Oliver Goldsmith
¶[1728-1774]
When Lovely Woman Stoops
¶WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray,—What charm can soothe her melancholy,What art can wash her guilt away?
¶The only art her guilt to cover,To hide her shame from every eye,To give repentance to her lover,And wring his bosom, is—to die.
Retaliation
¶O F old, when Scarron his companions invited,Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united.If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains,Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains,Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,And Dick with his pepper, shall heighten the savour:Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain,And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain:Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we seeOil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:To make out the dinner full certain I am,That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb:That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.At a dinner so various, at such a repast,Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,[506]Till all my companions sink under the table;Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirthIf he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,At least, in six weeks I could not find them out;Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,And to party gave up what was meant for mankind:Tho' fraught with all learning, yet straining his throatTo persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.Here lies honest Richard whose fate I must sigh at;Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,[507]As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;A flattering painter, who made it his careTo draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,And comedy wonders at being so fine:Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.His fools have their follies so lost in a crowdOf virtues and feelings that folly grows proud;And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.Say, where has our poet this malady caught?Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?Say, was it that vainly directing his viewTo find out men's virtues, and finding them few,Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:When satire and censure encircled his throne,I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;But now he is gone, and we want a detector,Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kendricks shall lecture;Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,No countryman living their tricks to discover;Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man:As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,The man had his failings—a dupe to his art.Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,[508]And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.With no reason on earth to go out of his way,He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sickIf they were not his own by finessing and trick:He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.Ye Kendricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave!How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised!But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,To act as an angel and mix with the skies:Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,And slander itself must allow him good nature;He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper.Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:Too courteous perhaps, or obligingly flat?His very worse foe can't accuse him of that:Perhaps he confided in men as they go,And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye,—He was, could he help it? a special attorney.Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,He has not left a wiser or better behind.His pencil was striking, resisdess, and grand;[509]His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;Still born to improve us in every part,His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing;When they talk of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
The Deserted Village
¶SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,And parting Summer's lingering blooms delay'd;Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please:How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scenelHow often have I paused on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill;The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whispering lovers made!How often have I bless'd the coming day,When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired—The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love;The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,[510]With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed;These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled.Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,And Desolation saddens all thy green:One only master grasps the whole domain,And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;Along thy glades, a solitary guest,The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,And tires their echoes with unvaried cries:Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,Far, far away thy children leave the land.Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;A breath can make them, as a breath has made:But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.A time there was, ere England's griefs began,When every rood of ground maintain'd its man;For him light Labour spread her wholesome store,Just gave what life required, but gave no more:His best companions, Innocence and Health;And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.But times are alter'd; Trade's unfeeling trainUsurp the land, and dispossess the swain;Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;And every want to luxury allied,And every pang that folly pays to pride.Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,[511]Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green—These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,And rural mirth and manners are no more.Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.Here, as I take my solitary rounds,Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,And, many a year elapsed, return to viewWhere once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew—Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.In all my wanderings through this world of care,In all my griefs—and God has given my share—I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out life's taper at the close,And keep the flame from wasting, by repose:I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations past,Here to return—and die at home at last.O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,Retreats from care, that never must be mine,How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,A youth of labour with an age of ease;Who quits a world where strong temptations try,And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fiy!For him no wretches, born to work and weep,Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;No surly porter stands, in guilty state,To spurn imploring famine from the gate;But on he moves to meet his latter end,Angels around befriending virtue's friend;Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,While resignation gently slopes the way;And, all his prospects brightening to the last,[512]His heaven commences ere the world be past!Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,The mingled notes came soften'd from below;The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,The playful children just let loose from school;The watch dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;—These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.But now the sounds of population fail,No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,No busy steps the grass-grown footway treadBut all the bloomy flush of life is fled—All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;She, wretched matron,—forced, in age, for bread,To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn,—She only left of all the harmless train,The sad historian of the pensive plain.Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,And still where many a garden-flower grows wild,There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,The village preacher's modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a year.Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for powerBy doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.His house was known to all the vagrant train;He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,[513]Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;—Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,And quite forgot their vices in their woe;Careless their merits or their faults to scan,His pity gave ere charity began.Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side;But in his duty prompt at every call,He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.Beside the bed where parting life was laid,And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,The reverend champion stood. At his control,Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.At church, with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorn'd the venerable place;Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.The service past, around the pious manWith steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile,And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd;Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd;To them his heart, his love, his griefs were givenBut all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,[514]Eternal sunshine settles on its head.Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,The village master taught his little school.A man severe he was, and stern to view;I knew him well, and every truant knew:Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to traceThe day's disasters in his morning face;Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited gleeAt all his jokes, for many a joke had he;Full well the busy whisper, circling round,Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault.The village all declared how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,And even the story ran that he could gauge.In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill,For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still;While words of learned length and thundering soundAmazed the gazing rustics ranged around;And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,That one small head could carry all he knew.But past is all his fame;—the very spotWhere many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,Now lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,And news much older than their ale went round.Imagination fondly stoops to traceThe parlour splendours of that festive place;The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door,The chest, contrived a double debt to pay,A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day,The pictures placed for ornament and use,[515]The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose,The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;—While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.Vain transitory splendours! Could not allReprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impartAn hour's importance to the poor man's heart.Thither no more the peasant shall repair,To sweet oblivion of his daily care;No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;The host himself no longer shall be foundCareful to see the mantling bliss go round;Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,These simple blessings of the lowly train;To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art.Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined:But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;And, even while Fashion's brightest arts decoy,The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who surveyThe rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits standBetween a splendid and a happy land.Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;Hoards, even beyond the miser's wish, abound,And rich men flock from all the world around.[516]Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a nameThat leaves our useful products still the same.Not so the loss. The man of wealth and prideTakes up a space that many poor supplied;Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;The robe that, wraps his limbs in silken sloth,Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth;His seat, where solitary sports are seen,Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;Around the world each needful product flies,For all the luxuries the world supplies;While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all,In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain,Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,When time advances, and when lovers fail,She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,In all the glaring impotence of dress;Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd;In nature's simplest charms at first array'd;—But verging to decline, its splendours rise,Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;While, scourged by famine, from the smiling landThe mournful peasant leads his humble band;And while he sinks, without one arm to save,The country blooms—a garden and a grave!Where, then, ah! where shall poverty reside,To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,And even the bare-worn common is denied.If to the city sped—what waits him there?To see profusion that he must not share;To see ten thousand baneful arts combinedTo pamper luxury and thin mankind;To see each joy the sons of pleasure know[517]Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe:Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;Here while the proud their long-drawn pomp display,There the black gibbet glooms beside the way:The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign,Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!Sure these denote one universal joy!—Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyesWhere the poor houseless shivering female lies:She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd,Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd;Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn:Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue, fled,Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,When idly first, ambitious of the town,She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,Where half the convex world intrudes between,Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.Far different there from all that charm'd before,The various terrors of that horrid shore;Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,And fiercely shed intolerable day;Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd,Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;Where at each step the stranger fears to wakeThe rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;[518]Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,And savage men more murderous still than they:While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.Far different these from every former scene,The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,The breezy covert of the warbling grove,That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,That call'd them from their native walks away;When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last,And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain,For seats like these beyond the western main;And shuddering still to face the distant deep,Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep!The good old sire the first prepared to goTo new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,The fond companion of his helpless years,Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,And left a lover's for a father's arms.With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose,And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;Whilst her fond husband strove to lend reliefIn all the silent manliness of grief.O Luxury, thou cursed by Heaven's decree,How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!How do thy potions, with insidious joy,Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness grown,Boast of a florid vigour not their own;At every draught more large and large they grow,A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;[519]Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.E'en now the devastation is begun,And half the business of destruction done;E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,I see the rural Virtues leave the land.Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sailThat idly waiting flaps with every gale,Downward they move, a melancholy band,Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand;Contented Toil, and hospitable Care,And kind connubial Tenderness are there;And Piety with wishes placed above,And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love.And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maidStill first to fly where sensual joys invade!Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!Farewell! and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain;Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;Teach him that states of native strength possest,Though very poor, may still be very blest;That Trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole av/ay;While self-dependent power can time defyAs rocks resist the billows and the sky.
The Traveller;Or,A Prospect of Society
¶REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po;Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor,Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,A weary waste expanding to the skies:Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee;Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
¶Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,And round his dwelling guardian saints attend:Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retireTo pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire;Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair,And every stranger finds a ready chair;Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,Where all the ruddy family aroundLaugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale,Or press the bashful stranger to his food,And learn the luxury of doing good.
¶But me, not destin'd such delights to share,My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care,Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursueSome fleeting good, that mocks me with the viewThat, like the circle bounding earth and skies,Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,And find no spot of all the world my own.
¶Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;And, plac'd on high above the storm's career,[521]Look downward where an hundred realms appear;Lakes, forests, cities, plain, extending wide,The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
¶When thus Creation's charms around combine,Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine?Say, should the philosophic mind disdainThat good, which makes each humbler bosom vain?Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,These little things are great to little man;And wiser he, whose sympathetic mindExults in all the good of all mankind.Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd,Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round,Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale,Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale,For me your tributary stores combine;Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!
¶As some lone miser visiting his store,Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts it o'er;Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,Pleas'd with each good that heaven to man supplies:Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,To see the hoard of human bliss so small;And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to findSome spot to real happiness consign'd,Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at restMay gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd.
¶But where to find that happiest spot below,Who can direct, when all pretend to know?The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zoneBoldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,And his long nights of revelry and ease;The naked negro, panting at the line,Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,[522]Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,His first, best country ever is, at home.And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,And estimate the blessings which they share,Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom findAn equal portion dealt to all mankind,As different good, by Art or Nature given,To different nations makes their blessings even.
¶Nature, a mother kind alike to all,Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call;With food as well the peasant is suppliedOn Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;And though the rocky-crested summits frown,These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.From Art more various are the blessings sent;Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content.Yet these each other's power so strong contest,That either seems destructive of the rest.Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails,And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone,Conforms and models life to that alone.Each to the favourite happiness attends,And spurns the plan that aims at other ends;Till, carried to excess in each domain,This favourite good begets peculiar pain.
¶But let us try these truths with closer eyes,And trace them through the prospect as it lies:Here for a while my proper cares resign'd,Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind,Like yon neglected shrub at random cast,That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.
¶Far to the right where Apennine ascends,Bright as the summer, Italy extends;Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,[523]Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;While oft some temple's mould'ring tops betweenWith venerable grandeur mark the scene.
¶Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,The sons of Italy were surely blest.Whatever fruits in different climes were found,That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,Whose bright succession decks the varied year;Whatever sweets salute the northern skyWith vernal lives that blossom but to die;These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;While sea-born gales their gelid wings expandTo winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
¶But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.In florid beauty groves and fields appear,Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.Contrasted faults through all his manners reign,Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain,Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;And e'en in penance planning sins anew.All evils here contaminate the mindThat opulence departed leaves behind;For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date,When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state;At her command the palace learn'd to rise,Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies;The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm,The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form;Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,Commerce on other shores display'd her sail;While nought remain'd of all that riches gave,But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave;And late the nation found with fruitless skillIts former strength was but plethoric ill.[524]Yet still the loss of wealth is here suppliedBy arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mindAn easy compensation seem to find.Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade;Processions form'd for piety and love,A mistress or a saint in every grove.By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd,The sports of children satisfy the child;Each nobler aim, represt by long control,Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;While low delights, succeeding fast behind,In happier meanness occupy the mind:As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway,Defac'd by time and tottering in decay,There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed,And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile,Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
¶My soul, turn from them, turn we to surveyWhere rougher climes a nobler race display,Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,And force a churlish soil for scanty bread;No product here the barren hills afford,But man and steel, the soldier and his sword.No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May;No Zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
¶Yet still, ev'n here, content can spread a charm,Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small,He sees his little lot the lot of all;Sees no contiguous palace rear its headTo shame the meanness of his humble shed;No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal,To make him loathe his vegetable meal;[525]But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes;With patient angle trolls the finny deep,Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep,Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,And drags the struggling savage into day.At night returning, every labour sped,He sits him down the monarch of a shed;Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveysHis children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,Displays her cleanly platter on the board:And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
¶Thus every good his native wilds impart,Imprints the patriot passion on his heart,And ev'n those ills, that round his mansion rise,Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar,But bind him to his native mountains more.
¶Such are the charms to barren states assigned;Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd.Yet let them only share the praises due,If few their wants, their pleasures are but few;For every want that stimulates the breastBecomes a source of pleasure when redrest.Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies,That first excites desire, and then supplies;Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,To fill the languid pause with finer joy;Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame.[526]Their level life is but a smould'ring fire,Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire;Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheerOn some high festival of once a year,In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
¶But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow:Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low,For, as refinement stops, from sire to sonUnalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run;And love's and friendship's finely pointed dartFall blunted from each indurated heart.Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breastMay sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest;But all the gentler morals, such as playThrough life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the \These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly,To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
¶To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,I turn; and France displays her bright domain.Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease,Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please,How often have I led thy sportive choir,With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire?Where shading elms along the margin grew,And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew;And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill;Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.Alike all ages. Dames of ancient daysHave led their children through the mirthful maze,And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore.
¶So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,Thus idly busy rolls their world away:Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,For honour forms the social temper here:[527]Honour, that praise which real merit gains,Or even imaginary worth obtains,Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:From courts to camps to cottages it strays,And all are taught an avarice of praise.They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem,Till seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
¶But while this softer art their bliss supplies,It gives their follies also room to rise;For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;And the weak soul, within itself unblest,Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,To boast one splendid banquet once a year;The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
¶To men of other minds my fancy flies,Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies.Methinks her patient sons before me stand,Where the broad ocean leans against the land,And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow;Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore:While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile,Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,—A new creation rescued from his reign.[528]Thus, while around the wave-subjected soilImpels the native to repeated toil,Industrious habits in each bosom reign,And industry begets a love of gain.Hence all the good from opulence that springs,With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,Are here displayed. Their much lov'd wealth impartsConvenience, plenty, elegance, and arts;But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,Ev'n liberty itself is barter'd here.At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,And calmly bent, to servitude conform,Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
¶Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old!Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold;War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;How much unlike the sons of Britain now!
¶Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,And flies where Britain courts the western spring;Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide.There all around the gentlest breezes stray,There gentle music melts on every spray;Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd,Extremes are only in the master's mind!Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state,With daring aims irregularly great,Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,I see the lords of human kind pass by,Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand;Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,True to imagin'd right, above control,While ev'n the peasant boasts these rights to scan,And learns to venerate himself as man.[529]Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here,Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;Too bless'd, indeed, were such without alloy,But foster'd ev'n by Freedom, ills annoy:That independence Britons prize too high,Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown;Here by the bonds of nature feebly held,Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd.Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore,Till over-wrought, the general system feelsIts motions stop, or phrenzy fires the wheels.
¶Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,As duty, love, and honour fail to sway,Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.Hence all obedience bows to these alone,And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;Till time may come, when stripp'd of all her charms,The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame,One sink of level avarice shall lie,And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die.
¶Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state,I mean to flatter kings, or court the great;Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire,Far from my bosom drive the low desire;And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feelThe rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel;Thou transitory flower, alike undoneBy proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun,Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure!I only would repress them to secure:For just experience tells, in every soil,That those who think must govern those that toil;[530]And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach,Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.Hence, should one order disproportion^ grow,Its double weight must ruin all below.
¶O then how blind to all that earth requires,Who think it freedom when a part aspires!Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,Except when fast-approaching danger warms:But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,Contracting regal power to stretch their own,When I behold a factious band agreeTo call it freedom when themselves are free;Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam,Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home;Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.
¶Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour,When first ambition struck at regal power;And thus polluting honour in its source,Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore?Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste;Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain,Lead stern Depopulation in her train,And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose,In barren solitary pomp repose?Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call,The smiling long-frequented village fall?Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,The modest matron, and the blushing maid,Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train,To traverse climes beyond the western main;[531]Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound?
¶Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim straysThrough tangled forests, and through dangerous ways;Where beasts with man divided empire claim,And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim;There, while above the giddy tempest flies,And all around distressful yells arise,The pensive exile, bending with his woe,To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,Casts a long look where England's glories shine,And bids his bosom sympathise with mine.
¶Vain, very vain, my weary search to findThat bliss which only centres in the mind:Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose,To seek a good each government bestows?In every government, though terrors reign,Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain,How small, of all that human hearts endure,That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,Our own felicity we make or find:With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.The lifted axe, the agonising wheel,Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,To men remote from power but rarely known,Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.