Poems

by George Crabbe

Whilst thus engag’d, high Views enlarge the Soul,
New Interests draw, new Principles controul;
Nor thus the Soul alone resigns her Grief,
But here the tortur’d Body finds Relief;
For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes
Her subtile Gin, that not a Fly escapes!
There Physic fills the Space, and far around,
Pile above pile, her learned Works abound;
Glorious their Aim—to ease the labouring Heart,
To war with Death and stop his flying Dart;
To trace the Source whence the fierce Contest grew,
And Life’s short Lease on easier Terms renew;
To calm the Frenzy of the burning Brain,
To heal the Tortures of imploring Pain,
Or, when more powerful Ills all Efforts brave,}
To ease the Victim no Device can save, }
And smooth the stormy Passage to the Grave. }
But Man, who knows no Good unmix’d and pure,
Oft finds a Poison where he sought a Cure:
For, grave Deceivers lodge their Labours here,
And cloud the Science they pretend to clear:
Scourges for Sin, the solemn Tribe are sent;
Like Fire and Storms, they call us to repent:
But Storms subside, and Fires forget to rage:
These are eternal Scourges of the Age:
’Tis not enough that each terrific Hand
Spreads Desolation round a guilty Land;
But, train’d to ill, and harden’d by its Crimes,
Their Pen relentless kills through future Times.
Say ye, who search these Records of the Dead,
Who read huge Works, to boast what ye have read;
Can all the real Knowledge ye possess,
Or those (if such there are), who more than guess,
Atone for each Impostor’s wild Mistakes,
And mend the Blunders Pride or Folly makes?
What Thought so wild, what airy Dream so light,
That will not prompt a Theorist to write?
What Art so prevalent, what Proof so strong,
That will convince him his Attempt is wrong?
One in the Solids finds each lurking Ill,
Nor grants the passive Fluids power to kill;
A learned Friend some subtler Reason brings,
Absolves the Channels, but condemns their Springs;
The subtile Nerves, that shun the Doctor’s Eye,
Escape no more his subtler Theory;
The vital Heat, that warms the labouring Heart,
Lends a fair System to these Sons of Art;
The vital Air, a pure and subtle Stream, }
Serves a Foundation for an airy Scheme, }
Assists the Doctor, and supports his Dream.}
Some have their favourite Ills, and each Disease
Is but a younger Branch that kills from these:
One to the Gout contracts all human Pain,
He views it raging in the frantic Brain;
Finds it in Fevers all his efforts mar,
And sees it lurking in the cold Catarrh:
Bilious by some, by others nervous seen,
Rage the fantastic Dæmons of the Spleen;
And every Symptom of the strange Disease
With every System of the Sage agrees.
Ye frigid Tribe, on whom I wasted long
The tedious Hours and ne’er indulg’d in Song;
Ye first Seducers of my easy Heart,
Who promis’d Knowledge, ye could not impart;
Ye dull Deluders, Truth’s destructive Foes;
Ye Sons of Fiction, clad in stupid Prose;
Ye treacherous Leaders, who, yourselves in doubt,
Light up false Fires and send us far about;—
Still may yon Spider round your Pages spin,
Subtle and slow, her emblematic Gin!
Buried in Dust and lost in Silence, dwell,
Most potent, grave, and reverend Friends—Farewell!

Near these, and where the setting Sun displays,
Through the dim Window, his departing Rays,
And gilds yon Columns, there on either side,
The huge Abridgements of the Law abide;
Fruitful as Vice the dread Correctors stand,
And spread their guardian Terrors round the Land;
Yet, as the best that human Care can do,
Is mixt with Error, oft with Evil too;
Skill’d in Deceit, and practis’d to evade,
Knaves stand secure, for whom these Laws were made:
And Justice vainly each expedient tries,
While Art eludes it, or while Power defies.
“Ah! happy Age,” the youthful Poet sings,
“When the free Nations knew not Laws nor Kings;
When all were blest to share a common Store,
And none were proud of Wealth, for none were poor;
No Wars, nor Tumults vex’d each still Domain,
No thirst of Empire, no desire of Gain;
No proud Great Man, nor one who would be great,
Drove modest Merit from its proper State;
Nor into distant Climes would Avarice roam,
To fetch Delights for Luxury at Home.
Bound by no ties which kept the Soul in awe,
They dwelt at liberty, and Love was Law!”
“Mistaken Youth! each Nation first was rude,
Each Man a cheerless Son of Solitude,
To whom no Joys of Social life were known,
None felt a Care that was not all his own;
Or in some languid Clime his abject Soul
Bow’d to a little Tyrant’s stern controul;
A Slave, with Slaves his Monarch’s Throne he rais’d,
And in rude Song his ruder Idol prais’d;
The meaner Cares of Life were all he knew,
Bounded his Pleasures, and his Wishes few:
But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,
And Science waken’d from her long Repose;
When Commerce, rising from the Red of Ease,
Ran round the Land and pointed to the Seas;
When Emulation, born with jealous Eye,
And Avarice, lent their Spurs to industry;
Then one by one the numerous Laws were made,
Those to controul, and these to succour Trade;
To curb the Insolence of rude Command,
To snatch the Victim from the Usurer’s hand;
To awe the Bold, to yield the Wrong’d redress,
And feed the Poor with Luxury’s excess.”
Like some vast Flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong,
His Nature leads ungovern’d Man along;
Like mighty Bulwarks made to stem that Tide,
The Laws are form’d and plac’d on ev’ry side;
Whene’er it breaks the Bounds by these decreed,
New Statutes rise, and stronger Laws succeed;
More and more gentle grows the dying Stream,
More and more strong the rising Bulwarks seem;
Till, like a Miner working sure and slow,
Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;
The Basis sinks, the ample Piles decay,
The stately Fabric shakes and falls away;
Primæval Want and Ignorance come on,
But Freedom, that exalts the Savage State, is gone.

Next, History ranks;—there full in front she lies,
And every Nation her dread Tale supplies;
Yet History has her Doubts, and every Age
With sceptic Queries marks the passing Page;
Records of old nor later Date are clear,
Too distant those and these are plac’d too near;
There Time conceals the Objects from our view,
Here our own Passions and a Writer’s too:
Yet in these Volumes see how States arose!
Guarded by Virtue from surrounding Foes;
Their Virtue lost, and of their Triumphs vain,
Lo! how they sunk to Slavery again!
Satiate with Power, of Fame and Wealth possest,
A Nation grows too glorious to be blest;
Conspicuous made, she stands the Mark of all,
And Foes join Foes to triumph in her Fall.
Thus speaks the Page that paints Ambition’s Race,
The Monarch’s Pride, his Glory, his Disgrace;
The headlong Course, that madd’ning Heroes run,
How soon triumphant, and how soon undone;
How Slaves, turn’d Tyrants, offer Crowns to sale,
And each fall’n Nation’s melancholy Tale.

Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,
Old pious Tracts, and Bibles bound in Wood;
There, such the Taste of our degenerate Age,
Stand the profane Delusions of the Stage:
Yet Virtue owns the Tragic Muse a Friend,
Fable her Means, Morality her End;
For this she rules all Passions in their turns,
And now the Bosom bleeds, and now it burns;
Pity with weeping Eye surveys her Bowl,
Her Anger swells, her Terror chills the Soul;
She makes the Vile to Virtue yield Applause,
And own her Sceptre while they break her Laws;
For Vice in others is abhorr’d of all,
And Villains triumph when the Worthless fall.

Not thus her Sister Comedy prevails,
Who shoots at Folly, for her Arrow fails
Folly, by Dulness arm’d, eludes the Wound,
And harmless sees the feather’d Shafts rebound;
Unhurt she stands, applauds the Archer’s Skill,
Laughs at her Malice, and is Folly still.
Yet well the Muse pourtrays in fancied Scenes,
What Pride will stoop to, what Profession means;
How formal Fools the Farce of State applaud,
How Caution watches at the Lips of Fraud;
The wordy Variance of Domestic Life,
The tyrant Husband, the retorting Wife;
The Snares for Innocence, the Lie of Trade,
And the smooth Tongue’s habitual Masquerade.
With her the Virtues too obtain a Place,
Each gentle Passion, each becoming Grace;
The social Joy in Life’s securer Road,
Its easy Pleasure, its substantial Good;
The happy Thought that conscious Virtue gives,
And all that ought to live, and all that lives.

But who are these? Methinks a noble Mien,
And awful Grandeur in their Form are seen,
Now in disgrace: what tho’ by Time is spread,
Polluting Dust o’er every reverend Head;
What though beneath yon gilded Tribe they lie,
And dull Observers pass insulting by:
Forbid it Shame, forbid it decent Awe,
What seems so grave, should no Attention draw!
Come, let us then with reverend step advance,
And greet—the ancient Worthies of Romance.
Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread,
A thousand Visions float around my head:
Hark! hollow Blasts through empty Courts resound,
And shadowy Forms with staring Eyes stalk round;
See! Moats and Bridges, Walls and Castles rise,
Ghosts, Fairies, Dæmons, dance before our eyes;
Lo! Magic Verse inscrib’d on golden Gate,
And bloody Hand that beckons on to Fate;—
“And who art thou, thou little Page, unfold?
“Say, Doth thy Lord my Claribel with-hold;
“Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign
“The captive Queen:—for, Claribel is mine.”
Away he flies; and now for bloody Deeds,
Black Suits of Armour, Masks, and foaming Steeds;
The Giant falls; his recreant Throat I seize,
And from his Corslet take the massy Keys:—
Dukes, Lords, and Knights in long procession move,
Releas’d from bondage with my virgin Love;—
She comes! she comes! in all the Charms of Youth,
Unequall’d Love and unsuspected Truth!
Ah! happy he who thus in magic Themes,
O’er Worlds bewitch’d, in early rapture dreams,
Where wild Enchantment waves her potent Wand,
And Fancy’s Beauties fill her Fairy Land;
Where doubtful Objects strange Desires excite,
And Fear and Ignorance afford Delight.
But lost, for ever lost, to me these Joys,
Which Reason scatters and which Time destroys,
Too dearly bought; maturer Judgment calls
My busied Mind, from Tales and Madrigals;
My doughty Giants all are slain or fled,
And all my Knights, Blue, Green, and Yellow, dead;
No more the midnight Fairy Tribe I view,
All in the merry Moonshine tippling Dew;
Ev’n the last lingering Fiction of the Brain,
The church-yard Ghost, is now at rest again:
And all these wayward Wanderings of my Youth,
Fly Reason’s Power and shun the Light of Truth.
With Fiction then does real Joy reside,
And is our Reason the delusive Guide?
Is it then right to dream the Syrens sing?
Or mount enraptur’d on the Dragon’s Wing?
No, ’tis the infant Mind, to Care unknown,
That makes th’ imagin’d Paradise its own;
Soon as Reflections in the Bosom rise,
Light Slumbers vanish from the clouded Eyes:
The Tear and Smile, that once together rose,
Are then divorc’d; the Head and Heart are foes;
Enchantment bows to Wisdom’s serious Plan,
And Pain and Prudence make and mar the Man.

While thus, of Power and fancy’d Empire vain,
With various Thoughts my Mind I entertain;
While Books my Slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,
Pleas’d with the Pride that will not let them please;
Sudden I find terrific Thoughts arise,
And sympathetic Sorrow fills my Eyes;
For, lo! while yet my Heart admits the Wound,
I see the Critic Army rang’d around.
Foes to our Race! if ever ye have known
A Father’s fears for Offspring of your own;—
If ever, smiling o’er a lucky Line,
Ye thought the sudden Sentiment divine,
Then paus’d and doubted, and then, tir’d of doubt,
With rage as sudden dash’d the Stanza out;—
If, after fearing much and pausing long,
Ye ventur’d on the World your labour’d Song,
And from the crusty Critics of those Days,
Implor’d the feeble Tribute of their Praise;
Remember now, the Fears that mov’d you then,
And, spite of Truth, let Mercy guide your Pen.
What vent’rous Race are ours! what mighty Foes,
Lie waiting all around them to oppose!
What treacherous Friends betray them to the Fight!
What Dangers threaten them!; yet still they write:
A hapless Tribe! to every Evil born,
Whom Villains hate and Fools affect to scorn:
Strangers they come, amid a world of Woe,
And taste the largest Portion ere they go.

Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;
The Roof, methought, return’d a solemn Sound;
Each Column seem’d to shake, and Clouds, like Smoke,
From dusty Piles and ancient Volumes broke;
Gathering above, like Mists condens’d they seem,
Exhal’d in Summer from the rushy Stream;
Like flowing Robes they now appear, and twine
Round the large Members of a Form divine;
His Silver Beard, that swept his aged Breast, }
His piercing Eye, that inward Light express’d, }
Were seen,—but Clouds and Darkness veil’d the rest. }
Fear chill’d my Heart; to one of mortal Race,
How awful seem’d the Genius of the Place!
So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw
His Parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe;
Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,
When from the pitying Power broke forth a solemn Sound:—

“Care lives with all; no Rules, no Precepts save }
The Wise from Woe, no Fortitude the Brave: }
Grief is to Man as certain as the Grave; }
Tempests and Storms in Life’s whole progress rise,
And Hope shines dimly through o’erclouded skies;
Some drops of Comfort on the favour’d fall,
But showers of Sorrow are the Lot of all:
Partial to Talents, then, shall Heav’n withdraw
Th’ afflicting Rod, or break the general Law?
Shall he who soars, inspir’d by loftier Views,
Life’s little Cares and little Pains refuse?
Shall he not rather feel a double Share
Of mortal Woe, when doubly arm’d to bear?
“Hard is his Fate who builds his Peace of Mind
On the precarious Mercy of Mankind;
Who hopes for wild and visionary things,
And mounts o’er unknown Seas with vent’rous Wings:
But as, of various Evils that befall
The human Race, some Portion goes to all;
To him perhaps the milder Lot’s assign’d,
Who feels his Consolation in his Mind;
And lock’d within his Bosom, bears about
A mental Charm for every Care, without.
Ev’n in the Pangs of each domestic Grief,
Or Health or vigorous Hope affords Relief;
And every Wound the tortur’d Bosom feels,
Or Virtue bears, or some Preserver heals;
Some generous Friend, of ample Power possest;
Some feeling Heart, that bleeds for the distrest;
Some Breast that glows with Virtues all divine;
Some noble RUTLAND, Misery’s Friend and thine.
“Nor say, the Muses’ Song, the Poet’s Pen,
Merit the Scorn they meet from little men.
With cautious freedom if the Numbers flow,
Not wildly high, not pitifully low;
If Vice alone their honest Aims oppose,
Why so asham’d their Friends, so loud their Foes?
Happy for Men in every Age and Clime,
If all the Sons of Vision dealt in Rhyme.
Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue
The airy Dreams; the World is dreaming too.
Ambition’s lofty Views, the Pomp of State,
The Pride of Wealth, the Splendour of the Great,
Stript of their Mask, their Cares and Troubles known,
Are Visions far less happy than thy own:
Go on! and, while the Sons of Care complain,
Be wisely gay and innocently vain;
While serious Souls are by their Fears undone,
Blow sportive Bladders in the beamy Sun,
And call them Worlds!, and bid the greatest show
More radiant Colours in their World below:
Then, as they break, the Slaves of Care reprove,
And tell them, Such are all the Toys they love.”