Classic Poem

LI.

The children, laid among a heap of sheaves,
In artless pastime sport away the hours,
Trace with delight the slowly falling leaves,
Or re-arrange the wreath of simple flowers
Meantime the mother active plies her powers,
The husband and the father's toil to aid;
And ere the dark'ning hour of gloaming lowers,
So happily their mutual parts are play'd,
That safe in hutted rows the whole is fair array'd.

LII.

And drear November finds them full prepar'd
For calf and cow is fodder laid in store,
Potato bings, and corn-stack in the yard,
Forbid lean Hunger to approach their door
Work lies around them, and the rainy hour,
And long dark night, their converse gay must charm;
Parental cares, affection's tender power,
And meek Devotion's ardour, ever warm,
Forbid the languid powers their peaceful hearts to harm.

LIII.

Much do I envy thee, thou happy swain,
Although thy toils are constant and severe,
Thy gettings small, thy table very plain,
Thy dwelling through the winter somewhat drear.
Despairing wretchedness thou canst not hear;
Perverse stupidity thou dost not see;
The infectious breath of vice thou need'st not fear;
Surrounded too by sweet simplicity,
Unscath'd thy virtues bud — and bloom and ripen free.

LIV.

The deep reverse thy heart hath never torn,
With strangers lonely never hast thou pined,
These very stones thy infant steps have worn,
Thy days behind that hill have all declined
Splendour and wealth with mean deceit combined,
And flaming zeal with ruthless deeds unjust,
Have never roused thy rage against mankind;
Nor hollow friendship plunged, with deadly thrust,
Deep in thy aching breast the dagger of distrust.

LV.

Acquaintance here thou claim'st with every tree,
These winds, that stream hath always sooth'd thy ears,
A friend thou canst in every mountain see,
And some old thought of thine each echo bears!
Grown with thy strength, and strengthening with thy years,
Around thy heart these prepossessions twine —
Let no low sophist, on thy casual fears
Strong working, cause their vigour to decline,
Or lead thee bold to scorn their voice and power divine.

LVI.

Ah! do not thou thy equal temper lose,
To see you subtle huckster, soft and sleek,
Display his portly paunch, his ruby nose,
It may be twice a-year, or once a-week.
He lives and thrives by arts would make thee sick;
Has weather'd storms had driven thee to despair;
And though he bears an outward aspect meek,
Couldst thou behold his rotten heart laid bare,
Thy every nerve would shake to see what labours there.

LVII.

In embryo there, are plots t' o'erreach his friend,
Schemes new and strange to grind the bleeding poor,
With prayers and tears, the public eye to blind,
And charities, his credit to secure.
And hope aspiring glads his distant hour,
With gold, and lands, and houses fair to see;
Though, sometimes, conscience, by thy awful power,
Dispers'd at once the glittering visions flee!
And rises dark instead, the judge, the gallows-tree!

LVIII.

A few short years have patience — thou may'st see
This green and growing self-sufficient one,
With downcast looks, and tremor-stricken knee,
To want abandon'd, hopeless and alone.
Or among menials mean, all wobegone,
The veriest drudge, the most compliant slave,
Eager for rest on earth, but, finding none,
Brought on his knees, at last of Heaven to crave
The poor man's last sad hope, that narrow house — the grave.

LIX.

For his apparent ease couldst thou forego
The joy and health which to thy toils are given?
For all his fancied wealth th' entrancing glow
That rushes on thy heart at fall of even?
But above all, thy intercourse with Heaven,
The powers transforming of the world unseen,
Couldst thou exchange, though seventy times by seven
Were stretch'd their span, for all his prospects lean?
Thou art not sure so base, so despicably mean.

LX.

Beware th' insidious tales of discontent,
Which maudlin fiction echoes to the sky,
Of wrested rights, of constitutions rent,
Exhausted art, and nature's channels dry;
And the wild dream of other worlds that lye,
For ever bright with hope's entrancing smile,
Beyond the vasty deep — where, mantling high,
The cup of joy prevents the sigh of toil,
And simple truth ne'er rues the thorny snares of guile.