The Borough | Page 2

the painful dredger's welcome sound;?And few themselves the savoury boon deny,?The food that feeds, the living luxury.
Yon is our Quay! those smaller hoys from town,?Its various ware, for country use, bring down;?Those laden waggons, in return, impart?The country-produce to the city mart;?Hark! to the clamour in that miry road,?Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load;?The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,?Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case:?While the loud seaman and the angry hind,?Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.
Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,?Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:?See! the long keel, which soon the waves must hide;?See! the strong ribs which form the roomy side;?Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,?And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.?Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far?Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.?Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd,?Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;?Or in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,?And grow familiar with the watery way:?Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are,?They know what British seamen do and dare;?Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy?The rustic wonder of the village-boy.
Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,?Behold the wealth that lies in public view,?Those far extended heaps of coal and coke,?Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke. This shall pass off, and you behold, instead,?The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed;?When from the Lighthouse brighter beams will rise,?To show the shipman where the shallow lies.
Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene?Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene -?Rich is that varied view with woods around,?Seen from the seat within the shrubb'ry bound;?Where shines the distant lake, and where appear?From ruins bolting, unmolested deer;?Lively the village-green, the inn, the place,?Where the good widow schools her infant-race.?Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw,?And village-pleasures unreproved by law:?Then how serene! when in your favourite room,?Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom;?When from your upland paddock you look down,?And just perceive the smoke which hides the town;?When weary peasants at the close of day?Walk to their cots, and part upon the way;?When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook,?And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook.
We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees,?And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease,?On the wide heath, or in the flowery vale,?We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale;?Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile,?And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile;?Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,?Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow;?Fences are form'd of wreck, and placed around,?(With tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound;?Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run,?And there in ambush lie the trap and gun;?Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize,?"Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies."
There stands a cottage with an open door,?Its garden undefended blooms before:?Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool,?While the lone Widow seeks the neighb'ring pool:?This gives us hope, all views of town to shun -?No! here are tokens of the Sailor-son;?That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check,?And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck;?Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore,?And furry robe from frozen Labrador.
Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,?Fen, marshes, bog, and heath all intervene;?Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,?To some enrich th' uncultivated space:?For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush,?The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush,?Whose velvet leaf with radiant beauty dress'd,?Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.
Not distant far, a house commodious made,?(Lonely yet public stands) for Sunday-trade;?Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,?Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous;?There humble couples sit in corner-bowers,?Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours;?Sailors and lasses from the town attend,?The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend;?With all the idle social tribes who seek?And find their humble pleasures once a week.
Turn to the watery world!--but who to thee?(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint--the Sea??Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,?When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms,?Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun?Shades after shades upon the surface run;?Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,?In limpid blue, and evanescent green;?And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,?Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.
Be it the summer--noon: a sandy space?The ebbing tide has left upon its place;?Then just the hot and stony beach above,?Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move;?(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,?And with the cooler in its fall contends)?Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps?An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,?Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,?Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand,?Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,?And back return in silence, smooth and slow.?Ships in the calm seem anchor'd; for they glide?On the still sea, urged