20 Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents
And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
25 Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad,
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence
Screens them, and seem, half petrified, to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
80 Their wonted fodder, not, like hungering man,
Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek,

And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out the accustomed load,
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft

85 His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
40 Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.

Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned
The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,
From morn to eve his solitary task.

45 Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears
And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur,
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel
Now creeps he slow, and now, with many a frisk
Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow
50 With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;
Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy.
Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl
Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught
But, now and then, with pressure of his thumb,
55 To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube,
That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud
Streams far behind him, scenting all the air.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE
OUT OF NORFOLK;

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.
[Comp. 1790-publ. 1798]

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly, since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
10 To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

15 I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

20 A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 25 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss Ah that maternal smile! it answers

'Yes.'

I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
30 And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

35 The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.

40 By expectation every day beguil'd,

Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot;

45 But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, 50 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, "Tis now become a hist'ry little known,

That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.

Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair
55 That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
60 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd;
All this, and more endearing still than all,

65 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this, still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
70 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee, as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours
75 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile);

80 Could those few pleasant hours again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.

But no what here we call our life is such, 85 So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd, and the ocean cross'd), 90 Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play 95 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay: So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore 'Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar'; And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 100 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tost,

Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
105 Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
But oh the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd and rulers of the earth;
110 But higher far my proud pretensions rise -
The son of parents passed into the skies!
And now, farewell! Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course; yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
115 I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
120 Time has but half succeeded in his theft
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left.

GEORGE CRABBE.

G EORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) wa
born of poor parents in the villa
of Aldeburgh, on the Suffolk coast. Mostly
self-taught, he had to fight hard before he
found a patron in Edmund Burke, who
recognised his poetical talent, secured the
publication of one of his poems (The
Library), and found him a place as chap-
lain to the Duke of Rutland (1782). His
next publication, The Village (1783), in
which he described his own native-place,
was a decided success. Afterwards he
held several rural livings, at Muston and
elsewhere, and at last became rector of
Trowbridge, Wiltshire (1814).

Crabbe tried two different styles of

poetry. His first works, The Library (1781) and The Village (1783), are very much akin to Cowper's moral and descriptive verse. But in The Parish Register (1807) and The Borough (1810) he gave more and more room to the epic element; and his last poems, Tales in Verse (1812) and Tales of the Hall (1819), show him quite gone over to story-telling. In his descriptions he likes to dwell on the darker scenes of village life, which he paints with the wonderful minuteness of the realist, but also with the stern veracity of the pessimist. In his versification he still clung to the heroic couplet of the Augustans.

THE PARISH WORKHOUSE.
[From The Village, Bk. I, 11. 226-295 (1781)]

Thus groan the old, till, by disease oppressed,
They taste a final woe, and then they rest.

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
6 There, where the putrid vapours, flagging play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day,
There children dwell who know no parents' care;

Parents who know no children's love, dwell there! ... Dejected widows with unheeded tears,

10 And crippled age with more than childhood-fears The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, 15 Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mixed with the clamours of the crowd below; Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man:

Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide,

20 And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny.

...

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides;

25 Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between;

Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
80 The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Or_promise hope, till sickness wears a smile.
85 But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,

All pride and business, bustle and conceit;
With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe,
40 With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go,
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye:
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
45 Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies,
60 Impatience marked in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door:
His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;
6 He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.