Part 2 — THE BOROUGH. (continued 3)

These are monarchs none respect; Heroes, yet an humbled crew; Nobles, whom the crowd correct; Wealthy men, whom duns pursue; Beauties, shrinking from the view Of the day's detecting eye; Lovers, who with much ado Long-forsaken damsels woo, And heave the ill-feign'd sigh.

These are misers, craving means Of existence through the day; Famous scholars, conning scenes Of a dull bewildering play; Ragged beaux and misses grey, Whom the rabble praise and blame; Proud and mean, and sad and gay, Toiling after ease, are they, Infamous[63], and boasting fame.

} Drawn by the annual call, we now behold } Our troop dramatic, heroes known of old, } And those, since last they march'd, inlisted and enroll'd: Mounted on hacks or borne in waggons some, The rest on foot (the humbler brethren) come. Three favour'd places, an unequal time, Join to support this company sublime: } Ours for the longer period—see how light } Yon parties move, their former friends in sight, } 10 Whose claims are all allow'd, and friendship glads the night. Now public rooms shall sound with words divine, And private lodgings hear how heroes shine; No talk of pay shall yet on pleasure steal, But kindest welcome bless the friendly meal; While o'er the social jug and decent cheer, Shall be described the fortunes of the year. Peruse these bills, and see what each can do,— Behold! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew; Change but the garment, and they'll all engage 20 To take each part, and act in every age. Cull'd from all houses, what a house are they! Swept from all barns, our borough-critics say; But with some portion of a critic's ire, We all endure them; there are some admire: They might have praise, confined to farce alone; Full well they grin—they should not try to groan; But then our servants' and our seamen's wives Love all that rant and rapture as their lives; He who 'Squire Richard's part could well sustain, 30 Finds as King Richard he must roar amain, "My horse! my horse!"—Lo! now to their abodes, Come lords and lovers, empresses and gods. The master-mover of these scenes has made No trifling gain in this adventurous trade;— Trade we may term it, for he duly buys Arms out of use and undirected eyes; These he instructs, and guides them as he can, And vends each night the manufactured man. Long as our custom lasts, they gladly stay, 40 Then strike their tents, like Tartars! and away! The place grows bare where they too long remain, But grass will rise ere they return again. Children of Thespis, welcome! knights and queens! Counts! barons! beauties! when before your scenes, And mighty monarchs thund'ring from your throne; Then step behind, and all your glory's gone: Of crown and palace, throne and guards bereft, The pomp is vanish'd, and the care is left. Yet strong and lively is the joy they feel, 50 When the full house secures the plenteous meal; Flatt'ring and flatter'd, each attempts to raise A brother's merits for a brother's praise: For never hero shows a prouder heart, Than he who proudly acts a hero's part— Nor without cause; the boards, we know, can yield Place for fierce contest, like the tented field. Graceful to tread the stage, to be in turn The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn; Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd, 60 The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud: These are their parts—and he who these sustains Deserves some praise and profit for his pains. } Heroes at least of gentler kind are they, } Against whose swords no weeping widows pray, } No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their way. Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depress'd; Your days all pass'd in jeopardy and jest; Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain, Not warn'd by misery, not enrich'd by gain; 70 Whom justice pitying, chides from place to place, A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race; Who cheerful looks assume, and play the parts Of happy rovers with repining hearts; Then cast off care, and in the mimic pain Of tragic wo, feel spirits light and vain, Distress and hope—the mind's, the body's wear, The man's affliction, and the actor's tear: Alternate times of fasting and excess Are yours, ye smiling children of distress. } 80 Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom seems, } And with your varying views and restless schemes, } Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams. Yet keen those griefs—ah! what avail thy charms, Fair Juliet! what that infant in thine arms; What those heroic lines thy patience learns, What all the aid thy present Romeo earns, Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain, With all thy plaintive sisters to complain? Nor is there lack of labour.—To rehearse, 90 Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse; To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite; To hide in rant the heart-ache of the night; To dress in gaudy patch-work, and to force The mind to think on the appointed course: This is laborious, and may be defined The bootless labour of the thriftless mind. There is a veteran dame—I see her stand Intent and pensive with her book in hand; Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part, 100 Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart; Across the room she paces, gets her tone, And fits her features for the Danish throne; To-night a queen—I mark her motion slow, I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother know. Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try For strength of arms and energy of eye; With vigour lost, and spirits worn away, Her pomp and pride she labours to display; And when awhile she's tried her part to act, 110 To find her thoughts arrested by some fact; When struggles more and more severe are seen In the plain actress than the Danish queen;— At length she feels her part, she finds delight, And fancies all the plaudits of the night: Old as she is, she smiles at every speech, And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach. But, as the mist of vanity again Is blown away by press of present pain, Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies 120 For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies; Then to her task she sighing turns again,— "Oh! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!" And who that poor, consumptive, wither'd thing, Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing? Panting for breath, and forced her voice to drop, And far unlike the inmate of the shop, Where she, in youth and health, alert and gay, Laugh'd off at night the labours of the day; With novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers, 130 And sister-converse pass'd the evening-hours; But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong, Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong. The morning-call and counter were her dread, And her contempt the needle and the thread; But, when she read a gentle damsel's part, Her wo, her wish—she had them all by heart. At length the hero of the boards drew nigh, Who spake of love till sigh re-echo'd sigh; He told in honey'd words his deathless flame, 140 And she his own by tender vows became; Nor ring nor licence needed souls so fond, Alphonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond: And thus the simple girl, to shame betray'd, Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay'd. Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope, See her, the grief and scandal of the troop; A wretched martyr to a childish pride, Her wo insulted, and her praise denied; Her humble talents, though derided, used, 150 Her prospects lost, her confidence abused; All that remains—for she not long can brave Increase of evils—is an early grave, Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed What dreams ye cherish, and what books ye read. A decent sum had Peter Nottage made, By joining bricks—to him a thriving trade. Of his employment master and his wife, This humble tradesman led a lordly life; The house of kings and heroes lack'd repairs, 160 And Peter, though reluctant, served the players: Connected thus, he heard in way polite,— "Come, Master Nottage, see us play to-night." At first 'twas folly, nonsense, idle stuff, But seen for nothing it grew well enough; And better now—now best, and every night In this fool's paradise he drank delight; And, as he felt the bliss, he wish'd to know Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow; For, if the seeing could such pleasure bring, 170 What must the feeling?—feeling like a king? In vain his wife, his uncle, and his friend, Cried—"Peter! Peter! let such follies end; 'Tis well enough these vagabonds to see, But would you partner with a showman be?" "Showman!" said Peter, "did not Quin and Clive, And Roscius-Garrick, by the science thrive? Showman!—'tis scandal; I'm by genius led To join a class who've Shakspeare at their head." Poor Peter thus by easy steps became 180 A dreaming candidate for scenic fame; And, after years consumed, infirm and poor, He sits and takes the tickets at the door. Of various men these marching troops are made— Pen-spurning clerks, and lads contemning trade; Waiters and servants by confinement teased, And youths of wealth by dissipation eased; With feeling nymphs, who, such resource at hand, Scorn to obey the rigour of command; Some, who from higher views by vice are won, 190 And some of either sex by love undone; The greater part lamenting as their fall What some an honour and advancement call. There are who names in shame or fear assume, And hence our Bevilles and our Savilles come: It honours him, from tailor's board kick'd down, As Mister Dormer to amuse the town; Falling, he rises: but a kind there are Who dwell on former prospects, and despair; Justly, but vainly, they their fate deplore, 200 And mourn their fall who fell to rise no more. Our merchant Thompson, with his sons around, Most mind and talent in his Frederick found: He was so lively, that his mother knew, If he were taught, that honour must ensue; The father's views were in a different line; But if at college he were sure to shine, Then should he go—to prosper, who could doubt— When school-boy stigmas would be all wash'd out; For there were marks upon his youthful face, 210 'Twixt vice and error—a neglected case: These would submit to skill; a little time, And none could trace the error or the crime; Then let him go, and once at college, he Might choose his station—what would Frederick be? 'Twas soon determined.—He could not descend To pedant-laws and lectures without end; And then the chapel—night and morn to pray, Or mulct and threaten'd if he kept away; No! not to be a bishop—so he swore, 220 And at his college he was seen no more. His debts all paid, the father with a sigh, Placed him in office—"Do, my Frederick, try; "Confine thyself a few short months, and then——" He tried a fortnight, and threw down the pen. Again demands were hush'd: "My son, you're free, But you're unsettled; take your chance at sea:" So in few days the midshipman equipp'd, Received the mother's blessing and was shipp'd. Hard was her fortune! soon compell'd to meet 230 The wretched stripling staggering through the street; For, rash, impetuous, insolent and vain, The captain sent him to his friends again. About the borough roved th' unhappy boy, And ate the bread of every chance-employ; Of friends he borrow'd, and the parents yet In secret fondness authorised the debt; The younger sister, still a child, was taught To give with feign'd affright the pittance sought; For now the father cried—"It is too late 240 For trial more—I leave him to his fate"— Yet left him not; and with a kind of joy The mother heard of her desponding boy: At length he sicken'd, and he found, when sick, All aid was ready, all attendance quick; A fever seized him, and at once was lost The thought of trespass, error, crime and cost; Th' indulgent parents knelt beside the youth; They heard his promise and believed his truth; And, when the danger lessen'd on their view, 250 They cast off doubt, and hope assurance grew;— Nursed by his sisters, cherish'd by his sire, Begg'd to be glad, encouraged to aspire, His life, they said, would now all care repay, And he might date his prospects from that day; A son, a brother to his home received, They hoped for all things, and in all believed. And now will pardon, comfort, kindness, draw The youth from vice? will honour, duty, law? Alas! not all: the more the trials lent, 260 The less he seem'd to ponder and repent; Headstrong, determined in his own career, He thought reproof unjust and truth severe; The soul's disease was to its crisis come, He first abused and then abjured his home; And when he chose a vagabond to be, He made his shame his glory—"I'll be free." Friends, parents, relatives, hope, reason, love, With anxious ardour for that empire strove; In vain their strife, in vain the means applied, 270 They had no comfort, but that all were tried; One strong vain trial made, the mind to move, Was the last effort of parental love. Ev'n then he watch'd his father from his home, And to his mother would for pity come, Where, as he made her tender terrors rise, He talk'd of death, and threaten'd for supplies. Against a youth so vicious and undone All hearts were closed, and every door but one: The players received him; they with open heart 280 Gave him his portion and assign'd his part; And ere three days were added to his life, He found a home, a duty, and a wife. His present friends, though they were nothing nice, Nor ask'd how vicious he, or what his vice, Still they expected he should now attend To the joint duty as an useful friend; The leader too declared, with frown severe, That none should pawn a robe that kings might wear; And much it moved him, when he Hamlet play'd, 290 To see his Father's Ghost so drunken made. Then too the temper, the unbending pride Of this ally would no reproof abide:— So, leaving these, he march'd away and join'd Another troop, and other goods purloin'd; And other characters, both gay and sage, Sober and sad, made stagger on the stage; Then to rebuke, with arrogant disdain, He gave abuse, and sought a home again. Thus changing scenes, but with unchanging vice, 300 Engaged by many, but with no one twice: Of this, a last and poor resource, bereft, He to himself, unhappy guide! was left— And who shall say where guided? to what seats Of starving villany? of thieves and cheats? In that sad time, of many a dismal scene Had he a witness (not inactive) been; Had leagued with petty pilferers, and had crept, Where of each sex degraded numbers slept. } With such associates he was long allied, } 310 Where his capacity for ill was tried, } And, that once lost, the wretch was cast aside; For now, though willing with the worst to act, He wanted powers for an important fact; And, while he felt as lawless spirits feel, His hand was palsied, and he couldn't steal. By these rejected, is there lot so strange, So low, that he could suffer by the change? Yes! the new station as a fall we judge— He now became the harlot's humble drudge, 320 Their drudge in common: they combined to save Awhile from starving their submissive slave; For now his spirit left him, and his pride, His scorn, his rancour, and resentment died; Few were his feelings—but the keenest these, The rage of hunger, and the sigh for ease; He who abused indulgence, now became By want subservient and by misery tame; A slave, he begg'd forbearance; bent with pain, He shunn'd the blow—"Ah! strike me not again." 330 Thus was he found: the master of a hoy Saw the sad wretch, whom he had known a boy At first in doubt; but Frederick laid aside All shame, and humbly for his aid applied. He, tamed and smitten with the storms gone by, Look'd for compassion through one living eye, } And stretch'd th' unpalsied hand; the seaman felt } His honest heart with gentle pity melt, } And his small boon with cheerful frankness dealt; Then made inquiries of th' unhappy youth, 340 Who told, nor shame forbade him, all the truth. "Young Frederick Thompson to a chandler's shop By harlots order'd and afraid to stop!— What! our good merchant's favourite to be seen In state so loathsome and in dress so mean?"— So thought the seaman as he bade adieu, And, when in port, related all he knew. But time was lost, inquiry came too late, Those whom he served knew nothing of his fate; No! they had seized on what the sailor gave, 350 Nor bore resistance from their abject slave; The spoil obtain'd, they cast him from the door, Robb'd, beaten, hungry, pain'd, diseased and poor. Then nature (pointing to the only spot Which still had comfort for so dire a lot,) Although so feeble, led him on the way, And hope look'd forward to a happier day. He thought, poor prodigal! a father yet His woes would pity and his crimes forget; Nor had he brother who with speech severe 360 Would check the pity or refrain the tear: A lighter spirit in his bosom rose, As near the road he sought an hour's repose. And there he found it: he had left the town, But buildings yet were scatter'd up and down; To one of these, half-ruin'd and half-built, Was traced this child of wretchedness and guilt; There on the remnant of a beggar's vest, Thrown by in scorn, the sufferer sought for rest; There was this scene of vice and wo to close, 370 And there the wretched body found repose.

Leave now our streets, and in yon plain behold Those pleasant seats for the reduced and old; A merchant's gift, whose wife and children died, When he to saving all his powers applied; He wore his coat till bare was every thread, And with the meanest fare his body fed. He had a female cousin, who with care Walk'd in his steps and learn'd of him to spare; With emulation and success they strove, 10 Improving still, still seeking to improve, As if that useful knowledge they would gain— How little food would human life sustain: No pauper came their table's crums to crave; Scraping they lived, but not a scrap they gave: When beggars saw the frugal merchant pass, It moved their pity, and they said, "Alas! Hard is thy fate, my brother," and they felt A beggar's pride as they that pity dealt: The dogs, who learn of man to scorn the poor, 20 Bark'd him away from ev'ry decent door; While they who saw him bare, but thought him rich, To show respect or scorn, they knew not which. But while our merchant seem'd so base and mean, He had his wanderings, sometimes, "not unseen;" To give in secret was a favourite act, Yet more than once they took him in the fact. To scenes of various wo he nightly went, And serious sums in healing misery spent; Oft has he cheer'd the wretched, at a rate 30 For which he daily might have dined on plate; } He has been seen—his hair all silver-white, } Shaking and shining—as he stole by night, } To feed unenvied on his still delight. A two-fold taste he had: to give and spare, Both were his duties, and had equal care; It was his joy, to sit alone and fast, Then send a widow and her boys repast. Tears in his eyes would, spite of him, appear, But he from other eyes has kept the tear: 40 All in a wint'ry night from far he came, To soothe the sorrows of a suff'ring dame; Whose husband robb'd him, and to whom he meant A ling'ring, but reforming punishment. Home then he walk'd, and found his anger rise, When fire and rush-light met his troubled eyes; But, these extinguish'd, and his prayer address'd To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to rest. His seventieth year was pass'd, and then was seen A building rising on the northern green; 50 There was no blinding all his neighbours' eyes, Or surely no one would have seen it rise. Twelve rooms contiguous stood, and six were near; There men were placed, and sober matrons here; There were behind small useful gardens made, Benches before, and trees to give them shade; In the first room were seen, above, below, Some marks of taste, a few attempts at show; The founder's picture and his arms were there (Not till he left us), and an elbow'd chair; 60 There, 'mid these signs of his superior place, Sat the mild ruler of this humble race. Within the row are men who strove in vain, Through years of trouble, wealth and ease to gain; Less must they have than an appointed sum, And freemen been, or hither must not come; They should be decent and command respect (Though needing fortune,) whom these doors protect, And should for thirty dismal years have tried For peace unfelt and competence denied. 70 Strange, that o'er men thus train'd in sorrow's school, Power must be held, and they must live by rule! Infirm, corrected by misfortunes, old, Their habits settled and their passions cold; Of health, wealth, power, and worldly cares, bereft, Still must they not at liberty be left; There must be one to rule them, to restrain And guide the movements of his erring train. If then control imperious, check severe, Be needed where such reverend men appear; 80 To what would youth, without such checks, aspire, Free the wild wish, uncurb'd the strong desire? And where (in college or in camp) they found The heart ungovern'd and the hand unbound? His house endow'd, the generous man resign'd All power to rule, nay power of choice declined; He and the female saint survived to view Their work complete, and bade the world adieu! Six are the guardians of this happy seat, And one presides when they on business meet; 90 As each expires, the five a brother choose; Nor would Sir Denys Brand the charge refuse; True, 'twas beneath him, "but to do men good Was motive never by his heart withstood." He too is gone, and they again must strive To find a man in whom his gifts survive. Now, in the various records of the dead, Thy worth, Sir Denys, shall be weigh'd and read; There we the glory of thy house shall trace, With each alliance of thy noble race. 100 Yes! here we have him!—"Came in William's reign The Norman-Brand, the blood without a stain; From the fierce Dane and ruder Saxon clear, Pict, Irish, Scot, or Cambrian mountaineer; But the pure Norman was the sacred spring, And he, Sir Denys, was in heart a king: Erect in person and so firm in soul, Fortune he seem'd to govern and control; "Generous as he who gives his all away, Prudent as one who toils for weekly pay; 110 In him all merits were decreed to meet— Sincere though cautious, frank and yet discreet; Just all his dealings, faithful every word; His passions' master, and his temper's lord." 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. Let us a mortal as he was behold, And see the dross adhering to the gold; 130 When we the errors of the virtuous state, Then erring men their worth may emulate. View then this picture of a noble mind: Let him be wise, magnanimous, and kind; What was the wisdom? Was it not the frown That keeps all question, all inquiry down? His words were powerful and decisive all; But his slow reasons came for no man's call. "'Tis thus," he cried, no doubt with kind intent, To give results and spare all argument.— 140 "Let it be spared—-all men at least agree Sir Denys Brand had magnanimity: His were no vulgar charities; none saw Him like the merchant to the hut withdraw; He left to meaner minds the simple deed, By which the houseless rest, the hungry feed; His was a public bounty vast and grand; 'Twas not in him to work with viewless hand; He raised the room that towers above the street, A public room where grateful parties meet; 150 He first the life-boat plann'd; to him the place Is deep in debt—'twas he reviv'd the race; To every public act this hearty friend Would give with freedom or with frankness lend; His money built the jail, nor prisoner yet Sits at his ease, but he must feel the debt; } To these let candour add his vast display— } Around his mansion all is grand and gay, } And this is bounty with the name of pay." I grant the whole, nor from one deed retract, 160 But wish recorded too the private act; All these were great, but still our hearts approve Those simpler tokens of the Christian love; 'Twould give me joy some gracious deed to meet, That has not call'd for glory through the street. Who felt for many, could not always shun, In some soft moment, to be kind to one; And yet they tell us, when Sir Denys died, That not a widow in the Borough sigh'd; Great were his gifts, his mighty heart I own, 170 But why describe what all the world has known? The rest is petty pride, the useless art Of a vain mind to hide a swelling heart. Small was his private room; men found him there By a plain table, on a paltry chair; A wretched floor-cloth, and some prints around, The easy purchase of a single pound: These humble trifles and that study small Make a strong contrast with the servants' hall; There barely comfort, here a proud excess, 180 The pompous seat of pamper'd idleness, Where the sleek rogues with one consent declare, They would not live upon his honour's fare. He daily took but one half-hour to dine, On one poor dish and some three sips of wine; Then he'd abuse them for their sumptuous feasts, And say, "My friends! you make yourselves like beasts; One dish suffices any man to dine, But you are greedy as a herd of swine; Learn to be temperate."—Had they dared t' obey, 190 He would have praised and turn'd them all away. Friends met Sir Denys riding in his ground, And there the meekness of his spirit found: For that grey coat, not new for many a year, Hides all that would like decent dress appear; An old brown pony 'twas his will to ride, Who shuffled onward, and from side to side; A five-pound purchase, but so fat and sleek, His very plenty made the creature weak. "Sir Denys Brand! and on so poor a steed!"— 200 "Poor! it may be—such things I never heed:" And who that youth behind, of pleasant mien, Equipp'd as one who wishes to be seen, Upon a horse, twice victor for a plate, A noble hunter, bought at dearest rate?— Him the lad, fearing, yet resolved to guide, He curbs his spirit, while he strokes his pride. "A handsome youth, Sir Denys; and a horse Of finer figure never trod the course— Yours, without question?"—"Yes! I think, a groom 210 Bought me the beast; I cannot say the sum: I ride him not, it is a foolish pride Men have in cattle—but my people ride; The boy is—hark ye, sirrah! what's your name? Ay, Jacob, yes! I recollect—the same, As I bethink me now, a tenant's son— I think a tenant—is your father one?" There was an idle boy who ran about, And found his master's humble spirit out; He would at awful distance snatch a look, 220 Then run away and hide him in some nook; "For oh!" quoth he, "I dare not fix my sight On him, his grandeur puts me in a fright; Oh! Mister Jacob, when you wait on him, Do you not quake and tremble every limb?" The steward soon had orders—"Summers, see That Sam be clothed, and let him wait on me." Sir Denys died, bequeathing all affairs In trust to Laughton's long experienced cares, Before a guardian; and, Sir Denys dead, 230 All rule and power devolved upon his head. Numbers are call'd to govern, but in fact Only the powerful and assuming act. Laughton, too wise to be a dupe to fame, Cared not a whit of what descent he came, Till he was rich; he then conceived the thought To fish for pedigree, but never caught. All his desire, when he was young and poor, Was to advance; he never cared for more: "Let me buy, sell, be factor, take a wife, 240 Take any road to get along in life." Was he a miser then? a robber? foe To those who trusted? a deceiver?—No! He was ambitious; all his powers of mind Were to one end controll'd, improved, combined; Wit, learning, judgment, were, by his account, Steps for the ladder he design'd to mount. Such step was money: wealth was but his slave, For power he gain'd it, and for power he gave; Full well the Borough knows that he'd the art 250 Of bringing money to the surest mart; Friends too were aids, they led to certain ends, Increase of power and claim on other friends. A favourite step was marriage: then he gain'd Seat in our hall, and o'er his party reign'd; Houses and lands he bought, and long'd to buy, But never drew the springs of purchase dry; And thus at last they answer'd every call, The failing found him ready for their fall. He walks along the street, the mart, the quay, 260 And looks and mutters, "This belongs to me." } His passions all partook the general bent; } Interest inform'd him when he should resent, } How long resist, and on what terms relent. In points where he determined to succeed, In vain might reason or compassion plead; But gain'd his point, he was the best of men, 'Twas loss of time to be vexatious then: Hence he was mild to all men whom he led, Of all who dared resist the scourge and dread. 270 Falsehood in him was not the useless lie Of boasting pride or laughing vanity; It was the gainful, the persuading art, That made its way and won the doubting heart, Which argued, soften'd, humbled, and prevail'd; Nor was it tried till ev'ry truth had fail'd; No sage on earth could more than he despise Degrading, poor, unprofitable lies. Though fond of gain, and grieved by wanton waste, To social parties he had no distaste; 280 With one presiding purpose in his view, He sometimes could descend to trifle too! Yet, in these moments, he had still the art To ope the looks and close the guarded heart; And, like the public host, has sometimes made A grand repast, for which the guests have paid. At length, with power endued and wealthy grown, Frailties and passions, long suppressed, were shown; Then, to provoke him was a dangerous thing; His pride would punish, and his temper sting; 290 His powerful hatred sought th' avenging hour, And his proud vengeance struck with all his power— Save when th' offender took a prudent way The rising storm of fury to allay. This might he do, and so in safety sleep, By largely casting to the angry deep; Or, better yet (its swelling force t' assuage,) By pouring oil of flattery on its rage. And now, of all the heart approved, possess'd, Fear'd, favour'd, follow'd, dreaded, and caress'd, 300 He gently yields to one mellifluous joy, The only sweet that is not found to cloy, Bland adulation! Other pleasures pall On the sick taste, and transient are they all; But this one sweet has such enchanting power, The more we take, the faster we devour; Nauseous to those who must the dose apply, And most disgusting to the standers-by; Yet in all companies will Laughton feed, Nor care how grossly men perform the deed. 310 As gapes the nursling, or, what comes more near, Some Friendly-island chief, for hourly cheer— When wives and slaves, attending round his seat, Prepare by turns the masticated meat: So for this master, husband, parent, friend, His ready slaves their various efforts blend, And, to their lord still eagerly inclined, Pour the crude trash of a dependent mind. But let the muse assign the man his due; Worth he possess'd, nor were his virtues few;— 320 He sometimes help'd the injured in their cause; His power and purse have back'd the failing laws; He for religion has a due respect, And all his serious notions are correct; Although he pray'd and languished for a son, He grew resigned when Heaven denied him one; He never to this quiet mansion sends Subject unfit, in compliment to friends. Not so Sir Denys, who would yet protest He always chose the worthiest and the best: 330 Not men in trade by various loss brought down, But those whose glory once amazed the town; Who their last guinea in their pleasures spent, Yet never fell so low as to repent; To these his pity he could largely deal, Wealth they had known, and therefore want could feel. Three seats were vacant while Sir Denys reign'd, And three such favourites their admission gain'd; These let us view, still more to understand The moral feelings of Sir Denys Brand.

Observe that tall pale veteran! what a look Of shame and guilt! who cannot read that book? Misery and mirth are blended in his face, Much innate vileness and some outward grace; There wishes strong and stronger griefs are seen, Looks ever changed, and never one serene: Show not that manner, and these features all, The serpent's cunning and the sinner's fall? Hark to that laughter!—'tis the way he takes 10 To force applause for each vile jest he makes; Such is yon man, by partial favour sent To these calm seats to ponder and repent. Blaney, a wealthy heir at twenty-one, At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone: These years with grievous crimes we need not load, He found his ruin in the common road;— Gamed without skill, without inquiry bought, Lent without love, and borrowed without thought. But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower 20 Of a kind wealthy widow in his power; Then he aspired to loftier flights of vice, To singing harlots of enormous price; He took a jockey in his gig to buy A horse, so valued that a duke was shy; To gain the plaudits of the knowing few, Gamblers and grooms, what would not Blaney do? His dearest friend, at that improving age, Was Hounslow Dick, who drove the western stage. Cruel he was not.—If he left his wife, 30 He left her to her own pursuits in life; Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind; Profuse, not just, and careless, but not kind. Yet, thus assisted, ten long winters pass'd In wasting guineas ere he saw his last; Then he began to reason, and to feel He could not dig, nor had he learn'd to steal; And should he beg as long as he might live, He justly fear'd that nobody would give. But he could charge a pistol, and, at will, 40 All that was mortal by a bullet kill: And he was taught, by those whom he would call Man's surest guides—that he was mortal all. While thus he thought, still waiting for the day, When he should dare to blow his brains away, A place for him a kind relation found, Where England's monarch ruled, but far from English ground; He gave employ that might for bread suffice, Correct his habits and restrain his vice. Here Blaney tried (what such man's miseries teach) 50 To find what pleasures were within his reach; These he enjoy'd, though not in just the style He once possess'd them in his native isle; Congenial souls he found in every place, Vice in all soils, and charms in every race: His lady took the same amusing way, And laugh'd at Time till he had turn'd them grey: At length for England once again they steer'd, By ancient views and new designs endear'd; His kindred died, and Blaney now became 60 An heir to one who never heard his name. What could he now?—The man had tried before The joys of youth, and they were joys no more; To vicious pleasure he was still inclined, But vice must now be season'd and refined; Then as a swine he would on pleasure seize, Now common pleasures had no power to please: Beauty alone has for the vulgar charms, He wanted beauty trembling with alarms; His was no more a youthful dream of joy, 70 The wretch desired to ruin and destroy; He bought indulgence with a boundless price, Most pleased when decency bow'd down to vice, When a fair dame her husband's honour sold, And a frail Countess play'd for Blaney's gold. "But did not conscience in her anger rise?" Yes! and he learn'd her terrors to despise; When stung by thought, to soothing books he fled, And grew composed and hardened as he read; Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight, 80 Pleased him and shone with their phosphoric light; Which, though it rose from objects vile and base, Where'er it came threw splendour on the place, And was that light which the deluded youth, And this grey sinner, deem'd the light of truth. He different works for different cause admired— Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired; } To cheer the mind and raise a dormant flame, } He had the books, decreed to lasting shame, } Which those who read are careful not to name: 90 These won to vicious act the yielding heart, And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart. He heard of Blount, and Mandeville, and Chubb, How they the doctors of their day would drub; How Hume had dwelt on miracles so well, That none would now believe a miracle; And though he cared not works so grave to read, He caught their faith and sign'd the sinner's creed. Thus was he pleased to join the laughing side; Nor ceased the laughter when his lady died. 100 Yet was he kind and careful of her fame, And on her tomb inscribed a virtuous name: "A tender wife, respected, and so forth."— The marble still bears witness to the worth. He has some children, but he knows not where; Something they cost, but neither love nor care; A father's feelings he has never known, His joys, his sorrows, have been all his own. He now would build—and lofty seat he built, And sought, in various ways, relief from guilt. 110 Restless, for ever anxious to obtain Ease for the heart by ramblings of the brain, He would have pictures, and of course a taste, And found a thousand means his wealth to waste. Newmarket steeds he bought at mighty cost; They sometimes won, but Blaney always lost. Quick came his ruin, came when he had still For life a relish, and in pleasure skill: By his own idle reckoning he supposed His wealth would last him till his life was closed; 120 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; 130 When he looks back through life, and cannot find A single action to relieve his mind; When he looks forward, striving still to keep A steady prospect of eternal sleep; When not one friend is left, of all the train Whom 'twas his pride and boast to entertain— Friends now employ'd from house to house to run And say, "Alas! poor Blaney is undone!"— Those whom he shook with ardour by the hand, By whom he stood as long as he could stand, 140 Who seem'd to him from all deception clear, And who, more strange! might think themselves sincere. Lo! now the hero shuffling through the town, To hunt a dinner and to beg a crown; To tell an idle tale, that boys may smile; To bear a strumpet's billet-doux a mile; To cull a wanton for a youth of wealth, (With [reverent] view to both his taste and health); To be a useful, needy thing between Fear and desire—the pander and the screen; 150 To flatter pictures, houses, horses, dress, The wildest fashion or the worst excess; To be the grey seducer, and entice Unbearded folly into acts of vice; And then, to level every fence which law And virtue fix to keep the mind in awe, } He first inveigles youth to walk astray, } Next prompts and soothes them in their fatal way, } Then vindicates the deed, and makes the mind his prey. Unhappy man! what pains he takes to state 160 (Proof of his fear!) that all below is fate; That all proceed in one appointed track, 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, 170 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!" Hear the poor dæmon when the young attend, And willing ear to vile experience lend; When he relates (with laughing, leering eye) The tale licentious, mix'd with blasphemy: No genuine gladness his narrations cause, 180 The frailest heart denies sincere applause; And many a youth has turn'd him half aside, And laugh'd aloud, the sign of shame to hide. Blaney, no aid in his vile cause to lose, Buys pictures, prints, and a licentious muse; He borrows every help from every art, To stir the passions and mislead the heart. But from the subject let us soon escape, Nor give this feature all its ugly shape: Some to their crimes escape from satire owe; 190 Who shall describe what Blaney dares to show? While thus the man, to vice and passion slave, Was, with his follies, moving to the grave, The ancient ruler of this mansion died, And Blaney boldly for the seat applied. Sir Denys Brand, then guardian, join'd his suit; "'Tis true," said he, "the fellow's quite a brute— A very beast; but yet, with all his sin, He has a manner—let the devil in." They half complied, they gave the wish'd retreat, 200 But raised a worthier to the vacant seat. Thus forced on ways unlike each former way, Thus led to prayer without a heart to pray, He quits the gay and rich, the young and free, Among the badge-men with a badge to be. He sees an humble tradesman raised to rule The grey-beard pupils of this moral school; Where he himself, an old licentious boy, Will nothing learn, and nothing can enjoy; In temp'rate measures he must eat and drink, 210 And, pain of pains! must live alone and think. In vain, by fortune's smiles, thrice affluent made, Still has he debts of ancient date unpaid; Thrice into penury by error thrown, Not one right maxim has he made his own; The old men shun him—some his vices hate, And all abhor his principles and prate; Nor love nor care for him will mortal show, Save a frail sister in the female row.

We had a sprightly nymph—in every town Are some such sprights, who wander up and down; She had her useful arts, and could contrive, In time's despite, to stay at twenty-five;— "Here will I rest; move on, thou lying year, This is mine age, and I will rest me here." Arch was her look, and she had pleasant ways Your good opinion of her heart to raise; Her speech was lively, and with ease express'd, 10 And well she judged the tempers she address'd: If some soft stripling had her keenness felt, She knew the way to make his anger melt; Wit was allow'd her, though but few could bring Direct example of a witty thing; 'Twas that gay, pleasant, smart, engaging speech, Her beaux admired, and just within their reach; Not indiscreet, perhaps, but yet more free Than prudish nymphs allow their wit to be. Novels and plays, with poems, old and new, 20 Were all the books our nymph attended to; Yet from the press no treatise issued forth, But she would speak precisely of its worth. She with the London stage familiar grew, And every actor's name and merit knew; She told how this or that their part mistook, And of the rival Romeos gave the look; Of either house 'twas hers the strength to see, Then judge with candour—"Drury-Lane for me." What made this knowledge, what this skill complete? 30 A fortnight's visit in Whitechapel-street. Her place in life was rich and poor between, With those a favourite, and with these a queen; She could her parts assume, and condescend To friends more humble while an humble friend; And thus a welcome, lively guest could pass, Threading her pleasant way from class to class. "Her reputation?"—That was like her wit, And seem'd her manner and her state to fit; Something there was—what, none presumed to say: 40 Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day— Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear, And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear. But of each sex a friendly number press'd To joyous banquets this alluring guest. There, if, indulging mirth and freed from awe, If, pleasing all and pleased with all she saw, Her speech were free, and such as freely dwelt On the same feelings all around her felt; Or if some fond presuming favourite tried 50 To come so near as once to be denied; Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice, But that he ventured on denial twice:— If these have been, and so has scandal taught, Yet malice never found the proof she sought. But then came one, the Lovelace of his day, Rich, proud, and crafty, handsome, brave, and gay; Yet loved he not those labour'd plans and arts, But left the business to the ladies' hearts, And, when he found them in a proper train, 60 He thought all else superfluous and vain. But in that training he was deeply taught, And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought; He knew how far directly on to go; How to recede and dally to and fro; } How to make all the passions his allies, } And, when he saw them in contention rise, } To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by surprise. Our heroine fear'd him not; it was her part, To make sure conquest of such gentle heart— 70 Of one so mild and humble; for she saw In Henry's eye a love chastised by awe. Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime, Nor virtuous all her thoughts; 'twas now her time To bait each hook, in every way to please, And the rich prize with dext'rous hand to seize. She had no virgin-terrors; she could stray In all love's maze, nor fear to lose her way; Nay, could go near the precipice, nor dread A failing caution or a giddy head; 80 She'd fix her eyes upon the roaring flood, And dance upon the brink where danger stood. 'Twas nature all, she judged, in one so young, To drop the eye and falter in the tongue; To be about to take, and then command His daring wish, and only view the hand: Yes! all was nature; it became a maid Of gentle soul t' encourage love afraid.— He, so unlike the confident and bold, Would fly in mute despair to find her cold: 90 The young and tender germ requires the sun To make it spread; it must be smiled upon. Thus the kind virgin gentle means devised To gain a heart so fond, a hand so prized; More gentle still she grew; to change her way Would cause confusion, danger and delay: Thus, (an increase of gentleness her mode,) She took a plain, unvaried, certain road, And every hour believed success was near, Till there was nothing left to hope or fear. 100 It must be own'd that in this strife of hearts, Man has advantage—has superior arts. The lover's aim is to the nymph unknown, Nor is she always certain of her own; } Or has her fears, nor these can so disguise, } But he who searches, reads them in her eyes, } In the avenging frown, in the regretting sighs: These are his signals, and he learns to steer The straighter course whenever they appear. "Pass we ten years, and what was Clelia's fate?" 110 At an attorney's board alert she sate, Not legal mistress: he with other men Once sought her hand, but other views were then; And when he knew he might the bliss command, He other [blessing] sought, without the hand; For still he felt alive the lambent flame, And offer'd her a home—and home she came. There, though her higher friendships lived no more, She loved to speak of what she shared before— } "Of the dear Lucy, heiress of the hall— } 120 Of good Sir Peter—of their annual ball, } And the fair countess!—Oh! she loved them all!" The humbler clients of her friend would stare, The knowing smile—but neither caused her care; She brought her spirits to her humble state, And soothed with idle dreams her frowning fate. "Ten summers pass'd, and how was Clelia then?" Alas! she suffer'd in this trying ten; The pair had parted: who to him attend, Must judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend; 130 But who on her would equal faith bestow, Would think him rash—and surely she must know. Then as a matron Clelia taught a school, But nature gave not talents fit for rule. Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen, Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen; Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay, And lively speech and elegant array. The Griffin's landlord these allured so far, He made her mistress of his heart and bar; 140 He had no idle retrospective whim, Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him. So far was well,—but Clelia thought not fit (In all the Griffin needed) to submit: Gaily to dress and in the bar preside, Soothed the poor spirit of degraded pride; But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crew Of noisy guests, were arts she never knew: Hence daily wars, with temporary truce, His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse; 150 And as their spirits wasted in the strife, Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life; But she with greater prudence—Harry tried More powerful aid, and in the trial died; Yet drew down vengeance: in no distant time, Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wings sublime;— Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen, And show'd to frowning fate a look serene; Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired, Kind without love, and vain if not admired. 160 Another term is past; ten other years In various trials, troubles, views, and fears. Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade; Houses she kept for widowers lately made; For now she said, "They'll miss th' endearing friend, And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend." And true a part was done as Clelia plann'd— The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand. She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said, The dedication was the best he read; 170 But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'd The public ear, that all her pains were lost. To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last, There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past. Now friendless, sick and old, and wanting bread, The first-born tears of fallen pride were shed— True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride, Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd. Though now her tales were to her audience fit; Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit; 180 Though now her dress—(but let me not explain The piteous patch-work of the needy-vain, The flirtish form to coarse materials lent, And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent;) Though all within was sad, without was mean— Still 'twas her wish, her comfort to be seen: She would to plays on lowest terms resort, Where once her box was to the beaux a court; And, strange delight! to that same house where she Join'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee, 190 Now, with the menials crowding to the wall, She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball, And with degraded vanity unfold, How she too triumphed in the years of old. To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tell On what a height she stood before she fell; At church she points to one tall seat, and "There We sat," she cries, "when my papa was mayor." Not quite correct in what she now relates, She alters persons, and she forges dates; 200 And, finding memory's weaker help decay'd, She boldly calls invention to her aid. Touch'd by the pity he had felt before, For her Sir Denys op'd the alms-house door. "With all her faults," he said, "the woman knew How to distinguish—had a manner too; And, as they say she is allied to some In decent station—let the creature come." Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view Of all the pleasures they would still pursue. 210 Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide Of vices past; their follies are their pride; What to the sober and the cool are crimes, They boast—exulting in those happy times; The darkest deeds no indignation raise, The purest virtue never wins their praise; } But still they on their ancient joys dilate, } Still with regret departed glories state, } And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate.

See yonder badgeman, with that glowing face, A meteor shining in this sober place! Vast sums were paid, and many years were past, Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast! Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore, Guiding his master to the tavern-door; There first that meteor rose, and there alone, In its due place, the rich effulgence shone. But this strange fire the seat of peace invades, 10 And shines portentous in these solemn shades. Benbow, a boon companion, long approved By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved, Was judged as one to joy and friendship prone, And deem'd injurious to himself alone; Gen'rous and free, he paid but small regard To trade, and fail'd; and some declared "'twas hard." These were his friends—his foes conceived the case Of common kind; he sought and found disgrace; The reasoning few, who neither scorn'd nor loved, 20 His feelings pitied and his faults reproved. Benbow, the father, left possessions fair, A worthy name and business to his heir; Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold, And lost his credit, while he spent the gold. He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'd The night with him; his day was unemploy'd; So, when his credit and his cash were spent, Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent; } Of late he came, with passions unsubdued, } 30 And shared and cursed the hated solitude, } Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous cares intrude. Known but in drink—he found an easy friend, Well pleased his worth and honour to commend; And, thus inform'd, the guardian of the trust Heard the applause and said the claim was just; A worthy soul! unfitted for the strife, Care and contention of a busy life;— Worthy, and why?—that o'er the midnight bowl He made his friend the partner of his soul, 40 And any man his friend;—then thus in glee, "I speak my mind; I love the truth," quoth he; Till 'twas his fate that useful truth to find, 'Tis sometimes prudent not to speak the mind. With wine inflated, man is all upblown, And feels a power which he believes his own; With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks His all the virtues all the while he drinks; But when the gas from the balloon is gone, When sober thoughts and serious cares come on, 50 Where then the worth that in himself he found?— Vanish'd—and he sank grov'ling on the ground. } Still some conceit will Benbow's mind inflate; } Poor as he is—'tis pleasant to relate } The joys he once possess'd: it soothes his present state. Seated with some grey beadsman, he regrets His former feasting, though it swell'd his debts; Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days, Well he describes, and thinks description praise: Each hero's worth with much delight he paints; 60 Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints. "Alas! alas!" Old England now may say, "My glory withers; it has had its day: We're fallen on evil times; men read and think; Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink. "Then lived the good 'Squire Asgill—what a change Has death and fashion shown us at the Grange! He bravely thought it best became his rank, That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank; He was delighted from his favourite room 70 To see them 'cross the park go daily home, Praising aloud the liquor and the host, And striving who should venerate him most. } "No pride had he, and there was difference small } Between the master's and the servants' hall; } And here or there the guests were welcome all. Of Heaven's free gifts he took no special care; He never quarrel'd for a simple hare; But sought, by giving sport, a sportsman's name, Himself a poacher, though at other game. 80 He never planted nor inclosed—his trees Grew like himself, untroubled and at ease; Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt Choked and imprison'd in a modern belt, Which some rare genius now has twined about The good old house, to keep old neighbours out; Along his valleys, in the evening hours, The borough-damsels stray'd to gather flowers, Or by the brakes and brushwood of the park, To take their pleasant rambles in the dark. 90 "Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to call On the kind females—favourites at the hall; But better natures saw, with much delight, The different orders of mankind unite; 'Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait, Smile on his sister and receive her plate. "His worship ever was a churchman true, He held in scorn the methodistic crew; 'May God defend the Church, and save the King,' He'd pray devoutly and divinely sing. 100 Admit that he the holy day would spend As priests approved not—still he was a friend. Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice, To call such trifles by the name of vice, Hinting, though gently and with cautious speech, Of good example—'tis their trade to preach; But still 'twas pity, when the worthy 'squire Stuck to the church: what more could they require? 'Twas almost joining that fanatic crew, To throw such morals at his honour's pew; 110 A weaker man, had he been so reviled, Had left the place—he only swore and smiled. "But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think, Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink; Conceive not—mounted on your Sunday-throne, Your fire-brands fall upon your foes alone; They strike your patrons—and, should all withdraw In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw, You would the flower of all your audience lose, And spend your crackers on their empty pews, 120 "The father dead, the son has found a wife, And lives a formal, proud, unsocial life;— The lands are now enclosed; the tenants all, Save at a rent-day, never see the hall; No lass is suffer'd o'er the walks to come, And, if there's love, they have it all at home. "Oh! could the ghost of our good 'squire arise, And see such change, would it believe its eyes? Would it not glide about from place to place, And mourn the manners of a feebler race? 130 At that long table, where the servants found Mirth and abundance while the year went round; Where a huge pollard on the winter-fire At a huge distance made them all retire; Where not a measure in the room was kept, And but one rule—they tippled till they slept: There would it see a pale old hag preside, A thing made up of stinginess and pride; Who carves the meat, as if the flesh could feel, Careless whose flesh must miss the plenteous meal. 140 Here would the ghost a small coal-fire behold, Not fit to keep one body from the cold; Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stay To view a dull, dress'd company at play; All the old comfort, all the genial fare For ever gone! how sternly would it stare; And, though it might not to their view appear, 'Twould cause among them lassitude and fear; Then wait to see—where he delight has seen— The dire effect of fretfulness and spleen. 150 "Such were the worthies of these better days; We had their blessings—they shall have our praise.— "Of Captain Dowling would you hear me speak? I'd sit and sing his praises for a week: He was a man, and man-like all his joy,— I'm led to question, was he ever boy? Beef was his breakfast;—if from sea and salt, It relish'd better with his wine of malt; Then, till he dined, if walking in or out, Whether the gravel teased him or the gout, 160 Though short in wind and flannel'd every limb, He drank with all who had concerns with him: Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came, They found him ready, every hour the same; Whatever liquors might between them pass, He took them all, and never balk'd his glass; Nay, with the seamen working in the ship, At their request, he'd share the grog and flip. But in the club-room was his chief delight, And punch the favourite liquor of the night; 170 Man after man they from the trial shrank, And Dowling ever was the last who drank. Arrived at home, he, ere he sought his bed, With pipe and brandy would compose his head; Then half an hour was o'er the news beguiled, When he retired as harmless as a child. Set but aside the gravel and the gout, And breathing short—his sand ran fairly out. "At fifty-five we lost him—after that Life grows insipid and its pleasures flat; 180 He had indulged in all that man can have, He did not drop a dotard to his grave; Still to the last, his feet upon the chair, With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair; When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp, And not a doctor could the body vamp; Still at the last, to his beloved bowl He clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul; For, though a man may not have much to fear, Yet death looks ugly, when the view is near. 190 —'I go,' he said, 'but still my friends shall say, 'Twas as a man—I did not sneak away; An honest life with worthy souls I've spent— Come, fill my glass;'—he took it, and he went.— "Poor Dolly Murrey!—I might live to see My hundredth year, but no such lass as she. Easy by nature, in her humour gay, She chose her comforts, ratafia and play: She loved the social game, the decent glass; And was a jovial, friendly, laughing lass. 200 We sat not then at Whist demure and still, But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille; Lame in her side, we placed her in her seat, Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet; As the game ended, came the glass around, (So was the loser cheer'd, the winner crown'd.) Mistress of secrets, both the young and old In her confided—not a tale she told; Love never made impression on her mind, She held him weak, and all his captives blind; 210 She suffered no man her free soul to vex, Free from the weakness of her gentle sex; One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate, In cool discussion or in free debate. "Once in her chair we'd placed the good old lass, Where first she took her preparation glass; By lucky thought she'd been that day at prayers, And long before had fix'd her small affairs; So all was easy—on her cards she cast A smiling look; I saw the thought that pass'd: 220 'A king,' she call'd;—though conscious of her skill, 'Do more,' I answer'd—'More?' she said; 'I will;' And more she did—cards answer'd to her call, She saw the mighty to her mightier fall: 'A vole! a vole!' she cried, ''tis fairly won, My game is ended and my work is done.'— This said, she gently, with a single sigh, Died as one taught and practised how to die. "Such were the dead-departed; I survive, To breathe in pain among the dead-alive." } 230 The bell then call'd these ancient men to pray; } "Again!" said Benbow—"tolls it every day? } Where is the life I led?"—He sigh'd, and walk'd his way.

An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love, The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove; 'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh, That we the wants of pleading man supply; That we in sympathy with sufferers feel, Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal. Not these suffice—to sickness, pain, and wo, The Christian spirit loves with aid to go; Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead, 10 But seeks the duty—nay, prevents the need; Her utmost aid to every ill applies, And plans relief for coming miseries. Hence yonder building rose: on either side Far stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide; And every ward has beds by comfort spread, And smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed. There have all kindness, most relief—for some Is cure complete—it is the sufferer's home: Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains, 20 Each accidental mischief man sustains; Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and lame, With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame, } Have here attendance—here the sufferers lie } (Where love and science every aid apply), } And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort die. See one relieved from anguish, and to-day Allow'd to walk and look an hour away; Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain, He comes abroad and is himself again: 30 'Twas in the spring, when carried to the place, The snow fell down and melted in his face. 'Tis summer now; all objects gay and new; Smiling alike the viewer and the view: He stops as one unwilling to advance, Without another and another glance; With what a pure and simple joy he sees Those sheep and cattle browzing at their ease; Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or moves But he would cherish—all that lives he loves: 40 Observing every ward as round he goes, He thinks what pain, what danger they enclose; Warm in his wish for all who suffer there, At every view he meditates a prayer: No evil counsels in his breast abide, There joy, and love, and gratitude reside. The wish that Roman necks in one were found, That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound, This man had never heard; but of the kind, Is that desire which rises in his mind; 50 He'd have all English hands (for further he Cannot conceive extends our charity), All but his own, in one right-hand to grow, And then what hearty shake would he bestow! "How rose the building?"—Piety first laid A strong foundation, but she wanted aid; To Wealth unwieldy was her prayer address'd, Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd. Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew, And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew. 60 Then busy Vanity sustain'd her part, "And much," she said, "it moved her tender heart; To her all kinds of man's distress were known, And all her heart adopted as its own." Then Science came—his talents he display'd, And Charity with joy the dome survey'd; Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame, And Piety, the joy that makes no claim. Patrons there are, and governors, from whom The greater aid and guiding orders come; 70 Who voluntary cares and labours take, The sufferers' servants for the service' sake. Of these a part I give you—but a part— 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: 80 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; While faith, when life can nothing more supply, Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die. He preaches, speaks and writes with manly sense— No weak neglect, no laboured eloquence; 90 Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways, The rude revere him and the wicked praise. Upon humility his virtues grow, And tower so high because so fix'd below; As wider spreads the oak his boughs around, When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground. By him, from ward to ward, is every aid The sufferer needs with every care convey'd. Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth, And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth; 100 Meek as the poorest Publican is he, And strict as lives the straitest Pharisee; Of both, in him unite the better part— The blameless conduct and the humble heart. Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wise In carnal things, and loves to moralize; Others can doubt, if all that Christian care Has not its price—there's something he may share. But this, and ill severer, he sustains, As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains; 110 When most reviled, although he feels the smart, It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart, As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit, Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot. A second friend we have, whose care and zeal But few can equal—few indeed can feel. He lived a life obscure, and profits made In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade. His brother, master of a hoy, he loved So well, that he the calling disapproved: 120 "Alas! poor Tom!" the landman oft would sigh, When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high; And when they parted, with a tear he'd say, "No more adventure!—here in safety stay." Nor did he feign; with more than half he had, He would have kept the seaman, and been glad. Alas! how few resist, when strongly tried!— A rich relation's nearer kinsman died; He sicken'd, and to him the landman went, And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent. 130 This Thomas heard, and cared not: "I," quoth he, "Have one in port upon the watch for me." So Ephraim died, and, when the will was shown, Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own: Who to his brother sent a moderate purse, Which he return'd, in anger, with his curse; Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong, He died before he could forgive the wrong. The rich man built a house, both large and high, He enter'd in and set him down to sigh; 140 He planted ample woods and gardens fair, And walk'd with anguish and compunction there: The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat, He saw with pain, and he refused to eat; His daintiest food, his richest wines, were all Turn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall: The softest down, by living body press'd, The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest; But care had thorns upon his pillow spread, And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed. 150 Nervous he grew—would often sigh and groan, He talk'd but little, and he walk'd alone; Till by his priest convinced, that from one deed Of genuine love would joy and health proceed; He from that time with care and zeal began To seek and soothe the grievous ills of man; And, as his hands their aid to grief apply, He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh. Now he can drink his wine and taste his food. And feel the blessings Heav'n has dealt are good; 160 And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door, He sleeps as soundly as when young and poor. Here much he gives—is urgent more to gain; He begs—rich beggars seldom sue in vain; Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to move, And never wearies in the work of love; He rules all business, settles all affairs, He makes collections, he directs repairs; And if he wrong'd one brother—Heav'n forgive The man by whom so many brethren live! 170 Then, 'mid our signatures, a name appears Of one for wisdom famed above his years; And these were forty: he was from his youth A patient searcher after useful truth: To language little of his time he gave, To science less, nor was the muse's slave; Sober and grave, his college sent him down, A fair example for his native town. Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air, You'd think a Socrates or Solon there, 180 For though a Christian, he's disposed to draw His rules from reason's and from nature's law. "Know," he exclaims, "my fellow mortals, know, Virtue alone is happiness below; And what is virtue? Prudence, first to choose Life's real good—the evil to refuse; Add justice then, the eager hand to hold, To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold; Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health insures, And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures." 190 He speaks, and lo!—the very man you see: Prudent and temperate, just and patient he; By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep, No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap: He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives; Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives; By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd, His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd; Temp'rate in every place—abroad, at home, Thence will applause, and hence will profit come; 200 And health from either he in time prepares For sickness, age, and their attendant cares, But not for fancy's ills;—he never grieves For love that wounds or friendship that deceives; His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains, But neither feels nor fears ideal pains. "Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?"— Alas!—I think he wants infirmities; He wants the ties that knit us to our kind— The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind, 210 That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite, And make the virtues he approves delight; What dying martyrs, saints, and patriots feel— The strength of action and the warmth of zeal. Again attend!—and see a man whose cares Are nicely placed on either world's affairs.— Merchant and saint, 'tis doubtful if he knows To which account he most regard bestows; Of both he keeps his ledger:—there he reads Of gainful ventures and of godly deeds; 220 There all he gets or loses find a place— A lucky bargain and a lack of grace. The joys above this prudent man invite To pay his tax—devotion!—day and night; The pains of hell his timid bosom awe, And force obedience to the church's law: Hence that continual thought, that solemn air, Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer. All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraid To think how avarice calls and is obey'd) 230 He in his journal finds, and for his grief Obtains the transient opium of relief. "Sink not, my soul!—my spirit, rise and look O'er the fair entries of this precious book: Here are the sins, our debts;—this fairer side Has what to carnal wish our strength denied; Has those religious duties every day Paid—which so few upon the sabbath pay; Here too are conquests over frail desires, Attendance due on all the church requires; 240 Then alms I give—for I believe the word Of holy writ, and lend unto the Lord— And, if not all th' importunate demand, The fear of want restrains my ready hand; —Behold what sums I to the poor resign, Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as mine! Rest, then, my spirit!—fastings, prayers, and alms, Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms, And, weigh'd against our frailties, set in view A noble balance in our favour due. 250 Add that I yearly here affix my name, Pledge for large payment—not from love of fame, But to make peace within;—that peace to make, What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake! Cheer up, my heart!—let's cast off every doubt, Pray without dread, and place our money out." Such the religion of a mind that steers Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears; Whose passions in due bounds each other keep, And, thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep; 260 Whose virtues all their certain limits know, Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow; Who for success and safety ever tries, And with both worlds alternately complies. 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, 270 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; Happy, when fears to public spirit move, And even vices to the work of love!

Show not to the poor thy pride, Let their home a cottage be; Nor the feeble body hide In a palace fit for thee; Let him not about him see Lofty ceilings, ample halls, Or a gate his boundary be, Where nor friend or kinsman calls.

Let him not one walk behold, That only one which he must tread, Nor a chamber large and cold, Better far his humble shed, Where the aged and sick are led; Humble sheds of neighbours by, And the old and tatter'd bed, Where he sleeps and hopes to die.

Yes! we've our Borough-vices, and I know How far they spread, how rapidly they grow; Yet think not virtue quits the busy place, Nor charity, the virtues' crown and grace. "Our poor how feed we?"—To the most we give A weekly dole, and at their homes they live;— Others together dwell—but when they come To the low roof, they see a kind of home, A social people whom they've ever known, 10 With their own thoughts and manners like their own. At her old house, her dress, her air the same, I see mine ancient letter-loving dame: "Learning, my child," said she, "shall fame command; Learning is better worth than house or land— For houses perish, lands are gone and spent; In learning then excel, for that's most excellent." "And what her learning?"—'Tis with awe to look In every verse throughout one sacred book; From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought: 20 This she has learn'd, and she is nobly taught. If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear; If Rutland deigns these humble Tales to hear; If critics pardon what my friends approved, Can I mine ancient widow pass unmoved? Shall I not think what pains the matron took, When first I trembled o'er the gilded book? How she, all patient, both at eve and morn, Her needle pointed at the guarding horn; And how she soothed me, when, with study sad, 30 I labour'd on to reach the final zad? Shall I not grateful still the dame survey, And ask the muse the poet's debt to pay? Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen, But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men, } Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws, } They own the matron as the leading cause, } And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause: To her own house is borne the week's supply; There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die. 40 With her a harmless idiot we behold, Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold; These he preserves, with unremitted care, To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor: Alas!—who could th' ambitious changeling tell, That what he sought our rulers dared to sell? Near these a sailor in that hut of thatch (A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match) Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat, Large as he wishes—in his view complete. 50 A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch That hold his stores, have room for twice as much; His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box, Lie all in view; no need has he for locks. Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass, He shows the shipping, he presents the glass; He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known, And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own. Of noble captains—heroes every one— You might as soon have made the steeple run: 60 And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay, He'll one by one the gallant souls display; And as the story verges to an end, He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend; He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old, As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold; Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly face— And then a tear or two, which sting his pride, These he will dash indignantly aside, 70 And splice his tale;—now take him from his cot, And for some cleaner [berth] exchange his lot, How will he all that cruel aid deplore? His heart will break, and he will fight no more. Here is the poor old merchant: he declined, And, as they say, is not in perfect mind; In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend, Quiet he paces to his journey's end. Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd; Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd; 80 His spirits low and his exertions small, He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall: Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he, But downward sank with sad alacrity. A borough-place we gain'd him—in disgrace For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place; But still he kept a kind of sullen pride, Striving his wants to hinder or to hide. At length, compell'd by very need, in grief He wrote a proud petition for relief. 90 "He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove Of force to wake their sympathy and love; Would make them feel the changes all may know, And stir them up a new regard to show." His suit was granted;—to an ancient maid, Relieved herself, relief for him was paid. Here they together (meet companions) dwell, And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell: "'Twas not a world for them, God help them! they Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray; 100 But there's a happy change, a scene to come, And they, God help them! shall be soon at home." } If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain, } Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain; } They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain. The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh, Both when they know, and when they know not why; But we our bounty with such care bestow, That cause for grieving they shall seldom know. Your plan I love not;—with a number you 110 Have placed your poor, your pitiable few; There, in one house, throughout their lives to be— The pauper-palace which they hate to see; That giant-building, that high-bounding wall, Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall! That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour; Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power: It is a prison, with a milder name, Which few inhabit without dread or shame. Be it agreed—the poor who hither come 120 Partake of plenty, seldom found at home; That airy rooms and decent beds are meant To give the poor by day, by night, content; That none are frighten'd, once admitted here, By the stern looks of lordly overseer; Grant that the guardians of the place attend, And ready ear to each petition lend; That they desire the grieving poor to show What ills they feel, what partial acts they know, Not without promise, nay desire to heal 130 Each wrong they suffer and each wo they feel.— Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell; They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell; They have no evil in the place to state, And dare not say, it is the house they hate: They own, there's granted all such place can give, But live repining, for 'tis there they live. } Grandsires are there, who now no more must see, } No more must nurse upon the trembling knee, } The lost loved daughter's infant progeny: 140 Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place For joyful meetings of a kindred race. Is not the matron there, to whom the son Was wont at each declining day to run; He (when his toil was over) gave delight, By lifting up the latch, and one "good night"? Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door The son, still lab'ring, can return no more. Widows are here, who in their huts were left, Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft; 150 Yet all that grief within the humble shed Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed;— But here, in all its force, remains the grief, And not one soft'ning object for relief. Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet? Who learn the story current in the street? Who to the long-known intimate impart Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?— They talk indeed; but who can choose a friend, Or seek companions at their journey's end? 160 Here are not those whom they, when infants, knew; Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew; Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived; Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived; Whom time and custom so familiar made, That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd: But here, to strangers, words nor looks impart The various movements of the suffering heart; Nor will that heart with those alliance own, To whom its views and hopes are all unknown. 170 What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy, Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy? 'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view, With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new; Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep— The day itself is, like the night, asleep; Or, on the sameness if a break be made, 'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd; By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told, News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old; 180 By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell, Or justice come to see that all goes well; } Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl } On the black footway winding with the wall, } Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call. Here too the mother sees her children train'd, Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd. Who govern here, by general rules must move, Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love. Nations, we know, have nature's law transgressed. 190 And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast; But still for public good the boy was train'd, The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd: Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid; The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made. Then too, I own, it grieves me to behold Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old, By all for care and industry approved, For truth respected, and for temper loved; And who, by sickness and misfortune tried, 200 Gave want its worth and poverty its pride: I own it grieves me to behold them sent From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment, To leave each scene familiar, every face, For a new people and a stranger race; For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame, From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came; Men, just and guileless, at such manners start, And bless their God that time has fenced their heart, Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear 210 Of vice in minds so simple and sincere. Here the good pauper, losing all the praise By worthy deeds acquired in better days, Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led, Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed. The grateful hunter, when his horse is old, Wills not the useless favourite to be sold; He knows his former worth, and gives him place In some fair pasture, till he runs his race. But has the labourer, has the seaman done 220 Less worthy service, thought not dealt to one? Shall we not, then, contribute to their ease, In their old haunts, where ancient objects please; That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace The well-known prospect and the long-loved face? The noble oak, in distant ages seen, With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green, Though now its bare and forky branches show How much it lacks the vital warmth below— The stately ruin yet our wonder gains, 230 Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains; Much more shall real wants and cares of age Our gentler passions in their cause engage.— Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years, What venerable ruin man appears! How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief— He claims protection—he compels relief;— } And shall we send him from our view, to brave } The storms abroad, whom we at home might save, } And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave? 240 No!—we will shield him from the storm he fears, And when he falls, embalm him with our tears. Farewell to these; but all our poor to know, Let's seek the winding lane, the narrow row— } Suburbian prospects, where the traveller stops } To see the sloping tenement on props, } With building yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops; Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite Laborious men to taste their coarse delight; Where the low porches, stretching from the door, 250 Gave some distinction in the days of yore— Yet now, neglected, more offend the eye By gloom and ruin than the cottage by. Places like these the noblest town endures, The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers. Here is no pavement, no inviting shop, To give us shelter when compell'd to stop; But plashy puddles stand along the way, Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day; And these so closely to the buildings run, 260 That you must ford them, for you cannot shun; Though here and there convenient bricks are laid, And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid. Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground, With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around: There dwells a fisher; if you view his boat, With bed and barrel—'tis his house afloat; Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound, Tar, pitch, and oakum—'tis his boat aground: That space enclosed but little he regards, 270 Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards; } Fish by the wall on spit of elder rest, } Of all his food the cheapest and the best, } By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd. Here our reformers come not; none object To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect; None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast, That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast; None heed the stagnant pools on either side, Where new-launch'd ships of infant sailors ride: 280 Rodneys in rags here British valour boast, And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast. They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail, They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale. True to her port, the frigate scuds away, And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay: Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth, And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth; Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd, When inch-high billows vex the watery world. 290 There, fed by food they love, to rankest size Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise; Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root, Here the dull night-shade hangs her deadly fruit; On hills of dust the henbane's faded green, And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen; At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs, With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings; Above (the growth of many a year) is spread The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed; 300 In every chink delights the fern to grow, With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below[64]: These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down, Form the contracted Flora[65] of the town. Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know? Then will I lead thee down the dusty row, By the warm alley and the long close lane— There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane, Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass, We fear to breathe the putrefying mass. 310 But fearless yonder matron; she disdains To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains; But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay All in the stifling fervour of the day. Her naked children round the alley run, And, roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun; Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd, Woos the coy breeze, to fan the open breast. She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart; 320 Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean, And fancy left to form the charms unseen. But, when a wife, she lost her former care, Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare; Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside; No rival beauty kept alive her pride: Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place; But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace. See that long boarded building!—By these stairs Each humble tenant to that home repairs— 330 By one large window lighted; it was made For some bold project, some design in trade. This fail'd—and one, a humorist in his way, (Ill was the humour), bought it in decay; Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down; 'Tis his—what cares he for the talk of town? "No! he will let it to the poor—a home Where he delights to see the creatures come." "They may be thieves;"—"Well, so are richer men;"— "Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;"—"What then?"— 340 "Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;"— "They need the more his pity and the place," Convert to system his vain mind has built, He gives asylum to deceit and guilt. In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd, Are sexes, families, and ages mix'd— To union forced by crime, by fear, by need, And all in morals and in modes agreed: Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove; Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love; 350 And some grown old in idleness—the prey To vicious spleen, still railing through the day; And need and misery, vice and danger bind In sad alliance each degraded mind. That window view!—oil'd paper and old glass Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass, And give a dusty warmth to that huge room, The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom; When all those western rays, without so bright, Within become a ghastly glimmering light, 360 As pale and faint upon the floor they fall, Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall. That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd; That wall, once whiten'd, now an odious sight, Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white; The only door is fastened by a pin Or stubborn bar, that none may hurry in: For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride, At times contains what prudent men would hide. 370 Where'er the floor allows an even space, Chalking and marks of various games have place; Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing, On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring; While gin and snuff their female neighbours share, And the black beverage in the fractured ware. On swinging shelf are things incongruous stored— Scraps of their food; the cards and cribbage-board, With pipes and pouches; while on peg below Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow, 380 That still reminds them how he'd dance and play, Ere sent untimely to the convicts' bay. Here by a curtain, by a blanket there, Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care; Where some by day and some by night, as best Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest; The drowsy children at their pleasure creep To the known crib, and there securely sleep. Each end contains a grate, and these beside Are hung utensils for their boil'd and fried— 390 All used at any hour, by night, by day, As suit the purse, the person, or the prey. Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains Of china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains; There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands, All placed by vanity's unwearied hands; For here she lives, e'en here she looks about, To find some small consoling objects out. Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, nor sit 'Mid cares domestic—they nor sew nor knit; 400 But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars, With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars: These lead to present evils, and a cup, If fortune grant it, winds description up. High hung at either end, and next the wall, Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all, } In all their force;—these aid them in their dress, } But, with the good, the evils too express, } Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.