And this because such people never dread
Those threaten'd pains; hell comes not in their
Love is our nature, wealth we all desire,
And what we wish 't is lawful to acquire;
So say my books—and what beside they show
"T is time to let this honest farmer know.
Nay, look not grave; am I commanded down
To feed his cattle and become his clown?
Is such his purpose? then he shall be told
The vulgar insult-
-Hold, in mercy hold-
Father, oh! father! throw the whip away;
I was but jesting, on my knees I pray-
There, hold his arm-
-oh! leave us not alone:
In pity cease, and I will yet atone
For all my sin
On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke ;
Quick as the patient's pulse, who trembling cried,
And still the parent with a stroke replied;
Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt,
And every bone the precious influence felt;
Till all the panting flesh was red and raw,
And every thought was turn'd to fear and awe;
Till every doubt to due respect gave place--
Such cures are done when doctors know the case.
"Oh! I shall die-my father! do receive
My dying words; indeed I do believe ;
The books are lying books, I know it well,
There is a devil, oh! there is a hell;
And I'm a sinner: spare me, I am young,
My sinful words were only on my tongue;
My heart consented not; 't is all a lie:
Oh! spare me then, I'm not prepared to die."
Vain, worthless, stupid wretch !" the Father cried,
"Dost thou presume to teach? art thou a guide?
Driveller and dog, it gave the mind distress
To hear thy thoughts in their religious dress;
Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain,
Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain :
But Job in patience must the man exceed
Who could endure thee in thy present creed;
Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend
The wicked cause a helping hand to lend?
Canst thou a judge in any question be?
Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee.
"Lo! yonder blaze thy worthies; in one heap
Thy scoundrel-favourites must for ever sleep
Each yields its poison to the flame in turn,
Where whores and infidels are doom'd to burn;
Two noble faggots made the flame you see,
Reserving only two fair twigs for thee;
That in thy view the instruments may stand,
And be in future ready for my hand :
The just mementos that, though silent, show
Whence thy correction and improvements flow;
Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power,
And feel the shame of this important hour.
"Hadst thou been humble, I had first design'd
By care from folly to have freed thy mind;
And when a clean foundation had been laid,
Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid:
But thou art weak, and force must folly guide,
And thou art vain, and pain must humble pride;
Teachers men honour, learners they allure;
But learners teaching, of contempt are sure;
Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only cure !”
THE Subject-Poverty and Cunning described-When united, a jarring Couple - Mutual Reproof-The Wife consoled by a Dream-Birth of a Daughter-Description and Prediction of Envy-How to be rendered ineffectual, explained in a VisionSimulation foretells the future Success and Triumphs of Flattery-Her Power over various Characters and different Minds; over certain Classes of Men; over Envy himself-Her successful Art of softening the Evils of Life; of changing Characters; of meliorating Prospects, and affixing Value to Possessions, Pictures, &c.-Conclusion.
MUSE of my Spenser, who so well could sing
The passions all, their bearings and their ties;
Who could in view those shadowy beings bring,
And with bold hand remove each dark disguise,
Wherein love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies:
Guide him to Fairy-land, who now intends
That way his flight; assist him as he flies,
To mark those passions, Virtue's foes and friends
By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.
Yes! they appear, I see the fairy train!
And who that modest nymph of meek address?
Not Vanity, though loved by all the vain;
Not Hope, though promising to all success;
Not Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress;
Thee, sprightly syren, from this train I choose,
Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess;
'Tis not in thy mild nature to refuse,
When poets ask thine aid, so oft their meed and muse.
In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain,
Dwelt, in the house of Care, a sturdy swain;
A hireling he, who, when he till'd the soil,
Look'd to the pittance that repaid 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 clothed 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 placed; 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 daylight 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 inclined
The damsel's heart, and won her to be kind,
Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match'd pair,
But both disposed 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 bless'd the simple man,
Before dissensions 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 loosed 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-
Ingulfs 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 art," 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 gainʼst 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 reserved for me."
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