VIGNETTE TO 'THE TRAVELLER'
(Samuel Wale)
DEAR SIR,
I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new
force from the ceremonies of a Dedication; and perhaps it demands
an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you
decline giving with your own. But as a part of this Poem was
formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with
propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light
upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is
addressed to a man, who, despising Fame and Fortune, has retired
early to Happiness and Obscurity, with an income of forty pounds
a year.
I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of Ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest.
Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment,
they at first rival Poetry, and at length supplant her; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birthright.
Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric odes, choruses, anapaests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for error is ever talkative.
But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet; his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire.
What reception a Poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states, that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge, better than yourself, how far these positions are illustrated in this Poem.
REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 5 A weary waste expanding to the skies: Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 10 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend: Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire; Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, 15 And every stranger finds a ready chair; Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, 20 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care, Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 25 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. 30 E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And, plac'd on high above the storm's career, Look downward where a hundred realms appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, 35 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good, which makes each humbler bosom vain? 40 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd, 45 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round, Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale,
For me your tributary stores combine; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine! 50 As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 55 Pleas'd with each good that heaven to man supplies: Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 60 Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd. But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 65 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease; The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 70 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is, at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 75 And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind,
As different good, by Art or Nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even. 80 Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call; With food as well the peasant is supplied On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side; And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 85 These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. From Art more various are the blessings sent; Wealth commerce, honour, liberty, content. Yet these each other's power so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest. 90 Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone. Each to the favourite happiness attends, 95 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; Till, carried to excess in each domain, This favourite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies: 100 Here for a while my proper cares resign'd, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind, Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right where Apennine ascends, 105 Bright as the summer, Italy extends; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene 110 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 115 Whose bright succession decks the varied year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives that blossom but to die; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; 120 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 125 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manner reign; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 130 All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state; At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 135 Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies; The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; 140 While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave; And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 145 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade; 150 Processions form'd for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, The sports of children satisfy the child; Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 155 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind: As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, Defac'd by time and tottering in decay, 160 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed, And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey 165 Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 170
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May; No Zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, 175 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed; 180 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loathe his vegetable meal; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 185 Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous plough-share to the steep; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. 190 At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 195 Displays her cleanly platter on the board: And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart, 200
And e'en those ills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 205 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assign'd; Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd. 210 Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 215 That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 220 Their level life is but a smould'ring fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 225 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow: Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter'd, unimprov'd the manners run; 230
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play 235 Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way, These far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. 240 Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire! Where shading elms along the margin grew, 245 And freshen'd from the wave the Zephyr flew; And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 250 Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore. So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display, 255 Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here: Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 260
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land: From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise; They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, 265 Till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; 270 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 275 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 280 To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 285 Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow; Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore; 290
While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 295 A new creation rescu'd from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. 300 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here displayed. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 305 E'en liberty itself is barter'd here. At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys; A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, 310 And calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; 315 How much unlike the sons of Britain now! Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide. 320
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on ev'ry spray; Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd, Extremes are only in the master's mind! Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 325 With daring aims irregularly great; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by, Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand; 330 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagin'd right, above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here, 335 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too bless'd, indeed, were such without alloy, But foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy: That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; 340 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 345 Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore, Till over-wrought, the general system feels Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 350
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; Time may come, when stripp'd of all her charms, 355 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 360 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great; Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 365 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel; Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure: 370 For just experience tells, in every soil, That those who think must govern those that toil; And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 375 Its double weight must ruin all below. O then how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom when a part aspires! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast-approaching danger warms: 380
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own; When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free; Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 385 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law; The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home; Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; 390 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal power; And thus polluting honour in its source, 395 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste; 400 Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose? Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 405 The smiling long-frequented village fall? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main; 410
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound? E'en now, perhaps as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways; Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 415 And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 420 Casts a long look where England's glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind: Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 425 To seek a good each government bestows? In every government, though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. 430 Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, Our own felicity we make or find: With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. The lifted axe, the agonising wheel, 435 Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own.
DEAR SIR,
I can have no expectations in an address of this kind, either to
add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain
nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in
which you are said to excel; and I may lose much by the
severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry
than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid
much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my
affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother,
because I loved him better than most other men. He is since
dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you.
How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I don't pretend to enquire; but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an enquiry, whether the country be depopulating or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.
In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous. Still however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states, by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right.
SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene; How often have I paus'd on every charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 10 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made; How often have I bless'd the coming day, 15 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd; 20
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 25 By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: 30 These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain: 40 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way. Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 50
Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more: 60 His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 65 Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 70 Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, 75 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elaps'd, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs—and GOD has given my share— I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 85 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 90 Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd, 95 Here to return—and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; 100 Who quits a world where strong temptations try And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state 105 To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While Resignation gently slopes the way; 110
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be pass'd! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 115 The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; 120 The watchdog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, 125 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow'd, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 130 She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, 135 The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 140
A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wished to change his place; Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power, 145 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain; 150 The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 160 Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170
Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 175 And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 180 The service pass'd, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 185 Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 190 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 195 The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; 200
Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught, 205 The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declar'd how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 210 In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thund'ring sound Amazed the gazing rustics rang'd around, And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 215 That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 230
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 235 Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain, transitory splendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 240 Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brown shall clear, 245 Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 255 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd: But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, 260
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 265 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; 270 Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Nor so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 275 Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth, 280 His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies: While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all 285 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes: 290
But when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 295 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd; But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While scourg'd by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 300 And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of continuous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 305 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped—What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; 310 To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; 320
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes 325 Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd, Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; 330 Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? E'en now, perhaps by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! 340 Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, 345 The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 350
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 355 And savage men more murd'rous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 360 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, 365 Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 370 The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovlier in her tears, 375 The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose 380
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O Luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree, 385 How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own; 390 At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun, 395 And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land: Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, 400 Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety, with wishes plac'd above, 405 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 410
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 415 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and Oh! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; Aid slighted truth; with thy persuasive strain Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, 425 Though very poor, may still be very bless'd; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430