The Parish Register | Page 2

Golden Rules,?Who proved Misfortune's was the best of schools:?And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain,?Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain.
The Magic-mill that grinds the gran'nams young,?Close at the side of kind Godiva hung;?She, of her favourite place the pride and joy,?Of charms at once most lavish and most coy,?By wanton act the purest fame could raise,?And give the boldest deed the chastest praise.
There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed;?There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel bred;?And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries live,?In all the joys that ale and skittles give.
Now, lo! on Egypt's coast that hostile fleet,?By nations dreaded and by NELSON beat;?And here shall soon another triumph come,?A deed of glory in a deed of gloom;?Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate!?The proudest conquest at the dearest rate.
On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock,?Of cottage reading rests the chosen stock;?Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind?For all our wants, a meat for every mind.?The tale for wonder and the joke for whim,?The half-sung sermon and the half-groan'd hymn.?No need of classing; each within its place,?The feeling finger in the dark can trace;?"First from the corner, farthest from the wall,"?Such all the rules, and they suffice for all.
There pious works for Sunday's use are found;?Companions for that Bible newly bound;?That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved,?Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved;?Has choicest notes by many a famous head,?Such as to doubt have rustic readers led;?Have made them stop to reason WHY? and HOW??And, where they once agreed, to cavil now.?Oh! rather give me commentators plain,?Who with no deep researches vex the brain;?Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,?And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun;?Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons back,?And guard the point no enemies attack.
Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that shelf upon;?A genius rare but rude was honest John;?Not one who, early by the Muse beguiled,?Drank from her well the waters undefiled;?Not one who slowly gained the hill sublime,?Then often sipp'd and little at a time;?But one who dabbled in the sacred springs,?And drank them muddy, mix'd with baser things.
Here to interpret dreams we read the rules,?Science our own! and never taught in schools;?In moles and specks we Fortune's gifts discern,?And Fate's fix'd will from Nature's wanderings learn.
Of Hermit Quarll we read, in island rare,?Far from mankind and seeming far from care;?Safe from all want, and sound in every limb;?Yes! there was he, and there was care with him.
Unbound and heap'd, these valued tomes beside,?Lay humbler works, the pedlar's pack supplied;?Yet these, long since, have all acquired a name:?The Wandering Jew has found his way to fame;?And fame, denied to many a labour'd song,?Crowns Thumb the Great, and Hickathrift the strong.
There too is he, by wizard-power upheld,?Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd:?His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed;?His coat of darkness on his loins he braced;?His sword of sharpness in his hand he took,?And off the heads of doughty giants stroke:?Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near;?No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear;?No English blood their Pagan sense could smell,?But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell.
These are the Peasant's joy, when, placed at ease,?Half his delighted offspring mount his knees.
To every cot the lord's indulgent mind?Has a small space for garden-ground assign'd;?Here--till return of morn dismiss'd the farm -?The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,?Warm'd as he works, and casts his look around?On every foot of that improving ground :?It is his own he sees; his master's eye?Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;?Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known; -?Hope, profit, pleasure,--they are all his own.?Here grow the humble cives, and, hard by them,?The leek with crown globose and reedy stem;?High climb his pulse in many an even row,?Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below;?And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste,?Give a warm relish to the night's repast.
Apples and cherries grafted by his hand,?And cluster'd nuts for neighbouring market stand.
Nor thus concludes his labour; near the cot,?The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot;?Where rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes,?Proud hyacinths, the least some florist's prize,?Tulips tall-stemm'd and pounced auriculas rise.
Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,?Meet and rejoice a family of friends;?All speak aloud, are happy and are free,?And glad they seem, and gaily they agree.?What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,?Where all are talkers, and where none can teach;?Where still the welcome and the words are old,?And the same stories are for ever told;?Yet theirs is joy that, bursting from the heart,?Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart;?That forms these tones of gladness we despise,?That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;?That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays,?And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.
Fair scenes of peace! ye might