By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each His fav'rite herb; while all the leafless groves, That skirt th' horizon, wore a sable hue, Scarce notic'd in the kindred dusk of eve. To morrow brings a change, a total change! Which even now, though silently perform'd, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Of universal nature undergoes.
Fast falls a fleecy show'r: the downy flakes Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse, Softly alighting upon all below, Assimilate all objects. Each receives
Gladly the thick'ning mantle; and the green And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.
In such a world, so thorny, and where none Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, Without some thistly sorrow at it's side; It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Against the law of love, to measure lots With less distinguish'd than ourselves; that thus We may with patience bear our modʼrate ills, And sympathise with others suff'ring more.
Ill fares the trav'ller now, and he that stalks In pond'rous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore
By congregated loads adhering close
To the clogg'd wheels; and in it's sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.
The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While ev'ry breath, by respiration strong Forc'd downward, is consolidated soon
Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on.
One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. O happy; and in my account denied That sensibility of pain, with which Refinement is endu'd, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. The learned finger never need explore
Thy vig'rous pulse; and the unhealthful east, That breathes the spleen, and searches ev'ry bone
Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.
Thy days roll on exempt from household care; Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, That drag the dull companion to and fro, Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. Ah treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st, Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great, With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place, Humane as they would seem, not always show.
Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in ev'ry feeling heart. Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. The few small embers left she nurses well; And, while her infant race, with outspread hands, And crowded knees, sit cow'ring o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake so they be warm'd. The man feels least, as more inur'd than she
To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly mov'd by his severer toil; Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end
Just when the day declin'd; and the brown loaf Lodg'd on the shelf, half eaten without sauce Of sav'ry cheese, or butter, costlier still: Sleep seems their only refuge: for alas, Where penury is felt, the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care, Ingenious Parsimony takes, but just
Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, Skillet, and old carv'd chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms
From grudging hands; but other boast have none, To sooth their honest pride, that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs
Engraved by Anker Smith. A.R.A.
PENURY IS FELT THE THOUGHT IS CHAIN'D,
AND SWEET COLLOQUIAL PLEASURES ARE BUT FEW
LONDON, PUBLISHED JUNE 1.1810, BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY.
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