertise in verse a public pest,
That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. The excise is fatten'd with the rich result
Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, For ever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.
Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids; Gloriously drunk, obey the important call! Her cause demands the assistance of your throats, Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.
Would I had fallen upon those happier days That poets celebrate; those golden times, And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings, And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.
Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts That felt their virtues: innocence, it seems,
From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the groves; The footsteps of simplicity, impress'd
Upon the yielding herbage, (so they sing,) Then were not all effaced: then speech profane And manners profligate were rarely found, Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. Vain wish! those days were never airy dreams Sat for the picture; and the poet's hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade, Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.
Grant it: I still must envy them an age
That favour'd such a dream; in days like these Impossible, when virtue is so scarce, That to suppose a scene where she presides, Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. No: we are polish'd now: The rural lass, Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, 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 ribands 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
Ill-propp'd upon French heels; she might be deem'd (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 foot-boy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care.
The town has tinged the country; and the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe,
The worse for what it soils.
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 murder 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, 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. 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, 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.
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