The Village and The Newspaper | Page 6

bleeding heart,
To bid the still-recurring
thoughts depart,
Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh,
And
curb rebellious passion, with reply;
Calmly to dwell on all that
pleased before,
And yet to know that all shall please no more; -
Oh!
glorious labour of the soul, to save
Her captive powers, and bravely
mourn the brave.
To such these thoughts will lasting comfort give -
Life is not
measured by the time we live:
'Tis not an even course of threescore
years, -
A life of narrow views and paltry fears,
Gray hairs and
wrinkles, and the cares they bring,
That take from Death the terrors or
the sting;
But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high
Above the
world, that native of the sky;
The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave

Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave: -
Such MANNERS
was, so he resign'd his breath,
If in a glorious, then a timely death.
Cease, then, that grief, and let those tears subside;
If Passion rule us,
be that passion pride;
If Reason, reason bids us strive to raise
Our
fallen hearts, and be like him we praise;
Or if Affection still the soul
subdue,
Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view,
And let
Affection find its comfort too:
For how can Grief so deeply wound
the heart,
When Admiration claims so large a part?
Grief is a foe--expel him then thy soul;
Let nobler thoughts the nearer
views control!
Oh! make the age to come thy better care,
See other
RUTLANDS, other GRANBYS there!
And, as thy thoughts through
streaming ages glide,
See other heroes die as MANNERS died:
And
from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow,
As trees shoot upwards
that are pruned below;
Or as old Thames, borne down with decent
pride,
Sees his young streams run warbling at his side;
Though
some, by art cut off, no longer run,
And some are lost beneath the
summer sun -
Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves,
Its
power increases and its use improves;
While plenty round its
spacious waves bestow,
Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.

THE NEWSPAPER
E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures:
Hi narrata ferunt alio;
mensuraque ficti
Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:
Illic
Credulitas, illic temerarius Error,
Vanaque Laetitia est, consternatique
Timores,
Seditioque repens, dubioque auctore Susurri.
OVID, Metamorphoses
THE ARGUMENT
This not a Time favourable to Poetical Composition: and why--
Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general Influence--Their
Numbers--The Sunday Monitor--Their general Character--Their Effect
upon Individuals--upon Society--in the Country--The Village
Freeholder--What Kind of Composition a Newspaper is; and the
Amusement it affords--Of what Parts it is chiefly composed--Articles
of Intelligence: Advertisements: The Stage: Quacks: Puffing--The
Correspondents to a Newspaper, political and poetical--Advice to the
latter--Conclusion.
A time like this, a busy, bustling time,
Suits ill with writers, very ill
with rhyme:
Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong,
And
mightier madness checks the flowing song:
Or, should we force the
peaceful Muse to wield
Her feeble arms amid the furious field,

Where party-pens a wordy war maintain,
Poor is her anger, and her
friendship vain;
And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine,
Till
serious vengeance pays an idle line:
For party-poets are like wasps,
who dart
Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart.
Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose,
Neglect awaits the
song, and chills the Muse;
Or should we sing the subject of the day,

To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away.
More blest the bards
of that poetic time,
When all found readers who could find a rhyme;

Green grew the bays on every teeming head,
And Cibber was
enthroned, and Settle read.
Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy

decline;
Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?
Alas! new
charms the wavering many gain,
And rival sheets the reader's eye
detain;
A daily swarm, that banish every Muse,
Come flying forth,
and mortals call them NEWS:
For these, unread, the noblest volumes
lie;
For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die;
Unbought, unblest,
the virgin copies wait
In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.
Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our foes,
The smoothest
numbers for the harshest prose;
Let us, with generous scorn, the taste
deride,
And sing our rivals with a rival's pride.
Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain
That foul neglect is all your
labours gain;
That pity only checks your growing spite
To erring
man, and prompts you still to write;
That your choice works on
humble stalls are laid,
Or vainly grace the windows of the trade;
Be
ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm
Those rival bosoms whom
the Muses charm;
Think of the common cause wherein we go,
Like
gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;
Nor let one peevish chief his
leader blame,
Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame;
And
let us join our forces to subdue
This bold assuming but successful
crew.
I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid sheets
The rattling hawker vends
through gaping streets;
Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they
fly,
Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye:
For soon as
Morning dawns with roseate hue,
The HERALD of the morn arises
too;
POST after POST succeeds, and, all day long,
GAZETTES and
LEDGERS swarm,