their school assign'd, Masters were sought for what they each required, And books were bought and harpsichords were hired; So high was hope:- the failure touched his brain, And Robin never was himself again; Yet he no wrath, no angry wish express'd, But tried, in vain, to labour or to rest; Then cast his bundle on his back, and went He knew not whither, nor for what intent. Years fled;—of Robin all remembrance past, When home he wandered in his rags at last: A sailor's jacket on his limbs was thrown, A sailor's story he had made his own; Had suffer'd battles, prisons, tempests, storms, Encountering death in all its ugliest forms: His cheeks were haggard, hollow was his eye, Where madness lurk'd, conceal'd in misery; Want, and th' ungentle world, had taught a part, And prompted cunning to that simple heart: "He now bethought him, he would roam no more But live at home and labour as before." Here clothed and fed, no sooner he began To round and redden, than away he ran; His wife was dead, their children past his aid, So, unmolested, from his home he stray'd: Six years elapsed, when, worn with want and pain. Came Robin, wrapt in all his rags again: We chide, we pity;—placed among our poor, He fed again, and was a man once more. As when a gaunt and hungry fox is found, Entrapp'd alive in some rich hunter's ground; Fed for the field, although each day's a feast, FATTEN you may, but never TAME the beast; A house protects him, savoury viands sustain:- But loose his neck and off he goes again: So stole our Vagrant from his warm retreat, To rove a prowler and be deemed a cheat. Hard was his fare; for him at length we saw In cart convey'd and laid supine on straw. His feeble voice now spoke a sinking heart; His groans now told the motions of the cart: And when it stopp'd, he tried in vain to stand; Closed was his eye, and clench'd his clammy hand: Life ebb'd apace, and our best aid no more Could his weak sense or dying heart restore: But now he fell, a victim to the snare That vile attorneys for the weak prepare; They who when profit or resentment call, Heed not the groaning victim they enthrall. Then died lamented in the strength of life, A valued MOTHER and a faithful WIFE; Call'd not away when time had loosed each hold On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold; But when, to all that knit us to our kind, She felt fast-bound, as charity can bind; - Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care, The drooping spirit for its fate prepare; And, each affection failing, leaves the heart Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart; But all her ties the strong invader broke, In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke! Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, And terror grew, till every hope was gone; Still those around appear'd for hope to seek! But view'd the sick and were afraid to speak. Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead; When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed, My part began; a crowd drew near the place, Awe in each eye, alarm in every face: So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind, That fear with pity mingled in each mind; Friends with the husband came their griefs to blend, For good-man Frankford was to all a friend. The last-born boy they held above the bier, He knew not grief, but cries express'd his fear; Each different age and sex reveal'd its pain, In now a louder, now a lower strain; While the meek father listening to their tones, Swell'd the full cadence of the grief by groans. The elder sister strove her pangs to hide, And soothing words to younger minds applied'. "Be still, be patient;" oft she strove to stay; But fail'd as oft, and weeping turn'd away. Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill The village lads stood melancholy still; And idle children, wandering to and fro. As Nature guided, took the tone of woe. Arrived at home, how then they gazed around On every place—where she no more was found; - The seat at table she was wont to fill; The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still; The garden-walks, a labour all her own; The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown, The Sunday-pew she fill'd with all her race, - Each place of hers, was now a sacred place That, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes, Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise. Oh sacred sorrow! by whom souls are tried, Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide; If thou art mine (and who shall proudly dare To tell his Maker, he has had a share!) Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent, And be my guide, and not my punishment! Of Leah Cousins next the name appears, With honours crown'd and blest with length of years, Save that she lived to feel, in life's decay, The pleasure die, the honours drop away; A matron she, whom every village-wife View'd as the help and guardian of her life, Fathers and sons, indebted to her aid, Respect to her and her profession paid; Who in the house of plenty largely fed, Yet took her station at the pauper's bed; Nor from that duty could be bribed again, While fear or danger urged her to remain: In her experience all her friends relied. Heaven was her help and nature was her guide. Thus Leah lived; long trusted, much caress'd, Till a Town-Dame a youthful farmer bless'd; A gay vain bride, who would example give To that poor village where she deign'd to live; Some few months past, she sent, in hour of need, For Doctor Glibb, who came with wond'rous speed, Two days he waited, all his art applied, To save the mother when her infant died: - "'Twas well I came," at last he deign'd to say; "'Twas wondrous well;"—and proudly rode away. The news ran round;—"How vast the Doctor's pow'r!" He saved the Lady in the trying hour; Saved her from death, when she was dead to hope, And her fond husband had resign'd her up: So all, like her, may evil fate defy, If Doctor Glibb, with saving hand, be nigh. Fame (now his friend), fear, novelty, and whim, And fashion, sent the varying sex to him: From this, contention in the village rose; And these the Dame espoused; the Doctor those, The wealthier part to him and science went; With luck and her the poor remain'd content. The Matron sigh'd; for she was vex'd at heart, With so much profit, so much fame, to part: "So long successful in my art," she cried, "And this proud man, so young and so untried!" "Nay," said the Doctor, "dare you trust your wives, The joy, the pride, the solace of your lives, To one who acts and knows no reason why, But trusts, poor hag! to luck for an ally? - Who, on experience, can her claims advance, And own the powers of accident and chance? A whining dame, who prays in danger's view, (A proof she knows not what beside to do;) What's her experience? In the time that's gone, Blundering she wrought, and still she blunders on:- And what is Nature? One who acts in aid Of gossips half asleep and half afraid: With such allies I scorn my fame to blend, Skill is my luck and courage is my friend: No slave to Nature, 'tis my chief delight To win my way and act in her despite:- Trust then my art, that, in itself complete, Needs no assistance and fears no defeat." Warm'd by her well-spiced ale and aiding pipe, The angry Matron grew for contest ripe. "Can you," she said, "ungrateful and unjust, Before experience, ostentation trust! What is your hazard, foolish daughters, tell? If safe, you're certain; if secure, you're well: That I have luck must friend and foe confess, And what's good judgment but a lucky guess? He boasts, but what he can do: —will you run From me, your friend! who, all lie boasts, have done? By proud and learned words his powers are known; By healthy boys and handsome girls my own: Wives! fathers! children! by my help you live; Has this pale Doctor more than life to give? No stunted cripple hops the village round; Your hands are active and your heads are sound; My lads are all your fields and flocks require; My lasses all those sturdy lads admire. Can this proud leech, with all his boasted skill, Amend the soul or body, wit or will? Does he for courts the sons of farmers frame, Or make the daughter differ from the dame? Or, whom he brings into this world of woe, Prepares he them their part to undergo? If not, this stranger from your doors repel, And be content to BE and to be WELL." She spake; but, ah! with words too strong and plain; Her warmth offended, and her truth was vain: The many left her, and the friendly few, If never colder, yet they older grew; Till, unemploy'd, she felt her spirits droop, And took, insidious aid! th' inspiring cup; Grew poor and peevish as her powers decay'd, And propp'd the tottering frame with stronger aid, Then died! I saw our careful swains convey, From this our changeful world, the Matron's clay, Who to this world, at least, with equal care, Brought them its changes, good and ill, to share. Now to his grave was Roger Cuff conveyed, And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid. Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found His brethren three—and thrice they wish'd him drown'd. "Is this a landsman's love? Be certain then, "We part for ever!"—and they cried, "Amen!" His words were truth's:- Some forty summers fled, His brethren died; his kin supposed him dead: Three nephews these, one sprightly niece, and one, Less near in blood—they call'd him surly John; He work'd in woods apart from all his kind, Fierce were his looks and moody was his mind. For home the sailor now began to sigh:- "The dogs are dead, and I'll return and die; When all I have, my gains, in years of care, The younger Cuffs with kinder souls shall share - Yet hold! I'm rich;—with one consent they'll say, 'You're welcome, Uncle, as the flowers in May.' No; I'll disguise me, be in tatters dress'd, And best befriend the lads who treat me best." Now all his kindred,—neither rich nor poor, - Kept the wolf want some distance from the door. In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate, And begg'd for aid, as he described his state:- But stern was George;—"Let them who had thee strong, Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along; To us a stranger, while your limbs would move, From us depart, and try a stranger's love:- "Ha! dost thou murmur?"—for, in Roger's throat, Was "Rascal!" rising with disdainful note. To pious James he then his prayer address'd; - "Good-lack," quoth James, "thy sorrows pierce my breast And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain, One board should feed us and one roof contain: But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray: And so farewell! Heaven help thee on thy way!" "Scoundrel!" said Roger (but apart);—and told His case to Peter;—Peter too was cold; "The rates are high; we have a-many poor; But I will think,"—he said, and shut the door. Then the gay niece the seeming pauper press'd; - "Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd: Akin to thine is this declining frame, And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name." "Avaunt! begone!" the courteous maiden said, "Thou vile impostor! Uncle Roger's dead: I hate thee, beast; thy look my spirit shocks; Oh! that I saw thee starving in the stocks!" "My gentle niece!" he said—and sought the wood, "I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me food!" "Give! am I rich? This hatchet take, and try Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie; Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal, Nor whine out woes thine own right-hand can heal; And while that hand is thine, and thine a leg, Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg." "Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view," Old Roger said;—"thy words are brave and true; Come, live with me: we'll vex those scoundrel-boys, And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys. - Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share, With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care; We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap, And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep." Such was their life; but when the woodman died, His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied - In vain; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door, And dying, built a refuge for the poor, With this restriction, That no Cuff should share One meal, or shelter for one moment there. My Record ends:- But hark! e'en now I hear The bell of death, and know not whose to fear: Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well; In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell: - Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes, For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times, "Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose days are sped? - What! he, himself!- and is old Dibble dead?" His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay d, And rectors five to one close vault convey'd:- But he is gone; his care and skill I lose, And gain a mournful subject for my Muse: His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore, And kindly add,—"Heaven grant, I lose no more!" Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance Appear'd at variance with his complaisance: For, as he told their fate and varying worth, He archly look'd,—"I yet may bear thee forth." "When first"—(he so began)—"my trade I plied, Good master Addle was the parish-guide; His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear, His stride majestic, and his frown severe; A noble pillar of the church he stood, Adorn'd with college-gown and parish hood: Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about, He fill'd the seven-fold surplice fairly out! But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer, He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair; For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceased, Th'expecting people view'd their slumbering priest; Who, dozing, died.—Our Parson Peele was next; 'I will not spare you,' was his favourite text; Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound; E'en me he mulct for my poor rood of ground; Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech, 'What should I do,' quoth he, 'but what I preach?' His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store) Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor; His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke; His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke: But though so young and blest with spirits high, He died as grave as any judge could die: The strong attack subdued his lively powers, - His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear ours. "Then were there golden times the village round; In his abundance all appear'd t'abound; Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread, E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed; Who wish'd and hoped,—and thought a man so kind A way to Heaven, though not their own, might find. To them, to all, he was polite and free, Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to me! 'Ralph,' would he say, 'Ralph Dibble, thou art old; That doublet fit, 'twill keep thee from the cold: How does my sexton?- What! the times are hard; Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.' But most, his rev'rence loved a mirthful jest:- 'Thy coat is thin; why, man, thou'rt BARELY dress'd It's worn to th' thread: but I have nappy beer; Clap that within, and see how they will wear!' "Gay days were these; but they were quickly past: When first he came, we found he couldn't last: A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf) Upset him quite;—but what's the gain of grief? "Then came the Author-Rector: his delight Was all in books; to read them or to write: Women and men he strove alike to shun, And hurried homeward when his tasks were done; Courteous enough, but careless what he said, For points of learning he reserved his head; And when addressing either poor or rich, He knew no better than his cassock which: He, like an osier, was of pliant kind, Erect by nature, but to bend inclined; Not like a creeper falling to the ground, Or meanly catching on the neighbours round: Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band, - And kindly took them as they came to hand, Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat, As if he sought for dignity in that: He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious rules; Nor turn'd from gipsies, vagabonds, or fools; It was his nature, but they thought it whim, And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him. Of questions, much he wrote, profound and dark, - How spake the serpent, and where stopp'd the ark; From what far land the queen of Sheba came; Who Salem's Priest, and what his father's name; He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield, And Revelations to the world reveal'd. He sleeps i' the aisle,—but not a stone records His name or fame, his actions or his words: And truth, your reverence, when I look around, And mark the tombs in our sepulchral ground (Though dare I not of one man's hope to doubt), I'd join the party who repose without. "Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and in truth He was a sober and a comely youth; He blush'd in meekness as a modest man, And gain'd attention ere his task began; When preaching, seldom ventured on reproof, But touch'd his neighbours tenderly enough. Him, in his youth, a clamorous sect assail'd, Advised and censured, flatter'd,—and prevail'd.- Then did he much his sober hearers vex, Confound the simple, and the sad perplex; To a new style his reverence rashly took; Loud grew his voice, to threat'ning swell'd his look; Above, below, on either side, he gazed, Amazing all, and most himself amazed: No more he read his preachments pure and plain, But launch'd outright, and rose and sank again: At times he smiled in scorn, at times he wept, And such sad coil with words of vengeance kept, That our blest sleepers started as they slept. 'Conviction comes like light'ning,' he would cry; 'In vain you seek it, and in vain you fly; 'Tis like the rushing of the mighty wind, Unseen its progress, but its power you find; It strikes the child ere yet its reason wakes; His reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes; The proud, learn'd man, and him who loves to know How and from whence those gusts of grace will blow, It shuns,—but sinners in their way impedes, And sots and harlots visits in their deeds: Of faith and penance it supplies the place; Assures the vilest that they live by grace, And, without running, makes them win the race.' "Such was the doctrine our young prophet taught; And here conviction, there confusion wrought; When his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue, And all the rose to one small spot withdrew, They call'd it hectic; 'twas a fiery flush, More fix'd and deeper than the maiden blush; His paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed, And lab'ring lungs the length'ning speech opposed. No more his span-girth shanks and quiv'ring thighs Upheld a body of the smaller size; But down he sank upon his dying bed, And gloomy crotchets fill'd his wandering head. 'Spite of my faith, all-saving faith,' he cried, 'I fear of worldly works the wicked pride; Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind, The good I've wrought still rankles in my mind; My alms-deeds all, and every deed I've done; My moral-rags defile me every one; It should not be:- what say'st thou! tell me, Ralph.' Quoth I, 'Your reverence, I believe, you're safe; Your faith's your prop, nor have you pass'd such time In life's good-works as swell them to a crime. If I of pardon for my sins were sure, About my goodness I would rest secure.' "Such was his end; and mine approaches fast; I've seen my best of preachers,—and my last," - He bow'd, and archly smiled at what he said, Civil but sly:- "And is old Dibble dead?" Yes; he is gone: and WE are going all; Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall; - Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come, Then bear the new-made Christian to its home: A few short years and we behold him stand To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand: A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear His widow weeping at her husband's bier:- Thus, as the months succeed, shall infants take Their names; thus parents shall the child forsake; Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel, By love or law compell'd their vows to seal, Ere I again, or one like me, explore These simple Annals of the VILLAGE POOR.

1801.



Footnotes:

{1} Note: Indentation and Punctuation as original.

{2} Allusions of this kind are to be found in the Fairy Queen. See the end of the First Book, and other places.