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By
ANN CANDLER , the author of the following poems, is in the plainest and humblest sense of a word, a Cottager: she has never had a higher station, or, in this world, a higher aim; but, if virtuous principles, pure and modest manners, a deep sense of religion, and steady unaffected Christian faith, are the best guides to a happy immortality, she will not be the least or lowest in the mansions of the blessed .
The events of her life are, as may well be expected,
few and uninteresting, except to those who,
making the human heart their study in all its various
situations, account it not lost time to read
"The short and simple annals of the poor."
For the following circumstances the Editor is indebted to an amiable Lady, who has, for several years, been a benevolent friend and kind patroness to the author.
The father of Ann Candler was William More, of Yoxford, in the county of Suffolk, working glover; her mother was the daughter of Thomas Holder, formerly of Woodbridge, surveyor of the window lights for that part of the county. The father of our author falling into reduced circumstances when he was between forty and fifty, her mother not being able to support the idea of remaining in the village unless she could live in the way she had been accustomed to, which, though far removed from affluence, was just decent, and respectable, prevailed on her husband to leave the place, and settle at Ipswich. She did not long survive her misfortunes, but departed this life in the fifty-fourth year of her age, leaving our author, at that time about eleven years old, to the care of her father, with whom she continued till she married, which was in the twenty-second year of her age. She early evinced a fondness for reading, and though without a guide or instructor in the paths of literature, she frequently found acquaintances who could furnish her with books to her taste, which was chiefly for those of the amusing kind, such as travels, plays, romances, &c. As she was very desirous of learning to write, her father frequently offered to pay for her instruction, which she always declined, probably from the idea that it would be too great a tax upon his slender finances; she however made some humble attempts with chalk, and, at length, used pen and ink. By often observing her father
when he wrote, she imitated him so well that she began to write legibly.
It is very remarkable that she had a great dislike to poetry, and could scarcely prevail on herself to read any, yet frequently found an inclination to write in verse. Her first attempt of this kind was addressed to her patron, the Rev. Dr. ----, merely as an effusion of honest gratitude, and nothing could equal her surprize on finding that it was made the subject of public notice and admiration.
From the above account it is evident that her Poems are more the spontaneous productions of genius than the work of memory or education: but the reader will be enabled to form a better idea of the genuine simplicity of her life and manners, from the following letter, addressed to two Ladies, whose benevolence she had frequently experienced, and through whose patronage and interest the subscription for publishing her Poems was begun, and prosperously continued.
To Mrs. and Miss ----
Tattingstone Workhouse,
Sunday Evening, April 13, 1801. Dear honored Ladies,
I will begin my letter by obeying your commands, and answering the questions you are pleased to propose.--I am now in the sixty-first year
of my age, having been born the 18th of November, 1740. I have had nine children, five sons and four daughters, three of the boys died infants, how it has pleased God to dispose of two of the remaining six I know not, as I have not heard of my eldest son and daughter for many years. One of my daughters is married, I fear but indifferently, and is settled in London: my youngest son also lives in that city as a servant; he went to sea some time ago with a naval officer, but, not liking his situation, returned to London, and was in place when I last heard from his sister. My daughter Lucy is married, and lives at Copdock in this county, and is, I believe, in the true sense of the words, the contented happy Cottager! her husband is a very sober industrious man. My youngest daughter Clara lives, in service, with Mr. John Cook of Holton Hall, near Stratford, and blessed be God, has hitherto preserved an unblemished character. Thus of nine children two remain near me, to afford me substantial happiness and satisfaction as a parent; but my uncertainty about the others, and solicitude for their welfare, are too often painful in the extreme. It was seven years, last month, since I saw or heard from my husband; but conclude he is, if living, in the army, as he was ever fond of military life. We had not been married above a year when he enlisted with a recruiting party of the Guards at Ipswich. A friend immediately
came to Sproughton, where we then lived, and informed me of it. Though far advanced in my pregnancy I hastened to the town, and, after an infinite deal of trouble, much expence, and the inconvenience of being detained one night from home, I had, at last, the satisfaction of bringing my young warrior back again. The next day my friend sent me word, that the serjeant of the party declared he would not leave the town without him; this threat alarmed me greatly, and, regardless of fatigue, I went to Ipswich directly. My friend advised me, as the safest method I could adopt, to let my husband enter into the Militia, as they were at that time disembodied. I went home and consulted his father and mother, (for he was born at Sproughton) they approved of the plan, and, in a day or two, my old friend secured him a situation, with which I had great reason to be satisfied, for, on the Sunday following some of the party came to the public house in the village, enquiring for him; but being informed that he was in the Militia; they seemed greatly disappointed. I heard not of it till the next day, but even then I trembled. My remedy you will doubtless say was a desperate one:--true, Madam, it was so, and so was the occasion; fortunately the circumstance was not attended with any bad consequence, for he only made his appearance twenty-eight days every summer, during the three years; so that affair ended without much trouble.--
After the birth of my fourth child I received a small legacy bequeathed to me by a maiden aunt, which afforded me great relief, and gave me an opportunity of furnishing my family with such articles as were absolutely necessary, and had long been wanting, for my husband was ever much addicted to drinking.
Four or five years after this my ever honoured friend and benefactor, the Rev. Dr. J----n came to reside in Sproughton: at Christmas time he was pleased to distribute very liberal gifts to the poor; the generosity of the action struck me very much, and I ventured to address a few lines to him, returning thanks in a manner quite unexpected by the worthy Gentleman. The next day I heard a rap at my door; I opened it,--but my surprise and terror were indescribable on the appearance of Dr. J----n, for I dreaded a severe reprimand for my presumption. My confusion was too great to escape his observation, and the natural goodness of his heart induced him to dispel my fears, by addressing me with the greatest affability and condescension. He was pleased to take a seat, and conversed with me a considerable time. From this hour, the most fortunate of my life, I may date every act of kindness I have since experienced, for he was pleased to recommend me to his friends, and shewed them some of my writings, which, but for his endeavours to bring them into notice, would certainly have been buried in oblivion, as I wrote
them merely for my own amusement. Death only can efface him from my remembrance, or cancel the obligations I am under to that best of men! Think what were my sorrows when this dear and valuable friend left the village, and I was at once deprived of his assistance, and also of his conversation, which was always affable and kind!
According to the old adage that one misfortune seldom comes alone, I found another in reserve for me, which I did not expect. A younger brother of my husband, who had been enlisted in the Guards about four years, came down to see his friends. I know not how it was, but the moment I heard that he was come, a sudden tremor seized my whole frame, and tears trickled down my cheeks. This was on the Saturday; on the Sunday he came, by my husband's invitation, to dinner, after which they walked out together, and I did not see my husband till Monday night, when he told me that his brother was gone. He seemed very thoughtful and gloomy: on the Tuesday morning he went to work, and I neither saw or heard any thing more of him till the Friday, when, by mere accident, I heard that he had enlisted with a party of the Guards then at Colchester. A neighbour offered his services to ride over to that town, and enquire into the truth of the report, and a farmer in the village kindly lent a horse for the occasion. What were my feelings, what was my
agony of mind during the man's absence. I wished,
yet dreaded his return. At length the awful moment
came; the man had found him, and seen the cockade
in his hat.--I had now six children, the eldest about
fourteen, the youngest a year and half old. Good
God! how did every body exclaim against him! as
for me I seemed for some time in a state of stupefaction,
I not could not shed a tear. What a night did I
pass! In the morning old Mr. W----, at the Hall,
came to me, and addressed me in these very words: "So, your husband is listed for a soldier; well, let him go, for he was always a rascal to you." I
thought for the instant, that, if I had Mr. W----'s
whole fortune, I would freely give it for his discharge, but I dared not to tell him so. The report of
my misfortunes brought several friends to me, and I
was advised to place four of my children in this
house*
, and kept the eldest, and the youngest with me at home; this advice I followed, but I have since
repented that I did not come in with them all. That
worthy man, the late I. C--n, esq. and my ever lamented
friend, dear Miss F--n, agreed to pay my
rent for me: thus I lived for two years, by industry
and the frequent donations of kind friends protected
from want. I should be guilty of the highest ingratitude
were I not to remember, with veneration and respect,
the late M--e R-ss-ll, esq. who almost en-
tirely supported me, and the two children, during an
illness of eleven weeks, which afflicted me in consequence of the perturbation of mind I had laboured
under upon my husband's departure. During these
two years I got my eldest girl out to service, aud
took
my next daughter Catharine home: but now an
event occured which deprived me of every comfort,
and gave me reason to reproach myself with imprudence
and indiscretion. My husband obtained leave
of absence, and came down to Sproughton to see me.
An unfortunate visit it proved to me and the children.
During his stay he incessantly importuned me to go
to London, and flattered me how well we should live
there, as he could throw up his pay and go to work,
and how easily he could fetch the children and place
them out. For some days I both chid him and absolutely
rejected the proposal; but before three weeks
were ended, he brought me to a compliance with his
request: this was the latter end of February, and I
agreed to be in town by the beginning of April. No
sooner were my friends apprized of my intention, than
they endeavoured to oppose it, by every argument
they could employ against the absurd scheme, as some
of them too justly termed it. Alas! I erred, with my
eyes open. I sent the best of my goods, which were
very decent, by one of the Ipswich hoys, and with
my little Clara, went to town by land. As my husband
knew of my going he met me, but seemed ra-
ther cool and indifferent. This reception gave me an
inexpressible shock, and to add to my mortification,
I had not been two hours with him before he demanded
some money. I was speechless; my foolish credulity
now appeared in its true colours; he had to go
upon guard that very night, and I was left with my
child: the state of my mind may more easily be conceived
than described! In a few days my goods came,
and I was settled, as well as my own reflections, and
my husband's behaviour would permit me: for I soon
found that his propensity to drinking was as great as
ever. On the second day of June, the dreadful riots
in London broke out, and he was obliged to leave his
work and return to his arms. For seven days and nights
I could not learn whether he were living or dead; and
when the riots were quelled, the Guards were all encamped
in St. James' Park: thus was I at once deprived
of all assistance from him, and exposed to the
horrors of extreme poverty in the midst of strangers.
I omit many unpleasant circumstances, for why should
I distress you by a recital of my sufferings, when I am
conscious that they were occasioned by my own
reprehensible weakness? All I can urge to extenuate,
or palliate my folly is, that he was my husband, and
the father of my children, and that my affection for
him was unbounded; and so at this time were my
sorrows; and, to add to their weight, I found myself
in a situation that in a few months would involve me in
new difficulties. I think it was in the month of August that the camp broke up, and my husband returned
home; but he treated me in a very unbecoming
manner; his language and behaviour were intolerable!
I now began seriously to consider whether
I ought not to leave him, and return home*
: fear, and shame, alternately took possession of my
heart; I had no house to go to, nor could I expect
any further assistance from those who had formerly
been my friends. While I continued in this painful
state of suspense an incident happened which determined
me at once. An uncle of my husband's, who
was mate of an Ipswich vessel, called to see me; I
informed him of the state of our affairs, and he, being
no stranger to his nephew's manners and morals,
urged me to return to Suffolk; offering to convey
me, the child, and what furniture I had, in his vessel,
free of expence: I thankfully accepted the offer, and
began to prepare for my voyage
waver in my resolution. I was almost distracted
about my poor children, for whom he never would
entertain a thought; but if I attempted to propose
any thing for their welfare, was accustomed to fly in
a passion: I was therefore obliged to confine my
anxiety on their account to my own bosom.
We had a pleasant passage, and my uncle set me
ashore about a mile from Ipswich: I walked over
Stoke-Hills; but when I came within sight of the
Chauntry*
, good God! what were my sensations and
emotions! I seated the little Clara on a bank, and
placing myself near her surveyed the prospect with
unutterable anguish: a torrent of repentant, but unavailing
tears succeeded: I believe it was near an
hour before I recovered strength and spirits to pursue
my walk. I went to Sproughton, where I staid a few
days, but suffered myself to be seen as little as possible;
and then, without applying to any one person,
came as privately as I could into this house.
It is necessary to inform you, my dear ladies, that,
before I went to London, my beloved friend Miss
F----n had commanded me to write to her frequently.
In obedience to her order I had, from time to time,
given her a faithful, though unpleasant account of my
situation, and had also written to her my determination
of returning into the country again. After I had
been in the house about a month, I wrote to inform
her where I was, and, to my infinite surprize, in two
or three days had the delight of seeing her! She requested of the governess that I might be permitted to
walk with her in the garden; and soon perceiving
my situation, lamented this additional misfortune,
and gave me the kindest assurances of the continuation
of her friendship. Not many days after she sent
her servant with a letter, and a guinea enclosed from
my kind friend, and benefactor J. C----n, Esq. this
was some time in October. On the 20th day of
March following, about four o'clock in the morning,
I was delivered of a son, and about seven of another
son. For some days I was in imminent danger, but
the goodness of God preserved me, and sent me unsolicited
assistance. No sooner did that dear lady
Miss F---- hear of my situation than she sent me an
ample supply of whatever she thought might be most
useful and acceptable to me. I had likewise some
kind presents from other friends: thus did the Almighty
provide for me, in this extremity, beyond my
expectations, and, I frankly acknowledge, far beyond
my deserts! I had now seven children in the house,
but it pleased God to take one of the twins at fourteen
weeks old, and the other in one short month after.
When I had been in the house three years, my husband
obtained his discharge and came to see me: he
proposed taking me out of the house; but this I would
by no means consent to, till we should have procured
sufficient to furnish one room at least. In a few months, with a little money which he had earned, and
some that I had saved, together with a few goods still
remaining at Sproughton, I began to think that we
might put our plan in execution; I accordingly
agreed to go to his lodging till we should be able to
procure and fit up a cottage. He received me with
delight, and seemed quite happy: but short lived was
the pleasure to either of us; for, that very day, he
was seized with a shivering fit, which was followed by
a fever of the most alarming kind: suffice it to say
that I staid with him for seven weeks; during which
time the Rev. Mr. G---- procured us an allowance
from the house; but, as he still continued extremely
bad, and my own money was nearly expended, I having
the youngest child with me, I was advised to go
with him into the house; this was in fact the only
step I could take, and here all my prospects of comfort
ended. For several weeks my husband's recovery
was doubtful; a more pitiable object was never
seen! it was better than half a year before he was able
to go to his work again; he then went to seek employment
at Sproughton, where, meeting with his old
companions, he fell into his accustomed vice of drunkenness,
to a greater degree than ever, and became so
utterly degraded in appearance, manners, and morals,
as determined me to renounce the idea of ever living
with him again.
Thus, honored ladies, I have given you an account
of an unhappy marriage for nearly forty years. I have
now been upwards of twenty years secluded from the
world, and have performed a severe penance for my
indiscretion in leaving my comfortable cottage, and
kind friends at Sproughton. You find, my dear ladies, that I have not endeavoured to exculpate myself, or to justify my proceedings: no, I stand self-
convicted, self-condemned; all I can allege in my
own behalf is, that I have not committed any faults
of a criminal nature, and I believe I may say, without
the imputation of vanity, that my conduct, during my
residence in this house, has been irreproachable. I
hope you will be pleased to make allowance for my
many errors and bad writing; but I have been obligated
to write the greater part by candle-light, as I have
very little leisure by day, and the painful recollection of
past scenes affected me so much in the recital, that I
scarcely knew what I wrote; and as difficult a task
awaits me still, that is, my dear ladies, to find words
that would express my sentiments in a manner that
might convince you how perfectly sensible I am of
your unlimitted
goodness to me, in endeavouring to
render the situation I am in as comfortable as possible.
What have I to give in return? Alas! only a repetition
of thanks, and the feelings of a heart almost
breaking with a ponderous weight of grateful sensations!
to a power superior to what is mutable I must
leave the cause in hand, well assured your reward will
be such as is promised, "Come, ye blessed, inherit
the kingdom prepared for you!"
You will be surprized at the prolixity I am guilty
of: it has by far exceeded my intention; but one circumstance
was so connected with another, and one
word naturally introduced others, that I could not
well avoid it: I was likewise desirous to be as explicit
as possible, for the satisfaction of those among
your friends, who had honored me with their enquiries.
I am, Ladies, At the time of writing the above, Mrs. Candler had
not a hope of being enabled to remove out of the
house of industry; but, about eight or nine months
after, several of her Poems having been read and approved, in polite and literary circles, it was suggested,
by the ladies to whom her letter was addressed, that,
if she could publish a small volume by subscription,
she might raise a sum sufficient to furnish a room,
and place herself, in a state of comparative happiness,
near her married daughter, where she might spend
the evening of her days in peace, supported by her
own industry, and occasionally assisted by those
friends who know, and respect, her unobtrusive good
qualities. Part of this plan is already put in execution.
Her friends have procured and furnished a
lodging for her at Copdock, where her daughter
lives, and not far from her favourite village of
Sproughton, and this little volume is published under
the patronage of a most respectable list of Subscribers.
O, GRACIOUS
GOD
! I ask'd a son;--
Whose happiness could equal mine
The smiling cherub I beheld
Too soon that gayly rising sun
Death, pallid king, with silent pace,
Fatigu'd with watching, lull'd in night,
Where circling seraphim rejoice
Oh, happy babe! thrice happy boy!
Cease, foolish mother! cease to grieve,
Oh, gracious God! bow down thine ear,
Then shall I, with redoubled joy,
ACCEPT
the tribute of my rustic lays:
The peasants press'd around their aid to lend,
Chac'd ev'ry cloud, till noon day's splendor bright
THRICE
happy Maid! the awful scene is o'er;
The task perform'd, the glorious prize is won,
"BRIGHT
was the day, and warm the noon tide beam,*
"There, on the verdant turf at ease reclin'd,
"The sprightly viol sounding in the shade,
What pleasing sounds are these I hear?
When sounds like these such news repeat,
What fav'rite has the goddess found
Not envy sure can make you blind
JULIA
! that name I must revere:
Hold, Laura; fame did, long ago,
Say what can fortune offer more?
Kind heav'n, indulgent, now prepares
Say, is the youth who claims her care
A youth in whose descent we trace
Long may they live in blessed ease,
Receive, kind Heav'n, my ardent pray'rs,
Each rising morn that wish renew,
CAN
Man, who was expressly said to be
Where scenes of horror are display'd around,
The festive board, which peace and plenty crown'd
NO MORE
, proud youth! indiff'rence boast;
Our ardent gaze, that still pursues
When thine shall wake and warm to love,
Hail, infant boys! and hail the dawn
May heav'n it's kindest influence shed
Sweet balmy slumbers close your eyes
On both may truth and goodness wait
O, God! behold their infant state
Tho', poor and helpless, I am here;
O! give me, while thus mean and low,
Could these dear boys their father's love,
What jarring sentiments contend
O! peace, my soul, and be not griev'd;
For them, for me, I humbly ask
WHEN
, cloy'd with pompous shews and vain parade,
Long has the mansion stood unus'd to sound,
Exhausted, spent, the storms suspend their rage;
But hark! what sweet enliv'ning sound is this?
Those brilliant circles, now so light and gay,
Alas! my friend, why thus protract your stay?
DELUSIVE
phantom, light as air,
Elate with hope we persevere,
Or fruitless toil augments our pain;
Can gold untainted pleasure give?
Will titles, birth, or pompous shows,
Yet still our wish we may effect
With wisdom dwells our dearest bliss,
Lay hold on her, and you'll possess
DEAR VILLAGE
! sweet delightful spot!
Yet still thy name I will repeat;
Say, wilt thou love me in return
Still let this pleasing hope be mine,
And ye, who in this darling spot,
Still unembitter'd may you taste
May commerce flourish unrestrain'd,
May justice all her rights assert
When God or man you supplicate
O, Death! how dread thy footsteps, track'd with woe!
Must all submit to thy subduing hand?
Could nought protect Ernesto from the blow?
To speak his praise what language can I find?
No storms of anger in his looks were seen,
He fear'd his Maker and his laws obey'd;
See each dependent, with dejected air,
His goodness beam'd around incessant joys;
Ah! would some abler pen the theme pursue:
SOME
say that life is but a dream,
Could such a wild romantic thought,
Is life a jest? ah! view the scene;
Bewilder'd and unnerv'd by fear,
One cheering ray dispells the gloom;
With thoughtless steps we trip along,
While gay and chearful, void of care,
Again the desert's gloomy shade
What crouds attract the wand'ring eye,
But noise and bustle, vain parade!
The great their time, and wealth, expend
But what would all this tinsell'd glare,
The grand display of modish taste
Now yonder sprightly train survey,
Do those on outward charms rely
Pale envy here assails the heart
And since in youth and beauty's breast
Yet ancient learning often says
The heathen writers darkly saw
Though pagan errors long obscur'd
And still, 'tis strange that man can con
The fairest work is not entire,
But those that place their trust in God,
Though present pain, or past events,
But human life, in every stage,
Thy tenets, Gay, are not believ'd,
And some may think the poet's jest
This life the good or ill portends.
Great God! to us extend thy care,
How many years are past and gone,
Within these dreary walls confin'd,
Uncultivated, void of sense,
Disgusting objects swarm around,
No sympathising friend I find,
Peace, peace, my heart, thy duty calls,
I gaze on numbers in distress,
And I might bend beneath the rod,
My gen'rous friends, with feeling heart,
Yet what am I, that I should be
Absorb'd in thought I often sate
When keenest sorrow urg'd her claim,
In youth strange fairy tales I've read,
In this obscure and lone retreat,
The evil genius, prone to ill,
Insulted with indignant scorn,
But fate and fortune in their scenes
Content and freedom thus regain'd,
The tales these eastern writers feign
And since, in those romantic lays,
Look down, O God! in me behold
HAIL
, joyous tidings! soul-reviving sound!
No strokes of satire will they lavish here,
May heav'n its choicest gifts to thee extend,
ONCE
more the lovely spring appears,
Sol, in his splendor, mounts on high,
From him each stem new strength derives,
Now Ceres comes, and, smiling, brings
Pomona, with incessant toil,
In ancient times, as poets say,
And oft the ivy crowned priest
The rosy God, exulting, view'd
For thus did Britons quaff and sing,
Britannia, like the sun, appear'd
Health, peace, and concord, smiling sate,
And social mirth, and joy unfeign'd,
While scenes like these vast crouds employ
While town-bred beau, and rural swain,
Yet should she on our plains appear,
AM
I the very same, who us'd to be
Like me, for twenty years, did Jacob find
Ten times his wages chang'd, his hire detain'd,
Indignant then he heard that Jacob fled,
His purpos'd vengeance yields, his wrath subsides,
He meets the troop; propitious is the day,
So may my eve of life be more serene,
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with sincere gratitude,
your obliged servant,
ANN CANDLER.
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Page [18]
Page [19]
ON THE
LOSS OF HER CHILD
.
A son to me was giv'n:
Before six moons their course had run
The gift return'd to heav'n.
Blest with my lovely boy?
Thus gifted, did I once repine
At all the great enjoy?
With rapture and delight,
Hope's dawning beam my bosom fill'd,
With fairy visions bright.
Page 20
Was wrapt in midnight's gloom:
In sixteen weeks his race was run,
Its goal the dreary tomb!
Stole softly to my bed,
He clasp'd my babe in chill embrace,
And with his victim fled.
Thy mother slumb'ring lay;
Thy soul, dear infant! wing'd its flight
Where angels led the way.
In great Jehovah's praise;
My blessed boy unites his voice
In loud and rapt'rous lays.
What pleasures now are thine!
Since monarchs, to partake the joy,
Would freely crowns resign.
Page 21
And blush to shed a tear;
Endeavour such a life to live
As thou may'st meet him there.
And grant me my request:
Oh, heav'nly Father! hear my pray'r;
Let me with him be blest.
My Maker's name adore:
Then shall I meet my infant boy,
And meet to part no more.
Page [22]
TO A BENEVOLENT GENTLEMAN,
ON HIS
Being hurt by a Fall from his Horse.
A song that boasts no merit, claims no praise.
The flowing numbers are not mine to chuse,
Nor dares a peasant supplicate the muse.
The tuneful sisters would, I fear, disdain
To grace the lowliest cottage on the plain.
But can the soul humane refuse to share
A tender feeling for the ills you bear.
When, rudely hurl'd to earth, you senseless lay,
And death strode ghastly on to snatch his prey,
What heart but felt a sickning fear prevail?
The village echo'd with the mournful tale.
Page 23
And ey'd, with anxious gaze, the poor man's friend;
The patron who their daily want had fed,
Now, pale and faint, supported to his bed.
The news too swiftly to my cottage flew,
Who now, my babes, said I, will cherish you?
Who, like a father, aid your wretched state?
Such goodness sure deserv'd a milder fate?
Be hush'd the thought--for shall a tongue like mine,
At heav'n's decrees dare, impious, to repine.
I yield.--Thy chastisements; O God! are good;
Teach me to meet thy will with fortitude.
The MAN
of UZ
, whose ways were just and pure,
What scourges did he feel, what ills endure.
At once depriv'd of health, of substance too,
While death's barb'd arrows round him, dreadful, flew,
Resign'd he sate, nor would reproach his God;
But calmly yielded to the chastening rod:
The saint reviv'd and found the God he sought:
His erring friends, by his example taught,
Desir'd that knowledge they had dar'd despise,
And offer'd, through his pray'rs, their sacrifice.
His bounteous God the cup of blessing pour'd,
His wealth augmented and his joys restor'd,
Page 24
Beam'd from his setting sun with more effulgent light.
Thus may thy health diffuse a cheerful ray,
And add new pleasure to thy lengthen'd day;
May watchful angels round thy couch attend,
And heav'n restore our patron, guide, and friend.
Page [25]
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
And transitory ills are now no more:
To realms of bliss thy gentle spirit flies,
The cumbrous day in peaceful slumber lies.
No more, sweet Maid! wilt thou have cause to weep,
Nor grief with thee her midnight vigils keep.
By sickness worn, bow'd early to the tomb,
A fading flow'ret, wither'd in its bloom.
When death beheld thee youthful, fair, and good,
Then half disarm'd, irresolute he stood,
With seeming pity oft thy form survey'd,
No sudden change, no rapid strides he made;
Solemn and slow, protracted long the hour,
And long restrain'd his all subduing pow'r;
The stroke decisive, ling'ring, he deferr'd,
Yet ever found thee watching and prepar'd.
Myriads of bright immortals round thee wait,
And watch the moment that decides thy fate:
Behold, 'tis past:--thy tears are wip'd away:--
The gloom of night produces endless day.
Page 26
The heav'nly host appears and guides thee on,
Presents thee spotless at the throne of grace,
Where thou behold'st thy maker face to face.
Thy shining robes in graceful order flow,
A never fading crown adorns thy brow;
Millions of winged seraphs, gather round:
Their golden harps thro' heav'n's wide portals sound,
While songs of thanks and praise united join:
O, bliss supreme!--their happy state is thine.
Thy well spent life, thy truth and innocence,
Faith bids us hope, has gain'd its recompence.
Instructed early on thy God to wait,
Adore his name, his wisdom venerate;
To gain instruction from the moral page,
And shun the follies of the present age;
With care avoid whate'er might taint the mind,
Corrupt the heart and leave a sting behind;
Inform'd where hidden danger lurking lay,
And how with safety to pursue thy way;
With guide marks set, that pointed out the road,
Life's mazy path securely hast thou trod:
Thy growing virtues mark'd thy years increase,
And crown'd thy days with happiness and peace:
Serene thou saw'st this hour approaching nigh,
Instructed how to live, and how to die.
Page [27]
JULIA'S BRIDAL DAY,
AN ECLOGUE,
Addressed to a Young Lady on her Marriage.
"When wand'ring, to divert a leisure hour,
"A village maid, who loiter'd near the stream,
"Met her fair friend beneath an alder bow'r.
"They heard the soft'ned peal pass sweeping bye,
"Borne on the bosom of the summer wind,
"With many a mingled note of rural joy.
"Responsive footsteps, shouts of loud applause,
"And mirth re-echo'd from the lowland glade:
"When thus the village maid enquir'd the cause."
LAURA.
What joy those strains impart!
They breath enchantment o'er my ear,
And rapture o'er my heart.
Page 28
MIRA.
Such blest events proclaim,
Each breast, like thine, with joy must beat
And hail the voice of fame.
LAURA.
To share her pageant car,
That airy regions echo round
And answer from afar?
MIRA.
To praise which merit warms:
What imperfection can you find
In JULIA'S
matchless charms?
LAURA.
But say, what honour new?
Or why did fame so long defer
To pay the tribute due?
MIRA.
Her matchless worth proclaim;
A blest occasion offers now
To speak her praise again.
Page 29
LAURA.
What greater bliss prepare?
Wit, sense, and beauty, wealth and pow'r,
Already crown the fair.
MIRA.
Her goodness to repay,
And fame, in these glad sounds, declares,
" 'Tis JULIA'S
BRIDAL
DAY
."
LAURA.
Of known approved worth?
His merits equal to the fair,
Her equal too in birth?
MIRA.
High honor's just renown,
The offspring of an ancient race,
His worth their glory's crown.
LAURA.
Untemper'd with alloy,
And tread the flow'ry paths of peace
With never ceasing joy.
Page 30
MIRA.
May they unrivall'd prove!
May each domestic bliss be theirs,
The fruits of peace and love!
LAURA.
Each heart repeat the same,
And speak the praises justly due
To JULIA'S
dear lov'd name.
Page [31]
SERIOUS REFLECTIONS ON THE TIMES.
WRITTEN DURING THE LATE WAR.
When first created, like the deity,
Can man, God's noblest work, with temper cold
This awful period undisturb'd behold?
Indiff'rent and unfeeling calmly read
The various conflicts and the havoc made,
Year after year? Recount the thousands o'er
Who by the chance of war are now no more?
Peruse the fatal record, unconcern'd
Of slaughter'd chief to mould'ring ashes turn'd;
Some born to honors, and of noble birth,
Now mingl'd in the common mass of earth?
A solemn troth! O, pause one moment here;
Indulge reflection, and then shed a tear.
Oh, God! in pity to the human race,
Who thus, misguided, do thy works deface,
Look down with mercy on those wretched states
Where thousands perish their fierce debates;
Page 32
And scatter'd ruins hide the blood stain'd ground.
The towns demolish'd, and their trade supprest;
The wealthy plunder'd, and the poor distrest!
Depriv'd of food, unshelter'd from the storm,
O'erwhelm'd with anguish and expos'd to harm,
The aged peasant quits his burning shed,
Yet knows not where to hide his hoary head.
The fruitful vineyard, once the owner's pride,
By rude invaders wasted and destroy'd;
No more the vintage feast regales the eye;
No more is heard the pleasing song of joy.
The fertile fields, the wide extended plain,
Are smear'd with gore, and cover'd o'er with slain.
The prince, and prelate, frantic with despair,
Prepare to fly:--Alas! they know not where:----
Yet fly they must, or perish by their stay,
And with reluctant haste pursue their way;
Compare their former with their present state,
And mourn, regretful mourn, their changing fate.
Intruding thought augments the dreary gloom;
And fancy points to dreadful scenes at home!
Their stately mansions, ransack'd and defac'd;
Their rich domains laid desolate and waste;
The statues, paintings, and each valued bust,
Convey'd away, or levell'd with the dust:
What art, or nature, had profusely done,
All that was great or pleasing, lost and gone!
Page 33
Sinks with the noble pile and strews the ground!
Can man, with reason and with knowledge blest
In these destructive methods still persist,
Ideal schemes, and conquests, still devise,
And blood, and treasure, rashly sacrifice?
Oh! gracious God! vouchsafe to hear my pray'r;
Suspend thy judgments, and the people spare:
"Oh! heal our wounds, our putrifying sores;"*
And reconcile the fierce contending pow'rs;
Assuage their wrath, their haughty pride abate
Subdue their ranc'rous and invet'rate hate;
May curst ambition and contention cease,
Nor private motives blast our hopes of peace.
Thrice blest be those who, with unshaken zeal,
Will firmly stand and plead the public weal,
With candor take a comprehensive view,
And reprobate the conduct some pursue;
Seek to avert the evils as they rise,
And selfish projects censure and despise;
Lament the hardships that attend the poor,
And strive to soothe the ills they must endure!
May speculators, and oppressors, find
The painful workings of a guilty mind,
With shame review their vile nefarious arts,
Till conscience wound and humanize their hearts.
Page [34]
TO A YOUNG MAN,
PROFESSING HIMSELF
An Enemy to Love and Marriage.
One fatal moment,--and 'tis lost,
The heart, from nature's impulse, loves,
And heav'n itself the flame approves:
Then how can you expect to be
Secure from cupid's tyranny?
The wanton god prepares his darts,
With sportive aim, to wound our hearts:
He stoops to none, but conquers all,
And smiles to see his victims fall:
Yet thousands hug their tyrant's chains,
While he in boundless triumph reigns.
Mischievous urchin! who inspires,
Then lords it o'er our fond desires.
Our looks and sighs our thoughts disclose,
For love no other language knows:
In vain the hypocrite we play;
Our eyes the fatal truth betray,
Page 35
The object which our pain renews;
If absent, we the loss lament
And pass the day in discontent;
When night arrives we wish for morn,
Yet sleeping see the dear lov'd form;
And nature, thus, devoid of art,
Retains the passion in the heart.
Mayst thou each social blessing prove,
And heav'n, in pity to thy fears,
Guide thee where sense each charm endears.
Believe me, youth, a fool is worse
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]
Than all the ills I can rehearse,
An unremitting, endless curse!
Page [36]
ON THE BIRTH OF TWIN SONS
IN 1781.
That brought your natal hour!
May no malignant planet frown
With inauspicious pow'r.
Around ye as ye lay,
And watchful angels guard your bed,
And shield ye in the day.
Whene'er dispos'd to rest;
Your waking, supplicating, cries,
With pity move each breast.
As they advance in age,
And may they find a milder fate
Than what their births presage.
Thy kind protection claim:--
For them thy mercy I entreat;
To me extend the same.
Page 37
On Thee my hopes rely;
Thou canst disperse the rising tear,
And make me smile with joy.
An humble peaceful mind,
May love and duty guide me through
With fortitude combin'd.
Join'd with their mother's, share,
How vast a blessing would it prove,
How lighten ev'ry care!
And struggle, in my breast,
When I reflect they want the friend
That should their youth assist!
Repress each plaintive word;
And may these gifts, from heav'n receiv'd,
Find favor with the Lord.
A portion of His grace,
And may we find, when life is past,
With Him a resting place.
Page [38]
THE INVITATION OF SPRING,
ADDRESSED TO MISS F----N.
May
20, 1788.
You deign once more to court the rural shade,
This blest retreat, this verdant spot, you'll find
As calm and tranquil as your faultless mind.
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]
But such as hoary winter scatters round,
When hail stones nimbly from each part rebound:
Loud blasts of wind in frightful cadence roar,
And intercept the swift descending show'r;
With equal haste the furious rains succeed,
And o'er the heath a second deluge spread:
The lonely pile the various shocks sustains,
And, rudely treated, yet unmov'd remains;
Each harsh discordant sound arguments the din,
While pensive echo answers from within,
Absorb'd in grief the hapless nymph complains
And oft replies, in hollow, plaintive, strains.
Page 39
The winds are passive, and the rains assuage;
Yet still each part retains a dismal gloom
And shade and silence glide through ev'ry room.
The grassy walks, that long, neglected, lay,
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]
While churlish winter stole their sweets away,
Still shew a mournful picture of decay.
Is it a real or a fancied bliss?
'Tis no deceit; I hear the cuckoo sing;
His herald notes delightful tidings bring,
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition, although the brace should have started with the preceding line, and not included the line ending "play,"]
And through the grove proclaim returning spring.
Ye vernal gales, that o'er these meadows play,
To envied Bath the grateful news convey;
O! tell my lovely friend that spring is come,
That all of rural bliss invites her home:
Inform her too how gay the walks appear,
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]
How nature labours, with unwearied care,
To charm and fix the lovely wand'rer here
Each leisure moment urge the pleasing tale,
And still pursue her till ye can prevail.
Romantic thoughts! how fade your fairy scenes,
When reason shews the space that intervenes!
Too insufficient will the gales be found;
Long e'er they reach her must they lose the sound:
Nor needs their message; for can Bath appear
With more attractions than are scatter'd here?
Page 40
Like beauteous flow'rs will fade and fall away;
Their courtly nymphs, in all their beauty's fame,
Want those perfections which my friend can claim:
Though in each form the graces seem combin'd,
How poor, without the graces of her mind!
With modish airs they vainly strive to please;
She charms by native elegance and ease.
Why unregarded speeds the length'ning day?
O! come, and with encreasing transport view
The gardens, and the vale, their sweets renew.
How will the sprightly village train rejoice
And hail thy coming with a cheerful voice,
Bask in thy smiles, all jocund, blythe as day,
While all the prospect owns a brighter ray!
Indulgent nature too exerts her cares,
And hoards of aromatic sweets prepares:
The fields, the meads, will wear a brighter green,
Thy presence will enliven ev'ry scene:
The rich and poor impatient now attend,
To welcome and receive their charming friend.
Page [41]
ON HAPPINESS.
Whose shadow we pursue,
Each rising morn, with anxious care,
We still the chace renew.
Still flatter'd with success;
Yet unforeseen events defer,
Our visionary bliss.
Our hopes flit swiftly by:
We sigh, despairing to obtain
The transitory joy.
Can we depend on pow'r?
Can fame the sick'ning heart relieve,
Or bring one happy hour?
Page 42
Youth, beauty, wit combin'd,
Will these, I ask, avert the woes
Entail'd on human kind?
Substantial blessings know:
What from the shadow we expect,
The substance will bestow.
Abounding with increase;
"Her ways are ways of pleasantness,
"And all her paths are peace."
The treasure you have sought;
Her price beyond the ruby is,
Or gold from Ophir brought.
Page [43]
ADDRESSED
TO THE
INHABITANTS OF YOXFORD, IN 1787.
Blest scene that gave me birth!
Though now, alas! unknown, forgot,
I wander o'er the earth.
A name how dear to me!
And, maugre this my wayward fate,
Will claim my part in thee.
And love with pity join?
Not treat me with contempt or scorn,
Or blush to say I'm thine?
Warm'd by a daily pray'r:
And fav'ring heav'n to thee and thine,
Extend it's guardian care.
Page 44
Securely dwell serene,
Be ev'ry bliss in life your lot,
And pleasure paint each scene.
The sweets of health and peace;
While plenty decks the choice repast,
And Ceres gives increase.
In social strength elate,
While neighb'ring swains admiring stand,
To see your prosp'rous state.
And bear impartial sway,
While truth and friendship, void of art,
Their native charms display.
May you not plead in vain;
But seek to be as good, as great,
And what you ask obtain.*
Page [45]
ON THE DEATH
OF A
MOST BENEVOLENT GENTLEMAN.
What desolation follows where they go!
What scenes of terror o'er thy path display'd!
Thou phantom; see the havock thou hast made!
All yield obedience to thy stern command?
The good, the great, thy summons must obey,
And victims fall to thy despotic sway.
What clouds of sorrow sit on ev'ry brow!
Not feign'd distress, though such too oft appears,
But heart felt grief, and unaffected tears.
The man, the christian, and the friend combin'd!
On earth the object of esteem and love;
Now, blest associate of the saints above.
Page 46
But all was easy, peaceful and serene,
While goodness sat triumphant on the smile
That, beaming, mark'd a heart devoid of guile.
To christian duties strict attention paid;
Assiduous sought his God, in praise and pray'r,
Nor deem'd futurity beneath his care.
In silence mourn, and sighing drop a tear.
His lib'ral hand to all he did extend,
The best of masters, and the kindest friend!
Now many a pensive heart despairing sighs:
The sick, the aged, and the orphan'd poor,
Have lost their all, and they can lose no more
But who can give, to virtue, virtue's due?
He needs no loud applause, no noisy fame;
His deeds will best immortalize his name.
Page [47]
ON READING THE INSCRIPTION
ON
GAY'S MONUMENT
.
"Life is jest, and all things shew it:
"I thought so once, but now I know it."
A pilgrimage at best:
But what will most amazing seem,
Gay tells us,----'tis a jest!
Through wit's mistaken claim,
With false delusive notions fraught,
Gain monumental fame?
The ills depicted there:
What precipices intervene!
How dark the dells appear!
Thro' dreary vales we stray:
A gleam of hope prevents despair,
And points us out the way.
Page 48
The prospect brightens round:
No more we heed the ills to come,
Or rough uneven ground.
The beaten track pursue,
Regardless whether right or wrong,
Or where it leads us to.
Without a guide we rove,
Hope's dazzling phantoms disappear,
Or fading meteors prove.
Appals the heart with fear:
But life's vain trust is most display'd
Where active scenes appear.
A mix'd, a motley groupe!
Some smile, elate with sudden joy,
Some sink, depriv'd of hope.
Engage the major part;
How few solicit nature's aid!
All court expensive art.
Page 49
In ostentatious shew;
In splendid galas still contend
To furnish something new.
This idle splendor, mean,
Should death abruptly interfere
And rudely close the scene?
Would quickly fade away,
And darkest night supply the place
Of artificial day.
In youth and beauty's hour;
Where countless charms around them play,
And fame proclaims their pow'r.
And fancied elegance,
Whose strange demeanours oft imply,
Great pride but little sense?
Page 50
And easy conquest finds;
While affectation claims a part,
And triumphs o'er their minds.
Those baleful pow'rs intrude,
Can weak decrepid age resist
With greater fortitude?
That wisdom dwells with age;
That honor, peace, and length of days,
Attend the hoary sage.
That something lay conceal'd;
'Twas simple nature gave them law,
For truth was not reveal'd.
The light that shines within,
Their moral precepts oft procur'd
The praise of virtuous men.
Page 51
These moral pages o'er,
Profoundly too comment thereon,
And yet improve no more.
But mark'd with some defect:
Much time and labor 'twill require
To make the heart correct.
As, doubtless, millions do,
Will still adhere to what is good,
And what is bad eschew.
Enforce their silent tear,
Their conscious hope that grief prevents
Which flows from guilty fear.
Though short it may appear,
From early youth, to ripest age,
Is still replete with care.
Page 52
Such slender faith is mine;
And yet, too many are deceiv'd
By notions such as thine!
A lively turn of thought,
Who dread on serious truths to rest
Or treat them as they ought.
Of our eternal state;
On this the sentence too depends,
That must decide our fate.
Each social bliss increase:
O! may we live contented here,
And end our days in peace.
Page [53]
REFLECTIONS ON MY OWN SITUATION,
Written in T-tt-ngst-ne House of Industry,
February
1802.
How alter'd I appear,
How many strange events have known,
Since first I enter'd here!
A lone recluse, I live,
And, with the dregs of human kind,
A niggard alms receive.
Unsocial, insincere,
Their rude behaviour gives offence,
Their language wounds the ear.
Page 54
Throughout confusions reign;
Where feuds and discontent abound,
Remonstrance proves in vain.
Unknown is friendship here;
Not one to soothe, or calm the mind,
When overwhelm'd with care:
With cautious steps proceed:
Beyond these melancholy walls,
I've found a friend indeed!
Compare their state with mine:
Can I reflect, and not confess
A providence divine?
And equal want deplore,
But that a good and gracious God
Is pleas'd to give me more:
Page 55
Remove the pondrous weight,
And those impending ills avert
Which want and woes create.
Thus honor'd and carest?
And why such favors heap'd on me,
And with such friendship blest?
Within my lonely cell,
And mark'd the strange mysterious fate
That seem'd to guide me still.
When evils threaten'd dread,
Some unexpected blessing came,
And rais'd my drooping head.
Of magic skill and pow'r,
And mortals, in their sleep, convey'd
To some enchanted tow'r.
Page 56
Conceal'd from vulgar eyes,
Two rival genii us'd to meet
And counterplots devise.
Mischievous schemes invents,
Pursues the fated mortal still,
And ev'ry woe augments.
Aw'd by tyrannic sway,
A prey to grief each rising morn,
And cheerless all the day.
A pleasing change decree:
The friendly genius intervenes,
And sets the captive free.
Depriv'd of both before;
So great the blessing, when obtain'd,
What can he wish for more?
Page 57
Like facts to me appear;
The fabled suff'rings they contain,
I find no fictions here.
My miseries combine,
To bless my lengthen'd wane of days,
Their bright reverse be mine.
How helpless mortals are,
Nor leave me friendless, poor, and old,
But guide me with thy care.
Page [58]
TO THE REV. DR. J----N.
On his being appointed one of his Majesty's Chaplains.
Has Candler's friend the royal favor found?
O blest event! O, joy, to what excess!
What language can my sentiments express?
Let poets laureate shine in lofty verse,
And splendid stories skilfully rehearse,
Let them excel in all the pomp of rhyme,
And ransack kingdoms and the page of time;
But I, defective in the shining part,
Must write the simple language of the heart:
Nor will my friend esteem the off'ring less
Because array'd in nature's rustic dress.
Ah! what am I?------A stranger to the rules
Observ'd by those instructed in the schools;
Unskill'd, unpractis'd, in the art to please.
Not form'd, by nature, for such work as these:
From snarling critics and their censure free,
They'll not bestow a single thought on me;
Page 59
But let me off with one contemptuous sneer:
But, truce a moment,----give me leave to say,
I've not to plead the merits of a play,
Stranger alike to boxes and to pit,
And all the dazzling ornaments of wit,
The public voice will ne'er decide my fate,
Alike unworthy of their love and hate:
An author scarcely can their frowns survive,
While I, unnotic'd, am preserv'd alive.
Unenvied, here, my pen I may employ,
To speak thy praises J----N
and my joy
And is it true?--art thou at length preferr'd?
In extacy the pleasing tale I heard:
O! may thy wishes still propitious be,
And may thy sov'reign still distinguish thee:
Though high thy honors, great thy present bliss,
Thy merits claim far greater still than this.
O! may our gracious prince his gifts dispense
To men of virtue, probity, and sense;
Then must my friend his favor still maintain,
And all the church's highest honors gain:
Conspicuous will each christian virtue shine
And add new lustre to the rites divine:
Thy works of mercy, and of kindness blest,
This grateful village ever will attest;
Those sacred truths we did from thee receive,
Thy life and manners taught us to believe.
Page 60
My worthy patron, and my noble friend,
May each succeeding year new bliss afford,
And peace and plenty deck thy festive board.
Page [61]
TO MISS F----N.
April
30, 1789.
Diffusing sweets around;
Once more the cuckoo's note I hear,
And hail the pleasing sound.
His radiant light displays;
While noisome fogs, and vapours, fly
Before his bright'ning rays.
Fresh verdure cloaths the plain,
Cheer'd by his beams each plant revives
And springs to light again.
Her well replenish'd horn;
Again the vallies laugh and sing,
They stand so thick with corn.
Page 62
Her yearly tribute pays,
And Bacchus, with a joyous smile,
The clust'ring vine surveys.
The God was much renown'd,
Mirth revel'd with his vot'ries gay
To drum and cymbal's sound:
Fill'd high the foaming bowl;
For choicest wines enrich'd the feast,
Till frolic scorn'd controul.
The late *
libations made,
And thought his festival renew'd,
And all his laws obey'd.
With shouts and festive lays
When heav'n in pity spar'd their king
And gave him length of days.
Page 63
Enthron'd in dazzling light,
Her favour'd sons new altars rear'd,
With many a grateful rite.
And various charms display'd,
While envy, with a deadly hate,
The beauteous groupe survey'd.
With plenty deign'd to smile,
And nought but love and friendship reign'd
In Britain's happy isle.
And England's praise ascends,
I feel my dearest earthly joy
Is center'd in my friends.
Quaff healths, and shout "encore!"
Let me behold my friend again,
And I will ask no more.
And smile benignly gay,
Like them I'll banish ev'ry care,
And keep high holiday.
Page [64]
ON PERUSING THE HISTORY OF JACOB
After I had left T-tt-ngst-ne House of Industry.
Still sighing for her long lost liberty?
For twenty years and more I mourn'd the loss;
The laws were rig'rous, ev'ry task seem'd cross,
The bondage irksome, and the treatment hard,
From social converse and from friends debarr'd;
Excess of grief the gath'ring ills portend,
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]
But Jacob's God has rais'd me up a friend,
Blest is that gift th' Almighty deigns to send!
Men were unfeeling, selfish, and unkind,
With anxious care his fleecy charge survey'd,
And climb'd the mountains, if a lambkin stray'd
If torn by beasts, or by misfortune slain,
'Twas his the loss, or, damage, to sustain,
From frost by night, or scorching heat by day,
He found his spirits, and his strength, decay:
Fatigued with watching and with care opprest,
His sleep departed though he wanted rest:
Page 65
His wealth suspected, as unjustly gain'd,
In all a strange return did Laban make,
As God had blest him for his nephew's sake;
But envy, when excited knows no peace,
As others prosper, so her pangs encrease;
His neighbour's wealth was great, he thought it such,
His own too little, Jacob's far too much;
But God in pity still augments his store,
His flocks and herds encrease still more and more;
A num'rous offspring plays around his tent;
Gold, Silver, servants, in abundance sent:
What greater blessing could he wish to see?
Alas! he sigh'd, and wish'd for liberty!----
Review'd the lone retreats where oft he'd been,
Too long frequented, and too often seen,
The mountain's top, the gloomy vale below,
The mazy paths so often wander'd through;
Reflects on dangers that had oft recurr'd,
The hard ungen'rous treatment long endur'd:
The scenes of early youth his thoughts employ,
Nor can the present yield substantial joy:
No abject fear can urge a longer stay,
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]
Alert, he rises with returning day,
Departs in silence, and pursues his way.
Three days elasp'd e'er Laban mist his son,
Or knew his fav'rite household gods were gone;
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With wives and children, and with all he had!
He calls his kindred, bids his servants arm,
No good intended, though he did no harm;
For Jacob's God would not permit his foe
To stop his journey, or his rancour shew;
And, what may strange to divers christians seem,
The Syrian, though a heathen, told his dream,
With candor own'd the holy one appear'd,
Nor would conceal the dread command he heard;
Impell'd by fear, and aw'd by pow'r divine,
That pow'r which brings to nought what men design:
While Jacob urges how he oft was wrong'd,
By abject state and servitude prolong'd,
Deceiv'd, suspected, and his hire withheld,
No faith observ'd, promise e'er fulfill'd
Through twenty years had God increas'd his store,
Small his first stock, th' Almighty made it more:
Could Laban charge him with a breach of trust?
Though great his wealth, its ev'ry claim was just.
Then Pagan zeal, its idols to regain,
[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]
Ransack'd his tents: the search was all in vain,
Nor could the dumb inactive Gods complain,
What could be found among his stock or stuff
To merit censure or deserve reproof?
The aged sire could not the charge confute;
His heart seeks parly, and avoids dispute,
And while it, anxious, courts his childrens loves,
Their want of duty and their flight reproves,
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And Jacob, on his part, a feast provides;
They both a pious sacrifice ordain,
That neither should, for harm, return again;
For Jacob's God the Pagan still rever'd,
As thus he spake, and thus his vows were heard:
"When absent from each other we shall be,
"The God of Heaven watch 'tween thee and me:
"Perform thy promise when I'm gone from here
"And treat my daughters with indulgent care:
"Thy God is witness now betwixt us both;
"Therefore beware, and not infringe thine oath."
Thus Laban spake; and now prepares to go;
Clasps his dear children, and their children too;
With fond embrace the friendly mount he leaves,
And ling'ring looks, and a last blessing gives:
But Jacob yet was not exempt from fear,
A far more dreadful foe now claims his care:
Should Esau still retain his former hate,
Could he determine what might be his fate?
If gentle means could not his wrath assuage,
A simple shepherd must not brave his rage.
He tells his flock, and culls from thence the best,
If peradventure they may save the rest;
But when he hears of Esau's martial host,
He almost deems himself and children lost:
Yet breathes a pray'r before th' eternal throne,
And great Jehovah guides him safely on.
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For Esau now, his fury turn'd away,
With transport meets his brother's kind embrace,
And with tumultuous joy beholds his face.
On terms affectionate the brothers part,
And Jacob travels with a lighter heart;
His scene of trouble with his journey ends;
He meets his father and his former friends;
Each rising morn he finds his bliss increase,
He sleeps in safety, and he wakes in peace,
More tranquil than the former part has been;
This cheering ray no threatning clouds o'er cast,
That may to much resemble what is past.
O! let me spend the short remains of life
In peace and quiet, far from noise and strife,
My conduct such as best becomes my age
And something useful still my time engage:
Like Mary let me chuse the needful part,
But not with pious fraud or specious art.
At gloomy eve, when sol withdraws his light,
I'll beg of God to keep me through the night,
I'll bless his goodness each returning day,
And those who gave the bed whereon I lay.
May 24th. 1802.
FINIS.
J. Raw, Printer, Ipswich.
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