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The world may dance along the flowery plain,
moment's calm that sooths the breast Is given in earnest of eternal rest.
Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste ! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is near;
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
THE YEARLY DISTRESS;
TITHING-TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX.
VERSES ADDRESSED TO A COUNTRY CLERGYMAN, COMPLAINING OF THE
DISAGREEABLENESS OF THE DAY ANNUALLY APPOINTED FOR RECEIVING THE DUES AT THE PARSONAGE.
COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong ;
The burden of my song.
Three quarters of the year,
When tithing-time draws near.
As one at point to die,
He heaves up many a sigh.
Along the miry road,
To make their payments good.
In sooth the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd, When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
He trembles at the sight.
And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come-each makes his leg,
And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score.
“ And how does miss and madam do,
The little boy and all ?" “ All tight and well. And how do you,
Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?"
The dinner comes, and down they sit:
Were e'er such hungry folk ? There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever ;
They only weigh the heavier.
“ Come, neighbours, we must wag.” The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms and hail, And one of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.
“ A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear; But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguey dear.”
Oh why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine? A kick that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.
SONNET TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.
ON HIS EMPHATICAL AND INTERESTING DELIVERY OF THE DEFENCE OF
WARREN FASTINGS, ESQ. IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS,
COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears
(Attentive when thou read’st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Of attic phrase and senatorial tone,
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.
LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,
AUTHOR OF THE “ BOTANIC GARDEN."
Two Poets', (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree,)
Conspire to honour thee.
| Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.