Part 17 (2/2)
By whom the ill is to the heart conveyed, Who lend the foe, not yet in arms, their aid; And sap the city-walls before the siege be laid?
Oh! rather skulking in the by-ways steal, And rob the poorest traveller of his meal; Burst through the humblest trader's bolted door; Bear from the widow's hut her winter-store; With stolen steed, on highways take your stand, Your lips with curses arm'd, with death your hand; - Take all but life--the virtuous more would say, Take life itself, dear as it is, away, Rather than guilty thus the guileless soul betray.
Years pa.s.s away--let us suppose them past, Th' accomplish'd nymph for freedom looks at last; All hards.h.i.+ps over, which a school contains, The spirit's bondage and the body's pains; Where teachers make the heartless, trembling set Of pupils suffer for their own regret; Where winter's cold, attack'd by one poor fire, Chills the fair child, commanded to retire; She felt it keenly in the morning-air, Keenly she felt it at the evening prayer.
More pleasant summer; but then walks were made, Not a sweet ramble, but a slow parade; They moved by pairs beside the hawthorn-hedge, Only to set their feelings on an edge; And now at eve, when all their spirits rise, Are sent to rest, and all their pleasure dies; Where yet they all the town-alert can see, And distant plough-boys pacing o'er the lea.
These and the tasks successive masters brought - The French they conn'd, the curious works they wrought; The hours they made their taper fingers strike Note after note, all dull to them alike; Their drawings, dancings on appointed days, Playing with globes, and getting parts of plays: The tender friends.h.i.+ps made 'twixt heart and heart, When the dear friends had nothing to impart: - All! all! are over;--now th' accomplish'd maid Longs for the world, of nothing there afraid: Dreams of delight invade her gentle breast, And fancied lovers rob the heart of rest; At the paternal door a carriage stands, Love knits their hearts and Hymen joins their hands.
Ah! world unknown! how charming is thy view, Thy pleasures many, and each pleasure new: Ah! world experienced! what of thee is told?
How few thy pleasures, and those few how old!
Within a silent street, and far apart From noise of business, from a quay or mart, Stands an old s.p.a.cious building, and the din You hear without, explains the work within; Unlike the whispering of the nymphs, this noise Loudly proclaims a ”Boarding-School for Boys;”
The master heeds it not, for thirty years Have render'd all familiar to his ears; He sits in comfort, 'mid the various sound Of mingled tones for ever flowing round: Day after day he to his task attends, - Unvaried toil, and care that never ends: Boys in their works proceed; while his employ Admits no change, or changes but the boy; Yet time has made it easy;--he beside Has power supreme, and power is sweet to pride: But grant him pleasure; what can teachers feel, Dependent helpers always at the wheel?
Their power despised, their compensation small, Their labour dull, their life laborious all; Set after set the lower lads to make Fit for the cla.s.s which their superiors take; The road of learning for a time to track In roughest state, and then again go back: Just the same way, on other troops to wait, - Attendants fix'd at learning's lower gate.
The Day-tasks now are over--to their ground Rush the gay crowd with joy-compelling sound; Glad to elude the burthens of the day, The eager parties hurry to their play: Then in these hours of liberty we find The native bias of the opening mind; They yet possess not skill the mask to place, And hide the pa.s.sions glowing in the face; Yet some are found--the close, the sly, the mean, Who know already all must not be seen.
Lo! one who walks apart, although so young, He lays restraint upon his eye and tongue, Nor will he into sc.r.a.pes or dangers get, And half the school are in the stripling's debt: Suspicious, timid, he is much afraid Of trick and plot: --he dreads to be betray'd: He shuns all friends.h.i.+p, for he finds they lend When lads begin to call each other friend: Yet self with self has war; the tempting sight Of fruit on sale provokes his appet.i.te; - See! how he walks the sweet seduction by; That he is tempted, costs him first a sigh, - 'Tis dangerous to indulge, 'tis grievous to deny!
This he will choose, and whispering asks the price, The purchase dreadful, but the portion nice: Within the pocket he explores the pence; Without, temptation strikes on either sense, The sight, the smell;--but then he thinks again Of money gone! while fruit nor taste remain.
Meantime there comes an eager thoughtless boy, Who gives the price and only feels the joy: Example dire: the youthful miser stops And slowly back the treasured coinage drops: Heroic deed! for should he now comply, Can he tomorrow's appet.i.te deny?
Beside, these spendthrifts who so freely live, Cloy'd with their purchase, will a portion give: - Here ends debate, he b.u.t.tons up his store, And feels the comfort that it burns no more.
Unlike to him the Tyrant-boy, whose sway All hearts acknowledge; him the crowds obey: At his command they break through every rule; Whoever governs, he controls the school: 'Tis not the distant emperor moves their fear, But the proud viceroy who is ever near.
Verres could do that mischief in a day, For which not Rome, in all its power, could pay; And these boy-tyrants will their slaves distress, And do the wrongs no master can redress: The mind they load with fear; it feels disdain For its own baseness; yet it tries in vain To shake th' admitted power: --the coward comes again: 'Tis more than present pain these tyrants give, Long as we've life some strong impressions live; And these young ruffians in the soul will sow Seeds of all vices that on weakness grow.
Hark! at his word the trembling younglings flee, Where he is walking none must walk but he; See! from the winter fire the weak retreat, His the warm corner, his the favourite seat, Save when he yields it to some slave to keep Awhile, then back, at his return, to creep: At his command his poor dependants fly, And humbly bribe him as a proud ally; Flatter'd by all, the notice he bestows, Is gross abuse, and bantering and blows; Yet he's a dunce, and, spite of all his fame Without the desk, within he feels his shame: For there the weaker boy, who felt his scorn, For him corrects the blunders of the morn; And he is taught, unpleasant truth! to find The trembling body has the prouder mind.
Hark! to that shout, that burst of empty noise, From a rude set of bluff, obstreperous boys; They who, like colts let loose, with vigour bound, And thoughtless spirit, o'er the beaten ground; Fearless they leap, and every youngster feels His Alma active in his hands and heels.
These are the sons of farmers, and they come With partial fondness for the joys of home; Their minds are coursing in their fathers' fields, And e'en the dream a lively pleasure yields; They, much enduring, sit th' allotted hours, And o'er a grammar waste their sprightly powers; They dance; but them can measured steps delight, Whom horse and hounds to daring deeds excite?
Nor could they bear to wait from meal to meal, Did they not slily to the chamber steal, And there the produce of the basket seize, The mother's gift! still studious of their ease.
Poor Alma, thus oppress'd forbears to rise, But rests or revels in the arms and thighs.
”But is it sure that study will repay The more attentive and forbearing?”--Nay!
The farm, the s.h.i.+p, the humble shop, have each Gains which severest studies seldom reach.
At College place a youth, who means to raise His state by merit and his name by praise; Still much he hazards; there is serious strife In the contentions of a scholar's life: Not all the mind's attention, care, distress, Nor diligence itself, ensure success: His jealous heart a rival's powers may dread, Till its strong feelings have confused his head, And, after days and months, nay, years of pain, He finds just lost the object he would gain.
But grant him this and all such life can give, For other prospects he begins to live; Begins to feel that man was form'd to look And long for other objects than a book: In his mind's eye his house and glebe he sees, And farms and talks with farmers at his ease; And time is lost, till fortune sends him forth To a rude world unconscious of his worth; There in some petty parish to reside, The college boast, then turn'd the village guide: And though awhile his flock and dairy please, He soon reverts to former joys and ease, Glad when a friend shall come to break his rest, And speak of all the pleasures they possess'd, Of masters, fellows, tutors, all with whom They shared those pleasures, never more to come; Till both conceive the times by bliss endear'd, Which once so dismal and so dull appear'd.
But fix our Scholar, and suppose him crown'd With all the glory gain'd on cla.s.sic ground; Suppose the world without a sigh resign'd, And to his college all his care confined; Give him all honours that such states allow, The freshman's terror and the tradesman's bow; Let his apartments with his taste agree, And all his views be those he loves to see; Let him each day behold the savoury treat, For which he pays not, but is paid to eat; These joys and glories soon delight no more, Although, withheld, the mind is vex'd and sore; The honour too is to the place confined, Abroad they know not each superior mind: Strangers no wranglers in these figures see, Nor give they wors.h.i.+p to a high degree; Unlike the prophet's is the scholar's case, His honour all is in his dwelling-place: And there such honours are familiar things; What is a monarch in a crowd of kings?
Like other sovereigns he's by forms address'd, By statutes governed and with rules oppress'd.
When all these forms and duties die away, And the day pa.s.ses like the former day, Then of exterior things at once bereft, He's to himself and one attendant left; Nay, John too goes; nor aught of service more Remains for him; he gladly quits the door, And, as he whistles to the college-gate, He kindly pities his poor master's fate.
Books cannot always please, however good; Minds are not ever craving for their food; But sleep will soon the weary soul prepare For cares to-morrow that were this day's care: For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past, And formal feasts that will for ever last.
”But then from Study will no comforts rise?” - Yes! such as studious minds alone can prize; Comforts, yea!--joys ineffable they find, Who seek the prouder pleasures of the mind: The soul, collected in those happy hours, Then makes her efforts, then enjoys her powers; And in those seasons feels herself repaid, For labours past and honours long delay'd.
No! 'tis not worldly gain, although by chance The sons of learning may to wealth advance; Nor station high, though in some favouring hour The sons of learning may arrive at power; Nor is it glory, though the public voice Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice: But 'tis the mind's own feelings give tho joy, Pleasures she gathers in her own employ - Pleasures that gain or praise cannot bestow, Yet can dilate and raise them when they flow.
For this the Poet looks thy world around, Where form and life and reasoning man are found; He loves the mind, in all its modes, to trace, And all the manners of the changing race; Silent he walks the road of life along, And views the aims of its tumultuous throng: He finds what shapes the Proteus-pa.s.sions take, And what strange waste of life and joy they make, And loves to show them in their varied ways, With honest blame or with unflattering praise: 'Tis good to know, 'tis pleasant to impart, These turns and movements of the human heart: The stronger features of the soul to paint, And make distinct the latent and the faint; MAN AS HE IS, to place in all men's view, Yet none with rancour, none with scorn pursue: Nor be it ever of my Portraits told - ”Here the strong lines of malice we behold.”
--------------------- This let me hope, that when in public view I bring my Pictures, men may feel them true: ”This is a likeness,” may they all declare, ”And I have seen him, but I know not where:”
For I should mourn the mischief I had done, If as the likeness all would fix on one.
--------------------- Man's Vice and Crime I combat as I can, But to his G.o.d and conscience leave the Man; I search (a Quixote!) all the land about, To find its Giants and Enchanters out, - (The Giant-Folly, the Enchanter-Vice, Whom doubtless I shall vanquish in a trice;) - But is there man whom I would injure?--No!
I am to him a fellow, not a foe, - A fellow-sinner, who must rather dread The bolt, than hurl it at another's head.
No! let the guiltless, if there such be found, Launch forth the spear, and deal the deadly wound.
How can I so the cause of Virtue aid, Who am myself attainted and afraid?
Yet as I can, I point the powers of rhyme, And, sparing criminals, attack the crime.
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