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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395940" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Poor Of The Borough. Letter XXI: Abel Keene</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A QUIET, simple man was Abel Keene,<br>He meant no harm, nor did he often mean;<br>He kept a school of loud rebellious boys,<br>And growing old, grew nervous with the noise;<br>When a kind merchant hired his useful pen,<br>And made him happiest of accompting men;<br>With glee he rose to every easy day,<br>When half the labour brought him twice the pay.<br>There were young clerks, and there the </div><div style="margin:10px 0">merchant's son,<br>Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one;<br>It must, no question, give them lively joy,<br>Hopes long indulged to combat and destroy;<br>At these they levelled all their skill and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">strength, -<br>He fell not quickly, but he fell at length:<br>They quoted books, to him both bold and new,<br>And scorn'd as fables all he held as true;<br>'Such monkish stories, and such nursery lies,'<br>That he was struck with terror and surprise.<br>'What! all his life had he the laws obey'd,<br>Which they broke through and were not once afraid?<br>Had he so long his evil passions check'd,<br>And yet at last had nothing to expect?<br>While they their lives in joy and pleasure led,<br>And then had nothing at the end to dread?<br>Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd<br>A part! a speech! for which the man was paid!<br>And were his pious books, his solemn prayers,<br>Not worth one tale of the admir'd Voltaire's?<br>Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd,<br>To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd,<br>And on all pleasues, which his purse could give,<br>Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live.'<br>Much time he pass'd in this important strife,<br>The bliss or bane of his remaining life;<br>For converts all are made with care and grief,<br>And pangs attend the birth of unbelief;<br>Nor pass they soon;--with awe and fear he took<br>The flowery way, and cast back many a look.<br>The youths applauded much his wise design,<br>With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine;<br>And much in private 'twould their mirth improve,<br>To hear how Abel spake of life and love;<br>To hear him own what grievous pains it cost,<br>Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost,<br>Ere his poor mind, with every deed alarm'd,<br>By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd.<br>For Abel enter'd in his bold career,<br>Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear;<br>Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went,<br>Repenting now, now dreading to repent:<br>With awkward pace, and with himself at war,<br>Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far;<br>Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise,<br>And then proceed with blunders and delays:<br>The young more aptly passions' calls pursue,<br>But age and weakness start at scenes so new,<br>And tremble, when they've done, for all they dared </div><div style="margin:10px 0">to do.<br>At length example Abel's dread removed,<br>With small concern he sought the joys he loved;<br>Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame,<br>And first their votary, then their wit became;<br>His jest was bitter and his satire bold,<br>When he his tales of formal brethren told;<br>What time with pious neighbours he discuss'd,<br>Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust:<br>'Such were our dreams,' the jovial elder cried;<br>'Awake and live,' his youthful friends replied.<br>Now the gay clerk a modest drab despised,<br>And clad him smartly, as his friends advised;<br>So fine a coat upon his back he threw,<br>That not an alley-boy old Abel knew;<br>Broad polish'd buttons blazed that coat upon,<br>And just beneath the watch's trinkets shone, -<br>A splendid watch, that pointed out the time,<br>To fly from business and make free with crime:<br>The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose<br>Rank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux:<br>His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain,<br>And light elastic locks encased his brain:<br>More pliant pupil who could hope to find,<br>Se deck'd in person and so changed in mind?<br>When Abel walked the streets, with pleasent mien<br>He met his friends, delighted to be seen;<br>And when he rode along the public way,<br>No beau so gaudy, and no youth so gay.<br>His pious sister, now an ancient maid,<br>For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd;<br>Then thus in love and scorn her notions she </div><div style="margin:10px 0">convey'd.<br>'Alas! my brother! can I see thee pace<br>Hoodwink'd to hell, and not lament thy case,<br>Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong </div><div style="margin:10px 0">race?<br>Lo! thou art bound; a slave in Satan's chain;<br>The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain;<br>His brother's blood against the murderer cried,<br>Against thee thine, unhappy suicide!<br>Are all our pious nights and peaceful days,<br>Our evening readings and our morning praise,<br>Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent,<br>Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent,<br>All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed,<br>Are these for ever and for ever fled?<br>'When in the years gone by, the trying years,<br>When faith and hope had strife with wants and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">fears,<br>Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not eat<br>(Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat;<br>When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe,<br>Slow pass'd the days of the successless year;<br>Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then<br>Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men:<br>And when thy heart has felt its wish denied,<br>What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied;<br>Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed,<br>By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed;<br>Then I have seen thy lively looks express<br>The spirit's comforts in the man's distress.<br>'Then didst thou cry, exulting, 'Yes, 'tis fit,<br>'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit:'<br>And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh<br>Against such triumphs?--Oh? repent and pray.<br>'What are thy pleasures?--with the gay to sit,<br>And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit;<br>All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">restrain,<br>And give a wicked pleasure to the vain;<br>Thy long, lean frame by fashion to attire,<br>That lads may laugh and wantons may admire;<br>To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see,<br>Unhappy maniac! that they laugh at thee<br>'These boyish follies, which alone the boy<br>Can idly act, or gracefully enjoy,<br>Add new reproaches to thy fallen state,<br>And make men scorn what they would only hate.<br>'What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove<br>A taste for follies which thou canst not love!<br>Why do thy stiffening limbs the steed bestride -<br>That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride?<br>And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek)<br>Dost thou by night in Diamond-Alley sneak?<br>'Farewell! the parish will thy sister keep,<br>Where she in peace shall pray and sing and sleep,<br>Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">wandering sheep.<br>When youth is fallen, there's hope the young may </div><div style="margin:10px 0">rise,<br>But fallen age for ever hopeless lies;<br>Torn up by storms, and placed in earth once more,<br>The younger tree may sun and soil restore;<br>But when the old and sapless trunk lies low,<br>No care or soil can former life bestow;<br>Reserved for burning is the worthless tree -<br>And what, O Abel! is reserved for thee?'<br>These angry words our hero deeply felt,<br>Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt!<br>To gain relief he took a glass the more,<br>And then went on as careless as before;<br>Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amusements he partook,<br>And (save his ledger) saw no decent book;<br>Him found the merchant punctual at his task,<br>And that performed, he'd nothing more to ask;<br>He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool,<br>No master he, beyond the hours of school:<br>Thus they proceeding, had their wine and joke,<br>Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke,<br>And, after struggling half a gloomy week,<br>Left his poor clerk another friend to seek.<br>Alas! the son, who led the saint astray,<br>Forgot the man whose follies made him gay;<br>He cared no more for Abel in his need,<br>Than Abel cared about his hackney steed:<br>He now, alas! had all his earnings spent,<br>And thus was left to languish and repent;<br>No school nor clerkship found he in the place,<br>Now lost to fortune, as before to grace.<br>For town-relief the grieving man applied,<br>And begg'd with tears what some with scorn denied;<br>Others look'd down upon the glowing vest,<br>And frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd?<br>Happy for him his country's laws are mild,<br>They must support him, though they still reviled;<br>Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd,<br>Of God unmindful, and of man afraid, -<br>No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">speak,<br>His heart was sinking, and his frame was weak.<br>His sister died with such serene delight,<br>He once again began to think her right;<br>Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay,<br>And sweet assurance bless'd her dying-day:<br>Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh,<br>Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die.<br>The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door,<br>Just mention'd 'Abel!' and then thought no more.<br>So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn,<br>Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn.<br>And now we saw him on the beach reclined,<br>Or causeless walking in the wintry wind;<br>And when it raised a loud and angry sea,<br>He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie:<br>He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow,<br>Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow:<br>Sometimes his frame through many an hour he spread<br>Upon a tombstone, moveless as the dead;<br>And was there found a sad and silent place,<br>There would he creep with slow and measured pace;<br>Then would he wander by the river's side,<br>And fix his eyes upon the falling tide;<br>The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen,<br>And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then:<br>There, to his discontented thought a prey,<br>The melancholy mortal pined away.<br>The neighb'ring poor at length began to speak<br>Of Abel's ramblings--he'd been gone a week;<br>They knew not where, and little care they took<br>For one so friendless and so poor to look.<br>At last a stranger, in a pedlar's shed,<br>Beheld him hanging--he had long been dead.<br>He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times,<br>Entitled thus--'My Groanings and my Crimes!'<br>'I was a Christian man, and none could lay<br>Aught to my charge; I walk'd the narrow way:<br>All then was simple faith, serene and pure,<br>My hope was stedfast and my prospects sure;<br>Then was I tried by want and sickness sore,<br>But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before,<br>And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore:<br>Alas! new foes assail'd me; I was vain,<br>They stung my pride and they confused my brain:<br>Oh! these deluders! with what glee they saw<br>Their simple dupe transgress the righteous law;<br>'Twas joy to them to view that dreadful strife,<br>When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life;<br>So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart,<br>Then with their logic they allay'd the smart;<br>They proved (so thought I then) with reasons </div><div style="margin:10px 0">strong,<br>That no man's feelings ever lead him wrong:<br>And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice,<br>The smooth career of unbelief and vice.<br>Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">bold,<br>Their witty tales of naughty priests unfold;<br>'Twas all a craft,' they said, 'a cunning trade;<br>Not she the priests, but priests Religion made.'<br>So I believed:'--No, Abel! to thy grief:<br>So thou relinquish'dst all that was belief: -<br>'I grew as very flint, and when the rest<br>Laugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest;<br>But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew,<br>When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew;<br>Yea! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too.<br>'The mouse that trespass'd and the treasure </div><div style="margin:10px 0">stole,<br>Found his lean body fitted to the hole;<br>Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay,<br>And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away:<br>Ah ! worse for me--grown poor, I yet remain<br>In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain.<br>'At length I thought, although these friends of </div><div style="margin:10px 0">sin<br>Have spread their net, and caught their prey </div><div style="margin:10px 0">therein;<br>Though my hard heart could not for mercy call,<br>Because though great my grief, my faith was small;<br>Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely,<br>The soul diseased may to a doctor fly.<br>'A famous one there was, whose skill had wrought<br>Cures past belief, and him the sinners sought;<br>Numbers there were defiled by mire and filth,<br>Whom he recovered by his goodly tilth:<br>'Come then,' I said, 'let me the man behold,<br>And tell my case:'--I saw him and I told.<br>'With trembling voice, 'Oh! reverend sir,' I </div><div style="margin:10px 0">said,<br>'I once believed, and I was then misled;<br>And now such doubts my sinful soul beset,<br>I dare not say that I'm a Christian yet;<br>Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill,<br>Inform my judgment and direct my will?<br>Ah! give thy cordial; let my soul have rest,<br>And be the outward man alone distress'd;<br>For at my state I tremble.'--'Tremble more,'<br>Said the good man, 'and then rejoice therefore!<br>'Tis good to tremble; prospects then are fair,<br>When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair:<br>Once thou wert simply honest, just, and pure,<br>Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a cure:<br>Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace,<br>Now thou'rt an object meet for healing grace;<br>No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief,<br>Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief;<br>The best, the only titles to relief.'<br>'What must I do,' I said, 'my soul to free?' -<br>'Do nothing, man; it will be done for thee.'<br>'But must I not, my reverend guide, believe?' -<br>'If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faith receive.'<br>'But I repent not.'--Angry he replied,<br>'If thou art call'd, though needest nought beside:<br>Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree,<br>The call will come,--if not, ah! woe for thee.'<br>'There then I waited, ever on the watch,<br>A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch;<br>His words fell softly like the flakes of snow,<br>But I could never find my heart o'erflow:<br>He cried aloud, till in the flock began<br>The sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man;<br>They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I<br>Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry:<br>To me no tokens of the call would come,<br>I felt my sentence, and received my doom;<br>But I complain'd--'Let thy repinings cease,<br>Oh! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase;<br>It bloweth where it listeth;--die in peace.'<br>- In peace, and perish?' I replied; 'impart<br>Some better comfort to a burthen'd heart.'<br>'Alas!' the priest return'd, 'can I direct<br>The heavenly call?--Do I proclaim th' elect?<br>Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will,<br>But take thy part with sinners, and be still.'<br>'Alas, for me! no more the times of peace<br>Are mine on earth--in death my pains may cease.<br>'Foes to my soul! ye young seducers, know<br>What serious ills from your amusements flow;<br>Opinions you with so much ease profess,<br>Overwhelm the simple and their minds oppress:<br>Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong,<br>That make them wretched, prove their notions wrong;<br>Let them proceed in that they deem the way,<br>Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray:<br>Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot,<br>And so had Dives, but it help'd him not:<br>And is it thus?--I'm full of doubts: --Adieu!<br>Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too.'</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=395940" data-title="The Poor Of The Borough. Letter XXI: Abel Keene de George Crabbe" data-description="A QUIET, simple man was Abel Keene,
He meant no harm, nor did he often mean;
He kept a school of loud rebellious boys,
And growing old, grew nervous with the noise;
When a kind merchant hired his useful pen,
And made him happiest of accompting men..."></div>
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