Part 12 (2/2)
Cheer up, my heart! let's cast off every doubt, Pray without dread, and place our money out.”
Such the religion of a mind that steers Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears; Whose pa.s.sions in due bounds each other keep, And thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep; Whose virtues all their certain limits know, Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow; Who for success and safety ever tries, And with both worlds alternately complies.
Such are the Guardians of this bless'd estate, Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate; That they are men, and have their faults, is true; But here their worth alone appears in view: The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast, Has something of the secrets there express'd, But yet in charity;--and when she sees Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease, And knows how much united minds effect, She almost dreads their failings to detect; But Truth commands: --in man's erroneous kind, Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind, Happy!--when fears to public spirit move, And even vices do the work of love. {8}
LETTER XVIII.
Bene paupertas Humili tecto contenta latet.
SENECA.
Omnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundae, magi' sunt, nescio quo modo, Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis; Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi.
TEPENT.
Show not to the poor thy pride, Let their home a cottage be; Nor the feeble body hide In a palace fit for thee; Let him not about him see Lofty ceilings, ample halls, Or a gate his boundary be, Where nor friend or kinsman calls.
Let him not one walk behold, That only one which he must tread, Nor a chamber large and cold, Where the aged and sick are led; Better far his humble shed, Humble sheds of neighbours by, And the old and tatter'd bed, Where he sleeps and hopes to die.
To quit of torpid sluggishness the cave, And from the pow'rful arms of sloth be free, 'Tis rising from the dead--Alas! it cannot be.
THOMSON.
THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS. {9}
The Method of treating the Borough Paupers--Many maintained at their own Dwellings--Some Characters of the poor--The Schoolmistress, when aged--The Idiot--The poor Sailor--The declined Tradesman and his Companion--This contrasted with the Maintenance of the Poor in a common Mansion erected by the Hundred--The Objections to this Method: Not Want, nor Cruelty, but the necessary evils of this Mode--What they are--Instances of the Evil--A Return to the Borough Poor--The Dwellings of these--The Lanes and Byways--No Attention here paid to Convenience--The Pools in the Pathways-- Amus.e.m.e.nts of Sea-port Children--The Town Flora--Herbs on Walls and vacant s.p.a.ces- -A female Inhabitant of an Alley--A large Building let to several poor Inhabitants--Their Manners and Habits.
YES! we've our Borough-vices, and I know How far they spread, how rapidly they grow; Yet think not virtue quits the busy place, Nor charity, the virtues crown and grace.
”Our Poor, how feed we?”--To the most we give A weekly dole, and at their homes they live; - Others together dwell,--but when they come To the low roof, they see a kind of home, A social people whom they've ever known, With their own thoughts, and manners like their own.
At her old house, her dress, her air the same, I see mine ancient Letter-loving dame: ”Learning, my child,” said she ”shall fame command; Learning is better worth than house or land - For houses perish, lands are gone and spent; In learning then excel, for that's most excellent.”
”And what her learning?” 'Tis with awe to look In every verse throughout one sacred book; From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought; This she has learned, and she is n.o.bly taught.
If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear; If RUTLAND deigns these humble Tales to hear; If critics pardon what my friends approved; Can I mine ancient Widow pa.s.s unmoved?
Shall I not think what pains the matron took, When first I trembled o'er the gilded book?
How she, all patient, both at eve and morn, Her needle pointed at the guarding horn; And how she soothed me, when, with study sad, I labour'd on to reach the final zad?
Shall I not grateful still the dame survey, And ask the Muse the poet's debt to pay?
Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen, But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men, Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws; They own the matron as the leading cause, And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause: To her own house is borne the week's supply; There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die.
With her a harmless Idiot we behold, Who h.o.a.rds up silver sh.e.l.ls for s.h.i.+ning gold: These he preserves, with unremitted care, To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor: Alas!--who could th' ambitious changeling tell, That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?
Near these a Sailor, in that hut of thatch (A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match), Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat, Large as he wishes--in his view complete: A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch That hold his stores, have room for twice as much: His one spare s.h.i.+rt, long gla.s.s, and iron box, Lie all in view; no need has he for locks: Here he abides, and, as our strangers pa.s.s, He shows the s.h.i.+pping, he presents the gla.s.s; He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known, And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own, Of n.o.ble captains, heroes every one, - You might as soon have made the steeple run; And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay, He'll one by one the gallant souls display, And as the story verges to an end, He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend; He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old, As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold; Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly face, - And then a tear or two, which sting his pride; These he will dash indignantly aside, And splice his tale;--now take him from his cot, And for some cleaner berth exchange his lot, How will he all that cruel aid deplore?
His heart will break, and he will fight no more.
Here is the poor old Merchant: he declined, And, as they say, is not in perfect mind; In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend, Quiet he paces to his journey's end.
Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd; Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd; His spirits low, and his exertions small, He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall: Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he, But downward sank with sad alacrity.
A borough-place we gain'd him--in disgrace For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place; But still he kept a kind of sullen pride, Striving his wants to hinder or to hide; At length, compell'd by very need, in grief He wrote a proud pet.i.tion for relief.
”He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove Of force to wake their sympathy and love; Would make them feel the changes all may know, And stir them up a due regard to show.”
His suit was granted;--to an ancient maid, Relieved herself, relief for him was paid: Here they together (meet companions) dwell, And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell: ”'Twas not a world for them, G.o.d help them, they Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray; But there's a happy change, a scene to come, And they, G.o.d help them! shall be soon at home.”
If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain, Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain; They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain, The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh, Both when they know, and when they know not why; But we our bounty with such care bestow, That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.
Your Plan I love not; with a number you Have placed your poor, your pitiable few: There, in one house, throughout their lives to be, The pauper-palace which they hate to see: That giant-building, that high-bounding wall, Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall, That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour, Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power; It is a prison, with a milder name, Which few inhabit without dread or shame.
Be it agreed--the Poor who hither come Partake of plenty, seldom found at home; That airy rooms and decent beds are meant To give the poor by day, by night, content; That none are frighten'd, once admitted here, By the stern looks of lordly Overseer: Grant that the Guardians of the place attend, And ready ear to each pet.i.tion lend; That they desire the grieving poor to show What ills they feel, what partial acts they know; Not without promise, nay desire to heal Each wrong they suffer, and each woe they feel.
Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell; They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell; They have no evil in the place to state, And dare not say it is the house they hate: They own there's granted all such place can give, But live repining, for 'tis there they live.
Grandsires are there, who now no more must see, No more must nurse upon the trembling knee, The lost loved daughter's infant progeny: Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place For joyful meetings of a kindred race.
Is not the matron there, to whom the son Was wont at each declining day to run?
He (when his toil was over) gave delight, By lifting up the latch, and one ”Good night.”
Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door The son, still lab'ring, can return no more.
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