The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot and the madman gay. Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride imbitters what it can't deny. With timid eye, to read the distant glance; Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; Such is that room which one rude beam And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between ; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, to go; Paid by the parish for attendance here, His drooping patient, long inured to pain, George Crabbe.-Born 1754, Died 1832. 1174.-ISAAC ASHFORD, A NOBLE PEASANT. Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim; Christian and countryman was all with him; True to his church he came, no Sunday. shower Kept him at home in that important hour; Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, And feel in that his comfort and his pride. At length he found, when seventy years were run, His strength departed and his labour done; And then for comforts in our weakness call. Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew; Daily he placed the workhouse in his view! But came not there, for sudden was his fate, He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there; I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honour'd head; No more that awful glance on playful wight Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight; To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there : . But he is blest, and I lament no more, George Crabbe.-Born 1754, Died 1832. 1175.-PHOEBE DAWSON. Two summers since, I saw at Lammas fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there; When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the green, In haste to see and happy to be seen; Her air, her manners, all who saw admired, Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed, And ease of heart her every look conveyed; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd; Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains; Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes; For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, And now her path but not her peace she gains, Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, With all the aid her poverty supplies; aid, She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. But who this child of weakness, want, and care? 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas fair; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies: Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: "And then his prayers! they would a savage move, And win the coldest of the sex to love." But ah! too soon his looks success declared, Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. Then fly temptation, youth; resist! refrain! Nor let me preach for ever and in vain! George Crabbe.-Born 1754, Died 1832. 1176.-AN ENGLISH FEN-GIPSIES. On either side Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide, With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied: Far on the right the distant sea is seen, And salt the springs that feed the marsh between: Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten'd flood Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud; Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, That frets and hurries to the opposing side; The rushes sharp that on the borders grow, Bend their brown flowerets to the stream below, Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow: Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom, Partake the nature of their fenny bed. And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh; sun; Birds, save a watery tribe, the district shun, Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run. Again, the country was inclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd; 'Twas open spread to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early traveller with their prayers to greet; While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed, to state, Cursing his tardy aid. Her mother there With gipsy state engross'd the only chair; Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands, And reads the milkmaid's fortune in her hands, Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years, Each feature now the steady falsehood wears; With hard and savage eye she views the food, And grudging pinches their intruding brood. Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits Neglected, lost, and living but by fits; Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, And, by the sadness in his face, appears To trace the progress of their future years; Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat; What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain, Ere they like him approach their latter end, Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! George Crabbe.-Born 1754, Died 1832. 1177. THE DYING SAILOR. Yes! there are real mourners.-I have seen A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd, And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd: Neatly she drest, nor vainly seem'd t' expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect; But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She cought her place to meditate and weep: Then to her mind was all the past display'd, That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid: For then she thought on one regretted youth, Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth: In every place she wander'd, where they'd been, And sadly-sacred held the parting scene, Where last for sea he took his leave-that place With double interest would she nightly trace: For long the courtship was, and he would say, Each time he sail'd,-"This once, and then the day :" Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went, He drew from pitying love a full consent. Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took, That he should softly sleep, and smartly look ; White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck; And every comfort men at sea can know, Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow: For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told, How he should guard against the climate's cold, Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood, Nor could she trace the fever in his blood: His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain; Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd, But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd. He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a A lover's message-" Thomas, I must die: Give me one look, before my life be gone, He had his wish, had more; I will not The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint.With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew; He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled. Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts, meantime, Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. To her he came to die, and every day With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read, Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head; She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer; Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, Yet said not so-" perhaps he will not sink:" Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew, But she has treasured, and she loves them all; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people-death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she prest, And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to to spare The least assistance-'twas her proper care. Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit; But, if observer pass, will take her round, And careless seem, for she would not be found; Then go again, and thus her hour employ, While visions please her, and while woes destroy. Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led, To hold mysterious converse with the dead; For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain, In this sad conflict, will disturb thy brain; But short the time, and glorious the reward; George Crabbe.-Born 1754, Died 1832. 1178.-REFLECTIONS. When all the fiercer passions cease Can listen to the voice of truth; And how to spare, to spend, to give (Our prudence kind, our pity just), 'Tis then we rightly learn to live. Its weakness when the body feels; Nor danger in contempt defies; To reason when desire appeals, When on experience hope relies; When every passing hour we prize, Nor rashly on our follies spend, But use it, as it quickly flies, With sober aim to serious end; When prudence bounds our utmost views, And bids us wrath and wrong forgive; When we can calmly gain or lose : 'Tis then we rightly learn to live. Yet thus, when we our way discern, And can upon our care depend, To travel safely, when we learn, Behold! we're near our journey's end; We've trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And, now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we stray'd: Light for ourselves, what is it worth, When we no more our way can choose? For others, when we hold it forth, They, in their pride, the boon refuse. And all their faults discern in those; We can for sacred truth forego; We can the warmest friend reprove, And bear to praise the fiercest foe: To what effect? Our friends are gone Beyond reproof, regard, or care; And of our foes remains there one, The mild relenting thoughts to share Now 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage; Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage: Ah! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now This bold rebellious race are fled; When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead? Revenge, ambition, scorn and pride, And strong desire, and fierce disdain, The giant-brood by thee defied, Lo! Time's resistless strokes have slain. To try the failing powers of age. |