And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain :
And to be wrath with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanc'd, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining;
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder:
A dreary sea now flows between.
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
YOUR plan I love not;-with a number you Have placed your poor, your pitiable few ; There in one house, throughout their lives to be, The pauper-palace which they hate to see: That giant building, that high-bounding wall, Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thundering hall!
That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour, Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power: It is a prison, with a milder name,
Which few inhabit without dread or shame.
Be it agreed-the poor who hither come,
Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;
That airy rooms and decent beds are meant,
To give the poor by day, by night, content;
That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,
By the stern looks of lordly overseer :
Grant that the guardians of the place attend,
And ready ear to each petition lend;
That they desire the grieving poor to show
What ills they feel, what partial acts they know,
Not without promise, nay desire to heal
Each wrong they suffer and each woe they feel.
Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell,
They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;
They have no evil in the place to state,
And dare not say, it is the house they hate:
They own there's granted all such place can give,
But live repining, for 'tis there they live.
Grandsires are there, who now no more must see, No more must nurse upon the trembling knee The lost loved daughter's infant progeny: Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place For joyful meetings of a kindred race.
Is not the matron there, to whom the son
Was wont at each declining day to run;
He (when his toil was over) gave delight,
By lifting up the latch, and one "Good night?"
Yes;
she is here, but nightly to her door
The son, still labouring, can return no more.
Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft ;
Yet all that grief within the humble shed
Was soften'd, softened in the humble bed :
But here, in all its force, remains the grief,
And not one softening object for relief.
Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?
Who learn the story current in the street?
Who to the long known intimate impart
Facts they have learned or feelings of the heart ;-
They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend,
Or seek companions at their journey's end?
Here are not those whom they, when infants, knew; Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew; Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived; Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived; Whom time and custom so familiar made, That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd : But here to strangers, words nor looks impart The various movements of the suffering heart;Nor will that heart with those alliance own, To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.
What if no grievous fears their lives annoy,
Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?
'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,
With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;
Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep,-
The day itself is, like the night, asleep :
Or on the sameness, if a break be made,
'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;
By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,
News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;
By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,
Or justice comes to see that all goes well;
Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl
On the black footway winding with the wall,
Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.
Here too the mother sees her children train'd, Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd: Who govern here, by general rules must move, Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love. Nations, we know, have nature's laws transgress'd, And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast; But still for public good the boy was train'd, The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd: Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid, The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.
Then too, I own, it grieves me to behold
Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,
By all for care and industry approved,
For truth respected, and for temper loved ;
And who by sickness and misfortune tried,
Gave want his worth and poverty his pride:
I own it grieves me to behold them sent
From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment,
To leave each scene familiar, every face,
For a new people and a stranger race;
For those who sunk in sloth and dead to shame,
From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;
Men, just and guileless, at such matters start,
And bless their God that time has fenced their heart,
Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear
Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.
Here the good pauper, losing all the praise
By worthy deeds acquired in better days,
Breathes a few months, then to his chamber led,
Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.
The grateful hunter, when his horse is old;
Wills not the useless favorite to be sold;
He knows his former worth, and gives him place
In some fair pasture, till he runs his race :
But has the labourer, has the seaman done
Less worthy service, though not dealt to one?
Shall we not then contribute to their ease,
In their old haunts where ancient objects please?
That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace
The well-known prospect and the long-loved face.
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