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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395938" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Parish Register - Part III: Burials</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time<br>When humble Christians died with views sublime;<br>When all were ready for their faith to bleed,<br>But few to write or wrangle for their creed;<br>When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,<br>And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;<br>When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,<br>And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.<br>Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,<br>'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate;<br>Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,<br>They labour hard and struggle to the last;<br>'Hope against hope,' and wildly gaze around<br>In search of help that never shall be found:<br>Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,<br>Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!<br>When these my Records I reflecting read,<br>And find what ills these numerous births succeed;<br>What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend;<br>With what regret these painful journeys end;<br>When from the cradle to the grave I look,<br>Mine I conceive a melancholy book.<br>Where now is perfect resignation seen?<br>Alas! it is not on the village-green: -<br>I've seldom known, though I have often read,<br>Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;<br>Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast,<br>That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.<br>What I behold are feverish fits of strife,<br>'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:<br>Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;<br>Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;<br>At best a sad submission to the doom,<br>Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.<br>Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,<br>His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd;<br>No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend -<br>'Call then a priest, and fit him for his end.'<br>A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,<br>Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;<br>Or time allow'd--he goes, assured to find<br>The self-commending, all-confiding mind;<br>And sighs to hear, what we may justly call<br>Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.<br>'True I'm a sinner,' feebly he begins,<br>'But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:'<br>(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!<br>Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)<br>'I know mankind are frail, that God is just,<br>And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;<br>We're sorely tempted in a world like this -<br>All men have done, and I like all, amiss;<br>But now, if spared, it is my full intent<br>On all the past to ponder and repent:<br>Wrongs against me I pardon great and small,<br>And if I die, I die in peace with all.'<br>His merits thus and not his sins confess'd,<br>He speaks his hopes, and leaves to Heaven the rest.<br>Alas! are these the prospects, dull and cold,<br>That dying Christians to their priests unfold?<br>Or mends the prospect when th' enthusiast cries,<br>'I die assured!' and in a rapture dies?<br>Ah, where that humble, self-abasing mind,<br>With that confiding spirit, shall we find;<br>The mind that, feeling what repentance brings,<br>Dejection's terrors and Contrition's stings,<br>Feels then the hope that mounts all care above,<br>And the pure joy that flows from pardoning love?<br>Such have I seen in Death, and much deplore,<br>So many dying--that I see no more:<br>Lo! now my Records, where I grieve to trace<br>How Death has triumph'd in so short a space;<br>Who are the dead, how died they, I relate,<br>And snatch some portion of their acts from fate.<br>With Andrew Collett we the year begin,<br>The blind, fat landlord of the Old Crown Inn, -<br>Big as his butt, and, for the selfsame use,<br>To take in stores of strong fermenting juice.<br>On his huge chair beside the fire he sate,<br>In revel chief, and umpire in debate;<br>Each night his string of vulgar tales he told,<br>When ale was cheap and bachelors were bold:<br>His heroes all were famous in their days,<br>Cheats were his boast, and drunkards had his </div><div style="margin:10px 0">praise;<br>'One, in three draughts, three mugs of ale took </div><div style="margin:10px 0">down,<br>As mugs were then--the champion of the Crown;<br>For thrice three days another lived on ale,<br>And knew no change but that of mild and stale;<br>Two thirsty soakers watch'd a vessel's side,<br>When he the tap, with dext'rous hand, applied;<br>Nor from their seats departed, till they found<br>That butt was out and heard the mournful sound.'<br>He praised a poacher, precious child of fun!<br>Who shot the keeper with his own spring gun;<br>Nor less the smuggler who th' exciseman tied,<br>And left him hanging at the birch-wood side,<br>There to expire;--but one who saw him hang<br>Cut the good cord--a traitor of the gang.<br>His own exploits with boastful glee he told,<br>What ponds he emptied and what pikes he sold;<br>And how, when blest with sight alert and gay,<br>The night's amusements kept him through the day.<br>He sang the praises of those times, when all<br>'For cards and dice, as for their drink, might </div><div style="margin:10px 0">call;<br>When justice wink'd on every jovial crew,<br>And ten-pins tumbled in the parson's view.'<br>He told, when angry wives, provoked to rail,<br>Or drive a third-day drunkard from his ale,<br>What were his triumphs, and how great the skill<br>That won the vex'd virago to his will;<br>Who raving came;--then talked in milder strain, -<br>Then wept, then drank, and pledged her spouse </div><div style="margin:10px 0">again.<br>Such were his themes : how knaves o'er laws </div><div style="margin:10px 0">prevail,<br>Or, when made captives, how they fly from jail;<br>The young how brave, how subtle were the old:<br>And oaths attested all that Folly told.<br>On death like his what name shall we bestow,<br>So very sudden! yet so very slow?<br>'Twas slow: --Disease, augmenting year by year,<br>Show'd the grim king by gradual steps brought near:<br>'Twas not less sudden; in the night he died,<br>He drank, he swore, he jested, and he lied;<br>Thus aiding folly with departing breath: -<br>'Beware, Lorenzo, the slow-sudden death.'<br>Next died the Widow Goe, an active dame,<br>Famed ten miles round, and worthy all her fame;<br>She lost her husband when their loves were young,<br>But kept her farm, her credit, and her tongue:<br>Full thirty years she ruled, with matchless skill,<br>With guiding judgment and resistless will;<br>Advice she scorn'd, rebellions she suppress'd,<br>And sons and servants bow'd at her behest.<br>Like that great man's, who to his Saviour came,<br>Were the strong words of this commanding dame; -<br>'Come,' if she said, they came; if 'Go,' were gone;<br>And if 'Do this,'--that instant it was done:<br>Her maidens told she was all eye and ear,<br>In darkness saw and could at distance hear;<br>No parish-business in the place could stir,<br>Without direction or assent from her;<br>In turn she took each office as it fell,<br>Knew all their duties and discharged them well;<br>The lazy vagrants in her presence shook,<br>And pregnant damsels fear'd her stern rebuke;<br>She look'd on want with judgment clear and cool,<br>And felt with reason and bestow'd by rule;<br>She match'd both sons and daughters to her mind,<br>And lent them eyes, for Love, she heard, was blind;<br>Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive,<br>The working bee, in full or empty hive;<br>Busy and careful, like that working bee,<br>No time for love nor tender cares had she;<br>But when our farmers made their amorous vows,<br>She talk'd of market-steeds and patent-ploughs.<br>Not unemploy'd her evenings pass'd away,<br>Amusement closed, as business waked the day;<br>When to her toilet's brief concern she ran,<br>And conversation with her friends began,<br>Who all were welcome, what they saw, to share;<br>And joyous neighbours praised her Christmas fare,<br>That none around might, in their scorn, complain<br>Of Gossip Goe as greedy in her gain.<br>Thus long she reign'd, admired, if not approved;<br>Praised, if not honour'd; fear'd, if not beloved; -<br>When, as the busy days of Spring drew near,<br>That call'd for all the forecast of the year;<br>When lively hope the rising crops surveyed,<br>And April promised what September paid;<br>When stray'd her lambs where gorse and greenwood </div><div style="margin:10px 0">grow;<br>When rose her grass in richer vales below;<br>When pleased she look'd on all the smiling land,<br>And view'd the hinds, who wrought at her command;<br>(Poultry in groups still follow'd where she went<br>Then dread o'ercame her,--that her days were spent.<br>'Bless me! I die, and not a warning giv'n, -<br>With MUCH to do on Earth, and ALL for Heav'n? -<br>No reparation for my soul's affairs,<br>No leave petition'd for the barn's repairs;<br>Accounts perplex'd, my interest yet unpaid,<br>My mind unsettled, and my will unmade; -<br>A lawyer haste, and in your way, a priest;<br>And let me die in one good work at least.'<br>She spake, and, trembling, dropp'd upon her knees,<br>Heaven in her eye and in her hand her keys;<br>And still the more she found her life decay,<br>With greater force she grasp'd those signs of sway:<br>Then fell and died!--In haste her sons drew near,<br>And dropp'd, in haste, the tributary tear;<br>Then from th' adhering clasp the keys unbound,<br>And consolation for their sorrows found.<br>Death has his infant-train; his bony arm<br>Strikes from the baby-cheek the rosy charm;<br>The brightest eye his glazing film makes dim,<br>And his cold touch sets fast the lithest limb:<br>He seized the sick'ning boy to Gerard lent,<br>When three days' life, in feeble cries, were spent;<br>In pain brought forth, those painful hours to stay,<br>To breathe in pain and sigh its soul away!<br>'But why thus lent, if thus recall'd again,<br>To cause and feel, to live and die in pain?'<br>Or rather say, Why grevious these appear,<br>If all it pays for Heaven's eternal year;<br>If these sad sobs and piteous sighs secure<br>Delights that live, when worlds no more endure?<br>The sister-spirit long may lodge below,<br>And pains from nature, pains from reason, know:<br>Through all the common ills of life may run,<br>By hope perverted and by love undone;<br>A wife's distress, a mother's pangs, may dread,<br>And widow-tears, in bitter anguish, shed;<br>May at old age arrive through numerous harms,<br>With children's children in those feeble arms:<br>Nor till by years of want and grief oppress'd<br>Shall the sad spirit flee and be at rest!<br>Yet happier therefore shall we deem the boy,<br>Secured from anxious care and dangerous joy?<br>Not so! for then would Love Divine in vain<br>Send all the burthens weary men sustain;<br>All that now curb the passions when they rage,<br>The checks of youth and the regrets of age;<br>All that now bid us hope, believe, endure,<br>Our sorrow's comfort and our vice's cure;<br>All that for Heaven's high joys the spirits train,<br>And charity, the crown of all, were vain.<br>Say, will you call the breathless infant blest,<br>Because no cares the silent grave molest?<br>So would you deem the nursling from the wing<br>Untimely thrust and never train'd to sing;<br>But far more blest the bird whose grateful voice<br>Sings its own joy and makes the woods rejoice,<br>Though, while untaught, ere yet he charm'd the ear,<br>Hard were his trials and his pains severe!<br>Next died the LADY who yon Hall possess'd,<br>And here they brought her noble bones to rest.<br>In Town she dwelt;--forsaken stood the Hall:<br>Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall:<br>No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd;<br>No cheerful light the long-closed sash convey'd:<br>The crawling worm, that turns a summer fly,<br>Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die<br>The winter-death:- upon the bed of state,<br>The bat shrill shrieking woo'd his flickering mate;<br>To empty rooms the curious came no more;<br>From empty cellars turn'd the angry poor,<br>And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door.<br>To one small room the steward found his way<br>Where tenants follow'd to complain and pay;<br>Yet no complaint before the Lady came,<br>The feeling servant spared the feeble dame;<br>Who saw her farms with his observing eyes,<br>And answer'd all requests with his replies; -<br>She came not down, her falling groves to view;<br>Why should she know, what one so faithful knew?<br>Why come, from many clamorous tongues to hear,<br>What one so just might whisper in her ear?<br>Her oaks or acres, why with care explore;<br>Why learn the wants, the sufferings of the poor;<br>When one so knowing all their worth could trace,<br>And one so piteous govern'd in her place?<br>Lo! now, what dismal Sons of Darkness come,<br>To bear this Daughter of Indulgence home;<br>Tragedians all, and well-arranged in black!<br>Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack;<br>Who cause no tear, but gloomily pass by,<br>And shake their sables in the wearied eye,<br>That turns disgusted from the pompous scene,<br>Proud without grandeur, with profusion, mean<br>The tear for kindness past affection owes;<br>For worth deceased the sigh from reason flows<br>E'en well feign'd passion for our sorrows call,<br>And real tears for mimic miseries fall:<br>But this poor farce has neither truth nor art,<br>To please the fancy or to touch the heart;<br>Unlike the darkness of the sky, that pours<br>On the dry ground its fertilizing showers;<br>Unlike to that which strikes the soul with dread,<br>When thunders roar and forky fires are shed;<br>Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean,<br>With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene;<br>Presents no objects tender or profound,<br>But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around.<br>When woes are feign'd, how ill such forms </div><div style="margin:10px 0">appear,<br>And oh! how needless, when the woe's sincere.<br>Slow to the vault they come, with heavy tread,<br>Bending beneath the Lady and her lead;<br>A case of elm surrounds that ponderous chest,<br>Close on that case the crimson velvet's press'd;<br>Ungenerous this, that to the worm denies,<br>With niggard-caution, his appointed prize;<br>For now, ere yet he works his tedious way,<br>Through cloth and wood and metal to his prey,<br>That prey dissolving shall a mass remain,<br>That fancy loathes and worms themselves disdain.<br>But see! the master-mourner makes his way,<br>To end his office for the coffin'd clay;<br>Pleased that our rustic men and maids behold<br>His plate like silver, and his studs like gold,<br>As they approach to spell the age, the name,<br>And all the titles of the illustrious dame.-<br>This as (my duty done) some scholar read,<br>A Village-father look'd disdain and said:<br>'Away, my friends! why take such pains to know<br>What some brave marble soon in church shall show?<br>Where not alone her gracious name shall stand,<br>But how she lived--the blessing of the land;<br>How much we all deplored the noble dead,<br>What groans we utter'd and what tears we shed;<br>Tears, true as those which in the sleepy eyes<br>Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise;<br>Tears, true as those which, ere she found her </div><div style="margin:10px 0">grave,<br>The noble Lady to our sorrows gave.'<br>Down by the church-way walk, and where the brook<br>Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook;<br>In that small house, with those green pales before,<br>Where jasmine trails on either side the door;<br>Where those dark shrubs, that now grow wild at </div><div style="margin:10px 0">will,<br>Were clipped in form and tantalised with skill;<br>Where cockles blanch'd and pebbles neatly spread,<br>Form'd shining borders for the larkspurs' bed;<br>There lived a Lady, wise, austere, and nice,<br>Who show'd her virtue by her scorn of vice;<br>In the dear fashions of her youth she dress'd,<br>A pea-green Joseph was her favourite vest;<br>Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien,<br>Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">lean.<br>There long she lived in maiden-state immured,<br>From looks of love and treacherous man secured;<br>Though evil fame--(but that was long before)<br>Had blown her dubious blast at Catherine's door:<br>A Captain thither, rich from India came,<br>And though a cousin call'd, it touch'd her fame:<br>Her annual stipend rose from his behest,<br>And all the long-prized treasures she possess'd:-<br>If aught like joy awhile appear'd to stay<br>In that stern face, and chase those frowns away,<br>'Twas when her treasures she disposed for view<br>And heard the praises to their splendour due;<br>Silks beyond price, so rich, they'd stand alone,<br>And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone;<br>Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set,<br>And bracelets fair in box of glossy jet;<br>Bright polish'd amber precious from its size,<br>Or forms the fairest fancy could devise:<br>Her drawers of cedar, shut with secret springs,<br>Conceal'd the watch of gold and rubied rings;<br>Letters, long proofs of love, and verses fine<br>Round the pink'd rims of crisped Valentine.<br>Her china-closet, cause of daily care,<br>For woman's wonder held her pencill'd ware;<br>That pictured wealth of China and Japan,<br>Like its cold mistress, shunn'd the eye of man.<br>Her neat small room, adorn'd with maiden-taste,<br>A clipp'd French puppy, first of favourites, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">graced:<br>A parrot next, but dead and stuff'd with art;<br>(For Poll, when living, lost the Lady's heart,<br>And then his life; for he was heard to speak<br>Such frightful words as tinged his Lady's cheek<br>Unhappy bird! who had no power to prove,<br>Save by such speech, his gratitude and love.<br>A gray old cat his whiskers lick'd beside;<br>A type of sadness in the house of pride.<br>The polish'd surface of an India chest,<br>A glassy globe, in frame of ivory, press'd;<br>Where swam two finny creatures; one of gold,<br>Of silver one; both beauteous to behold:-<br>All these were form'd the guiding taste to suit;<br>The beast well-manner'd and the fishes mute.<br>A widow'd Aunt was there, compell'd by need<br>The nymph to flatter and her tribe to feed;<br>Who veiling well her scorn, endured the clog,<br>Mute as the fish and fawning as the dog.<br>As years increased, these treasures, her </div><div style="margin:10px 0">delight,<br>Arose in value in their owner's sight:<br>A miser knows that, view it as he will,<br>A guinea kept is but a guinea still;<br>And so he puts it to its proper use,<br>That something more this guinea may produce;<br>But silks and rings, in the possessor's eyes,<br>The oft'ner seen, the more in value rise,<br>And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow<br>The kind of pleasure that with years will grow.<br>But what avail'd their worth--if worth had they </div><div style="margin:10px 0">-<br>In the sad summer of her slow decay?<br>Then we beheld her turn an anxious look<br>From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book, -<br>A rich-bound Book of Prayer the Captain gave,<br>(Some Princess had it, or was said to have<br>And then once more on all her stores look round,<br>And draw a sigh so piteous and profound,<br>That told, 'Alas! how hard from these to part,<br>And for new hopes and habits form the heart!<br>What shall I do (she cried,) my peace of mind<br>To gain in dying, and to die resign'd?'<br>'Hear,' we return'd;--'these baubles cast aside,<br>Nor give thy God a rival in thy pride;<br>Thy closets shut, and ope thy kitchen's door;<br>There own thy failings, here invite the poor;<br>A friend of Mammon let thy bounty make;<br>For widows' prayers, thy vanities forsake;<br>And let the hungry of thy pride partake:<br>Then shall thy inward eye with joy survey<br>The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay!'<br>Alas! 'twas hard; the treasures still had </div><div style="margin:10px 0">charms,<br>Hope still its flattery, sickness its alarms;<br>Still was the same unsettled, clouded view,<br>And the same plaintive cry, 'What shall I do?'<br>Nor change appear'd; for when her race was run,<br>Doubtful we all exclaim'd, 'What has been done?'<br>Apart she lived, and still she lies alone;<br>Yon earthy heap awaits the flattering stone<br>On which invention shall be long employ'd,<br>To show the various worth of Catherine Lloyd.<br>Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,<br>A noble Peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.<br>Noble he was, contemning all things mean,<br>His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene:<br>Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;<br>At no man's question Isaac looked dismay'd:<br>Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;<br>Truth, simple truth, was written in his face:<br>Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,<br>Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved;<br>To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,<br>And with the firmest had the fondest mind;<br>Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,<br>And gave allowance where he needed none;<br>Good he refused with future ill to buy,<br>Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;<br>A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast<br>No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd;<br>(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,<br>To miss one favour, which their neighbours find<br>Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;<br>He felt humanely, and he warmly loved:<br>I mark'd his action, when his infant died,<br>And his old neighbour for offence was tried;<br>The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek,<br>Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.<br>If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,<br>Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;<br>Nor pride in learning,--though my Clerk agreed,<br>If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;<br>Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew<br>None his superior, and his equals few:-<br>But if that spirit in his soul had place,<br>It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;<br>A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,<br>In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd;<br>Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,<br>And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;<br>Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, -<br>In fact a noble passion, misnamed Pride.<br>He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim;<br>Christian and countrymen was all with him:<br>True to his church he came; no Sunday-shower<br>Kept him at home in that important hour;<br>Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect,<br>By the strong glare of their new light direct:-<br>'On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,<br>But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze.'<br>In times severe, when many a sturdy swain<br>Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain;<br>Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,<br>And feel in that his comfort and his pride.<br>At length he found when seventy years were run,<br>His strength departed, and his labour done;<br>When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more,<br>But lost his wife, and saw his children poor:<br>'Twas then a spark of--say not discontent -<br>Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:-<br>'Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied,)<br>That in yon House for ruin'd age provide,<br>And they are just;--when young we give you all,<br>And for assistance in our weakness call.-<br>Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,<br>To join your poor, and eat the parish bread?<br>But yet I linger, loth with him to feed,<br>Who gains his plenty by the sons of need;<br>He who, by contract, all your paupers took,<br>And gauges stomachs with an anxious look:<br>On some old master I could well depend;<br>See him with joy and thank him as a friend;<br>But ill on him who doles the day's supply,<br>And counts our chances who at night may die:<br>Yet help me, Heav'n! and let me not complain<br>Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain.'<br>Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew;<br>Daily he placed the Workhouse in his view!<br>But came not there, for sudden was his fate,<br>He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage gate.<br>I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,<br>And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there:<br>I see no more these white locks thinly spread<br>Round the bald polish of that honour'd head;<br>No more that awful glance on playful wight,<br>Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight,<br>To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,<br>Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;<br>No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,<br>Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">-<br>But he is blest, and I lament no more<br>A wise good man contented to be poor.<br>Then died a Rambler: not the one who sails,<br>And trucks, for female favours, beads and nails;<br>Not one who posts from place to place--of men<br>And manners treating with a flying pen;<br>Not he who climbs, for prospects, Snowdon's height,<br>And chides the clouds that intercept the sight;<br>No curious shell, rare plant, or brilliant spar,<br>Enticed our traveller from his house so far;<br>But all the reason by himself assign'd<br>For so much rambling, was a restless mind;<br>As on, from place to place, without intent,<br>Without reflection, Robin Dingley went.<br>Not thus by nature:- never man was found<br>Less prone to wander from his parish bound:<br>Claudian's Old Man, to whom all scenes were new,<br>Save those where he and where his apples grew,<br>Resembled Robin, who around would look,<br>And his horizon for the earth's mistook.<br>To this poor swain a keen Attorney came; -<br>'I give thee joy, good fellow! on thy name;<br>The rich old Dingley's dead;--no child has he,<br>Nor wife, nor will; his ALL is left for thee:<br>To be his fortune's heir thy claim is good;<br>Thou hast the name, and we will prove the blood.'<br>The claim was made; 'twas tried,--it would not </div><div style="margin:10px 0">stand;<br>They proved the blood but were refused the land.<br>Assured of wealth, this man of simple heart<br>To every friend had predisposed a part;<br>His wife had hopes indulged of various kind;<br>The three Miss Dingleys had their school assign'd,<br>Masters were sought for what they each required,<br>And books were bought and harpsichords were hired;<br>So high was hope:- the failure touched his brain,<br>And Robin never was himself again;<br>Yet he no wrath, no angry wish express'd,<br>But tried, in vain, to labour or to rest;<br>Then cast his bundle on his back, and went<br>He knew not whither, nor for what intent.<br>Years fled;--of Robin all remembrance past,<br>When home he wandered in his rags at last:<br>A sailor's jacket on his limbs was thrown,<br>A sailor's story he had made his own;<br>Had suffer'd battles, prisons, tempests, storms,<br>Encountering death in all its ugliest forms:<br>His cheeks were haggard, hollow was his eye,<br>Where madness lurk'd, conceal'd in misery;<br>Want, and th' ungentle world, had taught a part,<br>And prompted cunning to that simple heart:<br>'He now bethought him, he would roam no more<br>But live at home and labour as before.'<br>Here clothed and fed, no sooner he began<br>To round and redden, than away he ran;<br>His wife was dead, their children past his aid,<br>So, unmolested, from his home he stray'd:<br>Six years elapsed, when, worn with want and pain.<br>Came Robin, wrapt in all his rags again:<br>We chide, we pity;--placed among our poor,<br>He fed again, and was a man once more.<br>As when a gaunt and hungry fox is found,<br>Entrapp'd alive in some rich hunter's ground;<br>Fed for the field, although each day's a feast,<br>FATTEN you may, but never TAME the beast;<br>A house protects him, savoury viands sustain:-<br>But loose his neck and off he goes again:<br>So stole our Vagrant from his warm retreat,<br>To rove a prowler and be deemed a cheat.<br>Hard was his fare; for him at length we saw<br>In cart convey'd and laid supine on straw.<br>His feeble voice now spoke a sinking heart;<br>His groans now told the motions of the cart:<br>And when it stopp'd, he tried in vain to stand;<br>Closed was his eye, and clench'd his clammy hand:<br>Life ebb'd apace, and our best aid no more<br>Could his weak sense or dying heart restore:<br>But now he fell, a victim to the snare<br>That vile attorneys for the weak prepare;<br>They who when profit or resentment call,<br>Heed not the groaning victim they enthrall.<br>Then died lamented in the strength of life,<br>A valued MOTHER and a faithful WIFE;<br>Call'd not away when time had loosed each hold<br>On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold;<br>But when, to all that knit us to our kind,<br>She felt fast-bound, as charity can bind; -<br>Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care,<br>The drooping spirit for its fate prepare;<br>And, each affection failing, leaves the heart<br>Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart;<br>But all her ties the strong invader broke,<br>In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke!<br>Sudden and swift the eager pest came on,<br>And terror grew, till every hope was gone;<br>Still those around appear'd for hope to seek!<br>But view'd the sick and were afraid to speak.<br>Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead;<br>When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed,<br>My part began; a crowd drew near the place,<br>Awe in each eye, alarm in every face:<br>So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind,<br>That fear with pity mingled in each mind;<br>Friends with the husband came their griefs to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">blend,<br>For good-man Frankford was to all a friend.<br>The last-born boy they held above the bier,<br>He knew not grief, but cries express'd his fear;<br>Each different age and sex reveal'd its pain,<br>In now a louder, now a lower strain;<br>While the meek father listening to their tones,<br>Swell'd the full cadence of the grief by groans.<br>The elder sister strove her pangs to hide,<br>And soothing words to younger minds applied'.<br>'Be still, be patient;' oft she strove to stay;<br>But fail'd as oft, and weeping turn'd away.<br>Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill<br>The village lads stood melancholy still;<br>And idle children, wandering to and fro.<br>As Nature guided, took the tone of woe.<br>Arrived at home, how then they gazed around<br>On every place--where she no more was found; -<br>The seat at table she was wont to fill;<br>The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still;<br>The garden-walks, a labour all her own;<br>The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown,<br>The Sunday-pew she fill'd with all her race, -<br>Each place of hers, was now a sacred place<br>That, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes,<br>Pierced the full heart and forced them still to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">rise.<br>Oh sacred sorrow! by whom souls are tried,<br>Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide;<br>If thou art mine (and who shall proudly dare<br>To tell his Maker, he has had a share!)<br>Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent,<br>And be my guide, and not my punishment!<br>Of Leah Cousins next the name appears,<br>With honours crown'd and blest with length of </div><div style="margin:10px 0">years,<br>Save that she lived to feel, in life's decay,<br>The pleasure die, the honours drop away;<br>A matron she, whom every village-wife<br>View'd as the help and guardian of her life,<br>Fathers and sons, indebted to her aid,<br>Respect to her and her profession paid;<br>Who in the house of plenty largely fed,<br>Yet took her station at the pauper's bed;<br>Nor from that duty could be bribed again,<br>While fear or danger urged her to remain:<br>In her experience all her friends relied.<br>Heaven was her help and nature was her guide.<br>Thus Leah lived; long trusted, much caress'd,<br>Till a Town-Dame a youthful farmer bless'd;<br>A gay vain bride, who would example give<br>To that poor village where she deign'd to live;<br>Some few months past, she sent, in hour of need,<br>For Doctor Glibb, who came with wond'rous speed,<br>Two days he waited, all his art applied,<br>To save the mother when her infant died: -<br>''Twas well I came,' at last he deign'd to say;<br>''Twas wondrous well;'--and proudly rode away.<br>The news ran round;--'How vast the Doctor's </div><div style="margin:10px 0">pow'r!'<br>He saved the Lady in the trying hour;<br>Saved her from death, when she was dead to hope,<br>And her fond husband had resign'd her up:<br>So all, like her, may evil fate defy,<br>If Doctor Glibb, with saving hand, be nigh.<br>Fame (now his friend), fear, novelty, and whim,<br>And fashion, sent the varying sex to him:<br>From this, contention in the village rose;<br>And these the Dame espoused; the Doctor those,<br>The wealthier part to him and science went;<br>With luck and her the poor remain'd content.<br>The Matron sigh'd; for she was vex'd at heart,<br>With so much profit, so much fame, to part:<br>'So long successful in my art,' she cried,<br>'And this proud man, so young and so untried!'<br>'Nay,' said the Doctor, 'dare you trust your wives,<br>The joy, the pride, the solace of your lives,<br>To one who acts and knows no reason why,<br>But trusts, poor hag! to luck for an ally? -<br>Who, on experience, can her claims advance,<br>And own the powers of accident and chance?<br>A whining dame, who prays in danger's view,<br>(A proof she knows not what beside to do<br>What's her experience? In the time that's gone,<br>Blundering she wrought, and still she blunders on:-<br>And what is Nature? One who acts in aid<br>Of gossips half asleep and half afraid:<br>With such allies I scorn my fame to blend,<br>Skill is my luck and courage is my friend:<br>No slave to Nature, 'tis my chief delight<br>To win my way and act in her despite:-<br>Trust then my art, that, in itself complete,<br>Needs no assistance and fears no defeat.'<br>Warm'd by her well-spiced ale and aiding pipe,<br>The angry Matron grew for contest ripe.<br>'Can you,' she said, 'ungrateful and unjust,<br>Before experience, ostentation trust!<br>What is your hazard, foolish daughters, tell?<br>If safe, you're certain; if secure, you're well:<br>That I have luck must friend and foe confess,<br>And what's good judgment but a lucky guess?<br>He boasts, but what he can do: --will you run<br>From me, your friend! who, all lie boasts, have </div><div style="margin:10px 0">done?<br>By proud and learned words his powers are known;<br>By healthy boys and handsome girls my own:<br>Wives! fathers! children! by my help you live;<br>Has this pale Doctor more than life to give?<br>No stunted cripple hops the village round;<br>Your hands are active and your heads are sound;<br>My lads are all your fields and flocks require;<br>My lasses all those sturdy lads admire.<br>Can this proud leech, with all his boasted skill,<br>Amend the soul or body, wit or will?<br>Does he for courts the sons of farmers frame,<br>Or make the daughter differ from the dame?<br>Or, whom he brings into this world of woe,<br>Prepares he them their part to undergo?<br>If not, this stranger from your doors repel,<br>And be content to BE and to be WELL.'<br>She spake; but, ah! with words too strong and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">plain;<br>Her warmth offended, and her truth was vain:<br>The many left her, and the friendly few,<br>If never colder, yet they older grew;<br>Till, unemploy'd, she felt her spirits droop,<br>And took, insidious aid! th' inspiring cup;<br>Grew poor and peevish as her powers decay'd,<br>And propp'd the tottering frame with stronger aid,<br>Then died! I saw our careful swains convey,<br>From this our changeful world, the Matron's clay,<br>Who to this world, at least, with equal care,<br>Brought them its changes, good and ill, to share.<br>Now to his grave was Roger Cuff conveyed,<br>And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid.<br>Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found<br>His brethren three--and thrice they wish'd him </div><div style="margin:10px 0">drown'd.<br>'Is this a landsman's love? Be certain then,<br>'We part for ever!'--and they cried, 'Amen!'<br>His words were truth's:- Some forty summers </div><div style="margin:10px 0">fled,<br>His brethren died; his kin supposed him dead:<br>Three nephews these, one sprightly niece, and one,<br>Less near in blood--they call'd him surly John;<br>He work'd in woods apart from all his kind,<br>Fierce were his looks and moody was his mind.<br>For home the sailor now began to sigh:-<br>'The dogs are dead, and I'll return and die;<br>When all I have, my gains, in years of care,<br>The younger Cuffs with kinder souls shall share -<br>Yet hold! I'm rich;--with one consent they'll say,<br>'You're welcome, Uncle, as the flowers in May.'<br>No; I'll disguise me, be in tatters dress'd,<br>And best befriend the lads who treat me best.'<br>Now all his kindred,--neither rich nor poor, -<br>Kept the wolf want some distance from the door.<br>In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate,<br>And begg'd for aid, as he described his state:-<br>But stern was George;--'Let them who had thee </div><div style="margin:10px 0">strong,<br>Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along;<br>To us a stranger, while your limbs would move,<br>From us depart, and try a stranger's love:-<br>'Ha! dost thou murmur?'--for, in Roger's throat,<br>Was 'Rascal!' rising with disdainful note.<br>To pious James he then his prayer address'd; -<br>'Good-lack,' quoth James, 'thy sorrows pierce my </div><div style="margin:10px 0">breast<br>And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain,<br>One board should feed us and one roof contain:<br>But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray:<br>And so farewell! Heaven help thee on thy way!'<br>'Scoundrel!' said Roger (but apart);--and told<br>His case to Peter;--Peter too was cold;<br>'The rates are high; we have a-many poor;<br>But I will think,'--he said, and shut the door.<br>Then the gay niece the seeming pauper press'd; -<br>'Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd:<br>Akin to thine is this declining frame,<br>And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name.'<br>'Avaunt! begone!' the courteous maiden said,<br>'Thou vile impostor! Uncle Roger's dead:<br>I hate thee, beast; thy look my spirit shocks;<br>Oh! that I saw thee starving in the stocks!'<br>'My gentle niece!' he said--and sought the wood,<br>'I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me food!'<br>'Give! am I rich? This hatchet take, and try<br>Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie;<br>Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal,<br>Nor whine out woes thine own right-hand can heal;<br>And while that hand is thine, and thine a leg,<br>Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg.'<br>'Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view,'<br>Old Roger said;--'thy words are brave and true;<br>Come, live with me: we'll vex those scoundrel-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">boys,<br>And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">-<br>Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share,<br>With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care;<br>We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap,<br>And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep.'<br>Such was their life; but when the woodman died,<br>His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied -<br>In vain; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door,<br>And dying, built a refuge for the poor,<br>With this restriction, That no Cuff should share<br>One meal, or shelter for one moment there.<br>My Record ends:- But hark! e'en now I hear<br>The bell of death, and know not whose to fear:<br>Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well;<br>In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell: -<br>Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes,<br>For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three </div><div style="margin:10px 0">times,<br>'Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose days are sped? -<br>What! he, himself!- and is old Dibble dead?'<br>His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay d,<br>And rectors five to one close vault convey'd:-<br>But he is gone; his care and skill I lose,<br>And gain a mournful subject for my Muse:<br>His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore,<br>And kindly add,--'Heaven grant, I lose no more!'<br>Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance<br>Appear'd at variance with his complaisance:<br>For, as he told their fate and varying worth,<br>He archly look'd,--'I yet may bear thee forth.'<br>'When first'--(he so began)--'my trade I plied,<br>Good master Addle was the parish-guide;<br>His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear,<br>His stride majestic, and his frown severe;<br>A noble pillar of the church he stood,<br>Adorn'd with college-gown and parish hood:<br>Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about,<br>He fill'd the seven-fold surplice fairly out!<br>But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer,<br>He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair;<br>For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceased,<br>Th'expecting people view'd their slumbering priest;<br>Who, dozing, died.--Our Parson Peele was next;<br>'I will not spare you,' was his favourite text;<br>Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound;<br>E'en me he mulct for my poor rood of ground;<br>Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech,<br>'What should I do,' quoth he, 'but what I preach?'<br>His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store)<br>Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor;<br>His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke;<br>His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke:<br>But though so young and blest with spirits high,<br>He died as grave as any judge could die:<br>The strong attack subdued his lively powers, -<br>His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear ours.<br>'Then were there golden times the village round;<br>In his abundance all appear'd t'abound;<br>Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread,<br>E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed;<br>Who wish'd and hoped,--and thought a man so kind<br>A way to Heaven, though not their own, might find.<br>To them, to all, he was polite and free,<br>Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to me!<br>'Ralph,' would he say, 'Ralph Dibble, thou art old;<br>That doublet fit, 'twill keep thee from the cold:<br>How does my sexton?- What! the times are hard;<br>Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.'<br>But most, his rev'rence loved a mirthful jest:-<br>'Thy coat is thin; why, man, thou'rt BARELY dress'd<br>It's worn to th' thread: but I have nappy beer;<br>Clap that within, and see how they will wear!'<br>'Gay days were these; but they were quickly </div><div style="margin:10px 0">past:<br>When first he came, we found he couldn't last:<br>A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf)<br>Upset him quite;--but what's the gain of grief?<br>'Then came the Author-Rector: his delight<br>Was all in books; to read them or to write:<br>Women and men he strove alike to shun,<br>And hurried homeward when his tasks were done;<br>Courteous enough, but careless what he said,<br>For points of learning he reserved his head;<br>And when addressing either poor or rich,<br>He knew no better than his cassock which:<br>He, like an osier, was of pliant kind,<br>Erect by nature, but to bend inclined;<br>Not like a creeper falling to the ground,<br>Or meanly catching on the neighbours round:<br>Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band, -<br>And kindly took them as they came to hand,<br>Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat,<br>As if he sought for dignity in that:<br>He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious rules;<br>Nor turn'd from gipsies, vagabonds, or fools;<br>It was his nature, but they thought it whim,<br>And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him.<br>Of questions, much he wrote, profound and dark, -<br>How spake the serpent, and where stopp'd the ark;<br>From what far land the queen of Sheba came;<br>Who Salem's Priest, and what his father's name;<br>He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield,<br>And Revelations to the world reveal'd.<br>He sleeps i' the aisle,--but not a stone records<br>His name or fame, his actions or his words:<br>And truth, your reverence, when I look around,<br>And mark the tombs in our sepulchral ground<br>(Though dare I not of one man's hope to doubt),<br>I'd join the party who repose without.<br>'Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and in truth<br>He was a sober and a comely youth;<br>He blush'd in meekness as a modest man,<br>And gain'd attention ere his task began;<br>When preaching, seldom ventured on reproof,<br>But touch'd his neighbours tenderly enough.<br>Him, in his youth, a clamorous sect assail'd,<br>Advised and censured, flatter'd,--and prevail'd.-<br>Then did he much his sober hearers vex,<br>Confound the simple, and the sad perplex;<br>To a new style his reverence rashly took;<br>Loud grew his voice, to threat'ning swell'd his </div><div style="margin:10px 0">look;<br>Above, below, on either side, he gazed,<br>Amazing all, and most himself amazed:<br>No more he read his preachments pure and plain,<br>But launch'd outright, and rose and sank again:<br>At times he smiled in scorn, at times he wept,<br>And such sad coil with words of vengeance kept,<br>That our blest sleepers started as they slept.<br>'Conviction comes like light'ning,' he would </div><div style="margin:10px 0">cry;<br>'In vain you seek it, and in vain you fly;<br>'Tis like the rushing of the mighty wind,<br>Unseen its progress, but its power you find;<br>It strikes the child ere yet its reason wakes;<br>His reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes;<br>The proud, learn'd man, and him who loves to know<br>How and from whence those gusts of grace will blow,<br>It shuns,--but sinners in their way impedes,<br>And sots and harlots visits in their deeds:<br>Of faith and penance it supplies the place;<br>Assures the vilest that they live by grace,<br>And, without running, makes them win the race.'<br>'Such was the doctrine our young prophet taught;<br>And here conviction, there confusion wrought;<br>When his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue,<br>And all the rose to one small spot withdrew,<br>They call'd it hectic; 'twas a fiery flush,<br>More fix'd and deeper than the maiden blush;<br>His paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed,<br>And lab'ring lungs the length'ning speech opposed.<br>No more his span-girth shanks and quiv'ring thighs<br>Upheld a body of the smaller size;<br>But down he sank upon his dying bed,<br>And gloomy crotchets fill'd his wandering head.<br>'Spite of my faith, all-saving faith,' he cried,<br>'I fear of worldly works the wicked pride;<br>Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind,<br>The good I've wrought still rankles in my mind;<br>My alms-deeds all, and every deed I've done;<br>My moral-rags defile me every one;<br>It should not be:- what say'st thou! tell me, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ralph.'<br>Quoth I, 'Your reverence, I believe, you're safe;<br>Your faith's your prop, nor have you pass'd such </div><div style="margin:10px 0">time<br>In life's good-works as swell them to a crime.<br>If I of pardon for my sins were sure,<br>About my goodness I would rest secure.'<br>'Such was his end; and mine approaches fast;<br>I've seen my best of preachers,--and my last,' -<br>He bow'd, and archly smiled at what he said,<br>Civil but sly:- 'And is old Dibble dead?'<br>Yes; he is gone: and WE are going all;<br>Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall; -<br>Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come,<br>Then bear the new-made Christian to its home:<br>A few short years and we behold him stand<br>To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand:<br>A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear<br>His widow weeping at her husband's bier:-<br>Thus, as the months succeed, shall infants take<br>Their names; thus parents shall the child forsake;<br>Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall </div><div style="margin:10px 0">kneel,<br>By love or law compell'd their vows to seal,<br>Ere I again, or one like me, explore<br>These simple Annals of the VILLAGE POOR.</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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<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=395938" data-title="The Parish Register - Part III: Burials de George Crabbe" data-description="THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time
When humble Christians died with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
But few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends, assured..."></div>
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