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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395913" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter IX: Amusements</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">OF our Amusements ask you?--We amuse<br>Ourselves and friends with seaside walks and views,<br>Or take a morning ride, a novel, or the news;<br>Or, seeking nothing, glide about the street,<br>And so engaged, with various parties meet;<br>Awhile we stop, discourse of wind and tide<br>Bathing and books, the raffle, and the ride;<br>Thus, with the aid which shops and sailing give,<br>Life passes on; 'tis labour, but we live.<br>When evening comes, our invalids awake,<br>Nerves cease to tremble, heads forbear to ache;<br>Then cheerful meals the sunken spirits raise,<br>Cards or the dance, wine, visiting, or plays.<br>Soon as the season comes, and crowds arrive,<br>To their superior rooms the wealthy drive;<br>Others look round for lodging snug and small,<br>Such is their taste--they've hatred to a hall:<br>Hence one his fav'rite habitation gets,<br>The brick-floor'd parlour which the butcher lets;<br>Where, through his single light, he may regard<br>The various business of a common yard,<br>Bounded by backs of buildings form'd of clay,<br>By stable, sties, and coops, et caetera.<br>The needy-vain, themselves awhile to shun,<br>For dissipation to these dog-holes run;<br>Where each (assuming petty pomp) appears,<br>And quite forgets the shopboard and the shears.<br>For them are cheap amusements: they may slip<br>Beyond the town and take a private dip;<br>When they may urge that, to be safe they mean,<br>They've heard there's danger in a light machine;<br>They too can gratis move the quays about,<br>And gather kind replies to every doubt;<br>There they a pacing, lounging tribe may view,<br>The stranger's guides, who've little else to do;<br>The Borough's placemen, where no more they gain<br>Than keeps them idle, civil, poor, and vain.<br>Then may the poorest with the wealthy look<br>On ocean, glorious page of Nature's book!<br>May see its varying views in every hour,<br>All softness now, then rising with all power,<br>As sleeping to invite, or threat'ning to devour:<br>'Tis this which gives us all our choicest views;<br>Its waters heal us, and its shores amuse.<br>See! those fair nymphs upon that rising strand,<br>Yon long salt lake has parted from the land;<br>Well pleased to press that path, so clean, so pure,<br>To seem in danger, yet to feel secure;<br>Trifling with terror, while they strive to shun<br>The curling billows; laughing as they run;<br>They know the neck that joins the shore and sea,<br>Or, ah! how changed that fearless laugh would be.<br>Observe how various Parties take their way,<br>By seaside walks, or make the sand-hills gay;<br>There group'd are laughing maids and sighing </div><div style="margin:10px 0">swains,<br>And some apart who feel unpitied pains;<br>Pains from diseases, pains which those who feel,<br>To the physician, not the fair, reveal:<br>For nymphs (propitious to the lover's sigh)<br>Leave these poor patients to complain and die.<br>Lo! where on that huge anchor sadly leans<br>That sick tall figure, lost in other scenes;<br>He late from India's clime impatient sail'd,<br>There, as his fortune grew, his spirits fail'd;<br>For each delight, in search of wealth he went,<br>For ease alone, the wealth acquired is spent -<br>And spent in vain; enrich'd, aggrieved, he sees<br>The envied poor possess'd of joy and ease:<br>And now he flies from place to place, to gain<br>Strength for enjoyment, and still flies in vain:<br>Mark! with what sadness, of that pleasant crew,<br>Boist'rous in mirth, he takes a transient view;<br>And fixing then his eye upon the sea,<br>Thinks what has been and what must shortly be:<br>Is it not strange that man should health destroy,<br>For joys that come when he is dead to joy?<br>Now is it pleasant in the Summer-eve,<br>When a broad shore retiring waters leave,<br>Awhile to wait upon the firm fair sand,<br>When all is calm at sea, all still at land;<br>And there the ocean's produce to explore,<br>As floating by, or rolling on the shore:<br>Those living jellies which the flesh inflame,<br>Fierce as a nettle, and from that its name;<br>Some in huge masses, some that you may bring<br>In the small compass of a lady's ring;<br>Figured by hand divine--there's not a gem<br>Wrought by man's art to be compared to them;<br>Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they </div><div style="margin:10px 0">glow,<br>And make the moonbeam brighter where they flow.<br>Involved in sea-wrack, here you find a race<br>Which science, doubting, knows not where to place;<br>On shell or stone is dropp'd the embryo-seed,<br>And quickly vegetates a vital breed.<br>While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect<br>Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject,<br>See as they float along th' entangled weeds<br>Slowly approach, upborne on bladdery beads;<br>Wait till they land, and you shall then behold<br>The fiery sparks those tangled fronds infold,<br>Myriads of living points; th' unaided eye<br>Can but the fire and not the form descry.<br>And now your view upon the ocean turn,<br>And there the splendour of the waves discern;<br>Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar,<br>And you shall flames within the deep explore;<br>Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand,<br>And the cold flames shall flash along your hand;<br>When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze<br>On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze.<br>The ocean too has Winter views serene,<br>When all you see through densest fog is seen;<br>When you can hear the fishers near at hand<br>Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand;<br>Or sometimes them and not their boat discern;<br>Or half-conceal'd some figure at the stern;<br>The view's all bounded, and from side to side<br>Your utmost prospect but a few ells wide;<br>Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast,<br>Will hear it strike against the viewless mast;<br>While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain,<br>At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain.<br>Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past,<br>Net after net till you have seen the last:<br>And as you wait till all beyond you slip,<br>A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship,<br>Breaking the silence with the dipping oar,<br>And their own tones, as labouring for the shore;<br>Those measured tones which with the scene agree,<br>And give a sadness to serenity.<br>All scenes like these the tender Maid should </div><div style="margin:10px 0">shun,<br>Nor to a misty beach in autumn run;<br>Much should she guard against the evening cold,<br>And her slight shape with fleecy warmth infold;<br>This she admits, but not with so much ease<br>Gives up the night-walk when th' attendants please:<br>Her have I seen, pale, vapour'd through the day,<br>With crowded parties at the midnight play;<br>Faint in the morn, no powers could she exert;<br>At night with Pam delighted and alert;<br>In a small shop she's raffled with a crowd,<br>Breath'd the thick air, and cough'd and laugh'd </div><div style="margin:10px 0">aloud;<br>She who will tremble if her eye explore<br>'The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on </div><div style="margin:10px 0">floor;'<br>Whom the kind doctor charged, with shaking head,<br>At early hour to quit the beaux for bed;<br>She has, contemning fear, gone down the dance,<br>Till she perceived the rosy morn advance;<br>Then has she wonder'd, fainting o'er her tea,<br>Her drops and julep should so useless be:<br>Ah! sure her joys must ravish every sense,<br>Who buys a portion at such vast expense.<br>Among those joys, 'tis one at eve to sail<br>On the broad River with a favourite gale;<br>When no rough waves upon the bosom ride,<br>But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide;<br>Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands,<br>Where playful children trail their idle hands:<br>Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float<br>On either side of the impeded boat;<br>What time the moon arising shows the mud,<br>A shining border to the silver flood:<br>When, by her dubious light, the meanest views,<br>Chalk, stones, and stakes, obtain the richest hues;<br>And when the cattle, as they gazing stand,<br>Seem nobler objects than when view'd from land:<br>Then anchor'd vessels in the way appear,<br>And sea-boys greet them as they pass--'What cheer?'<br>The sleeping shell-ducks at the sound arise,<br>And utter loud their unharmonious cries;<br>Fluttering they move their weedy beds among,<br>Or instant diving, hide their plumeless young.<br>Along the wall, returning from the town,<br>The weary rustic homeward wanders down:<br>Who stops and gazes at such joyous crew,<br>And feels his envy rising at the view;<br>He the light speech and laugh indignant hears,<br>And feels more press'd by want, more vex'd by </div><div style="margin:10px 0">fears.<br>Ah! go in peace, good fellow, to thine home,<br>Nor fancy these escape the general doom:<br>Gay as they seem, be sure with them are hearts<br>With sorrow tried; there's sadness in their parts:<br>If thou couldst see them when they think alone,<br>Mirth, music, friends, and these amusements gone;<br>Couldst thou discover every secret ill<br>That pains their spirit, or resists their will;<br>Couldst thou behold forsaken Love's distress,<br>Or Envy's pang at glory and success,<br>Or Beauty, conscious of the spoils of Time,<br>Or Guilt alarm'd when Memory shows the crime;<br>All that gives sorrow, terror, grief, and gloom;<br>Content would cheer thee trudging to thine home.<br>There are, 'tis true, who lay their cares aside,<br>And bid some hours in calm enjoyment glide;<br>Perchance some fair one to the sober night<br>Adds (by the sweetness of her song) delight;<br>And as the music on the water floats,<br>Some bolder shore returns the soften'd notes;<br>Then, youth, beware, for all around conspire<br>To banish caution and to wake desire;<br>The day's amusement, feasting, beauty, wine,<br>These accents sweet and this soft hour combine,<br>When most unguarded, then to win that heart of </div><div style="margin:10px 0">thine:<br>But see, they land! the fond enchantment flies,<br>And in its place life's common views arise.<br>Sometimes a Party, row'd from town will land<br>On a small islet form'd of shelly sand,<br>Left by the water when the tides are low,<br>But which the floods in their return o'erflow:<br>There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view<br>The watery waste, a prospect wild and new;<br>The now receding billows give them space,<br>On either side the growing shores to pace;<br>And then returning, they contract the scene,<br>Till small and smaller grows the walk between;<br>As sea to sea approaches, shore to shores,<br>Till the next ebb the sandy isle restores.<br>Then what alarm! what danger and dismay,<br>If all their trust, their boat, should drift away;<br>And once it happen'd--Gay the friends advanced,<br>They walk'd, they ran, they play'd, they sang, they </div><div style="margin:10px 0">danced;<br>The urns were boiling, and the cups went round,<br>And not a grave or thoughtful face was found;<br>On the bright sand they trod with nimble feet,<br>Dry shelly sand that made the summer-seat;<br>The wondering mews flew fluttering o'er the head,<br>And waves ran softly up their shining bed.<br>Some form'd a party from the rest to stray,<br>Pleased to collect the trifles in their way;<br>These to behold they call their friends around,<br>No friends can hear, or hear another sound;<br>Alarm'd, they hasten, yet perceive not why,<br>But catch the fear that quickens as they fly.<br>For lo! a lady sage, who paced the sand<br>With her fair children, one in either hand,<br>Intent on home, had turn'd, and saw the boat<br>Slipp'd from her moorings, and now far afloat;<br>She gazed, she trembled, and though faint her call,<br>It seem'd, like thunder, to confound them all.<br>Their sailor-guides, the boatman and his mate,<br>Had drank, and slept regardless of their state:<br>'Awake!' they cried aloud; 'Alarm the shore!<br>Shout all, or never shall we reach it more!'<br>Alas! no shout the distant land can reach,<br>Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach:<br>Again they join in one loud powerful cry,<br>Then cease, and eager listen for reply;<br>None came--the rising wind blew sadly by:<br>They shout once more, and then they turn aside,<br>To see how quickly flow'd the coming tide;<br>Between each cry they find the waters steal<br>On their strange prison, and new horrors feel;<br>Foot after foot on the contracted ground<br>The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound;<br>Less and yet less the sinking isle became,<br>And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame.<br>Had one been there, with spirit strong and high,<br>Who could observe, as he prepared to die,<br>He might have seen of hearts the varying kind,<br>And traced the movement of each different mind:<br>He might have seen, that not the gentle maid<br>Was more than stern and haughty man afraid;<br>Such, calmly grieving, will their fears suppress,<br>And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address;<br>While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud,<br>Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd:<br>The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried,<br>'Why would you urge me? I at first denied.'<br>Fiercely they answer'd, 'Why will you complain,<br>Who saw no danger, or was warn'd in vain?'<br>A few essay'd the troubled soul to calm,<br>But dread prevail'd, and anguish and alarm.<br>Now rose the water through the lessening sand,<br>And they seem'd sinking while they yet could stand.<br>The sun went down, they look'd from side to side,<br>Nor aught except the gathering sea descried;<br>Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew,<br>And the most lively bade to hope adieu:<br>Children by love then lifted from the seas,<br>Felt not the waters at the parent's knees,<br>But wept aloud; the wind increased the sound,<br>And the cold billows as they broke around.<br>'Once more, yet once again, with all our </div><div style="margin:10px 0">strength,<br>Cry to the land--we may be heard at length.'<br>Vain hope if yet unseen! but hark! an oar,<br>That sound of bliss! comes dashing to their shore;<br>Still, still the water rises; 'Haste!' they cry,<br>'Oh! hurry, seamen; in delay we die;'<br>(Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived<br>The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.)<br>And now the keel just cuts the cover'd sand,<br>Now to the gunwale stretches every hand:<br>With trembling pleasure all confused embark,<br>And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark;<br>While the most giddy, as they reach the shore,<br>Think of their danger, and their GOD adore.</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>
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Ourselves and friends with seaside walks and views,
Or take a morning ride, a novel, or the news;
Or, seeking nothing, glide about the street,
And so engaged, with various parties meet;
Awhile we stop, discours..."></div>
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