Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the cheerful task:

In pageant quaint, in motley mask;
Behold, before her musing eyes,
The countless manners round her rise,
While, ever varying as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-rob'd maids combine,
And those the laughing satyrs join!
But who is he whom now she views,
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the Passions nurs'd, I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humor, thou whose name is known
To Britain's favor'd isle alone,
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy side.
By old Miletus* who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades;

By him whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs de

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While in early Greece she sung, yet The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muses' painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd: Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound: And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each, for Madness rul'd the hour,

Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made
Next Anger rusli'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair,

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
"Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but with a frown, Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat: And though sometimes, each dreary pause be

tween,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien ; While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled ineasure stole,

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

+ Cervantes.

died in Paris in the year 1746.

strain,

They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess, why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that lov'd Athenian bow'r,
You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r;
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state,
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

§ 158. The Pauper's Funeral. CRABBE. Now once again the gloomy scene explore, Less gloomy now, the bitter hour is o'er; The man of many sorrows sighs no more. Up yonder hill behold how sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below! There lies the happy dead, from trouble free, And the glad parish pays the frugal fee.

No more, O death! thy victim starts to hear Church-wardens stern, or kingly overseer: No more the farmer claims his humble bow; Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!

Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid, and devoutly dumb: The village children now their games suspend, To see the bier that bears their ancient friend; For he was one in all their idle sport, And like a monarch rul'd their little court; The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball, The bat, the wicket, were his labours all; Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relics of the parish poor : Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care, And waiting long, the crowd retire distrest, Defers his duty till the day of prayer, To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest *. § 159. The Village Foundling. CRABBE.

To name an infant met our village sires,
Assembled all, as such event requires;
Frequent and full the rural sages sate,
And speakers many urg'd the long debate.
Some hardened knaves who rov'd the country
round

Had left a babe within the parish-bound.
First of the fact they question'd-Was it true
The child was brought?-What then remain'd
to do?

Was't dead, or living?-this was fairly prov'd; 'Twas pinched-it roared, and every doubt removed.

Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call Was long a question, and it pass'd them all; For he who lent a name to babe unknown, Censorious men might take it for his own. They look'd about, they ask'd the name of all, And not one Richard answer'd to the call; Next they inquir'd the day when, passing by, Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry: This known, how food and raiment they might give

Was next debated, for the rogue would live.
At last with all their words and work content,
Back to their homes the prudent vestry went,
And Richard Monday to the work-house sent.
There he was pinch'd, and pitied, thump'd and
fed,

And duly took his beatings and his bread;
Patient in all control, in all abuse,
He found contempt and kicking have their use.
Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow,
A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;
His pliant soul gave way to all things base,
He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace:
It seem'd, so well his passions he suppress'd,
No feeling stirr'd his ever torpid breast:

unknown.

Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat;
He was a foot-stool for the beggar's feet;
His were the legs that run at all commands,
They used on all occasions Richard's hands:
His very soul was not his own; he stole
As others order'd, and without a dole :
In all disputes, on either part he lied,
And freely pledg'd his oath on either side:
In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest,
In all detections Richard first confess'd:
Yet though disgrac'd, he watch'd his time so
well,

He rose in favor, when in fame he fell:
Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,
And all despis'd and fed the pliant boy.
At length 'tis time he should abroad be sent,
Was whispered near him-and abroad he went;
One morn they called him-Richard answered

not;

He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide,
How best for Richard Monday to provide.
Steel through opposing plate the magnet draws,
And steely atoms culls from dust and straws;
And thus our hero, to his int'rest true,
Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew.
But still more surely round the world to go,
This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe.
Long lost to us at last our man we trace,
Sir Richard Monday died at Monday Place;
His lady's worth, his daughter's we peruse,
And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews:
He gave reforming charities a sum, [dumb;
And bought the blessings of the blind and
Bequeath'd to missions money from the stocks,
And Bibles issued from his private box:
But to his native place severely just,
He left a pittance bound in rigid trust;
Two paltry pounds on every quarter's day,
At church produc'd for forty loaves should pay,
A stinted gift that to the parish shows,

He kept in mind their bounty and their blows.

$160. The Village Infidel.

CRABBE.

His a lone house by dead man's dyke way stood,

And his a nightly haunt in lonely wood:
Each village inn has heard the ruffian boast,
That he believ'd in neither God nor ghost;
That when the sod upon the sinner press'd,
He, like the saint, had everlasting rest;
That never priest believ'd his doctrines true,
But would, for profit, own himself a Jew,
Or worship wood and stone, as honest heathen
That fools alone on future worlds rely, [do;
And all who die for faith, deserve to die.
These maxims, part, th' attorney's clerk pro-
fess'd;

His own transcendent genius found the rest.

| Our pious matrons heard, and much amaz'd, Gaz'd on the man, and trembled as they gaz'd; And now his face explor'd, and now his feet, Man's dreaded foe in this bad man to meet: But him our drunkards as their champion rais'd, Their bishop call'd, and as their hero prais'd; Though most when sober, and the rest, when sick,

Had little question whence his bishopric.

But he, triumphant spirit, all things dar'd, He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snar'd; "Twas his at cards each novice to trepan, And call the wants of rogues the rights of man; Wild as the winds he let his offspring rove, And deem'd the marriage bond the bane of love. What age and sickness for a man so bold Had done we know not; none beheld him old: By night as business urg'd, he sought the wood, The ditch was deep, the rain had caus'd a flood, The foot-bridge fail'd, he plung'd beneath the deep,

And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep.

$161. Funeral of the Lady of the Manor.

CRABBE.

And one so piteous govern'd in her place?

Lo! now, what dismal sous of darkness come To bear this daughter of indulgence home, Tragedians all, and well arrang'd in black! Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack ; Who cause no tear, but gloomily pass by, And shake the sables in the wearied eye, That turns disgusted from the pompous scene, Proud without grandeur, with profession mean. The tear for kindness past affection owes, For worth deceas'd the sigh from reason flows; E'en well-feign'd passions for our sorrows call, And real tears for mimic miseries fall;

But this poor farce has neither truth nor art
To please the fancy, or to touch the heart;
Unlike the darkness of the sky, that pours
On the dry ground its fertilizing showers;
Unlike to that which strikes the soul with dread,
When thunders roar, and forky fires are shed:
Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean,
With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene;
Presents no objects, tender or profound,
But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around.
When woes are feign'd, how ill such forms

appear,

And oh! how needless when the woe's sincere!
Slow to the vault they come with heavy tread,
Bending beneath the lady and her lead;
A case of elm surrounds that ponderous chest,
Close on that case the crimson velvet's press'd;
Ungen'rous this, that to the worm denies
With niggard caution his appointed prize;
For now, e'er yet he works his tedious way
Thro' cloth, and wood, and metal, to his prey,
That prey dissolving shall a mass remain [dain.
That fancy loathes, and worms themselves dis-
But see, the master-mourner makes his way
To end his office for the coffin'd clay,
Pleas'd that our rustic men and minds behold
His plate like silver, and his studs like gold;
As they approach to spell the age, the name,
And all the titles of th' illustrious dame :-
This as (my duty done) some scholar read,
A village father look'd disdain, and said-
"Away, my friends! why take such pains to
know

What some brave marble soon in church shall show?

Where not alone her gracious name shall stand, But how she liv'd the blessing of the land; How much we all deplor'd the noble dead, What groans we utter'd, and what tears we shed; Tears true as those which in the sleepy eyes Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise; Tears true as those, which, ere she found her grave,

The noble lady to our sorrows gave.”

$162. Funeral of un ancient Maiden. CRABBE. Down by the church-way walk, and where the brook

Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook, In that small house, with those great pales before, Where jasmine trails on either side the door, Where those dark shrubs that now grow wild at will,

Were clipt in form, and tantaliz'd with skill; Where cockles blanch'd, and pebbles neatly spread,

Form'd shining borders for the larkspur bed; There liv'd a lady wise, austere, and nice, Who showed her virtue by her scorn of vice: In the dear fashions of her youth, she dress'd, A pea-green joseph was her fav'rite vest,

Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien, Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall and lean.

There long she liv'd in maiden state immur'd From looks of love, and treacherous man secur'd;

Though evil fame (but that was long before)
Had blown her dubious blast at Catharine's door.
A captain Huther, rich from India came,
And though a cousin call'd, it touch'd her fame;
Her annual stipend rose from his behest,
And all the long-priz'd treasures she possess'd :
If aught like joy a while appear'd to stay
In that stern face, and chase those frowns away,
'Twas when her treasures she dispos'd for view,
And heard the praises to their splendor due;
Silks beyond price, so rich they'd stand alone,
And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone;
Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set,
And bracelets fair, in box of glossy jet:
Bright polish'd amber, precious from its size
Or forms, the fairest fancy could devise;
Her drawers of cedar, shut with secret springs,
Conceal'd the watch of gold and rubied rings;
Letters, long proofs of love, and verses fine,
Round the pink'd rims of Crispin valentine.
Her china closet, cause of daily care,
For woman's wonder held her pencil'd ware;
That pictur'd wealth of China and Japan,
Like its cold mistress, shunn'd the eye of man.
Her neat small room, adorn'd with maiden

taste,

A clipt French puppy, first of fav'rites, grac'd;
A parrot next, but dead and stuff'd with art
(For Poll, when living, lost his lady's heart,
And then his life! for he was heard to speak
Such frightful words as ting'd his lady's cheek);
Unhappy bird! who had no power to prove,
Save by such speech, his gratitude and love;
A grey old cat his whiskers lick'd beside,
A type of sadness in the house of pride:
The polish'd surface of an India chest,
A glassy globe in frame of ivory prest,
Where swam two finny creatures, one of gold,
Of silver one, both beauteous to behold:
All these were form'd the guiding taste to suit,
The beasts well-manner'd, and the fishes mute.
A widow'd aunt was there, compell'd by need
The nymph to flatter, and her tribe to feed;
Who, veiling well her scorn, endur'd the clog
Mute as the fish, and fawning as the dog.

As years increas'd, these treasures, her delight
Arose in value in their owner's sight:
A miser knows that, view it as he will,
A guinea kept, is but a guinea still;
And so he puts it to its proper use,
That something more this guinea may produce:
But silks and rings in the possessor's eyes
The oftener seen, the more in value rise,
And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow
On pride that governs, pleasure that will grow :
But what avail'd their worth, if worth had they,
In the sad summer of her slow decay?

Then we beheld her turn an anxious look From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book, A rich-bound book of prayer the captain gave (Some princess had it, or was said to have), And then once more on all her stores look round, And draw a sigh so piteous and profound, That told, "Alas! how hard from thee to part, And for new hopes and habits form the heart: What shall I do (she cried), my peace of mind To gain in dying, and to die resign'd?"

Here we returned-"These baubles cast aside,
Nor give thy God a rival in thy pride;
Thy closet shut, and ope thy kitchen door,
There own thy failings-here invite the poor;
A friend of mammon let thy bounty make,
For widows' prayers thy vanities forsake,
And let the hungry of thy pride partake;
Then shall thy inward eye with joy survey
The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay."
Alas! 'twas hard; the treasures still had
charms,

Hope still its flattery, sickness its alarms;
Still was the same unsettled cloudy view,
And the same plaintive cry "What shall I do?"
Nor change appear'd: for when her race was

Peasant.

§ 163. Funeral of Isaac Ashford, a virtuous
CRABBE.
NOBLE he was, condemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene;
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace,
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd:
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,

And with the firmest had the fondest mind.
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance when he needed none;
Good he refus'd with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caus'd reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd;
Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind
To miss one favor which their neighbours find.
Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd,
He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd.
I mark'd his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears stealing down that furrow'd cheek
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak,
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew,
None his superior, and his equals few :
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labors train'd;
Pride in thepowerthat guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defy'd;
In fact, a noble passion, misnam'd pride.

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim, Christian and country was all with him: True to his church he came, no Sunday shower Kept him at home in that important hour;

Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect,
By the strong glare of their new-light, direct ;
On hope in mine own sober light I gaze,
But should be blind and lose it in your blaze.

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain; Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,

And feel in that his comfort and his pride.

66

At length he found, when seventy years were

run,

His strength departed, and his labor done;
When, save his honest fame, he kept no more,
But lost his wife, and saw his children poor:
'Twas then a spark of (say not discontent),
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:
Kind are your laws, 'tis not to be deny'd,
That in yon house for ruin'd age provide;
And they are just; when young we give you all,
And then for comforts in our weakness call;
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your poor, and eat the parish bread?
But yet I linger, loath with him to feed,
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need;
He who by contract all your paupers took
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look:
On some old master I could well depend ;
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him who doles the day's supply,
And counts our chances who at night may die.
Yet help me Heaven! and let me not complain
Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain.'

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he

grew,

Daily he plac'd the work-house in his view; But came not there, for sudden was his fate, He dropp'd, expiring at his cottage gate.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there : I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honor'd head; No more that awful glance on playful wight Compell'd to kneel, and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith, to give it force, are there: But he is blest, and I lament no more A wise good man, contented to be poor.

§ 164. An Epistle addressed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakspeare's Works. COLLINS.

WHILE, born to bring the Muse's happier days,

A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays; While nurs'd by you, she sees her myrtles bloom,

Green and unwither'd, o'er his honor'd tomb; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell What secret transports in her bosom swell; With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame, And blushing, hides her wreath at Shakspeare's

name.

Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd, Unown'd by science, and by years obscur'd.