Poems

by George Crabbe

Of Leah Cousins next the Name appears,
With Honours crown’d and blest with Length of Years,
Save, that she liv’d to feel, in Life’s Decay,
The Pleasure die, the Honours drop away:
A Matron she, whom every Village-Wife,
View’d as the Help and Guardian of her Life;
Fathers and Sons indebted to her Aid,
Respect to her and her Profession pay’d;
Who in the House of Plenty largely fed,
Yet took her Station at the Pauper’s Bed;
Nor from that Duty could be brib’d again,
While fear or Danger urg’d her to remain;
In her Experience all her Friends relied,
Heaven was her Help and Nature was her Guide.
Thus Leah liv’d; long trusted, much caress’d,
Till a Town-Dame a youthful Farmer bless’d;
A gay vain Bride, who would Example give,
To that poor Village where she deign’d to live:
Some few Months past, she sent in hour of Need,
For Doctor Glib, who came with wondrous speed;
Two days he waited, all his Art applied,
To save the Mother when her Infant died;—
“’Twas well I came,” at last he deign’d to say;
“’Twas wondrous well;”—and proudly rode away.
The News ran round;—“How vast the Doctor’s pow’r!
“He sav’d the Lady in the trying Hour;
“Sav’d her from Death, when she was dead to Hope,
“And her fond Husband had resign’d her up:
“So all, like her, may evil Fate defy,
“If Doctor Glib, with saving Hand, be nigh.”
Fame (now his Friend), Fear, Novelty, and Whim,
And Fashion, sent the varying Sex to Him:
From this, Contention in the Village rose;
And these, the Dame espous’d; the Doctor those:
The wealthier Part, to Him and Science went;
With Luck and Leah the Poor remain’d content.
The Matron sigh’d; for she was vex’d at heart,
With so much Profit, so much Fame to part;—
“So long successful in my Art,” she cried,
“And this proud Man, so young and so untried!”
“Nay, but,” he said, “and dare you trust your Wives,
“The Joy, the Pride, the Solace of your Lives,
“To One who acts and knows no Reason why,
“But trusts, poor Hag!, to Luck for an Ally?—
“Who, on Experience, can her Claims advance,
“And own the Powers of Accident and Chance?
“A whining Dame, who prays in Danger’s view,
“(A Proof she knows not, what beside to do;)
“What’s her Experience? In the Time that’s gone,
“Blundering she wrought and still she blunders on:—
“And what is Nature? One who acts in aid
“Of Gossips half asleep, and half afraid:
“With such Allies I scorn my Fame to blend,
“Skill is my Luck and Courage is my Friend:
“No Slave to Nature, ’tis my chief delight,
“To win my way and act in her despite:—
“Trust then my Art, that, in itself complete,
“Needs no Assistance and fears no Defeat.”
Warm’d by her well-spic’d Ale and aiding Pipe,
The angry Matron grew for Contest ripe.
“Can you,” she said, “ungrateful and unjust,
“Before Experience, Ostentation trust?
“What is your Hazard, foolish Daughters, tell?
“If safe, you’re certain; if secure, you’re well:
“That I have Luck must Friend and Foe confess,
“And what’s good Judgement but a lucky Guess?
“He boasts but what he can do:—will you run
“From me, your Friend! who all he boasts, have done?
“By proud and learned Words his Powers are known;
“By healthy Boys and handsome Girls my own:
“Wives! Fathers! Children!, by my Help, you live;
“Has this pale Doctor more than Life to give?
“No stunted Cripple hops, the Village round;
“Your Hands are active and your Heads are sound;
“My Lads are all your Fields and Flocks require;
“My Lasses all those sturdy Lads admire:
“Can this proud Leech, with all his boasted Skill,
“Amend the Soul or Body, Wit or Will?
“Does he, for Courts the Sons of Farmers frame,
“Or make the Daughter differ from the Dame?
“Or, whom he brings into this World of Woe,
“Prepares he them their Part to undergo?
“If not, this Stranger from your Doors repel,
“And be content to be and to be well.”
She spake: but, ah! with Words too strong and plain;
Her Warmth offended and her Truth was vain.
The many left her and the friendly few,
If never colder, yet they older grew;
Till, unemploy’d, she felt her Spirits droop,
And took, insidious Aid!, th’ inspiring Cup;
Grew poor and peevish as her Powers decay’d,
And propp’d the tottering Frame with stronger Aid,—
Then died!—I saw our careful Swains convey,
From this our changeful World the Matron’s Clay,
Who to this World, at least, with equal Care,
Brought them its Changes, Good and Ill to share.

Now to his Grave, was Roger Cuff convey’d,
And strong Resentment’s lingering Spirit laid.
Shipwreck’d in Youth, he home return’d and found,
His Brethren three,—and thrice they wish’d him drown’d.
“Is this a Landman’s Love? Be certain then,
“We part for ever!”—and they cried, ‘Amen!’
His Words were Truth’s:—Some forty Summers fled,
His Brethren died; his Kin suppos’d him dead:
Three Nephews these, one sprightly Niece, and one,
Less near in Blood; they call’d him surly John;
He work’d in Woods apart from all his Kind,
Fierce were his Looks and moody was his Mind.
For Home, the Sailor now began to sigh;—
“The Dogs are dead and I’ll return and die;
“When all I have, my Gains, in Years of Care,
“The younger Cuffs with kinder Souls shall share;—
“Yet hold! I’m rich;—with one consent they’ll say,
“‘You’re welcome, Uncle, as the Flowers in May.’
“No; I’ll disguise me, be in Tatters dress’d,
“And best befriend the Lads who treat me best.”
Now all his Kindred,—neither rich nor poor,
Kept the Wolf Want some distance from the Door.
In piteous plight he knock’d at George’s Gate,
And begg’d for Aid, as he describ’d his State:—
But stern was George:—‘Let them who had thee Strong,
‘Help thee to drag thy weaken’d Frame along;
‘To us a Stranger, while your Limbs would move;
‘From us depart and try a Stranger’s Love:”—
‘Ha! do’st thou murmur?’—for, in Roger’s throat,
Was “Rascal!” rising with disdainful note.
To pious James he then his Prayer address’d;—
‘Good-lack,’ quoth James, ‘thy Sorrows pierce my breast;
‘And, had I Wealth, as have my Brethren twain,
‘One Board should feed us and one Roof contain:
‘But plead I will thy Cause and I will pray:
‘And so farewell! Heaven help thee on thy Way!’
“Scoundrel!” said Roger, (but apart);—and told
His Case to Peter;—Peter too was cold:—
‘The Rates are high; we have a-many Poor;
‘But I will think,——’ he said, and shut the Door.
Then the gay Niece, the seeming Pauper press’d;—
“Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this Form distrest;
“Akin to thine is this declining Frame,
“And this poor Beggar claims an Uncle’s Name.”
‘Avaunt! begone! (the courteous Maiden said,)
‘Thou vile Impostor! Uncle Roger’s dead;
‘I hate thee. Beast! thy Look, my spirit shocks;
‘Oh! that I saw thee starving in the Stocks!’
“My gentle Niece!” he said;—and sought the Wood.—
“I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me Food!”
‘Give! am I rich? This Hatchet take and try
‘Thy proper Strength, nor give those Limbs the lie;
‘Work, feed thyself, to thine own Powers appeal,
‘Nor whine out Woes, thine own Right-hand can heal:
‘And while that Hand is thine and thine a Leg,
‘Scorn, of the Proud or of the Base to beg.’
“Come, surly John, thy wealthy Kinsman view;”
(Old Roger said:)—“thy Words are brave and true;
“Come, live with me; we’ll vex those Scoundrel-Boys:
“And that prim Shrew shall, envying, hear our Joys.”—
“Tobacco’s glorious Fume, all Day we’ll share,
“With Beef and Brandy kill all kinds of Care,
“We’ll Beer and Biscuit on our Table heap,
“And rail at Rascals, till we fall asleep.”
Such was their Life: but when the Woodman died,
His grieving Kin for Roger’s Smiles applied;—
In vain; he shut, with stern Rebuke, the Door,
And dying, built a Refuge for the Poor;
With this Restriction, That no Cuff should share
One Meal or shelter for one Moment there.

My Record ends:—But hark! ev’n now I hear
The Bell of Death and know not whose to fear:
Our Farmers all and all our Hinds were well;
In no Man’s Cottage, Danger seem’d to dwell:—
Yet Death of Man proclaim these heavy Chimes,
For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times.
“Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose Days are sped?”——
“What! he, himself!—and is old Dibble dead?”
His Eightieth Year he reach’d, still undecay’d,
And Rectors five to one close Vault convey’d:—
But he is gone; his Care and Skill I lose,
And gain a mournful Subject for my Muse:
His Masters lost, he’d oft in turn deplore,
And kindly add,—‘Heaven grant, I lose no more!’
Yet while he spake, a sly and pleasant Glance
Appear’d at variance with his Complaisance:
For, as he told their Fate and varying Worth,
He archly look’d,—‘I yet may bear thee forth.’
“When first”—(he so began)—“my Trade I ply’d,
“Good Master Addle was the Parish-Guide;
“His Clerk and Sexton, I beheld with fear
“His Stride majestic and his Frown severe;
“A noble Pillar of the Church he stood,
“Adorn’d with College-gown and Parish-hood;
“Then, as he pac’d the hallow’d Aisles about,
“He fill’d the sevenfold Surplice fairly out:
“But in his Pulpit wearied down with Prayer,
“He sat and seem’d as in his Study’s Chair;
“For while the Anthem swell’d and when it ceas’d,
“Th’ expecting People view’d their slumbering Priest;—
“Who dozing, died.—— Our Parson Peele was next;
“‘I will not spare you,’ was his favourite Text:
“Nor did he spare, but rais’d them many a Pound;
“Ev’n me he mulct for my poor Rood of Ground;
“Yet car’d he nought, but with a gibing Speech,
“‘What should I do,’ quoth he, ‘but what I preach?’
“His piercing Jokes (and he’d a plenteous store)
“Were daily offer’d both to Rich and Poor;
“His Scorn, his Love, in playful Words he spoke:
“His Pity, Praise, and Promise, were a Joke:
“But though so young and blest with spirits high,
“He died as grave as any Judge could die:
“The strong Attack subdu’d his lively Powers,—
“His was the Grave and Doctor Grandspear ours.”
“Then were there golden Times the Village round;
“In his Abundance all appear’d t’ abound;
“Liberal and rich, a plenteous Board he spread,
“Ev’n cool Dissenters at his Table fed;
“Who wish’d,—and hop’d,—and thought a Man so kind,
“A Way to Heaven, though not their own, might find;
“To them, to all, he was polite and free,
“Kind to the Poor, and, ah! most kind to me:—
“‘Ralph,’ would he say, ‘Ralph Dibble, thou art old;
“‘That Doublet fit, ’twill keep thee from the Cold:
“‘How does my Sexton?—What! the Times are hard;
“‘Drive that stout Pig and pen him in thy Yard.’
“But most, his Reverence lov’d a mirthful Jest;—
“‘Thy Coat is thin; why, Man, thou’rt barely drest;
“‘It’s worn to th’ Thread! but I have nappy Beer;
“‘Clap that within and see how they will wear.’
“Gay Days were these; but they were quickly past:
“When first he came, we found he cou’dn’t last:
“An whoreson Cough (and at the Fall of Leaf)
“Upset him quite:—but what’s the Gain of Grief?
“Then came the Author-Rector; his Delight
“Was all in Books; to read them, or to write:
“Women and Men, he strove alike to shun,
“And hurried homeward, when his Tasks were done;
“Courteous enough, but careless what he said,
“For Points of Learning he reserv’d his Head;
“And when addressing either Poor or Rich,
“He knew no better than his Cassock which:
“He, like an Osier, was of pliant kind,
“Erect by Nature, but to bend inclin’d;
“Not like a Creeper falling to the ground,
“Or meanly catching on the Neighbours round;—
“Careless was he of Surplice, Hood, and Band,—
“And kindly took them as they came to hand;
“Nor, like the Doctor, wore a World of Hat,
“As if he sought for Dignity in that:
“He talk’d, he gave, but not with cautious Rules:
“Nor turn’d from Gypsies, Vagabonds, or Fools;
“It was his Nature, but they thought it Whim,
“And so our Beaux and Beauties turn’d from him:
“Of Questions, much he wrote, profound and dark,—
“How spake the Serpent, and where stopp’d the Ark;
“From what far Land the Queen of Sheba came;
“Who Salem’s Priest and what his Father’s Name;
“He made the Song of Songs its Mysteries yield,
“And Revelations to the Word, reveal’d.
“He sleeps i’ the Aisle,—but not a Stone records
“His Name or Fame, his Actions or his Words:——
“And truth, your Reverence, when I look around,
“And mark the Tombs in our Sepulchral Ground,
“(Though dare I not of one Man’s Hope to doubt,)
“I’d join the Party who repose without.
“Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and, in truth,
“He was a sober and a comely Youth;
“He blush’d in Meekness as a modest Man,
“And gain’d Attention ere his Task began;
“When preaching, seldom ventur’d on Reproof,
“But touch’d his Neighbours tenderly enough.
“Him, in his youth, a clamorous Sect assail’d,
“Advis’d and censur’d, flatter’d,—and prevail’d.—
“Then did he much his sober Hearers vex,
“Confound the Simple and the Sad perplex;
“To a new Style his Reverence rashly took;
“Loud grew his Voice, to Threat’ning swell’d his Look;
“Above, below, on either side, he gaz’d,
“Amazing all and most himself amaz’d:
“No more he read his Preachments pure and plain,
“But launch’d outright and rose and sank again:
“At times he smil’d in Scorn, at times he wept, }
“And such sad Coil with Words of Vengeance kept, }
“That our best Sleepers started as they slept. }
“‘Conviction comes like Lightning,’ he would cry;
“‘In vain you seek it and in vain you fly;
“‘’Tis like the rushing of the mighty Wind,
“‘Unseen its Progress, but its Power you find;
“‘It strikes the Child ere yet its Reason wakes;
“‘His Reason fled, the antient Sire it shakes;
“‘The proud, learn’d Man, and him who loves to know
“‘How and from whence these Gusts of Grace will blow,
“‘It shuns,—but Sinners in their Way impedes,
“‘And Sots and Harlots visits in their Deeds;
“‘Of Faith and Penance it supplies the place; }
“‘Assures the vilest that they live by Grace, }
“‘And, without running, makes them win the Race.’}
“Such was the Doctrine our young Prophet taught;
“And here Conviction, there Confusion wrought:
“When his thin Cheek assum’d a deadly Hue,
“And all the Rose to one small Spot withdrew:
“They call’d it hectic; ’twas a fiery Flush,
“More fix’d and deeper than the maiden Blush;
“His paler Lips the pearly Teeth disclos’d,
“And lab’ring Lungs the length’ning Speech oppos’d.
“No more his span-girth Shanks and quiv’ring Thighs,
“Upheld a Body of the smaller Size;
“But down he sank upon his Dying-Bed,
“And gloomy Crotchets fill’d his wandering Head.—
“‘Spite of my Faith, all-saving Faith, he cried,
“‘I fear of worldly works, the wicked Pride;
“‘Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind,
“‘The good I’ve wrought still rankles in my Mind;
“‘My Alms-deeds all and every Deed I’ve done,
“‘My Moral-rags defile me every one;
“‘It should not be:—what say’st thou? tell me, Ralph.’
“Quoth I, ‘Your Reverence, I believe, you’re safe;
“‘Your Faith’s your Prop, nor have you pass’d such Time,
“‘In Life’s Good-works as swell them to a Crime.—
“‘If I of Pardon for my Sins were sure,
“‘About my Goodness I would rest secure.’
“Such was his End; and mine approaches fast;
“I’ve seen my best of Preachers,—and my last.”—
He bow’d, and archly smil’d at what he said,
Civil but sly:—— ‘And is old Dibble dead?’
Yes! he is gone: and WE are going all;
Like Flowers we wither and like Leaves we fall:—
Here, with an Infant, joyful Sponsors come,
Then bear the new-made Christian to its Home:
A few short Years and we behold him stand
To ask a Blessing, with his Bride in hand:
A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear
His Widow weeping at her Husband’s Bier:—
Thus, as the Months succeed, shall Infants take
Their Names, while Parents them and us forsake;
Thus Brides again and Bridegrooms blithe shall kneel,
By Love or Law compell’d their Vows to seal,
Ere I again or one like me, explore
These simple Annals of the Village Poor.

THE
LIBRARY:

A Poem.

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ARGUMENT.