Militia principally in fault.
The clown, the child of nature, without guile, Blest with an infant's ignorance of all
But his own simple pleasures; now and then A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair; Is balloted, and trembles at the news: Sheepishly doffs his hat, and mumbling swears A bible-oath to be whate'er they please,
To do he knows not what. The task performed, That instant he becomes the serjeant's care, His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.
His awkward gait, his introverted toes, Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, Unapt to learn, and formed of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; He steps right onward, martial in his air,
His form, and movement; is as smart above As meal and larded locks can make him; wears
The new Recruit, and his Transformation.
His hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace; And his three years of heroship expired, Returns indignant to the slighted plough. He hates the field, in which no fife or drum Attends him; drives his cattle to a march; And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 'Twere well if his exterior change were all— But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost His ignorance and harmless manners too.
To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath-breach, The great proficiency he made abroad;
To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends; To break some maiden's and his mother's heart; To be a pest where he was useful once; Are his sole aim, and all his glory, now. Man in society is like a flower
Blown in its native bed; 'tis there alone His faculties, expanded in full bloom,
Shine out; there only reach their proper use.
Reflections on Bodies corporate.
But man, associated and leagued with man By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond For interest-sake, or swarming into clans Beneath one head for purposes of war,
Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, Fades rapidly, and by compression marred, Contracts defilement not to be endured.
Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues; And burghers, men immaculate perhaps In all their private functions, once combined, Become a loathsome body, only fit
For dissolution, hurtful to the main. Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin Against the charities of domestic life, Incorporated seem at once to lose
Their nature; and disclaiming all regard For mercy and the common rights of man, Build factories with blood, conducting trade At the sword's point, and dying the white robe
The love of Rural Objects.
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,
The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: New to my taste his Paradise surpassed The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age As twice seven years, his beauties had then first Engaged my wonder; and admiring still, And still admiring, with regret supposed The joy half lost because not sooner found. There too enamoured of the life I loved, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit
Determined, and possessing it at last
With transports, such as favoured lovers feel, I studied, prized, and wished that I had known,
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