BOOK
II
.
There
are
found
,
amid
the
Evils
of
a
laborious
Life
,
some
Views
of
Tranquillity
and
Happiness
—
The
Repose
and
Pleasure
of
a
Summer
Sabbath
:
interrupted
by
Intoxication
and
Dispute
—
Village
Detraction
—
Complaints
of
the
'
Squire
—
The
Evening
Riots
—
Justice
—
Reasons
for
this
unpleasant
View
of
Rustic
Life
:
the
Effect
it
should
have
upon
the
Lower
Classes
;
and
the
Higher
—
These
last
have
their
peculiar
Distresses
:
Exemplified
in
the
Life
and
heroic
Death
of
Lord
Robert
Manners
—
Concluding
Address
to
His
Grace
the
Duke
of
Rutland
.
No
longer
truth
,
though
shown
in
verse
,
disdain
,
But
own
the
Village
Life
a
life
of
pain
:
I
too
must
yield
,
that
oft
amid
these
woes
Are
gleams
of
transient
mirth
and
hours
of
sweet
repose
,
Such
as
you
find
on
yonder
sportive
Green
,
The
'
squire's
tall
gate
and
churchway-walk
between
;
Where
loitering
stray
a
little
tribe
of
friends
,
On
a
fair
Sunday
when
the
sermon
ends
:
Then
rural
beaux
their
best
attire
put
on
,
To
win
their
nymphs
,
as
other
nymphs
are
won
;
While
those
long
wed
go
plain
,
and
by
degrees
,
Like
other
husbands
,
quit
their
care
to
please
.
Some
of
the
sermon
talk
,
a
sober
crowd
,
And
loudly
praise
,
if
it
were
preach'd
aloud
;
Some
on
the
labours
of
the
week
look
round
,
Feel
their
own
worth
,
and
think
their
toil
renown'd
;
While
some
,
whose
hopes
to
no
renown
extend
,
Are
only
pleased
to
find
their
labours
end
.
Thus
,
as
their
hours
glide
on
,
with
pleasure
fraught
Their
careful
masters
brood
the
painful
thought
;
Much
in
their
mind
they
murmur
and
lament
,
That
one
fair
day
should
be
so
idly
spent
;
And
think
that
Heaven
deals
hard
,
to
tithe
their
store
And
tax
their
time
for
preachers
and
the
poor
.
Yet
still
,
ye
humbler
friends
,
enjoy
your
hour
,
This
is
your
portion
,
yet
unclaim'd
of
power
;
This
is
Heaven's
gift
to
weary
men
oppress'd
,
And
seems
the
type
of
their
expected
rest
:
But
yours
,
alas
!
are
joys
that
soon
decay
;
Frail
joys
,
begun
and
ended
with
the
day
;
Or
yet
,
while
day
permits
those
joys
to
reign
,
The
village
vices
drive
them
from
the
plain
.
See
the
stout
churl
,
in
drunken
fury
great
,
Strike
the
bare
bosom
of
his
teeming
mate
!
His
naked
vices
,
rude
and
unrefined
,
Exert
their
open
empire
o'er
the
mind
;
But
can
we
less
the
senseless
rage
despise
,
Because
the
savage
acts
without
disguise
?
Yet
here
Disguise
,
the
city's
vice
,
is
seen
,
And
Slander
steals
along
and
taints
the
Green
:
At
her
approach
domestic
peace
is
gone
,
Domestic
broils
at
her
approach
come
on
;
She
to
the
wife
the
husband's
crime
conveys
,
She
tells
the
husband
when
his
consort
strays
;
Her
busy
tongue
,
through
all
the
little
state
,
Diffuses
doubt
,
suspicion
,
and
debate
;
Peace
,
tim'rous
goddess
!
quits
her
old
domain
,
In
sentiment
and
song
content
to
reign
.
Nor
are
the
nymphs
that
breathe
the
rural
air
So
fair
as
Cynthia's
,
nor
so
chaste
as
fair
:
These
to
the
town
afford
each
fresher
face
,
And
the
clown's
trull
receives
the
peer's
embrace
;
From
whom
,
should
chance
again
convey
her
down
,
The
peer's
disease
in
turn
attacks
the
clown
.
Here
too
the
'
squire
,
or
'
squire-like
farmer
,
talk
,
How
round
their
regions
nightly
pilferers
walk
;
How
from
their
ponds
the
fish
are
borne
,
and
all
The
rip'ning
treasures
from
their
lofty
wall
;
How
meaner
rivals
in
their
sports
delight
,
Just
right
enough
to
claim
a
doubtful
right
;
Who
take
a
licence
round
their
fields
to
stray
,
A
mongrel
race
!
the
poachers
of
the
day
.
And
hark
!
the
riots
of
the
Green
begin
,
That
sprang
at
first
from
yonder
noisy
inn
;
What
time
the
weekly
pay
was
vanish'd
all
,
And
the
slow
hostess
scored
the
threat'ning
wall
;
What
time
they
ask'd
,
their
friendly
feast
to
close
,
A
final
cup
,
and
that
will
make
them
foes
;
When
blows
ensue
that
break
the
arm
of
toil
,
And
rustic
battle
ends
the
boobies
'
broil
.
Save
when
to
yonder
Hall
they
bend
their
way
,
Where
the
grave
Justice
ends
the
grievous
fray
;
He
who
recites
,
to
keep
the
poor
in
awe
,
The
law's
vast
volume
—
for
he
knows
the
law
:
—
To
him
with
anger
or
with
shame
repair
The
injured
peasant
and
deluded
fair
.
Lo
!
at
his
throne
the
silent
nymph
appears
,
Frail
by
her
shape
,
but
modest
in
her
tears
;
And
while
she
stands
abash'd
,
with
conscious
eye
,
Some
favourite
female
of
her
judge
glides
by
,
Who
views
with
scornful
glance
the
strumpet's
fate
,
And
thanks
the
stars
that
made
her
keeper
great
:
Near
her
the
swain
,
about
to
bear
for
life
One
certain
evil
,
doubts
'twixt
war
and
wife
;
But
,
while
the
falt'ring
damsel
takes
her
oath
,
Consents
to
wed
,
and
so
secures
them
both
.
Yet
why
,
you
ask
,
these
humble
crimes
relate
,
Why
make
the
Poor
as
guilty
as
the
Great
?
To
show
the
great
,
those
mightier
sons
of
pride
,
How
near
in
vice
the
lowest
are
allied
;
Such
are
their
natures
and
their
passions
such
,
But
these
disguise
too
little
,
those
too
much
:
So
shall
the
man
of
power
and
pleasure
see
In
his
own
slave
as
vile
a
wretch
as
he
;
In
his
luxurious
lord
the
servant
find
His
own
low
pleasures
and
degenerate
mind
:
And
each
in
all
the
kindred
vices
trace
,
Of
a
poor
,
blind
,
bewilder'd
,
erring
race
,
Who
,
a
short
time
in
varied
fortune
past
,
Die
,
and
are
equal
in
the
dust
at
last
.
And
you
,
ye
Poor
,
who
still
lament
your
fate
,
Forbear
to
envy
those
you
call
the
Great
;
And
know
,
amid
those
blessings
they
possess
,
They
are
,
like
you
,
the
victims
of
distress
;
While
Sloth
with
many
a
pang
torments
her
slave
,
Fear
waits
on
guilt
,
and
Danger
shakes
the
brave
.
Oh!
if
in
life
one
noble
chief
appears
,
Great
in
his
name
,
while
blooming
in
his
years
;
Born
to
enjoy
whate'er
delights
mankind
,
And
yet
to
all
you
feel
or
fear
resign'd
;
Who
gave
up
joys
and
hopes
to
you
unknown
,
For
pains
and
dangers
greater
than
your
own
:
If
such
there
be
,
then
let
your
murmurs
cease
,
Think
,
think
of
him
,
and
take
your
lot
in
peace
.
And
such
there
was
:
—
Oh!
grief
,
that
cheeks
our
pride
,
Weeping
we
say
there
was
,
—
for
Manners
died
:
Beloved
of
Heaven
,
these
humble
lines
forgive
,
That
sing
of
Thee
,
and
thus
aspire
to
live
.
As
the
tall
oak
,
whose
vigorous
branches
form
An
ample
shade
and
brave
the
wildest
storm
,
High
o'er
the
subject
wood
is
seen
to
grow
,
The
guard
and
glory
of
the
trees
below
;
Till
on
its
head
the
fiery
bolt
descends
,
And
o'er
the
plain
the
shatter'd
trunk
extends
;
Yet
then
it
lies
,
all
wond'rous
as
before
,
And
still
the
glory
,
though
the
guard
no
more
:
So
thou
,
when
every
virtue
,
every
grace
,
Rose
in
thy
soul
,
or
shone
within
thy
face
;
When
,
though
the
son
of
Granby
,
thou
wert
known
Less
by
thy
father's
glory
than
thy
own
;
When
Honour
loved
and
gave
thee
every
charm
,
Fire
to
thy
eye
and
vigour
to
thy
arm
;
Then
from
our
lofty
hopes
and
longing
eyes
,
Fate
and
thy
virtues
call'd
thee
to
the
skies
;
Yet
still
we
wonder
at
thy
tow'ring
fame
,
And
,
losing
thee
,
still
dwell
upon
thy
name
.
Oh!
ever
honour'd
,
ever
valued
!
say
,
What
verse
can
praise
thee
,
or
what
work
repay
?
Yet
verse
(
in
all
we
can
)
thy
worth
repays
,
Nor
trusts
the
tardy
zeal
of
future
days
;
—
Honours
for
thee
thy
country
shall
prepare
,
Thee
in
their
hearts
,
the
good
,
the
brave
shall
bear
;
To
deeds
like
thine
shall
noblest
chiefs
aspire
,
The
Muse
shall
mourn
thee
,
and
the
world
admire
.
In
future
times
,
when
smit
with
Glory's
charms
,
The
untried
youth
first
quits
a
father's
arms
;
—
"
Oh!
be
like
him
,
"
the
weeping
sire
shall
say
;
"
Like
Manners
walk
,
who
walk'd
in
Honour's
way
;
"
In
danger
foremost
,
yet
in
death
sedate
,
"
Oh!
be
like
him
in
all
things
,
but
his
fate
!
"
If
for
that
fate
such
public
tears
be
shed
,
That
Victory
seems
to
die
now
thou
art
dead
;
How
shall
a
friend
his
nearer
hope
resign
,
That
friend
a
brother
,
and
whose
soul
was
thine
?
By
what
bold
lines
shall
we
his
grief
express
,
Or
by
what
soothing
numbers
make
it
less
?
'T
is
not
,
I
know
,
the
chiming
of
a
song
,
Nor
all
the
powers
that
to
the
Muse
belong
,
Words
aptly
cull'd
,
and
meanings
well
express'd
,
Can
calm
the
sorrows
of
a
wounded
breast
;
But
Virtue
,
soother
of
the
fiercest
pains
,
Shall
heal
that
bosom
,
Rutland
,
where
she
reigns
.
Yet
hard
the
task
to
heal
the
bleeding
heart
,
To
bid
the
still-recurring
thoughts
depart
,
Tame
the
fierce
grief
and
stem
the
rising
sigh
,
And
curb
rebellious
passion
,
with
reply
;
Calmly
to
dwell
on
all
that
pleased
before
,
And
yet
to
know
that
all
shall
please
no
more
;
—
Oh!
glorious
labour
of
the
soul
,
to
save
Her
captive
powers
,
and
bravely
mourn
the
brave
To
such
these
thoughts
will
lasting
comfort
give
—
Life
is
not
measured
by
the
time
we
live
:
'Tis
not
an
even
course
of
threescore
years
,
—
A
life
of
narrow
views
and
paltry
fears
,
Grey
hairs
and
wrinkles
and
the
cares
they
bring
,
That
take
from
Death
the
terrors
or
the
sting
;
But
'tis
the
gen'rous
spirit
,
mounting
high
Above
the
world
,
that
native
of
the
sky
;
The
noble
spirit
,
that
,
in
dangers
brave
,
Calmly
looks
on
,
or
looks
beyond
the
grave
:
—
Such
Manners
was
,
so
he
resign'd
his
breath
,
If
in
a
glorious
,
then
a
timely
death
.
Cease
then
that
grief
,
and
let
those
tears
subside
;
If
Passion
rule
us
,
be
that
passion
pride
;
If
Reason
,
reason
bids
us
strive
to
raise
Our
fallen
hearts
,
and
be
like
him
we
praise
;
Or
if
Affection
still
the
soul
subdue
,
Bring
all
his
virtues
,
all
his
worth
in
view
,
And
let
Affection
find
its
comfort
too
:
For
how
can
Grief
so
deeply
wound
the
heart
,
When
Admiration
claims
so
large
a
part
?
Grief
is
a
foe
—
expel
him
then
thy
soul
;
Let
nobler
thoughts
the
nearer
views
control
!
Oh!
make
the
age
to
come
thy
better
care
,
See
other
Rutlands
,
other
Granbys
there
!
And
,
as
thy
thoughts
through
streaming
ages
glide
,
See
other
heroes
die
as
Manners
died
:
And
from
their
fate
,
thy
race
shall
nobler
grow
As
trees
shoot
upwards
that
are
pruned
below
;
Or
as
old
Thames
,
borne
down
with
decent
pride
,
Sees
his
young
streams
run
warbling
at
his
side
;
Though
some
,
by
art
cut
off
,
no
longer
run
,
And
some
are
lost
beneath
the
summer
sun
—
Yet
the
pure
stream
moves
on
,
and
,
as
it
moves
,
Its
power
increases
and
its
use
improves
;
While
plenty
round
its
spacious
waves
bestow
,
Still
it
flows
on
,
and
shall
for
ever
flow
.