The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  She, wretched matron, forced, in age, for bread,

  To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

  To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,

  To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;

  She only left of all the harmless train,

  The sad historian of the pensive plain.

  Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d,

  And still where many a garden flower grows wild;

  There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

  The village preacher’s modest mansion rose.

  A man he was, to all the country dear,

  And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

  Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

  Nor ere had changed, nor wish’d to change his place;

  Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,

  By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

  Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

  More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

  His house was known to all the vagrant train,

  He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

  The long remembered beggar was his guest,

  Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

  The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

  Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

  The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

  Sate by his fire, and talked the night away;

  Wept o’er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

  Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won.

  Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

  And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

  Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,

  His pity gave ere charity began.

  Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

  And even his failings leaned to Virtue’s side;

  But in his duty prompt at every call,

  He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all.

  And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,

  To tempt its new fledged offspring to the skies;

  He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

  Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

  Beside the bed where parting life was layed,

  And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,

  The reverend champion stood. At his control,

  Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

  Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

  And his last faultering accents whispered praise.

  At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

  His looks adorned the venerable place;

  Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

  And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

  The service past, around the pious man,

  With steady zeal each honest rustic ran;

  Even children followed with endearing wile,

  And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile.

  His ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest,

  Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;

  To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

  But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.

  As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form

  Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

  Tho’ round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

  Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

  Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

  With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

  There, in his noisy mansion, skill’d to rule,

  The village master taught his little school;

  A man severe he was, and stern to view,

  I knew him well, and every truant knew;

  Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

  The day’s disasters in his morning face;

  Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee,

  At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

  Full well the busy whisper circling round,

  Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;

  Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,

  The love he bore to learning was in fault;

  The village all declared how much he knew;

  ’Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;

  Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

  And even the story ran that he could gauge.

  In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,

  For even tho’ vanquished, he could argue still;

  While words of learned length, and thundering sound,

  Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,

  And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

  That one small head could carry all he knew.

  But past is all his fame. The very spot

  Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

  Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

  Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,

  Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,

  Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,

  Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,

  And news much older than their ale went round.

  Imagination fondly stoops to trace

  The parlour splendours of that festive place;

  The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,

  The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;

  The chest contrived a double debt to pay,

  A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;

  The pictures placed for ornament and use,

  The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;

  The hearth, except when winter chill’d the day,

  With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay,

  While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew,

  Ranged o’er the chimney, glistened in a row.

  Vain transitory splendours! Could not all

  Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!

  Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart

  An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart;

  Thither no more the peasant shall repair

  To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

  No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,

  No more the wood-man’s ballad shall prevail;

  No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

  Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;

  The host himself no longer shall be found

  Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;

  Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,

  Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

  Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,

  These simple blessings of the lowly train,

  To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

  One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

  1772JOHN BYROM On the Origin of Evil

  Evil, if rightly understood,

  Is but the Skeleton of Good,

  Divested of its Flesh and Blood.

  While it remains without Divorce

  Within its hidden, secret Source,

  It is the Good’s own Strength and Force.

  As Bone has the supporting Share

  In human Form Divinely fair,

  Altho’ an Evil when laid bare;

  As Light and Air are fed by Fire,

  A shining Good, while all conspire,

  But, – separate, – dark, raging Ire;

  As Hope and Love arise from Faith,

  Which then admits no Ill, nor hath;

  But, if alone, it would be Wrath;

  Or any Instance thought upon,

  In which the Evil can be none,

  T
ill Unity of Good is gone;

  So, by Abuse of Thought and Skill

  The greatest Good, to wit, Free-will

  Becomes the Origin of Ill.

  Thus, when rebellious Angels fell,

  The very Heav’n where good ones dwell

  Became th’ apostate Spirits’ Hell.

  Seeking, against Eternal Right,

  A Force without a Love and Light,

  They found and felt its evil Might.

  Thus Adam, biting at their Bait

  Of Good and Evil when he ate,

  Died to his first thrice-happy State;

  Fell to the Evils of this Ball,

  Which in harmonious Union all

  Were Paradise before his Fall;

  And, when the Life of Christ in Men

  Revives its faded Image, then

  Will all be Paradise again.

  ROBERT FERGUSSON The Daft-Days

  Now mirk December’s dowie face

  Glours our the rigs wi’ sour grimace,

  While, thro’ his minimum of space,

  The bleer-ey’d sun,

  5

  Wi’ blinkin light and stealing pace,

  His race doth run.

  From naked groves nae birdie sings,

  To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings,

  The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings

  10

  From Borean cave,

  And dwyning nature droops her wings,

  Wi’ visage grave.

  Mankind but scanty pleasure glean

  Frae snawy hill or barren plain,

  15

  Whan Winter, ’midst his nipping train,

  Wi’ frozen spear,

  Sends drift owr a’ his bleak domain,

  And guides the weir.

  Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole,

  20

  A bield for mony caldrife soul,

  Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

  Baith warm and couth;

  While round they gar the bicker roll

  To weet their mouth.

  25

  When merry Yule-day comes, I trow

  You’ll scantlins find a hungry mou’;

  Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou

  O’ gusty gear,

  And kickshaws, strangers to our view,

  30

  Sin Fairn-year.

  Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra,

  And fling your sorrows far awa’;

  Then come and gies the tither blaw

  Of reaming ale,

  35

  Mair precious than the well of Spa,

  Our hearts to heal.

  Then, tho’ at odds wi’ a’ the warl’,

  Amang oursells we’ll never quarrel;

  Tho’ Discord gie a canker’d snarl

  40

  To spoil our glee,

  As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel

  We’ll drink and ’gree.

  Fidlers, your pins in temper fix,

  And roset weel your fiddle-sticks,

  45

  But banish vile Italian tricks

  From out your quorum:

  Nor fortes wi’ pianos mix,

  Gie’s Tulloch Gorum.

  For nought can cheer the heart sae weil

  50

  As can a canty Highland reel,

  It even vivifies the heel

  To skip and dance:

  Lifeless is he wha canna feel

  Its influence.

  55

  Let mirth abound, let social cheer

  Invest the dawning of the year;

  Let blithesome innocence appear

  To crown our joy,

  Nor envy wi’ sarcastic sneer

  60

  Our bliss destroy.

  And thou, great god of Aqua Vitœ!

  Wha sways the empire of this city,

  When fou we’re sometimes capernoity,

  Be thou prepar’d

  65

  To hedge us frae that black banditti,

  The City-Guard.

  WILLIAM COWPER Light Shining out of Darkness 1774

  God moves in a mysterious way,

  His wonders to perform,

  He plants his footsteps in the Sea,

  And rides upon the Storm.

  Deep in unfathomable Mines,

  Of never failing Skill,

  He treasures up his bright designs,

  And works his Sovereign Will.

  Ye fearfull Saints fresh courage take,

  The clouds ye so much dread,

  Are big with Mercy, and shall break

  In blessings on your head.

  Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

  But trust him for his Grace,

  Behind a frowning Providence

  He hides a Smiling face.

  His purposes will ripen fast,

  Unfolding every hour,

  The Bud may have a bitter taste,

  But wait, to Smell the flower.

  Blind unbelief is sure to err,

  And scan his work in vain,

  God is his own Interpreter,

  And he will make it plain.

  WILLIAM COWPER

  Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,

  Scare can endure delay of execution: –

  Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my

  Soul in a moment.

  Damn’d below Judas; more abhorr’d than he was,

  Who, for a few pence, sold his holy master.

  Twice betray’d, Jesus me, the last delinquent,

  Deems the profanest.

  Man disavows, and Deity disowns me.

  Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;

  Therefore hell keeps her everhungry mouths all

  Bolted against me.

  Hard lot! Encompass’d with a thousand dangers,

  Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors,

  Fall’n, and if vanquish’d, to receive a sentence

  Worse than Abiram’s:

  Him, the vindictive rod of angry justice

  Sent, quick and howling, to the centre headlong;

  I, fed with judgments, in a fleshly tomb, am

  Buried above ground.

  (1816)

  ANONYMOUS [Epitaph for Thomas Johnson, huntsman. Charlton, Sussex]

  Here Johnson lies; what human can deny

  Old honest Tom the tribute of a sigh?

  Deaf is that ear which caught the opening sound;

  Dumb that tongue which cheer’d the hills around.