And fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form
Sternly careering on the eddying storm;
And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost
soul,

His voice terrific in the thunders roll.
With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare,
The volley'd lightnings cleave the sullen air;
And, as the warring winds around reviled,
With awful pleasure big,-I heard and smiled.
Beloved remembrance!-Memory which en-
dears

This silent spot to my advancing years.
Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest,
In shades like these to live, is to be blest,
While happiness evades the busy crowd,
In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud.
And thou, too, Inspiration, whose wild flame
Shoots with electric swiftness through the
frame,

Thou here dost love to sit, with up-turn'd

eye,

And listen to the stream that murmurs by, The woods that wave, the gray-owl's silken flight,

The mellow music of the listening night.

Congenial calms more welcome to my breast Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre drest, To heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise,

That ye may bless my unambitious days, Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife

May trace with me the lowly vale of life, And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave,

May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. Now, as I rove, where wide the prospect

grows,

A livelier light upon my vision flows.

No more above, th' embracing branches meet;

No more the river gurgles at my feet,

But seen deep down the cliff's impending side

Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide.

Dim is my upland path,- -across the Green
Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between
The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste
ray sheds,

Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful heads,

And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees, Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze.

Say, why does man, while to his opening sight

Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, And gives to him alone his bliss to know, Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms? Why clasp the siren Pleasure to his arms? And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath,

Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death?

Could he, who thus to vile enjoyments clings, Know what calm joy from purer sources springs,

Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife,

The harmless pleasures of a harmless life,
No more his soul would pant for joys impure,
The deadly chalice would no more allure,
But the sweet potion he was wont to sip,
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip.
H. Kirke White.-Born 1785, Died 1806.

1172.-A HYMN.

O Lord, my God, in mercy turn;
In mercy hear a sinner mourn!
To Thee I call, to Thee I cry,
Oh! leave me, leave me not to die!

I strove against Thee, Lord, I know;
I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law;
The hour is past-the day's gone by,
And I am left alone to die.

O pleasures past, what are ye now
But thorns about my bleeding brow?
Spectres that hover round my brain,
And aggravate and mock my pain.

For pleasure I have given my soul;
Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll!
Now, Vengeance, smile-and with a blow,
Lay the rebellious ingrate low.

Yet, Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling;
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing;
I'll clasp the cross; and, holding there,
Even me, oh bliss!-his wrath may spare.
H. Kirke White.-Born 1785, Died 1806.

1173.-THE PARISH WORKHOUSE AND APOTHECARY.

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish

poor,

Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;

There, where the putrid vapours flagging, play,

And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day:

There children dwell who know no parents'

care;

Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;

Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives and mothers never wed,
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,

And crippled age with more than childhood fears;

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;
Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man:
Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from
pride;

But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,

And pride imbitters what it can't deny.
Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves
advance

With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease,
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock patience dire complaints
endure,

Which real pain, and that alone, can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath
Where all that's wretched pave the way for
death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides,

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:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;

Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,

All pride and business, bustle and conceit, With looks unalter'd by these scenes of wo, With speed that, entering, speaks his haste

to go;

He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye;
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murderous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door;

His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man; and silent sinks into the grave..

George Crabbe.-Born 1754, Died 1832.

1174.-ISAAC ASHFORD, A NOBLE PEASANT.

Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved;
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd;
(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind
To miss one favour which their neighbours find)
Yet far was he from stoic-pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved:
I mark'd his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd
cheek,

Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few :
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd;
Pride in the power that guards his country's
coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride.

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 Sundayshower

Kept him at home in that important hour;
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect
By the strong glare of their new light direct:
"On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,
But should be blind and lose it in your blaze."
In times severe, when many a sturdy swain
Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain,

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;
When, save his honest fame, he kept no more;
But lost his wife and saw his children poor;
'Twas then a spark of-say not discontent-
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:
"Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied)
That in yon house for ruin'd age provide,
And they are just; when young, we give you
all,

And then for comforts in our weakness call.
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your poor and eat the parish-bread?
But yet I linger, loath with him to feed
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need:
He who, by contract, all your paupers took,
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look:
On some old master I could well depend;
See him with joy and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him who doles the day's supply,
And counts our chances who at night may die :
Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not com-
plain

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,
A wise good man contented to be poor.

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,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again;
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause her anxious soul alarms;
With water burden'd then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in the adhesive ground;
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she
takes,

While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes;

For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.

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,
And placing first her infant on the floor,
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits;
In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd;
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel, and
flies

With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, not allured by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy
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,
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd;
The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot,
A captious tyrant or a noisy sot:
If present, railing till he saw her pain'd;
If absent, spending what their labours gain'd;

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,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;
The few dull flowers that o'er the place are
spread,

Partake the nature of their fenny bed.
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil
harsh,

And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stony bound;
Nor hedge nor tree conceals the glowing

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,
He saw their sister on her duty stand;
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to try;
Sudden a look of languor he descries,
And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes;
Train'd, but yet savage, in her speaking face
He mark'd the features of her vagrant race,

When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd
The vice implanted in her youthful breast;
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the traveller's face.
Within the father, who from fences nigh,
Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply,
Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood de-
jected by;

On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd,
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast;
In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd,
Of vigour palsied, and of beauty stain'd;
Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants

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 half protected by the vicious son,
Who half-supports him, he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him
dance,

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 sigh

A lover's message-" Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing, go!-if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake;
Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze,
blow on!

Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look-and now repeat the
prayer."

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint

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
She took some portion of the dread away: