An Orphan Girl succeeds: ere she was born,
Her Father died, her Mother on that morn;
The pious Mistress of the School sustains
Her Parents’ part, nor their affection feigns,
But pitying feels: with due respect and joy,
I trace the Matron at her lov’d employ;
What time the striplings wearied ev’n with play, }
Part at the closing of the Summer’s day, }
And each by different path, returns the well-known way. }
Then I behold her at her cottage-door,
Frugal of light:—her Bible laid before,
When on her double duty she proceeds,
Of Time as frugal;—knitting as she reads:
Her idle neighbours who approach to tell
Of news or nothing, her grave looks compel,
To hear reluctant,—while the lads who pass,
In pure respect, walk silent on the grass;
Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes,
Till solemn prayers the daily duties close.
But I digress, and lo! an Infant-train
Appear, and call me to my task again.
‘Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?’
I ask’d the Gardener’s Wife, in accents mild:
“We have a right,” replied the sturdy dame;—
And Lonicera was the Infant’s name.
If next a Son shall yield our Gardener joy,
Then Hyacinthus shall be that fair boy;
And if a Girl, they will at length agree,
That Belladonna that fair maid shall be.
High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets,
And at his Club to wondering Swains repeats;
He then of Rhus and Rhododendron speaks,
And Allium calls his Onions and his Leeks;
Nor Weeds are now, for whence arose the Weed,
Scarce Plants, fair Herbs and curious Flowers proceed;
Where Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions sprung,
(Gross names had they our plainer sires among;)
There Arums, there Leontodons we view,
And Artimisia grows, where Wormwood grew.
But though no weed exists, his Garden round,
From Rumex strong our Gardener frees his ground,
Takes soft Senicio from the yielding land,
And grasps the arm’d Urtica in his hand.
Not Darwin’s self had more delight to sing
Of Floral Courtship, in th’ awaken’d spring;
Than Peter Pratt, who simpering loves to tell,
How rise the Stamens, as the Pistils swell;
How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse,
And give and take the vegetable vows;
How those esteem’d of old, but tips and chives,
Are tender husbands and obedient wives;
Who live and love within the sacred bower,—
That bridal bed, the vulgar term a Flower.
Hear Peter proudly, to some humble friend,
A wondrous secret, in his science lend;—
“Would you advance the nuptial hour, and bring
“The fruit of Autumn, with the flowers of Spring;
“View that light frame where Cucumis lies spread,
“And trace the husbands in their golden bed,
“Three powder’d Anthers;—then no more delay,
“But to the Stigma’s top, their dust convey;
“Then by thyself, from prying glance secure,
“Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure;
“A long-abiding race the deed shall pay,
“Nor one unblest abortion pine away.”
T’ admire their friend’s discourse our Swains agree,
And call it Science and Philosophy.
’Tis good, ’tis pleasant, through th’ advancing year,
To see unnumber’d growing Forms appear;
What leafy-life from Earth’s broad bosom rise!
What insect-myriads seek the summer skies!
What scaly tribes in every streamlet move! }
What plumy people sing in every grove! }
All with the year awak’d, to life, delight and love.}
Then Names are good, for how, without their aid
Is knowledge, gain’d by man, to man convey’d?
But from that source shall all our pleasure flow?
Shall all our knowledge be those Names to know?
Then He, with memory blest, shall bear away
The palm from Grew, and Middleton, and Ray;
No! let us rather seek in Grove and Field,
What food for Wonder, what for Use they yield;
Some just remark from Nature’s people bring,
And some new source of homage for her King.
Pride lives with all; strange Names our Rustics give
To helpless Infants, that their own may live;
Pleas’d to be known, some notice they will claim,
And find some bye-way to the house of Fame.
The straightest Furrow lifts the Ploughman’s heart,
The Hat he gain’d has warmth for head and heart;
The Bowl that beats the greater number down,
Of tottering Nine-pins, gives to fame the Clown;
Or foil’d in these, he opes his ample jaws,
And lets a Frog leap down to gain applause;
Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week,
Or challenges a well-pinch’d pig, to squeak;
Some idle deed, some child’s preposterous Name,
Shall make him known and give his folly, fame.
To name an Infant met our Village-sires,
Assembled all, as such event requires;
Frequent and full, the rural Sages sate,
And Speakers many urg’d the long debate,—
Some harden’d knaves, who rov’d the country round,
Had left a Babe within the Parish-bound.—
First, of the fact they question’d—“Was it true?”
The Child was brought—“What then remain’d to do?
“Was’t dead or living?” This was fairly prov’d,
’Twas pinch’d, it roar’d, and every doubt remov’d;
Then by what Name th’ unwelcome guest to call,
Was long a question and it pos’d them all:
For he who lent a Name to Babe unknown,
Censorious men might take it for his own;
They look’d about, they ask’d the name of all,
And not one Richard answer’d to the call;
Next they enquir’d the day, when passing by,
Th’ unlucky peasant heard the stranger’s cry;
This known; how Food and Raiment they might give,
Was next debated—for the rogue would live;
At last with all their words and work content,}
Back to their homes, the prudent Vestry went,}
And Richard Monday to the Workhouse sent.}
There was he pinch’d and pitied, thump’d and fed,
And duly took his beatings and his bread;
Patient in all controul, in all abuse,
He found contempt and kicking have their use:
Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow,
A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;
His pliant soul gave way to all things base,
He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace:
It seem’d, so well his passions he suppress’d,
No feeling stirr’d his ever-torpid breast;
Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat,
He was a footstool for the beggar’s feet;
His were the legs that ran at all commands;
They us’d on all occasions, Richard’s hands;
His very soul was not his own; he stole
As others order’d, and without a dole;
In all disputes, on either part he lied,
And freely pledg’d his oath on either side,
In all rebellions Richard join’d the rest,
In all detections Richard first confess’d;
Yet though disgrac’d, he watch’d his time so well,
He rose in favour, when in fame he fell;
Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,
And all despis’d and fed the pliant boy:
At length, “’tis time he should abroad be sent,”
Was whisper’d near him,—and abroad he went;
One morn they call’d him, Richard answer’d not,
They doom’d him hanging and in time forgot,—
Yet miss’d him long, as each, throughout the clan,
Found he “had better spar’d a better man.”
Now Richard’s talents for the world were fit,
He’d no small cunning and had some small wit;
Had that calm look which seem’d to all assent,
And that complacent speech which nothing meant;
He’d but one care and that he strove to hide,
How best for Richard Monday to provide;
Steel, through opposing plates the Magnet draws,
And steelly atoms culls from dust and straws;
And thus our Hero, to his interest true,
Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew;
But still more surely round the world to go,
This Fortune’s Child, had neither friend nor foe.
Long lost to us, at last our man we trace,
Sir Richard Monday died at Monday-place;
His Lady’s worth, his Daughter’s we peruse;
And find his Grandsons all as rich as Jews;
He gave reforming Charities a sum,
And bought the blessings of the Blind and Dumb;
Bequeath’d to Missions money from the Stocks,
And Bibles issu’d from his private box;
But to his native place severely just,
He left a pittance bound in rigid trust;
Two paltry pounds, on every quarter’s-day,
(At church produc’d) for forty loaves should pay;
A stinted gift, that to the Parish shows,
He kept in mind their bounty and their blows!
To Farmers three, the Year has giv’n a Son,
Finch on the Moor, and French and Middleton;
Twice in this year a female Giles I see,
A Spalding once, and once a Barnaby;
An humble man is he and when they meet,
Our Farmers find him on a distant seat;
There for their wit he serves a constant theme,
“They praise his Dairy, they extol his Team,
“They ask the price of each unrivall’d Steed,
“And whence his Sheep, that admirable breed;
“His thriving arts they beg he would explain,
“And where he puts the Money he must gain:—
“They have their Daughters, but they fear their friend
“Would think his Sons too much would condescend;—
“They have their Sons who would their fortunes try,
“But fear his Daughters will their suit deny.”
So runs the joke, while James with sigh profound,
And face of care, keeps looking on the ground;
These looks and sighs provoke the insult more,
And point the jest—for Barnaby is poor.
Last in my List, five untaught Lads appear;
Their Father dead, Compassion sent them here,
For still that rustic Infidel denied,
To have their Names with solemn Rite applied:
His, a lone House, by Dead-man’s Dyke-way stood;
And his, a nightly Haunt, in Lonely-wood;
Each Village Inn has heard the ruffian boast,
That he believ’d ‘in neither God nor Ghost;
‘That when the sod upon the Sinner press’d,
‘He, like the Saint, had everlasting rest;
‘That never Priest believ’d his Doctrines true, }
‘But would, for profit, own himself a Jew, }
‘Or worship Wood and Stone, as honest Heathen do;}
‘That fools alone on future Worlds rely,
‘And all who die for Faith, deserve to die.’
These Maxims,—part th’ Attorney’s Clerk profess’d,
His own transcendant genius found the rest.
Our pious Matrons heard and much amaz’d,
Gaz’d on the Man and trembled as they gaz’d;
And now his Face explor’d and now his Feet,
Man’s dreaded Foe, in this Bad Man, to meet:
But him our Drunkards as their Champion rais’d,
Their Bishop call’d, and as their Hero prais’d;
Though most when sober, and the rest, when sick,
Had little question, whence his Bishoprick.
But he, triumphant Spirit! all things dar’d,
He poach’d the Wood and on the Warren snar’d;
’Twas his, at Cards, each Novice to trepan,
And call the Wants of Rogues the Rights of Man;
Wild as the Winds, he let his Offspring rove,
And deem’d the Marriage-Bond the Bane of Love.
What Age and Sickness for a Man so bold,
Had done, we know not;—none beheld him old:
By night as business urg’d, he sought the Wood,
The ditch was deep, the rain had caus’d a flood;
The foot-bridge fail’d, he plung’d beneath the Deep,
And slept, if truth were his, th’ eternal sleep.
These have we nam’d; on Life’s rough Sea they sail,
With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale!
Where Passion soon, like powerful Winds, will rage,
While wearied Prudence with their Strength engage;
Then each, in aid, shall some Companion ask,
For Help or Comfort in the tedious task;
And what that Help—what Joys from Union flow,
What Good or Ill, we next prepare to show;
And row, meantime, our weary Bark ashore,
As Spencer his—but not with Spencer’s Oar[7].