Classic Poem

Where from one point the branching ways divide,
The village-shop displays its tinsel pride.
Bright beams the window with the gaudy show,
Drest in each colour of the splendid bow:
Small rolls of tape with dex'trous skill arrang'd,
Each coil diminish'd, and each colour chang'd,
Red, blue, and crimson, are alternate seen,
'Till ends the pyramid in sprightly green.

Gay with japan, snuff boxes stand array'd,
With golden mottos for each love-sick maid,
Whose gaudy glare still captivate the eye,
With — you I love, nor fear for you to die. —
Some lad, the Milton of the village swains,
With pompous lore the mystic verse explains,
Whose bosom soar'd above all vulgar arts,
By distant travel to improve his parts.
In early youth he childish sports forsook,
To beg instruction with his horn-glaz'd book;
With primmer next, he sought the neighb'ring fane,
Where bare leg'd school-boys spelt King Priam's reign
Montelion there, and all his deeds he knew,
And brave St. George was ever in his view.
Till fir'd his foul, he, for a scholar's name,
Friends, kindred, left to seek for letter'd fame.

A shoulder'd stick behind his stockings bore,
And new-sol'd shoes well balanc'd it before;
Of books a satchel, on one hand was ty'd,
Whilst th' other swingling serv'd him as a guide,
Accoutr'd thus he cheerful trudg'd him on
To that fam'd lake which skirts high Mangerton;
Where once Apollo, with his tuneful song,
In exile led the skipping flocks along;
Whilst social cheer reliev'd his godship's care,
And old Admetus liv'd in good Kenmare.
Here science still upholds its pleasing reign,
And every shepherd sings in Maro's strain,
Our rambler here, by thirst of knowledge led,
With toil unceasing shifts his nightly bed;
'Till stor'd his mind he seeks his native home,
And there admir'd resolves no more to roam.

The pendent lace with tags of silver hue,
And poplin remnants boldly put to view;
The waving kerchieves crackling in the wind,
The bird-ey'd cotton peeping from behind,
The glass-set stud which with false splendour shines,
And Christmas-carols in long stumbling lines;
The jetty beads with amber decades grac'd,
Poor Robin's sheet where ev'ry fast is trac'd;
New Christian-doctrines gilt at every page,
The only solace of decrepit age;
The sooty plant, the peasants chief regale,
The tube thro' which they warming puffs exhale;
The crooked scythe, the hooks indented blade,
The wedding ring for blushing virgins made;
And ribbon gay of various colours proud,
Catch the attention of the gaping crowd.

Each simple breast pants for some fav'rite toy,
Yet each wou'd wish another's skill t' employ;
Thick groping round their scrips they close compare,
Their fancies yielding as they suit the ware;
In close commune they count their little hoard,
And anxious wish to find the price accord;
But cautious still to risk their hard earn'd store,
They call some matron skill'd in chaff'ring lore,
Whose knowledge deep a legend well might fill,
For ev'ry pedler own'd her cheap'ning skill:
The shop-man too assum'd respectful awe,
And in her presence seem'd to hide each flaw.

Her deep astrology, and skill profound,
Hath spread her fame for full six miles around.
She knows each shrub, all spells she has by rote,
And knows disorders in the east wind float;
Can charms extract from ev'ry herb that blooms.
And trace out mandrake tho' December glooms,
If Slop should fail cou'd lend obstetrick aid;
And track by snails the fav'rite of each maid.
Cou'd stalking ghosts, by hazel stick, defeat,
Or rouse hobgoblins from their dark retreat.
When wand'ring elves in spiral eddies roll,
She'd quell the tumult with a ready dole.
So great her skill that, round the ev'ning grate,
She learnt from crickets the decrees of fate.
Knew when 'twas meet the nuptial band to close;
And told the sex just as bright Cynthia rose,
If in the full the bridal joys begun,
Bright as the father will the embryo son;
Yet if these rites but glimmer'd in the wane,
The mother's image will reward her pain.

When liquid lead, and crackling nuts proclaim
The future fortune of the russet dame;
Unerring she the wish'd-for lord foretold,
The squire, the curate, or an ensign bold:
But if the smock plung'd in the passing flood,
Remain'd unnotic'd, with the proffer'd food,
Some sudden death awaits the luckless maid;
Or just as bad — unmarry'd she must fade.
If boys shou'd bear forbidden fruit away,
The blushing culprit own'd her twirling key
When for her linen Susan sought relief,
Her lamp-black'd hive proclaim'd the conscious thief.

When boading sprights chant dismal thro' the gloom,
She'd mark the victim to the yawning tomb.
Cou'd chace the murrain from the lab'ring team,
And with a plough-share bring back stolen cream.
Cou'd deal out fortunes from the motley pack
Wealth follows red, death haunts its kindred black.
In coffee too a full adept was she,
And thro' its dregs cou'd trace posterity.
Knew thro' the hamlet ev'ry wizard face
That scares the sportsman from the jovial chace.
So far her fame had reach'd prophetic height,
All thought her gifted with the second sight.
Her smiles engag'd, her censures struck with awe,
Whilst all the village own'd her word as law.

Nor ye, who move in wealth's luxurious shade,
Mock the too credulous believing maid,
Who bound to nature as her early school,
Had but tradition for her only rule;
Whose mind ne'er soar'd beyond her fleecy stock,
The mould'ring turret, or the heath-clad rock,
Her soul, contrasted as her humble sphere,
Caught ev'ry tale, and thought that tale sincere.
If curious, she e'er sought palmistick lore,
She trod the path her mother walk'd before.

Not so with ye, whom kinder stars have plac'd
In the full sun-shine of meridian taste;
Who, spurning all mark'd in the rolls above,
Led by ambition, or unlawful love,
Hie to a palmist, or a juggling knave,
Your business, God — his, mortals to deceive,
There cringing wait the ruffian's sham decree,
Your fortune portion'd to the bulk of fee,
Whate'er you ask a titl'd beau to wed,
Or steal a foot-man to an husband's bed;
Or if, perchance, you've hymen's torch out-run,
By what dire spell th' effects may be undone;
'Tis granted straight, the golden fee prevails,
And bold imposture turns th' immortal scales.
How diff'rent then the brown-clad russet maid,
And fashion sinning in her gay brocade.

Nor ye proud men, who in profulion rove,
Chide the poor tenant of the shady grove,
Whose simple heart ne'er felt th' instructive force
Of science tracing to its pristine source,
Each goblin tale, each legendary spell,
How rocks have bellow'd, and how giants fell,
(Last in the tumult of a barb'rous age,
When science blushing fled from gothic rage.)
Who stares with horror at the wond'rous tale,
Or fearful whistles to the rustling gale;
Pleas'd if, by labour, he can but afford
To bid the stranger to his wholesome board.

Whilst ye, whom affluence has in beauty bless'd,
By science courted, and by leisure press'd,
Thro' all life's course toil for an empty name,
The slaves of pleasure, or the dupes of fame:
Cloy'd by excess no pleasure ye can feel,
Save in the horrors of the tortur'd meal,
Can calmly see pale famine weep around,
Whilst costly poison in your cates abound.
But shou'd ambition all your thoughts employ,
Ye cringe and flatter for the paltry toy;
Creep thro' each vice, o'er ev'ry virtue spring,
And skip alertly for the silken string,

Then cease to call th' untutor'd peasant fool,
Who preaches wisdom shou'd obey its rule;
Nor blame the foibles which in cots prevail,
While folly wafts you in its wanton gale.