By such examples taught, I paint the Cot, As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not: Nor you, ye poor, of letter'd scorn complain, To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; O'ercome by labour, and bow'd down by time, Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,

By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed? Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower,

Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,

While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong, Engaged some artful stripling of the throng, And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound.?

Where now are these?-Beneath yon cliff they stand,

To show the freighted pinnace where to land;
To load the ready steed with guilty haste,
To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste,
Or, when detected, in their straggling course,
To foil their foes by cunning or by force;
Or, yielding part (which equal knaves de-
mand),

bouring poor;

From thence a length of burning sand appears,
Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears;
Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye:
There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war;
There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil;
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;
O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a
shade,

fields,

I sought the simple life that Nature yields;
Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her place,
And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;
Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe,
The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,
Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high,
On the tost vessel bend their eager eye,
Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way;
Theirs, or the ocean's, miserable prey.
As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows
stand,

blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendour vainly shines around. Solooks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn, Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn; Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose;

Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress, Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.

Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, With sullen wo display'd in every face; Who, far from civil arts and social fly, And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.

Here too the lawless merchant of the main Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain; Want only claim'd the labour of the day, But vice now steals his nightly rest away. Where are the swains, who, daily labour done,

With rural games play'd down the setting sun; Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball,

land;

While still for flight the ready wing is spread: So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; Fled from these shores where guilt and famine

reign,

And cried, Ah! hapless they who still remain ; Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore ;

Till some fierce tide, with more imperious

sway,

Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, And begs a poor protection from the poor!

But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand

Gave a spare portion to the famish'd land; Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain ; But yet in other scenes more fair in view, Where Plenty smiles-alas! she smiles for few

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
Strives in 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

of Holmes

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

away,

Without the sorrows of a slow decay;
I, like yon wither'd leaf, remain behind,
Nipp'd by the frost, and shivering in 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;

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,
To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide;
A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the
day,

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

play:

Then, while such honours bloom around his 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:

The bat, the wicket, were his labours all;
Him now they follow to his grave, and stand
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

There are found, amid the Evils of a laborious Life, some Views of Tranquillity and Happiness-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 Manners Concluding Address to His Grace the Duke of Rutland.

Such as you find on yonder sportive Green, The 'squire's tall gate and churchway-walk between ;

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;

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 painful thought;