His silver beard, that swept his aged breast, His piercing eye, that inward light express'd, Were seen, but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest.

Fear chill'd my heart: to one of mortal race, How awful seem'd the Genius of the place! So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw

And, lock'd within his bosom, bears about
A mental charm for every care without.
E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,
Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;
And every wound the tortured bosom feels,
Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;
Some generous friend, of ample power
possess'd;

Some feeling heart, that bleeds for the distress'd;

solemn sound :

'Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts

save

The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave; Grief is to man as certain as the grave: Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,

And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies;

Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall, But showers of sorrow are the lot of all: Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw

Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law?
Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,
Life's little cares and little pains refuse?
Shall he not rather feel a double share
Of mortal wo, when doubly arm'd to bear?
'Hard is his fate who builds his peace of
mind

On the precarious mercy of mankind;
Who hopes for wild and visionary things,
And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous
wings:

But as, of various evils that befal
The human race, some portion goes to all;
To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd,
Who feels his consolation in his mind;

'Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen, Merit the scorn they meet from little men. With cautious freedom if the numbers flow, Not wildly high, nor pitifully low; If vice alone their honest aims oppose, Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes?

Happy for men in every age and clime,
If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme.
Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue
Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too.
Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,
The pride of wealth, the splendour of the
great,

Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known,

Are visions far less happy than thy own:
Go on! and, while the sons of care complain,
Be wisely gay and innocently vain ;
While serious souls are by their fears undone,
Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun,
And call them worlds! and bid the greatest
show

More radiant colours in their worlds below:
Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,
And tell them, Such are all the toys they love.'

CR.

The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.

Or will you deem them amply paid in health,

Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth?

Go then! and see them rising with the sun, Through a long course of daily toil to run; See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat, When the knees tremble and the temples beat; Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labour past, and toils to come explore; See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue,

When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;

Then own that labour may as fatal be
To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.
Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride
Strivesin strong toil the fainting heart to hide;
There may you see the youth of slender frame
Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame;
Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield,
He strives to join his fellows of the field.
Till long-contending nature droops at last,
Declining health rejects his poor repast,
His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.
Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell,
Though the head droops not, that the heart
is well;

Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share!

Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such

As you who praise would never deign to touch.

Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, Whom the smooth stream and smoother son

Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age Can with no cares except his own engage; Who, propp'd on that rude staff, looks up to

see

The bare arms broken from the withering tree, On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough, Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. He once was chief in all the rustic trade; His steady hand the straightest furrow made; Full many a prize he won, and still is proud To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd; A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes, He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs:

For now he journeys to his grave in pain; The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain:

Alternate masters now their slave command, Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, And, when his age attempts its task in vain, With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain.1 Oft may you see him, when he tends the

wind;

There it abides till younger buds come on, As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; Then, from the rising generation thrust, It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust.

"These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see,

Are others' gain, but killing cares to me;
To me the children of my youth are lords,
Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words :
Wants of their own demand their care; and
who

Feels his own want and succours others too?
A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go,
None need my help, and none relieve my wo;

Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,

And men forget the wretch they would not aid.'

Thus groan the old, till, by disease oppress'd, They taste a final wo, and then they rest.

Theirs is yon house that holds the parishpoor,

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that 's wretched paves 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,

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!

Heartbroken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood
fears;

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,

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 embitters 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?

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 murd'rous 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.

But ere his death some pious doubts arise, Some simple fears, which 'bold bad' men despise ;

Fain would he ask the parish-priest to prove His title certain to the joys above:

For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who

calls

The holy stranger to these dismal walls: