Ah me! how bleft was once a peasant's life,
No lawless paffion fwell'd my even breast;
Far from the stormy waves of civil ftrife,
Sound were my flumbers, and my heart at reft
I ne'er for guilty painful pleasures rov'd ;
But taught by nature and by choice to wed,
From all the hamlet cull'd whom beft I lov'd,
With her I ftaid my heart, with her my
To gild her worth I afk'd no wealthy power,
My toil could feed her, and my arm defend;
In youth or age, in pain or pleasure's hour,
The fame fond husband, father, brother, friend.
And fhe, the faithful partner of my care,
When ruddy evening ftreak'd the western fky,
Look'd towards the uplands, if her mate was there,
Or thro' the beech-wood caft an anxious eye.
The careful matron heap'd the maple board
With favory herbs, and pick'd the nicer part
From fuch plain food as nature could afford,
Ere fimple nature was debauch'd by art:
While I, contented with my homely chear,
Saw round my knees my prattling children play;
And oft with pleas'd attention fat to hear
The little hiftory of their idle day.
But ah! how chang'd the scene! on the cold ftones,
Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,
Pale Famine fits, and counts her naked bones,
Still fighs for food, ftill pines with vain defire.
My faithful wife, with ever-ftreaming eyes,.
Hangs on my bofom her dejected head!
My helpless infants raife their feeble cries,
And from their father claim their daily bread,
Dear tender pledges of my honeft love,
On that bare bed behold your brother lie; Three tedious days with pinching want he ftrove, The fourth I faw the helpless cherub die.
Nor long fhall ye remain, with visage four
Our tyrant lord commands us from our home;
And arm'd with cruel law's coercive power
Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains roam.
Yet never, Chatham, have I pafs'd a day
In riot's orgies or in idle ease;
Ne'er have I facrific'd to sport and play,
Or wifh'd a pamper'd appetite to please.
Hard was my fate, and conftant was my toil;
Still with the morning's orient light I rose,
Fell'd the ftout oak, or rais'd the lofty pile,
Parch'd in the fun, in dark December froze.
Is it that Nature, with a niggard hand,
With-holds her gifts from thefe once favour'd plains ? Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land,
Sent dearth and famine to her lab'ring fwains?
Ah, no; yon hill, where daily fweats my brow,
A thousand flocks, a thousand herds adorn ;
Yon field, where late I drove the painful plough,
Feels all her acres crown'd with wavy corn.
But what avails, that o'er the furrow'd foil
In autumn's heat the yellow harvests rise,
If artificial want elude my toil,
Untafted plenty wound my craving eyes?
What profits if at distance I behold
My wealthy neighbour's fragrant smoke afcend,
If ftill the griping cormorants with-hold
The fruits which rain and genial seasons send?
If thofe fell vipers of the public weal
Yet unrelenting on our bowels prey;
If ftill the curfe of penury we feel,
And in the midft of plenty pine away?
In every port the veffels ride fecure,
That waft our harvest to a foreign shore; While we the pangs of preffing want endure, The fons of strangers riot on our store,
O generous Chatham! stop thofe fatal fails,
Once more with outstretch'd arm thy Britons fave :
Th' unheeding crew but waits for fav'ring gales,
O ftop them ere they ftem Italia's wave!
From thee alone I hope for instant aid,
"Tis thou alone canft fave my
O deem not little of our cruel need,
O hafte to help us, for delay is death!
So may nor fpleen nor envy blast thy name,
Nor voice profane thy patriot acts deride;
Still may'st thou ftand the first in honeft fame,
Unftung by folly, vanity, or pride.
So may thy languid limbs with ftrength be brac'd,
And glowing health support thy active foul;
With fair renown thy public virtue grac'd,
Far as thou bad'ft Britannia's thunder roll.
Then joy to thee, and to thy children peace,
The grateful hind fhall drink from Plenty's horn; And while they fhare the cultur'd land's increase, The poor fhall blefs the day when Pitt was born.
WRITTEN BY MR. CALEB SMITH UPON HIS WIFE.
F beauty's fairest form, and each bright charm,
I beauty's fore foform, anamourd foul does warm;
If fprightly fancy with found judgment join'd;
Good nature, fweet deportment, fenfe refin'd;
And what we highest prize,—a virtuous mind:
If conduct blamelefs, and unblemish'd life,
In every state of virgin, widow, wife;
;
Amidst a world of follies, flatt'ries, cares, and strife;
If nicest honour, spotless purity,
Firm faith, fair hope, and boundless charity;
Unerring prudence, ftri&t regard to truth;
And deathlefs fame acquir'd in bloom of youth;
If thefe, or any grace, had power to fave
The best of wives and women from the grave:
If all men's wifhes, and the husband's pray'r;
The force of drugs, or wife phyfician's care,
Cou'd refpite righteous heaven's severe decree,
To rend a bleffing from the world and me;
Then, rueful Pancras, none had ever read
Maria's honour'd name among the dead.
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