Poems

by George Crabbe

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In Fairy-Land, on wide and cheerless Plain,
Dwelt, in the House of Care, a sturdy Swain;
An hireling he, who when he till’d the Soil,
Look’d to the Pittance, that repay’d his Toil;
And to a Master left the mingled Joy,
And anxious Care that follow’d his Employ:
Sullen and patient he at once appear’d,
As one who murmur’d, yet as one who fear’d;
Th’ Attire was coarse that cloth’d his sinewy Frame,
Rude his Address and Poverty his Name.

In that same Plain a Nymph of curious Taste,
A Cottage (plann’d with all her Skill) had plac’d:
Strange the Materials and for what design’d
The various Parts, no simple Man might find;
What seem’d the Door, each entering Guest withstood,
What seem’d a Window was but painted Wood;
But by a secret Spring the Wall would move,
And Day-light drop through glassy Door above;
’Twas all her Pride, new Traps for Praise to lay,
And all her Wisdom was to hide her Way;
In small Attempts incessant were her Pains,
And Cunning was her Name among the Swains.

Now, whether Fate decreed this Pair should wed,
And blindly drove them to the Marriage-Bed;
Or whether Love in some soft Hour inclin’d
The Damsel’s Heart and won her to be kind,
Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match’d Pair,
But both dispos’d to wed and wed they were.

Yet though united in their Fortune, still
Their Ways were diverse, varying was their Will,
Nor long the Maid had blest the simple Man,
Before Dissentions rose and she began:—

“Wretch that I am! since to thy Fortune bound,
“What plan, what project with success is crown’d?
“I, who a thousand secret Arts possess,
“Who every Rank approach with right Address;
“Who’ve loos’d a Guinea from a Miser’s Chest,
“And worm’d his Secret from a Traitor’s Breast;
“Thence Gifts and Gains collecting, great and small,
“Have brought to thee and thou consum’st them all;
“For Want like thine, a Bog without a Base,
“Ingulph’st all gains, I gather for the Place;
“Feeding, unfill’d; destroying, undestroy’d;
“It craves for ever and is ever void:—
“Wretch that I am! what Misery have I found,
“Since my sure Craft was to thy Calling bound?”

‘Oh! vaunt of worthless Arts,’ the Swain replied,
Scowling Contempt, ‘how pitiful this Pride!
‘What are these specious Gifts, these paltry Gains,
‘But base Rewards for ignominious Pains?
‘With all thy Tricking, still for Bread we strive,
‘Thine is, proud Wretch! the Care that cannot thrive,
‘By all thy boasted Skill and baffled Hooks,
‘Thou gain’st no more than Students by their Books;
‘No more than I for my poor Deeds am paid,
‘Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid.
‘Call this our Need, a Bog that all devours;
‘Then what thy petty Arts, but Summer-Flowers,
‘Gaudy and mean and serving to betray
‘The Place, they make unprofitably gay?
‘Who know it not, some useless Beauties see;
‘But ah! to prove it was reserv’d for me.’
Unhappy State! that, in Decay of Love,
Permits harsh Truth his Errors to disprove:
While he remains, to wrangle and to jar,
Is friendly Tournament not fatal War;
Love in his Play will borrow Arms of Hate,
Anger and Rage, Upbraiding and Debate;
And by his Power the desperate Weapons thrown,
Become as safe and pleasant as his own;
But left by him, their Natures they assume,
And fatal, in their poisoning Force, become.

Time fled, and now the Swain compell’d to see
New Cause for Fear—‘Is this thy Thrift?’ quoth he.
To whom the Wife with cheerful voice replied:—
“Thou moody Man, lay all thy Fears aside,
“I’ve seen a Vision;—they from whom I came,
“A Daughter promise, promise Wealth and Fame;
“Born with my Features, with my Arts, yet she}
“Shall patient, pliant, persevering be, }
“And in thy better Ways resemble thee. }
“The Fairies round shall at her Birth attend,
“The Friend of all in all shall find a Friend,
“And save that one sad Star that Hour must gleam
“On our fair Child, how glorious were my Dream!”

This heard the Husband and in surly smile,
Aim’d at Contempt, but yet he hop’d the while;
For as when sinking, wretched Men are found,
To catch at Rushes rather than be drown’d;
So on a Dream our Peasant plac’d his Hope,
And found that Rush as valid as a Rope.

Swift fled the Days, for now in Hope they fled;
When a fair Daughter bless’d the Nuptial Bed;
Her Infant-face the Mother’s Pains beguil’d,
She look’d so pleasing and so softly smil’d;
Those Smiles, those Looks, with sweet Sensations mov’d
The Gazer’s Soul, and as he look’d, he lov’d.