The Village and The Newspaper | Page 5

'squire-like farmer, talk,
How round their
regions nightly pilferers walk;
How from their ponds the fish are
borne, and all
The rip'ning treasures from their lofty wall;
How
meaner rivals in their sports delight,
Just right enough to claim a
doubtful right;
Who take a licence round their fields to stray,
A
mongrel race! the poachers of the day.
And hark! the riots of the Green begin,
That sprang at first from
yonder noisy inn;
What time the weekly pay was vanish'd all,
And
the slow hostess scored the threat'ning wall;
What time they ask'd,
their friendly feast to close,
A final cup, and that will make them foes;

When blows ensue that break the arm of toil,
And rustic battle ends
the boobies' broil.
Save when to yonder Hall they bend their way,
Where the grave
Justice ends the grievous fray;
He who recites, to keep the poor in
awe,
The law's vast volume--for he knows the law: -
To him with
anger or with shame repair
The injured peasant and deluded fair.
Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears,
Frail by her shape, but
modest in her tears;
And while she stands abash'd, with conscious eye,

Some favourite female of her judge glides by,
Who views with

scornful glance the strumpet's fate,
And thanks the stars that made her
keeper great:
Near her the swain, about to bear for life
One certain
evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife;
But, while the faltering damsel takes
her oath,
Consents to wed, and so secures them both.
Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate,
Why make the Poor as
guilty as the Great?
To show the great, those mightier sons of pride,

How near in vice the lowest are allied;
Such are their natures and
their passions such,
But these disguise too little, those too much:
So
shall the man of power and pleasure see
In his own slave as vile a
wretch as he;
In his luxurious lord the servant find
His own low
pleasures and degenerate mind:
And each in all the kindred vices
trace,
Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd erring race,
Who, a short time in
varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last.
And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fate,
Forbear to envy those
you call the Great;
And know, amid those blessings they possess,

They are, like you, the victims of distress;
While Sloth, with many a
pang torments her slave,
Fear waits on guilt, and Danger shakes the
brave.
Oh! if in life one noble chief appears,
Great in his name, while
blooming in his years;
Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind,

And yet to all you feel or fear resign'd;
Who gave up joys and hopes
to you unknown,
For pains and dangers greater than your own:
If
such there be, then let your murmurs cease,
Think, think of him, and
take your lot in peace.
And such there was:--Oh! grief, that checks
our pride,
Weeping we say there was, for MANNERS {1} died:

Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive
That sing of Thee,
and thus aspire to live.
As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form
An ample shade, and
brave the wildest storm,
High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow,

The guard and glory of the trees below;
Till on its head the fiery

bolt descends,
And o'er the plain the shattered trunk extends;
Yet
then it lies, all wond'rous as before,
And still the glory, though the
guard no more:
So THOU, when every virtue, every grace,
Rose in thy soul, or shone
within thy face;
When, though the son of GRANBY, thou wert
known
Less by thy father's glory than thy own;
When Honour loved
and gave thee every charm,
Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm;

Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes,
Fate and thy virtues
call'd thee to the skies;
Yet still we wonder at thy tow'ring fame,

And, losing thee, still dwell upon thy name.
Oh! ever honour'd, ever valued! say,
What verse can praise thee, or
what work repay?
Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays,
Nor
trusts the tardy zeal of future days: -
Honours for thee thy country
shall prepare,
Thee in their hearts, the good, the brave shall bear;
To
deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire,
The Muse shall mourn
thee, and the world admire.
In future times, when smit with Glory's charms,
The untried youth
first quits a father's arms; -
"Oh! be like him," the weeping sire shall
say;
"Like MANNERS walk, who walk'd in Honour's way;
In
danger foremost, yet in death sedate,
Oh! be like him in all things, but
his fate!"
If for that fate such public tears be shed,
That Victory seems to die
now THOU art dead;
How shall a friend his nearer hope resign,

That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine?
By what bold lines
shall we his grief express,
Or by what soothing numbers make it less?
'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song,
Nor all the powers that to the
Muse belong,
Words aptly cull'd, and meaning well express'd,
Can
calm the sorrows of a wounded breast;
But Virtue, soother of the
fiercest pains,
Shall heal that bosom, RUTLAND, where she reigns.

Yet hard the task to heal the