<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395909" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'DESCRIBE the Borough'--though our idle tribe<br>May love description, can we so describe,<br>That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,<br>And all that gives distinction to a place?<br>This cannot be; yet moved by your request<br>A part I paint--let Fancy form the rest.<br>Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,<br>Require the pencil; they defy the pen:<br>Could he who sang so well the Grecian fleet,<br>So well have sung of alley, lane, or street?<br>Can measured lines these various buildings show,<br>The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?<br>Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,<br>And lengthen out my lays from door to door?<br>Then let thy Fancy aid me--I repair<br>From this tall mansion of our last year's Mayor,<br>Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach,<br>And these half-buried buildings next the beach,<br>Where hang at open doors the net and cork,<br>While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work;<br>Till comes the hour when fishing through the tide<br>The weary husband throws his freight aside;<br>A living mass which now demands the wife,<br>Th' alternate labours of their humble life.<br>Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood,<br>Thy upland forest, or thy valley's flood?<br>Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look,<br>As it steals by, upon the bordering brook;<br>That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering slow,<br>Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow;<br>Where in the midst, upon a throne of green,<br>Sits the large Lily as the water's queen;<br>And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,<br>Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;<br>Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream,<br>And our broad river will before thee seem.<br>With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide,<br>Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;<br>Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep<br>It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep;<br>Here Samphire-banks and Saltwort bound the flood,<br>There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud;<br>And higher up, a ridge of all things base,<br>Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place.<br>Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat,<br>Urged on by pains, half-grounded, half afloat:<br>While at her stern an angler takes his stand,<br>And marks the fish he purposes to land;<br>From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray<br>Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.<br>Far other craft our prouder river shows,<br>Hoys, pinks, and sloops: brigs, brigantines, and snows:<br>Nor angler we on our wide stream descry,<br>But one poor dredger where his oysters lie:<br>He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide,<br>Beats his weak arms against his tarry side,<br>Then drains the remnant of diluted gin,<br>To aid the warmth that languishes within;<br>Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat<br>His tingling fingers into gathering heat.<br>He shall again be seen when evening comes,<br>And social parties crowd their favourite rooms:<br>Where on the table pipes and papers lie,<br>The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by;<br>'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around,<br>They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound;<br>And few themselves the savoury boon deny,<br>The food that feeds, the living luxury.<br>Yon is our Quay! those smaller hoys from town,<br>Its various ware, for country use, bring down;<br>Those laden waggons, in return, impart<br>The country-produce to the city mart;<br>Hark! to the clamour in that miry road,<br>Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load;<br>The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,<br>Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case:<br>While the loud seaman and the angry hind,<br>Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.<br>Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,<br>Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:<br>See! the long keel, which soon the waves must hide;<br>See! the strong ribs which form the roomy side;<br>Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,<br>And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.<br>Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far<br>Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.<br>Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd,<br>Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;<br>Or in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,<br>And grow familiar with the watery way:<br>Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are,<br>They know what British seamen do and dare;<br>Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy<br>The rustic wonder of the village-boy.<br>Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,<br>Behold the wealth that lies in public view,<br>Those far extended heaps of coal and coke,<br>Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke.<br>This shall pass off, and you behold, instead,<br>The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed;<br>When from the Lighthouse brighter beams will rise,<br>To show the shipman where the shallow lies.<br>Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene<br>Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene -<br>Rich is that varied view with woods around,<br>Seen from the seat within the shrubb'ry bound;<br>Where shines the distant lake, and where appear<br>From ruins bolting, unmolested deer;<br>Lively the village-green, the inn, the place,<br>Where the good widow schools her infant-race.<br>Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw,<br>And village-pleasures unreproved by law:<br>Then how serene! when in your favourite room,<br>Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom;<br>When from your upland paddock you look down,<br>And just perceive the smoke which hides the town;<br>When weary peasants at the close of day<br>Walk to their cots, and part upon the way;<br>When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook,<br>And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook.<br>We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees,<br>And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease,<br>On the wide heath, or in the flowery vale,<br>We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale;<br>Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile,<br>And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile;<br>Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,<br>Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow;<br>Fences are form'd of wreck, and placed around,<br>(With tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound;<br>Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run,<br>And there in ambush lie the trap and gun;<br>Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize,<br>'Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies.'<br>There stands a cottage with an open door,<br>Its garden undefended blooms before:<br>Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool,<br>While the lone Widow seeks the neighb'ring pool:<br>This gives us hope, all views of town to shun -<br>No! here are tokens of the Sailor-son;<br>That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check,<br>And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck;<br>Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore,<br>And furry robe from frozen Labrador.<br>Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,<br>Fen, marshes, bog, and heath all intervene;<br>Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,<br>To some enrich th' uncultivated space:<br>For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush,<br>The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush,<br>Whose velvet leaf with radiant beauty dress'd,<br>Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.<br>Not distant far, a house commodious made,<br>(Lonely yet public stands) for Sunday-trade;<br>Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,<br>Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous;<br>There humble couples sit in corner-bowers,<br>Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours;<br>Sailors and lasses from the town attend,<br>The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend;<br>With all the idle social tribes who seek<br>And find their humble pleasures once a week.<br>Turn to the watery world!--but who to thee<br>(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint--the Sea?<br>Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,<br>When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms,<br>Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun<br>Shades after shades upon the surface run;<br>Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,<br>In limpid blue, and evanescent green;<br>And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,<br>Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.<br>Be it the summer--noon: a sandy space<br>The ebbing tide has left upon its place;<br>Then just the hot and stony beach above,<br>Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move;<br>(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,<br>And with the cooler in its fall contends)<br>Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps<br>An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,<br>Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,<br>Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand,<br>Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,<br>And back return in silence, smooth and slow.<br>Ships in the calm seem anchor'd; for they glide<br>On the still sea, urged solely by the tide:<br>Art thou not present, this calm scene before,<br>Where all beside is pebbly length of shore,<br>And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more?<br>Yet sometimes comes a ruffing cloud to make<br>The quiet surface of the ocean shake;<br>As an awaken'd giant with a frown<br>Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down.<br>View now the Winter-storm! above, one cloud,<br>Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud:<br>Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before<br>Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore;<br>And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form,<br>Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.<br>All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam,<br>The breaking billows cast the flying foam<br>Upon the billows rising--all the deep<br>Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,<br>Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,<br>Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells:<br>But nearer land you may the billows trace,<br>As if contending in their watery chase;<br>May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,<br>Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;<br>Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force,<br>And then re-flowing, take their grating course,<br>Raking the rounded flints, which ages past<br>Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.<br>Far off the Petrel in the troubled way<br>Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray;<br>She rises often, often drops again,<br>And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.<br>High o'er the restless deep, above the reach<br>Of gunner's hope, vast flights of Wild-ducks stretch;<br>Far as the eye can glance on either side,<br>In a broad space and level line they glide;<br>All in their wedge-like figures from the north,<br>Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.<br>In-shore their passage tribes of Sea-gulls urge,<br>And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;<br>Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly<br>Far back, then turn, and all their force apply,<br>While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry;<br>Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,<br>And in the restless ocean dip for rest.<br>Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind<br>Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind;<br>But frights not him whom evening and the spray<br>In part conceal--yon Prowler on his way:<br>Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,<br>As if he fear'd companion in the chase;<br>He sees his prize, and now he turns again,<br>Slowly and sorrowing--'Was your search in vain?'<br>Gruffly he answers, ''Tis a sorry sight!<br>A seaman's body: there'll be more to-night!'<br>Hark! to those sounds! they're from distress at sea;<br>How quick they come! What terrors may there be!<br>Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern<br>Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern;<br>Others behold them too, and from the town<br>In various parties seamen hurry down;<br>Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread,<br>Lest men so dear be into danger led;<br>Their head the gown has hooded, and their call<br>In this sad night is piercing like the squall;<br>They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet,<br>Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat.<br>See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,<br>Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm;<br>'Thou shalt not venture;' and he answers 'No!<br>I will not:'--still she cries, 'Thou shalt not go.'<br>No need of this; not here the stoutest boat<br>Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float,<br>Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,<br>Which yield them hope whom help can never reach.<br>From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws<br>On the wild waves, and all the danger shows;<br>But shows them beaming in her shining vest,<br>Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dress'd!<br>This for a moment, and then clouds again<br>Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.<br>But hear we not those sounds? Do lights appear?<br>I see them not! the storm alone I hear:<br>And lo! the sailors homeward take their way;<br>Man must endure--let us submit and pray.<br>Such are our Winter-views: but night comes on -<br>Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone;<br>Now parties form, and some their friends assist<br>To waste the idle hours at sober whist;<br>The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charm<br>Unnumber'd moments of their sting disarm:<br>Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite,<br>To pass off one dread portion of the night;<br>And show and song and luxury combined,<br>Lift off from man this burthen of mankind.<br>Others advent'rous walk abroad and meet<br>Returning parties pacing through the street,<br>When various voices, in the dying day,<br>Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way;<br>When tavern-lights flit on from room to room,<br>And guide the tippling sailor staggering home:<br>There as we pass, the jingling bells betray<br>How business rises with the closing day:<br>Now walking silent, by the river's side,<br>The ear perceives the rippling of the tide;<br>Or measured cadence of the lads who tow<br>Some entered hoy, to fix her in her row;<br>Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bell<br>To some departed spirit bids farewell!<br>Thus shall you something of our BOROUGH know,<br>Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show.<br>Of Sea or River, of a Quay or Street,<br>The best description must be incomplete;<br>But when a happier theme succeeds, and when<br>Men are our subjects and the deeds of men,<br>Then may we find the Muse in happier style,<br>And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395909" data-title="The Borough. Letter I de George Crabbe" data-description="'DESCRIBE the Borough'--though our idle tribe May love description, can we so describe, That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace, And all that gives distinction to a place? This cannot be; yet moved by your request A part I paint--let Fan..."></div> </div> </div>

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