པས པ་་བ་བ་བ་ in ne mat appearance it started the woria as something new. Its humour is quiet and droll; the treatment of so rude a subject in the lofty Miltonic style and measure, was a bold attempt; but as the writer was then totally unknown, the risk of failure which he incurred was very slight. We cannot find in it the talent that others have found; while his poem of Cider, which has been generally regarded as of far less merit, to us appears a production of the highest and rarest order. It is at once "a book of entertainment and of science." It communicates a vast quantity of knowledge in a form the most agreeable and impressive; there is, indeed, no point or circumstance connected with the subject upon which the author has not offered some comment, and given some explanation; passing from essays on the nature and culture of the soil, to rural sports, when labour is over,-from the seasons, their changes and effects, to the industry of the husbandman and the skill of the mechanic,-from the growth of the tree to the treatment of the varied fruit it bears,—and always with a grace, easy, unforced, and natural. The poem is, like the subject of it, essentially English-the style is nervous, clear and comprehensive; the writer, if rarely enthusiastic, is always satisfactory; and the reader derives exceeding pleasure as well as ample information from its perusal.
THUS naught is useless made; nor is there land But what or of itself or else compell'd
Affords advantage. On the barren heath The shepherd tends his flock, that daily crop Their verdant dinner from the mossy turf Sufficient; after them the cackling goose, Close grazer, finds wherewith to ease her want. What should I more? Ev'n on the cliffy height Of Penmenmaur, and that cloud-piercing hill Plinlimmon, from afar the traveller kens Astonish'd how the goats their shrubby browse Gnaw pendent; nor untrembling canst thou see
How from a scraggy rock whose prominence Half overshades the ocean hardy men,
Fearless of rending winds and dashing waves, Cut samphire, to excite the squeamish gust Of pamper'd luxury. Then let thy ground Not lie unlabour'd; if the richest stem Refuse to thrive, yet who would doubt to plant Somewhat that may to human use redound, And penury the worst of ills remove?
The farmer's toil is done; his cades mature Now call for vent; his lands exhaust permit T' indulge awhile. Now solemn rites he pays To Bacchus, author of heart-cheering mirth. His honest friends at thirsty hour of dusk Come uninvited; he with bounteous hand Imparts his smoking vintage, sweet reward Of his own industry; the well-fraught bowl, Circles incessant, whilst the humble cell With quav'ring laugh and rural jests resounds. Ease and content, and undissembled love, Shine in each face; the thoughts of labour past Increase their joy: as, from retentive cage, When sullen Philomel escapes, her notes She varies, and of past imprisonment Sweetly complains; her liberty retriev'd
Cheers her sad soul, improves her pleasing song: Gladsome they quaff, yet not exceed the bounds Of healthy temp'rance, nor encroach on night, Season of rest, but well bedew'd repair Each to his home with unsupplanted feet. Ere heav'n 's emblazon'd by the rosy dawn, Domestic cares awake them; brisk they rise, Refresh'd, and lively with the joys that flow From amicable talk and mod'rate cups Sweetly interchang'd.
In clean array for rustic dance prepare,
Mixt with the buxom damsels; hand in hand They frisk and bound, and various mazes weave, Shaking their brawny limbs, with uncouth mien Transported, and sometimes an oblique leer Dart on their loves, sometimes an hasty kiss
Steal from unwary lasses; they with scorn And neck reclin'd resent the ravish'd bliss:
Mean-while blind British bards with volant touch Traverse loquacious strings, whose solemn notes Provoke to harmless revels.
HAPPY the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling! he nor hears with pain New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-Hall, repairs, Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul and kindled amorous flames, Cloe or Phillis, he each circling glass
Wisheth her health, and joy and equal love; Mean-while he smokes and laughs at merry tale Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint: But I, whom griping penury surrounds And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals and small acid tiff (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain : Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black As winter chimney, or well-polish'd jet Exhale mundungus, ill perfuming scent! Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!
Whence flow nectareous wines that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern.
Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends;
With vocal heel thrice thund'ring at my gate With hideous accent thrice he calls. I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do, or whither turn? Amaz’d, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of woodhole: straight my bristling hairs erect Thro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shudd'ring limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode: in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye Gods! avert
Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself,
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd
A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible and magic charms First have endu'd: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious, (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is convey'd, Where gates impregnable and coercive chains In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.
Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk beware, Be circumspect; oft' with insidious ken This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft' Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing,) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin; so her disembowell'd web
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