For there's nae luck about the house, Mickle.-Born 1734, Died 1788. 930.-COUNTRY JUSTICES AND THEIR DUTIES. The social laws from insult to protect, The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art, To aid, and bring her rover to her heart; On silver waves that flow through smiling vales; In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; With many a group of antique columns crown'd, In Gothic guise such mansion have I found. Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face, Of the more manly structures here ye view; With Venus and the Graces on your green! But spare my Venus, spare each sister Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face! Ye royal architects, whose antic taste Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste; Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, . Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees, Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees; Yet let not too severe a censure fall The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, These, and such antique tokens that record Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, Bend o'er her urn with many a gen'rous fear, Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear; 1 Fair equity, and reason scorning art, Still mark the strong temptation and the need: On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, At least more lenient let thy justice fall. For him, who, lost to every hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree. Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore; Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779. 931.-GIPSIES. The gipsy race my pity rarely move; more; Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore. For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawny father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call. Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait, The mouth, and oft the minister of fate! From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade, Of future fortune, flies the village maid, Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold, And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold, But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures! She opens not the womb of time, but yours. Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung, Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung! The parson's maid-sore cause had she to rue The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too. Long had that anxious daughter sigh'd to know What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau, Meant by those glances which at church he stole, Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl; Long had she sigh'd; at length a prophet came, By many a sure prediction known to fame, To Marian known, and all she told, for true : She knew the future, for the past she knew. Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779. 932.-AN APPEAL FOR THE INDUSTRIOUS POOR. But still, forgot the grandeur of thy reign, Let age no longer toil with feeble strife, To the rude insults of the searching air; If, when from heaven severer seasons fall, Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering wall, Each face the picture of a winter day, More strong than Teniers' pencil could por tray; If then to thee resort the shivering train, Of cruel days, and cruel man complain, Say to thy heart (remembering him who said), "These people come from far, and have no bread." Nor leave thy venal clerk empower'd to hear; The voice of want is sacred to thy ear. He where no fees his sordid pen invite, Sports with their tears, too indolent to write; But chief thy notice shall one monster A monster furnish'd with a human frame, It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe When the poor hind, with length of years Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade, This slave, whose board his former labours spread? When harvest's burning suns and sickening air From labour's unbraced hand the grasp'd hook tear, Where shall the helpless family be fed, If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear, Think not that patience were a virtue here. His low-born pride with honest rage control; Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul. But, hapless! oft through fear of future woe, And certain vengeance of th' insulting foe, Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer, The last extremes of penury they bear. Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher, To something more than magistrate aspire? And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind, Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind? The game I start courageously pursue! Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu! And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side, Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride, As meet no more the wintry blast to bear, pair ; But time untenants-ha! what seest thou there ? "Horror!-by Heaven, extended on a bed Of naked fern, two human creatures dead! Embracing as alive!-ah, no!—no life! Cold, breathless! "Tis the shepherd and his wife. I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold What speaks more strongly than the story told. They died through want 'By every power I swear, If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air, Through whose default of duty, or design, These victims fell, he dies." "Infernal!-Mine!-by-" They fell by thine. Swear on no pretence: A swearing justice wants both grace and sense. Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779. 933.-MERCY SHOULD HAVE Unnumber'd objects ask thy honest care, While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye, A few seem straggling in the evening sky! Not many suns have hasten'd down the day, Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way, Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred light With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight: To the next cot the trembling infant bore, He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear. Worn with long toil on many a road, painful That toil increased by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother throng'd about her breast, So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless, had she strove, Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expired-the rest I've told. "Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh, That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." Too late!-his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd! Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779. 934-A FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY OF IRWAN. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale, The primrose on the valley's side, The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied, The wilding's blossom blushing red; No longer I their sweets inhale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale! How oft, within yon vacant shade, Has evening closed my careless eye! How oft along those banks I've stray'd, And watch'd the wave that wander'd by ; Full long their loss shall I bewail. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale! Yet still, within yon vacant grove, And watch the wave that winds away; Dr. Langhorne.-Born 1735, Died 1779. 935.-OWEN OF CARRON. I. On Carron's side the primrose pale, Why stream your eyes with pity's dew? 'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood The evening star sat in his eye, The sun his golden tresses gave, The north's pure morn her orient dye, To him who rests in yonder grave! Beneath no high, historic stone, Though nobly born, is Owen laid; Stretch'd on the greenwood's lap alone, He sleeps beneath the waving shade. There many a flowery race hath sprung, Yet still, when May with fragrant feet Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, That dirge I hear so simply sweet Far echo'd from each evening fold. II. 'Twas in the pride of William's day, When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway, Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill. And far for him their fruitful store The fairer plains of Carron spread; In fortune rich, in offspring poor, An only daughter crown'd his bed. Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd, And many an English baron brave. In vain by foreign arts assail'd, No foreign loves her breast beguile, And England's honest valour fail'd, Paid with a cold, but courteous smile. Ah! woe to thee, young Nithisdale, Thy voice, the music of the shade! "Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love Alone to thy soft tale would yield! For soon those gentle arms shall prove The conflict of a ruder field." 'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke, She spoke and vanish'd-more unmoved For love, methinks, hath power to raise But who is he, whose locks so fair Adown his manly shoulders flow? Beside him lies the hunter's spear, Beside him sleeps the warrior's bow. He bends to Ellen-(gentle sprite! Thy sweet seductive arts forbear), He courts her arms with fond delight, And instant vanishes in air. III. 'Twas when, on summer's softest eve, When all the mountain gales were still, Left his last smile on Lammermore; Led by those waking dreams of thought IV. There is some kind and courtly sprite 'Tis told, and I believe the tale, At this soft hour that sprite was there, A bower he framed (for he could frame Darts on the unsuspecting sight). Such bower he framed with magic hand, Yet was it wrought in simple show; Or yielded here their shining stores. All round a poplar's trembling arms That loves to weave the lover's bower. The ash, that courts the mountain-air, Combined to form the flowery shade. With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast, The cowslip's sweet, reclining head, The violet of sky-woven vest, Was all the fairy ground bespread. V. Hast thou not found at early dawn If o'er sweet vale, or flow'ry lawn, Hast thou not some fair object seen, And, when the fleeting form was past, Thou hast and oft the pictured view, He's ranging near yon mountain's head. To Carron's banks his fate consign'd; VI. Led by the golden star of love, Oh!-who is he whose ringlets fair Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow, Reclined to rest-whose sunny hair Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow? "Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest, (Ah me! that sprites can fate control!) That lives still imaged on her breast, That lives still pictured in her soul. As when some gentle spirit fled From earth to breathe Elysian air, And, in the train whom we call dead, Perceives its long-loved partner there; Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er, Resistless, o'er its airy frame, To find its future fate restore The object of its former flame : |