The village all declar'd how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides prefage,
And e'en the ftory ran that he could gauge:
In arguing too, the parfon own'd his skill,
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still,
While words of learned length, and thund'ring found
'Amaz'd the gazing ruftics rang'd around,
And ftill they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew;
That one fmall head could carry all he knew.
BUT paft is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot.
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high,
Where once the fign-poft caught the paffing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,
Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound;
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour fplendors of that feftive place;
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely fanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The cheft contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a cheft of draw'rs by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day;
With afpin bows, and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
VAIN tranfitory fplendour! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from it's fall!
Obfcure it finks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peafant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail;
No more the fmith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear;
The hoft himself no longer shall be found
Careful to fee the mantling blifs go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kifs the cup to pass it to the rest.
YES! let the rich deride, the proud difdain,
These fimple bleffings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the glofs of art;
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The foul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvy'd, unmolefted, unconfin'd;
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade;
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure fickens into pain;
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart diftrufting asks if this be joy?
YE friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys encreafe, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits ftand
Between a fplendid and a happy land.
Proud fwells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards, e'en beyond the mifer's wish, abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around;
Yet count our gains: This wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful product still the same.
Not fo our lofs. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supply'd;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in filken floth
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth;
His feat, where folitary sports are feen,
Indignant fpurns the cottage from the green,
Around the world each useful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world fupplies,
While thus the land adorn'd for pleafure all,
In barren fplendor feebly waits the fall.
As fome fair female unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress fupplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, folicitous to blefs,
In all the glaring impotence of drefs.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,
In nature's fimpleft charms at first array'd,
But verging to decline, its fplendors rise,
Its viftas ftrike, its palaces furprise;
While, fcourg'd by famine from the fmiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he finks, without one arm to fave,
The country blooms a garden–and a grave.
WHERE then, ah! where shall poverty refide,
To 'fcape the prefsure of contiguous pride?
If to fome common's fenceless limits ftray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the fcanty blade,
Those fencelefs fields the fons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd.
IF to the city fped-What waits him there?
To fee profusion that he must not share;
To fee ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To fee each joy the fons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the fickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps difplay,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crouds the blazing fquare,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure thefe denote one universal joy!
Are these thy ferious thoughts ?-Ah, turn thine eyes. Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.
She, once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence diftrefs'd;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now loft to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's doors she lays her head,
'And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show'r With heavy heart deplores the luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.
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