Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395942" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Village: Book I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Village Life, and every care that reigns<br> O'er youthful peasants and declining swains;<br> What labour yields, and what, that labour past,<br> Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;<br> What form the real picture of the poor,<br> Demand a song--the Muse can give no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains,<br> The rustic poet praised his native plains:<br> No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,<br> Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse;<br> Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,<br> Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,<br> And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal,<br> The only pains, alas! they never feel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign,<br> If Tityrus found the Golden Age again,<br> Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong,<br> Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song?<br> From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray,<br> Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains,<br> Because the Muses never knew their pains:<br> They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now<br> Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough;<br> And few, amid the rural-tribe, have time<br> To number syllables, and play with rhyme;<br> Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share<br> The poet's rapture, and the peasant's care?<br> Or the great labours of the field degrade,<br> With the new peril of a poorer trade?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> From this chief cause these idle praises spring,<br> That themes so easy few forbear to sing;<br> For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask;<br> To sing of shepherds is an easy task:<br> The happy youth assumes the common strain,<br> A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain;<br> With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer<br> But all, to look like her, is painted fair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms<br> For him that grazes or for him that farms;<br> But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace<br> The poor laborious natives of the place,<br> And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray,<br> On their bare heads and dewy temples play;<br> While some with feebler heads and fainter hearts,<br> Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts:<br> Then shall I dare these real ills to hide<br> In tinsel trappings of poetic pride?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast,<br> Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast;<br> Where other cares than those the Muse relates,<br> And other shepherds dwell with other mates;<br> By such examples taught, I paint the Cot,<br> As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not:<br> Nor you, ye poor, of letter'd scorn complain,<br> To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain;<br> O'ercome by labour, and bow'd down by time,<br> Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?<br> Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,<br> By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed?<br> Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower<br> Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,<br> Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;<br> From thence a length of burning sand appears,<br> Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears;<br> Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,<br> Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye:<br> There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,<br> And to the ragged infant threaten war;<br> There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil;<br> There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;<br> Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,<br> The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;<br> O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,<br> And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;<br> With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,<br> And a sad splendour vainly shines around.<br> So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn,<br> Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn;<br> Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose,<br> While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose;<br> Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress,<br> Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Here joyous roam a wild amphibious race,<br> With sullen woe display'd in every face;<br> Who, far from civil arts and social fly,<br> And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Here too the lawless merchant of the main<br> Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain;<br> Want only claim'd the labour of the day,<br> But vice now steals his nightly rest away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Where are the swains, who, daily labour done,<br> With rural games play'd down the setting sun;<br> Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball,<br> Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall;<br> While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong,<br> Engaged some artful stripling of the throng,<br> And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around<br> Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound?<br> Where now are these?--Beneath yon cliff they stand,<br> To show the freighted pinnace where to land;<br> To load the ready steed with guilty haste,<br> To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste,<br> Or, when detected, in their straggling course,<br> To foil their foes by cunning or by force;<br> Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand),<br> To gain a lawless passport through the land.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Here, wand'ring long amid these frowning fields,<br> I sought the simple life that Nature yields;<br> Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her place,<br> And a bold, artful, surly, savage race;<br> Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe,<br> The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe,<br> Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high,<br> On the tost vessel bend their eager eye,<br> Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way;<br> Theirs, or the ocean's, miserable prey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,<br> And wait for favouring winds to leave the land;<br> While still for flight the ready wing is spread:<br> So waited I the favouring hour, and fled;<br> Fled from those shores where guilt and famine reign,<br> And cried, Ah! hapless they who still remain;<br> Who still remain to hear the ocean roar,<br> Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore;<br> Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway,<br> Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;<br> When the sad tenant weeps from door to door,<br> And begs a poor protection from the poor!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand<br> Gave a spare portion to the famish'd land;<br> Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain<br> Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain;<br> But yet in other scenes more fair in view,<br> Where Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for few<br> And those who taste not, yet behold her store,<br> Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore,<br> The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Or will you deem them amply paid in health,<br> Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth?<br> Go then! and see them rising with the sun,<br> Through a long course of daily toil to run;<br> See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat,<br> When the knees tremble and the temples beat;<br> Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er<br> The labour past, and toils to come explore;<br> See them alternate suns and showers engage,<br> And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;<br> Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue,<br> When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew;<br> Then own that labour may as fatal be<br> To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride<br> Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide;<br> There may you see the youth of slender frame<br> Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame:<br> Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield,<br> He strives to join his fellows of the field.<br> Till long-contending nature droops at last,<br> Declining health rejects his poor repast,<br> His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,<br> And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell,<br> Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;<br> Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,<br> Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share!<br> Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,<br> Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;<br> Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such<br> As you who praise would never deign to touch.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,<br> Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please;<br> Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,<br> Go look within, and ask if peace be there;<br> If peace be his--that drooping weary sire,<br> Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;<br> Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand<br> Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these<br> Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease;<br> For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age<br> Can with no cares except his own engage;<br> Who, propp'd on that rude staff, looks up to see<br> The bare arms broken from the withering tree,<br> On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough,<br> Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> He once was chief in all the rustic trade;<br> His steady hand the straightest furrow made;<br> Full many a prize he won, and still is proud<br> To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd;<br> A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes,<br> He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs:<br> For now he journeys to his grave in pain;<br> The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain;<br> Alternate masters now their slave command,<br> Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand,<br> And, when his age attempts its task in vain,<br> With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep,<br> His winter-charge, beneath the hillock weep;<br> Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow<br> O'er his white locks and bury them in snow,<br> When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn,<br> He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn:--</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> &quot;Why do I live, when I desire to be<br> At once from life and life's long labour free?<br> Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away,<br> Without the sorrows of a slow decay;<br> I, like yon wither'd leaf, remain behind,<br> Nipp'd by the frost, and shivering in the wind;<br> There it abides till younger buds come on,<br> As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone;<br> Then, from the rising generation thrust,<br> It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> &quot;These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see,<br> Are others' gain, but killing cares to me;<br> To me the children of my youth are lords,<br> Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words:<br> Wants of their own demand their care; and who<br> Feels his own want and succours others too?<br> A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go,<br> None need my help, and none relieve my woe;<br> Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,<br> And men forget the wretch they would not aid.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Thus groan the old, till, by disease oppress'd,<br> They taste a final woe, and then they rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Theirs is yon house that holds the parish-poor,<br> Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;<br> There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play,<br> And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;--<br> There children dwell who know no parents' care;<br> Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there!<br> Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,<br> Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed;<br> Dejected widows with unheeded tears,<br> And crippled age with more than childhood fears;<br> The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!<br> The moping idiot and the madman gay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Here too the sick their final doom receive,<br> Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve,<br> Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,<br> Mix'd with the clamours of the crowd below;<br> Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,<br> And the cold charities of man to man:<br> Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,<br> And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;<br> But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,<br> And pride embitters what it can't deny.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes,<br> Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;<br> Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance<br> With timid eye, to read the distant glance;<br> Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease,<br> To name the nameless ever-new disease;<br> Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,<br> Which real pain and that alone can cure;<br> How would ye bear in real pain to lie,<br> Despised, neglected, left alone to die?<br> How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,<br> Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Such is that room which one rude beam divides,<br> And naked rafters form the sloping sides;<br> Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,<br> And lath and mud are all that lie between;<br> Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way<br> To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:<br> Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,<br> The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;<br> For him no hand the cordial cup applies,<br> Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;<br> No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,<br> Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,<br> Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;<br> Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,<br> All pride and business, bustle and conceit;<br> With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,<br> With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go,<br> He bids the gazing throng around him fly,<br> And carries fate and physic in his eye:<br> A potent quack, long versed in human ills,<br> Who first insults the victim whom he kills;<br> Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect,<br> And whose most tender mercy is neglect.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Paid by the parish for attendance here,<br> He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;<br> In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies,<br> Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;<br> And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,<br> Without reply, he rushes on the door:<br> His drooping patient, long inured to pain,<br> And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;<br> He ceases now the feeble help to crave<br> Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But ere his death some pious doubts arise,<br> Some simple fears, which &quot;bold bad&quot; men despise;<br> Fain would he ask the parish-priest to prove<br> His title certain to the joys above:<br> For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls<br> The holy stranger to these dismal walls:<br> And doth not he, the pious man, appear,<br> He, &quot;passing rich with forty pounds a year&quot;?<br> Ah! no; a shepherd of a different stock,<br> And far unlike him, feeds this little flock:<br> A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task<br> As much as God or man can fairly ask;<br> The rest he gives to loves and labours light,<br> To fields the morning, and to feasts the night;<br> None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide,<br> To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide;<br> A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day,<br> And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to play:<br> Then, while such honours bloom around his head,<br> Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed,<br> To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal<br> To combat fears that e'en the pious feel?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Now once again the gloomy scene explore,<br> Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er,<br> The man of many sorrows sighs no more.--<br> Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow<br> The bier moves winding from the vale below;<br> There lie the happy dead, from trouble free,<br> And the glad parish pays the frugal fee:<br> No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hear<br> Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer;<br> No more the farmer claims his humble bow,<br> Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Now to the church behold the mourners come,<br> Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb;<br> The village children now their games suspend,<br> To see the bier that bears their ancient friend;<br> For he was one in all their idle sport,<br> And like a monarch ruled their little court.<br> The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball,<br> The bat, the wicket, were his labours all;<br> Him now they follow to his grave, and stand<br> Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand;<br> While bending low, their eager eyes explore<br> The mingled relics of the parish poor;<br> The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round,<br> Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound;<br> The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care,<br> Defers his duty till the day of prayer;<br> And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd,<br> To think a poor man's bones should lie unbless'd.</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=395942" data-title="The Village: Book I de George Crabbe" data-description="The Village Life, and every care that reigns
 O'er youthful peasants and declining swains;
 What labour yields, and what, that labour past,
 Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;
 What form the real picture of the poor,
 Demand a song--the M..."></div>
</div>
</div>