George Crabbe

“ No school-day wealth that roll'd in silver tides,
No dreams of hope that won my early will,
Nor love, that pain'd in temporary thrill;
No gold to deck my pleasure-scorn'd abode,
No friend to whisper peace, to give me food.
Poor to the World, I'd yet not live in vain,
But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain.
Yet shall not Satire all my song engage
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In indiscriminate and idle rage;
True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line,
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And long—if Vanity deceives not—shine. ”

“ Yet more, kind dealers in decaying fame?
His magnanimity you next proclaim;
You give him learning, join'd with sound good sense,
And match his wealth with his benevolence;
What hides the multitude of sins, you add—
Yet seem to doubt if sins he ever had.
120 Poor honest Truth! thou writ'st of living men,
And art a railer and detractor then;
They die, again to be described, and now
A foe to merit and mankind art thou!
Why banish truth? it injures not the dead;
It aids not them with flattery to be fed;
And, when mankind such perfect pictures view,
They copy less, the more they think them true. ”

“ Slow pass'd the days of the successless year;
Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then
Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men:
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And when thy heart has felt its wish denied,
What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied;
Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed,
By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed;
Then I have seen thy lively looks express
The spirit's comforts in the man's distress.
"Then didst thou cry, exulting, 'Yes, 'tis fit,
'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit;'
And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh
Against such triumphs?—Oh! repent and pray. ”

“ Yet still my days of grief I find;
The former clouds' collected gloom
Still sadden the reflecting mind;
The soul, to evil things consign'd.
Will of their evil some retain;
The man will seem to earth inclined,
And will not look erect again.
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Thus, though elect, I feel it hard
To lose what I possess'd before,
To be from all my wealth debarr'd:—
The brave Sir Eustace is no more.
But old I wax and passing poor,
Stern, rugged men my conduct view;
They chide my wish, they bar my door,
'Tis hard—I weep—you see I do.—
Must you, my friends, no longer stay? ”

“ To breathe in pain and sigh its soul away!
"But why thus lent, if thus recall'd again,
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To cause and feel, to live and die, in pain?"
Or rather say, Why grievous these appear,
If all it pays for Heaven's eternal year;
If these sad sobs and piteous sighs secure
Delights that live, when worlds no more endure?
The sister-spirit long may lodge below,
And pains from nature, pains from reason, know;
Through all the common ills of life may run,
By hope perverted and by love undone;
A wife's distress, a mother's pangs, may dread,
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And widow-tears, in bitter anguish, shed ”

“ Man walk'd with beast, joint tenant of the shade;
The same his table, and the same his bed;
No murder cloath'd him, and no murder fed.
In the same temple, the resounding wood,
All vocal beings hymn'd their equal God;
The shrine with gore unstain'd, with gold undrest;
Unbrib'd, unbloody, stood the blameless priest;
Heav'n's attribute was universal care,
And Man's prerogative to rule, but spare.
Ah! how unlike the man of times to come!
Of half that live the butcher and the tomb;
Who, foe to Nature, hears the gen'ral groan,
Murders their species, and betrays his own. ”

“ Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls;
She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream,
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Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme.
But, when she sees a titled nothing stand
The ready cipher of a trembling land—
Not of that simple kind that, placed alone,
Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none;
But those which, join'd to figures, well express
A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress,
Grow in proportion to their number great,
And help each other in the ranks of state—
When this and more the pensive Muses see,
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They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee ”

“ Some hearts are hidden; some have not a heart.
First let me praise—for so I best shall paint—
That pious moralist, that reasoning saint!
Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak?
The man is willing, but the muse is weak;—
'Tis thine to wait on wo! to soothe! to heal!
With learning social, and polite with zeal:
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In thy pure breast although the passions dwell,
They're train'd by virtue and no more rebel;
But have so long been active on her side,
That passion now might be itself the guide.
Law, conscience, honour, all obey'd; all give
Th' approving voice, and make it bliss to live ”

“ His wealth would last him till his life was closed;
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But no! he found his final hoard was spent,
While he had years to suffer and repent.
Yet at the last, his noble mind to show,
And in his misery how he bore the blow,
He view'd his only guinea, then suppress'd
For a short time, the tumults in his breast,
And, moved by pride, by habit and despair,
Gave it an opera-bird to hum an air.
Come ye! who live for pleasure, come, behold
A man of pleasure when he's poor and old;
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When he looks back through life, and cannot find
A single action to relieve his mind ”

“ He sigh'd and said, "Enough—'tis very good."
Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be
As once it was—he seeing could not see,
Nor hearing, hear aright;—when first, I came
Within his view, I fancied there was shame,
I judged, resentment; I mistook the air—
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These fainter passions live not with despair,
Or but exist and die;—Hope, fear, and love,
Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move,
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power. ”

“ Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young;
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
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He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he made:
Yet now, would Phœbe her consent afford,
Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth—she sigh'd and look'd consent. ”

“ The sons of learning may to wealth advance;
Nor station high, though in some favouring hour
The sons of learning may arrive at power;
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Nor is it glory, though the public voice
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Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice;
But 'tis the mind's own feelings give the joy,
Pleasures she gathers in her own employ—
Pleasures that gain or praise cannot bestow,
Yet can dilate and raise them when they flow.
For this the poet looks the world around,
Where form and life and reasoning man are found.
He loves the mind in all its modes to trace,
And all the manners of the changing race ”

“ Where none can stop, or take their journey back!
Then what is vice or virtue?—Yet he'll rail
At priests till memory and quotation fail;
He reads, to learn the various ills they've done,
And calls them vipers, every mother's son.
He is the harlot's aid, who wheedling tries
To move her friend for vanity's supplies;
To weak indulgence he allures the mind,
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Loth to be duped, but willing to be kind;
And if successful—what the labour pays?
He gets the friend's contempt and Chloe's praise,
Who, in her triumph, condescends to say,
"What a good creature Blaney was to-day!" ”

“ For others when we hold it forth,
They, in their pride, the boon refuse.
By long experience taught, we now
Can rightly judge of friends and foes,
Can all the worth of these allow,
And all their faults discern in those;
Relentless hatred, erring love,
We can for sacred truth forego;
We can the warmest friend reprove,
40 And bear to praise the fiercest foe:
To what effect? Our friends are gone,
Beyond reproof, regard, or care;
And of our foes remains there one,
The mild relenting thoughts to share?
Now 'tis our boast that we can quell
The wildest passions in their rage ”

“ Urged me to labour and renew'd my strength.
200 "I strove for patience as a sinner must,
Yet felt th' opinion of the world unjust:
There was my lover, in his joy, esteem'd,
And I, in my distress, as guilty deem'd;
Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belong
To her who feels and suffers for the wrong.
The cheat at play may use the wealth he's won,
But is not honour'd for the mischief done;
The cheat in love may use each villain-art,
And boast the deed that breaks the victim's heart. ”

“ His strength departed, and his labour done;
When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more,
But lost his wife and saw his children poor:
'Twas then, a spark of—say not, discontent—
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Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:
"Kind are your laws, ('tis not to be denied,)
That in yon house for ruin'd age provide,
And they are just;—when young, we give you all,
And for assistance in our weakness call.—
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your poor, and eat the parish-bread?
But yet I linger, loth with him to feed,
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ”

“ What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
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For that impatience which we then display'd;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;
Virtues, neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted blossom on the tomb.
'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe
That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)
To all that praise which on the tomb is read,
To all that passion dictates for the dead ”

“ The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;
'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise
Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep,
When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,
When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,
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And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest—
Why then denies the studious man to share
Man's common good, who feels his common care?
Because the hope is his, that bids him fly
Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;
That after-ages may repeat his praise,
And fame's fair meed be his for length of days. ”

“ Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race;
Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth,
And let thy labours one by one go forth;
Some happier scrap capricious wits may find
On a fair day, and be profusely kind;
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Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng,
Had pleased as little as a new-year's song,
Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet,
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Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet.
Merit not always—Fortune feeds the bard,
And, as the whim inclines, bestows reward;
None without wit, nor with it numbers gain;
To please is hard, but none shall please in vain. ”

“ But these are men who yield such bless'd relief
That with the grievance they destroy the grief;
Their timely aid the needy sufferers find,
Their generous manner soothes the suffering mind;
Theirs is a gracious bounty, form'd to raise
Him whom it aids; their charity is praise;
A common bounty may relieve distress,
But whom the vulgar succour, they oppress;
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This, though a favour, is an honour too;
Though mercy's duty, yet 'tis merit's due:
When our relief from such resources rise,
All painful sense of obligation dies ”

“ Who of their scorn to Europe boast,
And paint their very demons white:
There, while the sterner sex disdains
To soothe the woes they cannot feel,
Woman will strive to heal his pains,
And weep for those she cannot heal.
Hers is warm pity's sacred glow;
10 From all her stores she bears a part,
And bids the spring of hope re-flow,
That languish'd in the fainting heart.
"What, though so pale his haggard face,
So sunk and sad his looks,"—she cries—
"And far unlike our nobler race,
With crisped locks and rolling eyes:
Yet misery marks him of our kind;
We see him lost, alone, afraid ”

“ Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart.
Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose,
Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse;
Or, should we sing the subject of the day,
To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away.
More bless'd the bards of that poetic time,
When all found readers who could find a rhyme;
Green grew the bays on every teeming head,
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And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read.
Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline;
Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?
Alas! new charms the wavering many gain,
And rival sheets the reader's eye detain ”

“ Such are the guardians of this bless'd estate;
Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate;
That they are men, and have their faults, is true,
But here their worth alone appears in view:
The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,
Has something of the secrets there express'd,
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But yet in charity;—and, when she sees
Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease,
And knows how much united minds effect,
She almost dreads their failings to detect;
But truth commands:—in man's erroneous kind,
Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind ”

“ Who comes?—Approach!—'tis kindly done:—
My learn'd physician, and a friend,
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Their pleasures quit, to visit one
Who cannot to their ease attend,
Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend,
As when I lived so bless'd, so well,
And dreamt not I must soon contend
With those malignant powers of hell.
PHYSICIAN.
Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go.—
PATIENT.
See! I am calm as infant-love,
A very child, but one of wo,
Whom you should pity, not reprove:—
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But men at ease, who never strove
With passions wild, will calmly show
How soon we may their ills remove,
And masters of their madness grow. ”

“ My infant-sufferer found relief;
And, in the pilfer'd treasure pleased,
Smiled on my guilt, and hush'd my grief.
But I have griefs of other kind,
Troubles and sorrows more severe;
Give me to ease my tortured mind,
30 Lend to my woes a patient ear;
And let me—if I may not find
A friend to help—find one to hear.
Yet nameless let me plead—my name
Would only wake the cry of scorn;
A child of sin, conceived in shame,
Brought forth in wo, to misery born. ”

“ Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye:
For, soon as morning dawns with roseate hue,
The Herald of the morn arises too;
Post after Post succeeds, and, all day long,
Gazettes and Ledgers swarm, a noisy throng.
When evening comes, she comes with all her train
Of Ledgers, Chronicles, and Posts again—
Like bats, appearing, when the sun goes down,
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From holes obscure and corners of the town.
Of all these triflers, all like these, I write;
Oh! like my subject could my song delight,
The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise,
And all the Alley echo to his praise. ”