Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst Of ruinous ebriety, that prompts
His ev'ry action, and imbrutes the man. O for a law to noose the villain's neck, Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood, He gave them in his children's veins, and hates And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love!
Pass where we may, through city or through town, Village, or hamlet, of this merry land, Though lean and beggar'd, ev'ry twentieth pace Conducts th' unguarded nose to such a whiff Of stale debauch, forth issuing from the styes That Law has liceus'd, as makes Temp'rance reel. There sit, involv'd and lost in curling clouds Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, The lackey, and the groom: The craftsman there Takes Lethean leave of all his toil;
Smith, cobler, joiner, he that plies the shears, And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike, All learned, and all drunk! the fiddle screams Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail'd Its wasted tones and harmony unheard: Fierce the dispute whate'er the theme; while she, Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate,
Perch'd on the signpost, holds with even hand Her undecisive scales. In this she lays A weight of ignorance; in that, of pride; And smiles delighted with th' eternal poise. Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound, The cheek-distending oath, not to be prais'd As ornamental, musical, polite,
Like those, which modern senators employ,
Whose oath is rhet'rick, and who swear for fame! Behold the schools in which plebeian minds Once simple are initiated in arts,
Which some may practise with politer grace, But none with readier skill!—'tis here they learn The road, that leads from competence and peace. To indigence and rapine; till at last Society, grown weary of the load,
Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out But censure profits little vain th' attempt, To advertise in verse a publick pest,
That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich result Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, For ever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids! Gloriously drunk obey th' important call! Her cause demands th' assistance of your throats; Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. Would I had fall'n upon those happier days, That poets celebrate; those golden times, And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings, And Sidney, warbler of poetiek prose.
Nymphs were Diannas then, and swains had hearts, That felt their virtues: Innocence, it seems,
From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the groves; The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'd
Upon the yielding herbage, (so they sing) Then were not all effac'd: then speech profane,
And manners profligate, were rarely found, Observ'd as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. Vain wish! those days were never airy dreams Sat for the picture: and the poet's hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade, Impos'd a gay delirium for a truth.
Grant it: I still must envy them an age, That favour'd such a dream; in days like these Impossible, when virtue is so scarce,
That to suppose a scene where she presides, Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. No: we are polish'd now. The rural lass Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, Her artless manners, and her neat attire, So dignified, that she was hardly less Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, Is seen no more. The character is lost! Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, And ribands streaming gay, superbly rais'd, And magnified beyond all human size, Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand For more than half the tresses it sustains; Her elbows ruffled, and her tott❜ring form Ill-propp'd upon French heels; she might be deem'd (But that the basket dangling on her arm Interprets her more truly) of a rank Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs. Expect her soon with footboy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care!
The town has ting'd the country; and the state Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe,
The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs Down into scenes still rural; but, alas, Scenes rarely grac'd with rural manners now! Time was when in the pastoral retreat
Th' unguarded door was safe; men did not watch T' invade another's right, or guard their own. Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscar'd By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder was a wonder heard With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes. But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, And slumbers unalarm'd! Now, ere you sleep, See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care, And drop the nightbolt; ruffians are abroad; And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear To horrid sounds of hostile feet within.
E'en daylight has its dangers; and the walk Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious
Of other tenants than melodious birds,
Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. Lamented change! to which full many a cause Invet'rate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. The course of human things from good to ill, From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. Increase of pow'r begets increase of wealth; Wealth luxury, and luxury excess; Excess the scrofulous and itchy plague, That seizes first the opulent, descends To the next rank contagious, and in time
Taints downward all the graduated scale Of order, from the chariot to the plough. The rich, and they that have an arm to check The licence of the lowest in degree,
Desert their office; and themselves, intent On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus To all the violence of lawless hands Resign the scenes their presence might protect. Authority herself not seldom sleeps, Though resident, and witness of the wrong. The plump convivial parson often bears The magisterial sword in vain, and lays His rev'rence and his worship both to rest On the same cushion of habitual sloth. Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;
When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, Himself enslay'd by terrour of the band,
Th' audacious convict whom he dares not bind. Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove Less dainty than becomes his grave outside In lucrative concerns. Examine well
His milkwhite hand; the palm is hardly clean→→→ But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'd Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wild fowl or ven'son; and his errand speeds. But faster far, and more than all the rest, A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark Of publick yirtue, ever wish'd remov❜d, Works the deplor'd and mischievous effect.
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