The Village and The Newspaper | Page 2

high, above the slender sheaf,
The slimy mallow waves her silky
leaf;
O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And
clasping tares cling round the sickly blade.
With mingled tints the
rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendour vainly shines around.
So
looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn,
Betray'd by man, then
left for man to scorn;
Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose,

While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose;
Whose outward
splendour is but folly's dress,
Exposing most, when most it gilds
distress.
Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race,
With sullen woe display'd
in every face;
Who, far from civil arts and social fly,
And scowl at
strangers with suspicious eye.
Here too the lawless merchant of the main
Draws from his plough th'
intoxicated swain;
Want only claim'd the labour of the day,
But vice
now steals his nightly rest away.
Where are the swains, who, daily labour done,
With rural games
play'd down the setting sun;
Who struck with matchless force the
bounding ball,
Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall;
While
some huge Ajax, terrible and strong,
Engaged some artful stripling of

the throng.
And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around
Hoarse
triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound?
Where now are
these?--Beneath yon cliff they stand,
To show the freighted pinnace
where to land;
To load the ready steed with guilty haste,
To fly in
terror o'er the pathless waste,
Or, when detected, in their straggling
course,
To foil their foes by cunning or by force;
Or, yielding part
(which equal knaves demand),
To gain a lawless passport through the
land.
Here, wand'ring long, amid these frowning fields,
I sought the simple
life that Nature yields;
Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her place,

And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;
Who, only skill'd to take the
finny tribe,
The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,
Wait on the
shore, and, as the waves run high,
On the tost vessel bend their eager
eye,
Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way;
Theirs or the
ocean's miserable prey.
As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,
And wait for
favouring winds to leave the land;
While still for flight the ready
wing is spread:
So waited I the favouring hour, and fled;
Fled from
these shores where guilt and famine reign,
And cried, Ah! hapless
they who still remain;
Who still remain to hear the ocean roar,

Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore;
Till some fierce tide,
with more imperious sway,
Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;

When the sad tenant weeps from door to door;
And begs a poor
protection from the poor!
But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand
Gave a spare
portion to the famish'd land;
Hers is the fault, if here mankind
complain
Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain;
But yet in other
scenes more fair in view,
When Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for
few -
And those who taste not, yet behold her store,
Are as the
slaves that dig the golden ore -

The wealth around them makes them
doubly poor.
Or will you deem them amply paid in health,
Labour's

fair child, that languishes with wealth?
Go then! and see them rising
with the sun,
Through a long course of daily toil to run;
See them
beneath the Dog-star's raging heat,
When the knees tremble and the
temples beat;
Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er
The
labour past, and toils to come explore;
See them alternate suns and
showers engage,
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;

Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue,
When their warm
pores imbibe the evening dew;
Then own that labour may as fatal be

To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.
Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride
Strives in strong toil the fainting
heart to hide;
There may you see the youth of slender frame

Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame;
Yet, urged along, and
proudly loth to yield,
He strives to join his fellows of the field:
Till
long-contending nature droops at last,
Declining health rejects his
poor repast,
His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
And
mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.
Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell,
Though the head droops
not, that the heart is well;
Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,

Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share?
Oh! trifle not with
wants you cannot feel,
Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;

Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such
As you who
praise would never deign to touch.
Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,
Whom the smooth stream
and smoother sonnet please;
Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,

Go look within, and ask if peace be there;
If peace be his, that
drooping weary sire;
Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;

Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand
Turns on the
wretched hearth th' expiring brand!
Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these
Life's latest comforts, due
respect and ease;
For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age
Can

with no cares except its own engage;
Who, propt on that rude staff,
looks up to see
The bare arms broken from the withering tree,
On
which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough,
Then his