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And doth not he, the pious man, appear,
He, 'passing rich with forty pounds a year?'
Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock:
A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task
As much as God or man can fairly ask;
The rest he gives to loves and labours light,
To fields the morning, and to feasts the night;
None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide,
Το urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide;
A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the
day,

And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to
play:

No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hear
Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer;
No more the farmer claims his humble bow,
Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!
Now to the church behold the mourners

come,

Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb;
The village children now their games suspend,
To see the bier that bears their ancient
friend;

For he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch ruled their little court
The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all ;

Then, while such honours bloom around his Him now they follow to his grave, and stand

head,

Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed,
To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that e'en the pious feel?
Now once again the gloomy scene explore,
Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er,
The man of many sorrows sighs no more.
Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow
The bier moves winding from the vale below;
There lie the happy dead, from trouble free,
And the glad parish pays the frugal fee :

Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand;
While bending low, their eager eyes explore
The mingled relics of the parish poor :
The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round,
Fear marks the flight and magnifies the
sound;

The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care,
Defers his duty till the day of prayer;
And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd,
To think a poor man's bones should lie un-
bless'd.2

BOOK II

between ;

There are found, amid the Evils of a laborious | Such as you find on yonder sportive Green, Life, some Views of Tranquillity and Happi- The 'squire's tall gate and churchway-walk ness-The Repose and Pleasure of a Summer Sabbath: interrupted by Intoxication and Dispute Village Detraction-Complaints of the 'Squire The Evening Riots -Justice-Reasons for this unpleasant View of Rustic Life: the Effect it should have upon the Lower Classes; and the Higher These last have their peculiar Distresses: Exemplified in the Life and heroic Death of Lord Robert MannersConcluding Address to His Grace the Duke of Rutland.

Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends,
On a fair Sunday when the sermon ends :
Then rural beaux their best attire put on,
To win their nymphs, as other nymphs are won;
While those long wed go plain, and by degrees,
Like other husbands, quit their care to please.
Some of the sermon talk, a sober crowd,
And loudly praise, if it were preach'd aloud;
Some on the labours of the week look round;
Feel their own worth, and think their toil
renown'd;

No longer truth, though shown in verse, While some, whose hopes to no renown extend,

disdain,

But own the Village Life a life of pain:
I too must yield, that oft amid these woes
Are gleams of transient mirth and hours of
sweet repose,

Are only pleased to find their labours end. Thus, as their hours glide on, with pleasure fraught,

Their careful masters brood the painfu thought;

Much in their mind they murmur and lament, That one fair day should be so idly spent; And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their store

And tax their time for preachers and the poor. Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your hour,

This is your portion, yet unclaim'd of power;
This is Heaven's gift to weary men oppress'd,
And seems the type of their expected rest:
But yours, alas! are joys that soon decay;
Frail joys, begun and ended with the day;
Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign,
The village vices drive them from the plain.
See the stout churl, in drunken fury great,
Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate!
His naked vices, rude and unrefined,
Exert their open empire o'er the mind;
But can we less the senseless rage despise,
Because the savage acts without disguise?

Yet here disguise, the city's vice, is seen,
And Slander steals along and taints the Green:
At her approach domestic peace is gone,
Domestic broils at her approach come on;
She to the wife the husband's crime conveys,
She tells the husband when his consort strays;
Her busy tongue, through all the little state,
Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate ;
Peace, tim'rous goddess! quits her old
domain,

In sentiment and song content to reign.

Nor are the nymphs that breathe the rural air

So fair as Cynthia's, nor so chaste as fair: These to the town afford each fresher face, And the clown's trull receives the peer's embrace;

From whom, should chance again convey her down,

The peer's disease in turn attacks the clown. Here too the 'squires, or 'squire-like farmers, talk,

How round their regions nightly pilferers walk;

How from their ponds the fish are borne,

and all

The rip'ning treasures from their lofty wall; How meaner rivals in their sports delight, Just rich enough to claim a doubtful right; Who take a licence round their fields to stray, A mongrel race! the poachers of the day.

And hark! the riots of the Green begin, That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn;

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Why make the poor as guilty as the great? To show the great, those mightier sons of pride,

How near in vice the lowest are allied; Such are their natures and their passions such,

But these disguise too little, those too much:
So shall the man of power and pleasure see
In his own slave as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxurious lord the servant find
His own low pleasures and degenerate mind:
And each in all the kindred vices trace,
Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd, erring race;
Who, a short time in varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last.

And you, ye poor, who still lament your

fate,

Forbear to envy those you call the great; And know, amid those blessings they possess, They are, like you, the victims of distress;

While sloth with many a pang torments her slave,

In future times, when smit with Glory's charms,

Fear waits on guilt, and danger shakes the The untried youth first quits a father's

brave.

Oh! if in life one noble chief appears, Great in his name, while blooming in his

years;

Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind, And yet to all you feel or fear resign'd; Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown, For pains and dangers greater than your own: If such there be, then let your murmurs cease, Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace.

And such there was :-Oh! grief, that checks our pride,

Weeping we say there was,-for Manners died:

3

Beloved of Heaven, thesehumble lines forgive,
That sing of Thee, and thus aspire to live.
As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches
form

An ample shade and brave the wildest storm,
High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow,
The guard and glory of the trees below;
Till on its head the fiery bolt descends,
And o'er the plain the shatter'd trunk ex-
tends;

Yet then it lies, all wond'rous as before,
And still the glory, though the guard no more:
SO THOU, when every virtue, every grace,
Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face;
When, though the son of Granby, thou were
known

Less by thy father's glory than thy own; When Honour loved and gave thee every charm,

Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm; Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes, Fate and thy virtues call'd thee to the skies; Yet still we wonder at thy tow'ring fame, And losing thee, still dwell upon thy name. Oh! ever honour'd, ever valued! say, What verse can praise thee, or what work repay ?

Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays, Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days; Honours for thee thy country shall prepare, Thee in their hearts, the good, the brave shall bear;

To deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire, The Muse shall mourn thee, and the world

admire.

arms;

'Oh! be like him,' the weeping sire shall say;

'Like Manners walk, who walk'd in Honour's

way;

In danger foremost, yet in death sedate,
Oh! be like him in all things, but his fate!'

If for that fate such public tears be shed, That Victory seems to die now THOU art dead; How shall a friend his nearer hope resign, That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine ?

By what bold lines shall we his grief express, Or by what soothing numbers make it less?

'Tis not, I know the chiming of a song, Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong, Words aptly cull'd and meanings well express'd,

Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast; But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains, Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns.

Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding

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Life is not measured by the time we live : 'Tis not an even course of threescore years, A life of narrow views and paltry fears, Gray hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,

That take from death the terrors or the sting; But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high Above the world, that native of the sky; The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave, Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave:Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath, If in a glorious, then a timely death.

Cease then that grief and let those tears subside;

If Passion rule us, be that passion pride;

If Reason, Reason bids us strive to raise
Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise;
Or if Affection still the soul subdue,
Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view,
And let Affection find its comfort too:
For how can Grief so deeply wound the
heart,

When Admiration claims so large a part?
Grief is a foe, expel him then thy soul;
Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control!
Oh! make the age to come thy better care,
See other Rutlands, other Granbys there!
And, as thy thoughts through streaming ages
glide,

See other heroes die as Manners died:

And from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow,

As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below; Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride,

Sees his young streams run warbling at his side;

Though some, by art cut off, no longer run, And some are lost beneath the summer's

sun

Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves,

Its power increases and its use improves ; While plenty round its spacious waves bestow, Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.

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Note 1, page 36, lines 60 and 61. And, when his age attempts its task in vain, With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. A pauper who, being nearly past his labour, is employed by different masters for a length of time, proportioned to their occupations.

Note 2, page 38, lines 44 and 45 And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd, To think a poor man's bones should lie unbless'd.

Some apology is due for the insertion of a circumstance by no means common: that it has been a subject for complaint in any place is a sufficient reason for its being reckoned among the evils which may happen to the poor, and which must happen to them exclusively; nevertheless, it is just to remark that such neglect is very rare in any part of the kingdom, and in many parts is totally

unknown.

Note 3, page 40, lines 13 and 14. Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive, That sing of Thee, and thus aspire to live.

Lord Robert Manners, the youngest son of the Marquis of Granby and the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles Duke of Somerset, was born the 5th of February, 1758; and was placed with his brother, the late Duke of Rutland, at Eton school, where he acquired, and ever after retained, a considerable knowledge of the classical authors.

Lord Robert, after going through the duties of his profession on board different ships, was made captain of the Resolution, and commanded her in nine different actions, besides the last memorable one on the 2nd of April, 1782, when, in breaking the French line of battle, he received the wounds which terminated his life, in the twenty-fourth year of his age.-See the Annual Register, printed for Mr. Dodsley.

MY LORD,

THE NEWSPAPER

[1785]

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

EDWARD LORD THURLOW,

LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN; ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, ETC. ETC.

My obligations to your Lordship, great as they are, have not induced me to prefix your name to the following poem: nor is it your Lordship's station, exalted as that is, which prevailed upon me to solicit the honour of your protection for it. But, when I considered your Lordship's great abilities and good taste, so well known and so universally acknowledged, I became anxious for the privilege with which you have indulged me; well knowing that the Public would not be easily persuaded to disregard a performance, marked, in any degree, with your Lordship's approbation.

It is, my Lord, the province of superior rank, in general, to bestow this kind of patronage; but superior talents only can render it valuable. Of the value of your Lordship's I am fully sensible; and, while I make my acknowledgments for that, and for many other favours, I cannot suppress the pride I have in thus publishing my gratitude, and declaring how much I have the honour to be, MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most obedient,
most obliged, and devoted servant,
GEORGE CRABBE.

Belvoir Castle, February 20, 1785.

TO THE READER

THE Poem which I now offer to the public, is, I believe, the only one written on the subject; at least, it is the only one which I have any knowledge of: and, fearing there may not be found in it many things to engage the Reader's attention, I am willing to take the strongest hold I can upon him, by offering something which has the claim of novelty.

When the subject first occurred to me, I meant, in a few lines only, to give some description of that variety of dissociating articles which are huddled together in our Daily Papers. As the thought dwelt upon me, I conceived this might be done methodi

cally, and with some connection of parts, by taking a larger scope; which notwithstanding I have done, I must still apologise for a want of union and coherence in my poem. Subjects like this will not easily admit of them: we cannot slide from theme to theme in an easy and graceful succession; but, on quitting one thought, there will be an unavoidable hiatus, and in general an awkward transition into that which follows.

That, in writing upon the subject of our Newspapers, I have avoided every thing which might appear like the opinion of a party, is to be accounted for from the knowledge I have

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