An Essay on War, in Blank Verse; Honington Green, a Ballad; the Culprit, an Elegy; and Other Poems, on Various Subjects

Part 3

Chapter 33,785 wordsPublic domain

Taste spreads, her refinements around, Enriching her favourite Land With prospects of beautified ground, Where, cinctur'd, the spruce Villas stand; On the causeways, that never are foul, Marshal'd bands may with measur'd pace tread; The soft Car of Voluptuousness roll, And the proud Steed of Greatness parade.

Those fenc'd ways that so even are made, The pedestrian traveler bemoans; He no more the green carpet may tread, But plod on, 'midst the gravel and stones: And if he would rest with his load, No green hillock presents him a seat, But long, hard, tiresome sameness of road Fatigues both the eye and the feet.

Sighs speak the poor Labourers' pain, While the new mounds and fences they rear, Intersecting their dear native plain, To divide to each rich Man his share; It cannot but grieve them to see, Where so freely they rambled before, What a bare narrow track is left free To the foot of the unportion'd Poor.

The proud City's gay wealthy train. Who nought but refinements adore, May wonder to hear me complain That Honington Green is no more; But if to the Church you e'er went, If you knew what the village has been, You will sympathize, while I lament The Enclosure of Honington Green.

That no more upon Honington Green Dwells the Matron whom most I revere, If by pert observation unseen, I e'en now could indulge a fond tear. E'er her bright Morn of Life was o'ercast, When my senses first woke to the scene, Some short happy hours she had past On the margin of Honington Green.

Her Parents with Plenty were blest, And nume'rous her Children, and young, Youth's Blossoms her cheek yet possest, And Melody woke when she sung: A Widow so youthful to leave, (Early clos'd the blest days he had seen) My Father was laid in his grave, In the Church-yard on Honington Green.

I faintly remember the Man, Who died when I was but a Child; But far as my young mind could scan, His manners were gentle and mild: He won infant ears with his lore, Nor let young ideas run wild, Tho' his hand the severe rod of pow'r Never sway'd o'er a trembling Child.

Not anxiously careful for pelf, Melancholic and thoughtful, his mind Look'd inward and dwelt on itself, Still pensive, pathetic, and kind; Yet oft in despondency drown'd, He from friends, and from converse would fly. In weeping a luxury found, And reliev'd others' woes with a sigh.

In solitude long would he stay, And long lock'd in silence his tongue; Then he humm'd an elegiac lay, Or a Psalm penitential he sung: But if with his Friends he regal'd, His Mirth, as his Griefs, knew no bounds; In no Tale of Mark Sargent he sail'd, Nor in all Robin Hood's Derry-downs.

Thro' the poor Widow's long lonely years, Her Father supported us all: Yet sure she was loaded with cares, Being left with six Children so small. Meagre Want never lifted her latch; Her cottage was still tight and clean; And the casement beneath it's low thatch Commanded a view o'er the Green.

O'er the Green, where so often she blest The return of a Husband or Son, Coming happily home to their rest, At night, when their labour, was done: Where so oft in her earlier years, She, with transport maternal, has seen (While plying her housewifely cares) Her Children all safe on the Green.

The Green was our pride through the year, For in Spring, when the wild flow'rets blew, Tho' many rich pastures were near, Where Cowslips and Daffodils grew; And tho' such gallant flow'rs were our choice, It was bliss interrupted by Fear-- The Fear of their Owner's dread voice, Harshly bawling "You've no business here."

While the Green, tho' but Daisies it's boast, Was free as the Flow'rs to the Bee; In all seasons the Green we lov'd most, Because on the Green we were free; 'Twas the prospect that first met my eyes, And Memory still blesses the scene; For early my heart learnt to prize The Freedom of Honington Green.

No Peasant had pin'd at his lot, Tho' new fences the lone Heath enclose: For, alas! the blest days are forgot, When poor Men had their Sheep and their Cows. Still had Labour been blest with Content, Still Competence happy had been, Nor Indigence utter'd a plaint, Had Avarice spar'd but the Green.

Not Avarice itself could be mov'd By desire of a morsel so small: It could not be lucre he lov'd; But to rob the poor folk of their all. He in wantonness ope'd his wide jaws, As a Shark may disport with the Fry; Or a Lion, when licking his paws, May wantonly snap at a Fly.

Could there live such an envious Man, Who endur'd not the halcyon scene? When the infantine Peasantry ran, And roll'd on the daisy-deck'd Green: Ah! sure 'twas fell Envy's despite, Lest Indigence tasted of Bliss, That sternly decreed they've no right To innocent pleasure like this.

Tho' the Youth of to-day must deplore-- The rough mounds that now sadden the scene, The vain stretch of Misanthropy's Power, The Enclosure of Honington Green. Yet when not a green turf is left free, When not one odd nook is left wild, Will the Children of Honington be Less blest than when I was a Child?

No! ... Childhood shall find the scene fair, Then here let me cease my complaint; Still shall Health be inhal'd with the Air, Which at Honington cannot be taint: And tho' Age may still talk of the Green, Of the Heath, and free Commons of yore, Youth shall joy in the new-fangled scene, And boast of _that_ change we deplore.

Dear to me was the wild-thorny Hill, And dear the brown Heath's sober scene; And Youth shall find Happiness still, Tho' he roves not on Common or Green: Tho' the pressure of Wealth's lordly hand Shall give Emulation no scope, And tho' all the' appropriate Land Shall leave Indigence nothing to hope.

So happily flexile Man's make. So pliantly docile his mind, Surrounding impressions we take, And bliss in each circumstance find. The Youths of a more polish'd Age Shall not wish these rude Commons to see; To the Bird that's inur'd to the Cage, It would not be Bills to be free.

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THE CULPRIT.

"_Man hard of heart to Man! ... of horrid things_ _Most horrid; midst stupendous highly strange:_ _Yet oft his courtesies are smoother wrongs;_ _Pride brandishes the favours he confers,_ _And contumelious his Humanity._ _What then his vengeance? hear it not, ye Stars,_ _And thou, pale Moon, turn paler at the sound_: ... _Man is to Man the sorest, surest Ill._"

YOUNG.

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[His Reflections on the Propensity to gaze on Misery.--Military Punishments.--Eager Curiosity of Spectators.--Theatric Amusements.--He examines the Motives where the Distress is real.--His Dread from the Disposition of Mankind.--The Jury withdrawn.... His Reflections.--Full of apprehension.... effect of Pride in maintaing an opinion.--His fears from the diminished regard of an Oath.--This idea pursued.--Instance of false Shame.... of contempt of Shame.--Perjury.--Duty of Deliberation.... Misbodings.--Hopes from mild and conscientious feelings.--Conflict of Hope, Doubt, and Fear.--The Verdict.]

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'Man hard of heart! of horrid things Most horrid! and of strange most strange:'... Thus the mournful Poet sings, Experienc'd in Life's various range.

In the hopeful morn of Youth, This serious Song I lov'd and learn'd, Nor ever thought the mournful truth Would ever thus by me be mourn'd.

Ne'er thought I ever thus should stand, The butt of every tearful eye; To raise the Culprit's trembling hand, To heave the Culprit's anxious sigh.

Now the mournful truth to prove, Gazing crouds around I see, For sure 'tis cruel selfish love That brings them here to gaze on me.

'Tis thus wherever human woe, Wherever deep distress appears; Thither curious gazers go, To' insult the wretched with their tears.

E'en where hostile armies join In the horrid frightful fray, Where groaning mortals life resign, I've heard their fellow-mortal say--

'Oh! for a safe and lofty stand, Where I the Battle's rage might see; When Carnage, with relentless hand, Strews the Ground, or stains the Sea.'[9]

When list'ning, with suspended breath, A wretch his dreadful sentence hears, In Martial Court, where worse than Death The Military Culprit fears.

And when encircled by the band, Lingering torments, public shame, Severity's most ruthless hand Lacerates his manly frame:

When many a hardy Soldier weeps, And grieves that he's compell'd to stay; Who perforce his station keeps, Or would soon be far away;

Yet see beyond the circling guard, Idle gazers flocking round, To see and hear are pressing hard, As if the spot were fairy ground.

What is it that a charm imparts? Why do they press to hear and see? Can it be that human hearts Delight in human misery?

When the inexorable hour Chills the hopeless convict's blood; When sunk and drown'd his eve'ry power, In sorrow's overwhelming flood:

To view the scene the many run, And o'er the hapless wretch to sigh: Nor once enquire the crime he' has done; ... They only come to see him die.

Various cares mankind employ; But to gaze on human woe Seems the universal joy, For which they all their cares forego.

Each from his pursuit departs, Suffering, dying Man to see; Surely there are human hearts That joy in human misery.

Where fictitious tragic woe Entertains the gaudy ring, Each the horror can forego, And instant mental comfort bring.

When the spirits take alarm, Prompt to anger, grief, or spleen, Reason can dissolve the charm, And say, 'tis a fictitious scene.

But to scenes of real woe, Where a wretch is truely dying, Wherefore do such numbers go, What can be the joy of sighing?

Men of thought, who soar serene, And loftily philosophize, Will say they seek the solemn scene, To contemplate and sympathize.

And all the throng will tell you so: ... 'Tis sympathy that brings them there; They love to weep for others' woe, And come but to enjoy a tear.

If to _enjoy_ the tear that starts, They run the sorrow'd scene to see-- Alas! for pity ... human hearts Delight in human misery.

Still my wretched thought thus strays, 'Midst gloomy scenes and prospects drear; My weary mind, in various ways Seeking Hope, still finds Despair.

This thought a weight of woe imparts, At once to sink a wretch like me; What can I hope, if human hearts Delight in human misery?

Tortur'd by severe suspense, I the Jurors' Verdict wait, Ere I may depart from hence, Their decision seals my fate.

Now withdrawn, their close debate Admits no curious, list'ening ear, But the result's so big with fate, The Culprit must in thought be there.

And now, led on by sad despair, Does a frightful form obtrude; Vindictive Spleen assumes the air Of noble, manly Fortitude.

And thus I hear the Demon say, 'Let us not abuse our trust; 'We must not be led away 'For mercy's sake, to be unjust.'

Yet he'll profess no wrath to feel 'Gainst such a hapless wretch as I; No! ... but for the public weal, 'Tis expedient that I die.

And this his judgment once made known, Self-love and self-conceit's so strong, He'll rather let me die than own That his opinion could be wrong.

Ye who the lore of distant climes Canvass, latent truth to find; Who hail our philosophic times, And Man's emancipated mind:

Oh! ye who boast the enlighten'd age, Who boast your right of thinking free ... If e'er ye learn the lessons sage, Taught in affliction's school like me,

Should you e'er a Culprit stand, You'll wish mankind all Christians then; If e'er you raise the Culprit's hand, You'll wish the Jurors Christian Men.

When at the dread Confessional, Men trembled from their early youth, Taught to fear, on pain of Hell, To utter more or less than Truth.

Then Faith could sharpest trials stand, Man at threat'ning Death could smile, If but his Pastor's lenient hand Toucht him with the Holy Oil.

Full faith the solemn Oath obtain'd, Man's mind was aw'd by priestly rule; Steady to Truth he still remain'd, Unless to priestly fraud a tool.

But where Church Discipline has ceas'd To train men's minds in early youth, Hard indeed the Culprit's case, Whose fate depends on others' truth.

Even the man whose ways are wise, Whose life is rul'd by Honour's laws; Who owns, in philosophic guise, A Deity ... a first great cause: ...

Yet boasts his mind no shackles wears: ... 'Tis hard his solemn Oath to trust; For, without future hopes and fears, Know I if Conscience makes him just? ...

And then, the' admitted evidence ... Ye Jurors, can his word be true? Tempted, in his own defence, To feign another's crime to you.

When venial crimes in Love's gay spring, Prompt the youthful Female's sigh; When her roses all take wing, And Matrons sage her plight descry;

Blushing, weeping, she'll confess The fault her faded cheeks discover: But, to make her crime the less, Imputes an outrage to her Lover.

So strong the power of pride and shame, Her frailty she will still deny; Rather than own herself to blame, She lets the hapless Lover die.

Is Merit from his right debarr'd; Or guiltless charg'd with foul offence? A Knave but speaks the perjur'd word, And laughs at injur'd Innocence.

Laughs he at detection too? Yes ... for he'll be but expos'd; But set up to public view, Should his falshood be disclos'd.

He such exposure dares defy, Public shame is not his fear; He who can vouch the solemn lie, Would shew his forehead any where.

While Innocence meets punishment, While Falshood can produce such woes, Mercy's self must needs lament Perjury not more punish'd goes.

Dubious may be the Culprit's case, Though clear and open all his ways; What Life is proof 'gainst dire disgrace, If guileful hate his act pourtrays?

Ye Jurors cautiously proceed, When the question's left to you, Not 'Has the Culprit done the deed?' But 'Was the deed a crime to do?'[10]

Grudge not deliberation's time, Lest you should be too severe; When Justice must believe a crime, She lends it her most tardy ear.

How short is this momentous hour! O! how swift the minutes fly! Soon the Jurors, arm'd with power, Will come to bid me live or die.

Pointed thoughts of Life and Death, Anxious sore solicitude, Shake my frame, suspend my breath, When Terror's gloomy shades protrude.

But when Hope cheers me with the sound Of Mercy's voice, of Mercy's plea, And tells me Mercy will be found Amongst the twelve to speak for me,

Rapt Fancy hears the Cherub plead: ... Propitious is the Culprit's fate, If one, by tender mercy sway'd, Amongst the Jurors takes his seat.

One who will meek-ey'd Mercy's laws Oppose to Rigour's doubtful rule ... Nor quit the hapless Culprit's cause, Though sterner Judgements deem him fool.

Blessings that wait his heart, his tongue, Cannot elate his tranquil breast: He courts no blessing from the throng; He is, and ever will be, blest.

He shall win the Jury's ear, Pity glist'ning in his eye; Let us not be too severe.... If we let the Culprit die,

Fruitlessly we may bewail In future, should our hearts relent: O! then let Mercy's voice prevail; Mercy we can ne'er repent.

Mercy smiles, and every face Reflects the Cherub's aspect meek; Glowing with her resistless grace, Mercy beams on every cheek.

Hope, thy presage cannot fail. Bid my Mary cease to mourn; Surely Mercy shall prevail, And I to Love and Life return.

Shall I the lenient Verdict hear, Thrilling through my shivering frame? Ye Jurors, clad in smiles appear, To realize this happy dream.

Their Deliberation's o'er, How shall I the Crisis meet? Hark! I hear the opening door: ... Silence and Awe attend their feet!

They enter ... though no voice is heard, Mercy in each face I see; They speak ... and in the single word Is Life, and Love, and Liberty!

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[Footnote 9: The sentiment of Lucretius--

_Suave etiam Martis certamina magna tueri_ _Per campos instructa, tuo fine parte percli._

Sweet to behold the Martial Contest spread Wide o'er the Plains, without thy share of Ill.

But the Philosophic Poet accounts for it by the heightened sense of safety; and not on the principle of Malevolence.]

[Footnote 10: This Question may come before the Jury in Cases of _Homicide, Assault and Battery_, and other charges of that nature, which may be justifiable on circumstances: but in many if the fact is found, as in _Forgery_, &c. the criminality, with some very rare exceptions, is a legal inference necessarily resulting from the fact. C.L.]

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YORKSHIRE DIP.

[The Country Ramble of Jupiter.--The Feast: ... It's Music, and Gaiety.--The Dip makes it's appearance.--The Consequence.]

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Once on a time, old Legends say, 'Twas on a sultry Summer's day, A Grecian God forsook the Skies, To taste of Earth's felicities. Clad like a rusticated elf, (Perhaps _incog._ 'twas Jove himself) He travers'd hills, and glens, and woods, And verdant lawns, by crystal floods; For sure, said he, if Earth has joys, They dwell remote from pomp and noise. He loitering pass'd the vacant hour, For Strawberries stoop'd, or pluck'd a Flower, And snuff'd the Zephyrs as they play'd, In wanton curves beneath the shade. 'Till having every sweet pursued, That leisure finds in solitude, Resolving now to seek Mankind, And new delights in converse find, He left the woods, he cross'd the plain, And join'd the Reapers' jolly train; With Men and Maids he talk'd and toil'd, While jocund mirth the hours beguil'd; For Maids the cheerful labour shar'd, And blooming health their rich reward. When noon advanc'd, Sol's downward rays Shedding intolerable blaze, Compel the Labourers' retreat, To shelter from the fervent heat; The copse that skirts the irriguous mead Affords a welcome cooling shade. A Damsel from the careful Dame With wholesome viands loaded came; Though coarse and homely was their meal, Though brown their bread, and mild their ale, Gladly they view'd the plenteous store, Dispos'd on Nature's verdant floor. The aerial Stranger soon made free, Nor miss'd Apollo's minstrelsy; For chirping Grasshoppers were heard, With dulcet notes of many a Bird That sought at noon the umbrageous glade And softly sung beneath the shade. He took his place upon the ground, With Lads and Lasses circling round; He sat as they sat, fed as they fed, Drank ale, and laugh'd, and talk'd, as they did; Each playful wile, by Love employ'd, He by kind sympathy enjoy'd; The Lover's extasies he caught, When looks convey'd th' enamour'd thought; From breast to breast while raptures bound, He prais'd the varied prospects round, Compar'd each Lass to Beauty's Queen, And own'd it an Elysian scene, The jolly God smil'd all propitious, But ah! how fatally capricious.... It chanc'd, amidst this humble Feast, A cup of YORKSHIRE DIP was plac'd ... A pudding-sauce well-known of yore, When folks were frugal, though not poor; An olio mixt of _sweet and sour_. Soon as this touch'd his laughing lip, That unmixt Nectar us'd to sip, He rose, and with a threat'ning frown Of direful Anger[11], dash'd it down, And swore, departing in a huff, I'll make your lives like that d----d stuff.

Too sure the Malediction fell, As every mortal wight can tell: For HUMAN LIFE, to this bless'd hour, Like _Yorkshire Dip_, is SWEET AND SOUR.

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[Footnote 11: Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust.[12] POPE.]

[Footnote 12: The Poet has drawn his Jupiter according to the Homeric Model, in it's least divine features. Yet I wish he had not. The _Yorkshire Dip_ (the mixture of sweet and sour) might have remained a type of Life, temper'd in like manner: not by the wrath but by the _benevolence_ of Jupiter.

... Who hath will'd That Pleasure be co-mate of Toil and Pain, Lest Joy should sink in listless apathy.

_... Curit acuens mortalia corda,_ _Nec torpere gravi passus fua Regna Veterno._

GEORG. I.

And accordingly the next Poem. C.L.]

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LOVE'S TRIUMPH:

AN ELEGIAC BALLAD.

[The Expostulation.--Continued.--Fears of Poverty.--Encouragement.--Baldwin's Song.--Deceitfulness of visions indulgence.--Tormenting distressing Passions.--Comforts of a low Fortune.--Poverty in England contrasted with other Countries.--The Question.... The Conclusion.]

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Come, let us seek the woodland shade, And leave this view of towns and towers: Sweeter far the verdant mead, And lonely dell's sequester'd bowers.

Why does my Love this walk prefer; This hill, so near the public way? Why is this prospect dear to her? Where Villas proud their pomp display?

Ah! why does Mary sometimes sigh, Surveying this magnific scene; The seats of Grandeur tow'ring high, With Rivers, Groves, and Lawns between?

On splendid Cars, that smoothly move, With high-born Youths gay Damsels ride; By the encircling arm of Love Press'd to the wealthy Lover's side.

Why turn to view their easy state, As the long glittering train moves by? And when they reach the pompous gate, Ah! why does youthful Mary sigh?

Doth Envy that fond bosom heave? Repining at her humble lot ... Alas! does Mary long to leave The lonely Dale and lowly Cot?

Pure and sincere is Mary's Love: Words were superfluous to tell; A thousand tendernesses prove That Mary loves her Stephen well.

When list'ning to the Stockdove's moan, Far in the deep sequester'd grove, The blush that whisper'd, "We're alone," Sweetly confess the power of Love.

Exalted Love concealment mocks, This feign'd indifference does but prove That was I Lord of Fields and Flocks, My Mary's Lips would own her Love.

Doth Poverty create the fears That o'er your love their shadows fling? ... The silence of those falling tears Confesses all the truth I sing.

O! Mary, let not empty shew, Let not the pride of gaudy dress, Thus cloud thy morn of life with woe, And blight it's future happiness.

Trust the monition Baldwin gave, Our future bliss it's truth shall prove, Life's cares the Lovers who dare brave, Shall find their rich reward in Love:

Baldwin, the hoary-headed Bard, I still consult when cares annoy: He own'd for me a fond regard; And calls me still his darling Boy.

His mind is fraught with spoils of Time; He's wise and good, though known to few; He gave me this advice in rhyme, And here I'll read the Song to you:--

"Though envious Age affects to deem thee Boy, Lose not one day, one hour, of proffer'd bliss; In youth grasp every unoffending joy, And wing'd with rapture snatch the bridal kiss.