O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine! How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; Nor surly porter stands, in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend, Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While resignation gently slopes the way, And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170
Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd, 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 faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
With blossom'd 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 learn'd 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, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declar'd how much he knew; "Twas certain he could write, and cipher too, Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge. 210 In arguing too the parson own'd his skill, For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.216
But past is all his fame: the very spot, Where many a time he triumph'd, 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 inspir'd,
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 267 Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around; Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied-276 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary spots are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure, all 285 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 290 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress: Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd; In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms-a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 305 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped-what waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. The good old sire the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
"But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;
And Piety with wishes placed above, And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride, Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide by which the noble arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell! and O where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
"Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
"For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem length'ning as I go."
"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.
For yonder faithless phantom flies
The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too."
Philip Dormer Stanhope, Lord Chesterfield 1
(Letter LXXIV., from Letters to His Son, 1774)
Dear Boy-I have often told you in my former letters (and it is most certainly true) that the strictest and most scrupulous honour 5 and virtue can alone make you esteemed and valued by mankind; that parts and learning can alone make you admired and celebrated by them; but that the possession of lesser talents was most absolutely necessary towards 10 making you liked, beloved, and sought after in private life. Of these lesser talents good breeding is the principal and most necessary one, not only as it is very important in itself,
1 A well known wit, politician, orator, and "finegentleman," in the age of Pope and of Johnson. He was a typical product of early 18th century England, in which essential coarseness and materialism were too often covered with a superficial veneer of polish and refinement. His early repulse of Dr. Johnson, and belated offer of patronage occasioned Johnson's famous letter of rebuke, which is given on p. 385. His Letters, which were not written for publication but intended to serve as a practical guide to his son in conduct and manners, reflect with a terrible truthfulness the views and standards of their author.
And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain:
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