The Project Gutenberg eBook, An Essay on War, in Blank Verse; and Other Poems, on Various Subjects, by Nathaniel Bloomfield

E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Tony Browne, David Garcia,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

AN ESSAY ON WAR, IN BLANK VERSE;

HONINGTON GREEN, A BALLAD;

THE CULPRIT, AN ELEGY;

AND

OTHER POEMS, ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS:

BY

NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD.

1803.

Transcriber's Note: The page headers in the original text contained one-line summaries of what appears on that page within each poem. Due to the difficulty of interleaving these lines without completely disrupting the flow of the poetry, they have been collected and placed in a single square-bracketed paragraph at the start of each poem, and separated by em-dashes.

PREFACE.

Whoever has read the Preface to the FARMER'S BOY will hardly fail of recollecting the Name of NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD; the Author of the POEMS here offer'd to The Public.

It will be recollected that he there appears, with his Brother GEORGE BLOOMFIELD, standing in the place of the Father, whom they had early lost, to their younger Brother ROBERT.

It is natural to suppose that this brotherly interference, and it's consequences, greatly and advantageously influenc'd the dispositions, pursuits, and habits of thought and conduct, of all three of the Brothers.—And it is the more exemplary when it is consider'd how young the two eldest were at that time.

It is an encouraging instance how much may be effected for each other by the poor and uneducated, if they have prudence, activity, and kind affections; and how unexpectedly, and to an extent far beyond apparent probability, success is given by Providence to virtuous and benevolent efforts.

Beyond question, the Brothers of this Family are all extraordinary Men: and perhaps every one of them is more so than he would have been without the fraternal concord which has animated them all, and multiplied the powers of all by union and sympathy.

Of NATHANIEL, as of ROBERT, my Account shall be taken from communications by Letter, made at my request by Mr. GEORGE BLOOMFIELD.

NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD was born 23d Feb.[¹] 1759.

He was the 3d Child and 2d Son of GEORGE BLOOMFIELD, of Honington: and was deprived of his Father, by the Small-pox, when he was eight years old. Like ROBERT, he learnt to read and write of his MOTHER: and had, like him, his farther instructions in Writing, and was taught the first Rules of Arithmetic, by Mr. RODWELL, of Ixworth[²]: where also he seems to have had some instruction in Grammar. But his Mother being then a widow, his Grandfather (Mr. ROBIN MANBY) kindly bound him Apprentice to Mr. HAYLETT, a Tailor of Market-Harling: of which business the Father of the BLOOMFIELDS had been.

He was here very kindly treated: and was found to be an excellent Apprentice.

While here he learnt Church Music, (one of the great consolations of energetic and pensive minds) and sung in a company which was conducted by Mr. SYDER. But when his voice broke, he could make no figure among them: for it was not only a Bass of extremely narrow compass, but weak and tremulous.

This latter defect of voice was observ'd in THOMSON: and perhaps it may arise sometimes not from a fault in the natural quality of the voice, but from exceeding sensibility to Poetry and Music.

When about 16 or 17 years of age he entered with the fervor of a vigorous and thoughtful mind into the study of Religion, on the principles of the Church of England: and added to his study of it what is the great end, the practice of Religion as a rule of conduct and life.

At a stall at Harling Fair he met with a Practical Catechism: the Author's name, PRATT: and at the same time he made the acquisition of a large volume of TILLOTSON'S Sermons. Probably the Folio Edition of the Sermons of that excellent Man and Writer: so distinguish'd by his Piety, uniform, mild, and rational; the morality of his excellent Discourses; their simplicity and clearness; and the sweetness and persuasiveness of manner. These, and other religious Tracts, he bought: and "the last" (Tillotson) "he lent," says Mr. GEORGE BLOOMFIELD, "to me. I receiv'd many excellent Letters from him on that subject: and they had greater weight on my mind than if they had been written by an elder hand."

When his Apprenticeship expir'd he came to LONDON: and expected to find his Brother GEORGE there. But GEORGE had taken a trip, "or tramp, as it is called," into Kent. They however soon met in LONDON: "and there never lived" (adds GEORGE) "a more pleasant acquaintance than he prov'd."

It was some years before he could procure work in LONDON sufficient to support him through the dead Months. He us'd therefore, when he found trade dull in Town, to go into the Country.

And thus, while at Woolwich, he became acquainted with CHARLOTTE NOBLE, whom he MARRIED 4th March, 1787; he being then in his 28th, and she in her 17th year. Her Mother was a Widow: who kept a small General Shop. Her Brother-in-law GEORGE, in speaking of this union, says, "There perhaps never liv'd a Woman who possess'd a better temper: and he has, though very poor, been exceedingly happy." For myself, I wish, in transcribing this account, that those who think riches so essential to happiness that they will take no step in life, nor suffer their hearts or their understandings to have any influence with them, if the acquisition of riches seems likely to be delayed or endanger'd, would consider that the Family of the BLOOMFIELDS has been happy, and has excell'd, upon very different principles. And if we would compare the thousands in every situation of Life to whom what is called prosperity is a snare, a burthen and a curse, with those who are happy with mere necessaries, and those with difficulty obtain'd; ... happy by their Affections and their Virtues; by improv'd and generous and tender Feelings; by Hope amid difficulties, and Confidence in Heaven amid trials and distresses, ... it might be seen and felt that there is more of folly in the wisdom of the world, than those who place Wisdom in the accumulation of superfluities, to the neglect of the most natural Blessings, and often in violation of the clearest Duties, either of Justice or of Benevolence, may be willing to acknowledge.

He has two Children living:—ELIZABETH; born 11th Jul. 1789; GEORGE; 4th Febr. 1797. "He lost," adds his Brother, "two sweet Boys: who both died within a few days of each other, by that dreadful disease the SMALL-POX;" which, while this Preface was in the Press, has been fatal to another promising Child, THOMAS; born Aug. 1799. The Father, oppress'd with grief, reproaches himself for not having inoculated this Child with the Small-Pox. But when it is consider'd how formidable, after two such Losses, the SMALL-POX in any form must appear to affectionate Parents, I think it will be evident that he is too severe to himself in this reproach. The inoculated SMALL-POX is sometimes fatal: had he inoculated the Child he would have reproach'd himself, and still with more feeling than justice, for so doing.

He had read but little Poetry when he came to LONDON: but he had not been long there before he was struck, looking, as was his custom, at Books on a stall, with the Title of NIGHT THOUGHTS. "He had never heard of it before: but it's name was an irresistible charm to his melancholy, enquiring mind. This has been ever his favourite Book. He would have bought it had it been double the price. And as he possesses an uncommonly retentive memory, he us'd to repeat great part of it by rote in his walks with his Brothers. He afterwards read MILTON."

Such a Memory, and the study of two such Authors with poetic enthusiasm, may in part account for what exceedingly surpriz'd me in reading the MSS. of THE ESSAY ON WAR:—a greater mastery in the mechanism, and greater power of numbers, than I should have almost thought possible in the first attempt in BLANK VERSE; even to a person of the best education.

He read too, GOLDSMITH and FIELDING. And he added to these some of our English Poets as they fell in his way. Among these THOMSON could hardly fail to be: but Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD remarks, "he never was so struck with THOMSON as I should have expected."

While single, he made it the amusement of his evenings to read Entick's Dictionary, and write down every word of which he wish'd to remember the spelling or the meaning. He has often said that since his buying of the Sermons in his early youth, he had never bought for his own reading any but poetical Books: and when he could get hold of any miscellaneous Book, he read first the Poetry, and after look'd at no other part.

With this turn of Mind and habit of reading, that he has through Life indulg'd in poetical effusions will be no matter of surprize. But be has more than once said to his Brother GEORGE in Letters, that it was the success of ROBERT that encouraged him to attempt an Essay on War: a subject on which he had occupied his thoughts a great length of time.

"I remember," says his Brother, "nothing particular of his infancy: except the great share of bashfulness (or, as a Philosopher perhaps would say, pride) which he possess'd in common with the rest of the Family.... Exceedingly mild in his temper and kind to his play-mates, he was very apt in learning."

For the last 15 years his own Account is that he has certainty read but little: his Family having claim'd his utmost exertions; and his business allowing little leisure. And what leisure he had being generally employed in walking with his Children. Untill last Summer he was a Journeyman Tailor: but has since been a MASTER in a small way. If therefore he appears to possess any knowledge of a litterary nature, it must be all from the stores of Memory.

He at present lives at No. 19, Dagget Court, Broker Row, Moorfields, London. He is (says Mr. G. BLOOMFIELD) about 5F. 3I. high[³]: of a dark complexion, and dark gray eyes: he has lost the hair from the top of his head, which gives him the appearance of Age. Though remarkable for talking little, so as to have the name of a man of few words, he is, on occasion, a chearful companion: and though generally pensive and melancholy, ever kind-hearted.

"As a Husband and Father, his character is certainly exemplary. And few men pass through Life so smoothly. Though commonly working with a number of shop-mates, he has such a philosophical command of temper, that he never disputes; nor concerns himself with the disputes of others, unless they refer to him for a decision."

Thus far the Account by his Brother: who had observ'd in a former Letter, that with respect to Temper, what he should otherwise have to speak of NATHANIEL, he had in a great measure said already of ROBERT. Such a coincidence in mild and simple manners, amiable and good disposition, is pleasing to remark any where: and additionally so when it relates to Men who have each original and characteristic Genius; and when the testimony is given by a Brother so capable of judging, and who has had such continued experience from their very early Life, of the Disposition and Character of both.

Having spoken thus far of the AUTHOR, from the best authority, it remains for me to say something briefly of these his WORKS.

Early in the Spring of 1801, I saw in MSS. HONINGTON-GREEN, and the ESSAY ON WAR[⁴]. I communicated them to Mr. GEDGE, Printer, of BURY; who had been a zealous and active Friend to THE FARMER'S BOY: on reading them, he wanted no time for deliberation, but offer'd at once to print them for the benefit of the Author, at his own risque. I had known his accuracy as a Printer: of which, and of neat Typography, I flatter myself this Publication will be a proof. I had no difficulty to adopt the proposal: and gladly offer'd, on my part, what little preparation (very little indeed it was) might be necessary of the MSS. for the Press; (or rather in it's progress through it); and to revise and correct the Proofs.

My province has been quite of a similar kind in this instance as it was in that of Mr. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD: little corrections, in point of Orthography; and still fewer of Grammar: sometimes of Diction; and sometimes of Versification. For some of the best of these emendations I have been indebted to one, in mentioning of whom I should have had an affectionate Pride: and have more in that Modesty which forbids the mention. They are, as I have said, few of any kind: For of emendations I have been anxiously sparing. Little was requisite: and more than was so would have been blameable. I rely on the original MSS. being preserv'd: which on this, as on the former occasion, will speak for itself.

I have said what I thought of THE FARMER'S BOY. It is a truely agricultural Poem: it's originality and vivid representation of immediate Nature manifest themselves in the whole Design, and in every page. It will live with the works of HESIOD and THEOCRITUS; of VIRGIL and THOMSON. I was nearly as much assur'd of this from the first, and so express'd myself, as the event could assure me. I will now say with the same freedom what I think of the ESSAY ON WAR.

I regard it as a Poem of extraordinary vigor and originality: in Thought, Plan, Conduct, Language, and Versification. I think it has much indeed of the philosophic character, poetic spirit, force of coloring, energy and pathos, which distinguish LUCRETIUS. Of the justness and spirit of the VERSIFICATION I have already spoken.

The PRINCIPLE of the ESSAY ON WAR appears to me, I will own, more paradoxical than I should think, to judge from their conduct, it can appear to the ruling part at least of Mankind in general. I indulge the hope and expectation that WAR shall one day be universally and finally extinguish'd. But I will confess also, that appearances would tempt us to apprehend that day is far distant. And while we make War for Sport on useful, generous, inoffensive Animals, it is not easy to imagine that we shall cease to make War on one another.

But whether the Principle of the Poem be well or ill-founded, I can hardly imagine any abstract proposition to be more poetically, more forcibly, or more comprehensively maintain'd. And I am either ignorant wherein Genius consists, or it is manifest in the Idea, the Style and Numbers, the Design and Conduct of this Poem.

Of HONINGTON GREEN I am to speak next. And here it may be right to obviate some prejudice against the Poem, which, in the minds of several, may arise from the subject. I am not an Enemy to Enclosures: if the RIGHTS and INTERESTS of the POOR, and of SMALL OWNERS, be very carefully guarded, an ENCLOSURE may be a common Benefit. However, it is very liable to become otherwise. But be an Enclosure good or bad, (and every Man has a right to his opinion, and to support it by argument, on this subject and every other) there are particular circumstances and considerations which stand clear of the scope of the general question. The Spot which is the subject of the Ballad is less, I believe, than Half an Acre. It did certainly ornament the Village; independent of a just and laudable partiality in the Author. Thus it would have seem'd to the casual glance of a stranger. To the BLOOMFIELDS every circumstance gave it peculiar endearment. There the Author of 'THE FARMER'S BOY,' and of these POEMS, first drew breath. There grew the first Daisies which their feet pressed in childhood. On this little Green their Parents look'd with delight: and the Children caught the affection; and learn'd to love it as soon as they lov'd any thing. By it's smallness and it's situation it was no object: and could have been left out of Enclosure without detriment to the General Plan, or to any individual Interest. I wish it had: and most who love Poetry, and respect Genius, and are anxious to preserve the little innocent Gratifications of the Poor, will have the same wish.

As a poetical effusion, it strikes me that it has the tone, simplicity, and sweetness, and pleasing Melancholy of the Ballad. There is a stroke or two of indignant severity: but the general character is such as I have describ'd. And with filial Gratitude and Love there is blended, in the close, that turn for Reflection which is so remarkable in this Author.... I wish'd and recommended that some at least of the ornaments of 'THE FARMER'S BOY' should be sketches of local scenery: knowing how much more interesting they would have been, and how much more appropriate to the Poem. In that recommendation I was not successful: but I am glad, in this instance, to see a faithful and agreeable Sketch of Honington-Green from a very young pencil[⁵]. It will be remember'd, at a far remote Period, that the double Cottage at the end of the Green was the Birth-place of the BLOOMFIELDS. It is still, (and may it yet be long so) the habitation of their Mother: and has been repair'd lately by ROBERT. And I much doubt whether any House or Green will see two such Poets born of the same Parents.

THE CULPRIT is the next in this Collection, and I had not seen it, nor was it written, when I saw the two first. They decided my Opinion; and had no more appeared, they would have been publish'd alone; as they abundantly deserved.

THE CULPRIT strikes me as an original and highly affecting Poem. The very attempt to sketch the successive conflicting feelings of one thus circumstanc'd is no common effort. And what compass of thought; what energy of expression! ... I do not always admit the justness of the arguments. But it is a Soliloquy in character: and in judging of it, as in all pieces of representative Poetry (as Mr. DYER, in his lately publish'd ESSAY has well term'd it) the imagin'd situation ought to be consider'd. And it strikes me as closing with a true and aweful Pathos: not often equall'd.

The YORKSHIRE DIP is, I think, the result of that active but melancholy Fancy, which can travel far into views of Life and Nature from a slight occasion. It has a mixture of the Sportive which deepens the impression of it's melancholy Close. I could have wish'd, as I have said in a short Note, the Conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of Life less offend my Taste than its sweets delight it. But when I think what NATHANIEL must have felt in passing through Life, I more respect the Chearfulness and habitual Vigor of his Mind, than I am dispos'd to be out of humor with occasional gloom.

LOVE'S TRIUMPH differs as much in manner as in subject from those which precede it. Yet a vein of pensive and philosophic thought flows here also. The SONG OF BALDWIN is well adapted to soothe the fears and the discontents of Poverty: and to convince those who have not learnt it, that wealth, and rank, and power, and unlimited indulgence, are not such Blessings as they are imagin'd to be at a distance: nor Poverty such an Evil, that the first and best Blessings of Nature should be therefore thrown aside in despair.

I may doubt on the expediency of the SONG OF BALDWIN being in a different measure; but I can not doubt of the general merit of the Poem.

The PROVERBS, like other compositions of this kind, must rest chiefly on their moral Justness, Utility, Simplicity, and Conciseness, rather than on poetic Excellence: though neither in form nor coloring are they deficient of that compos'd and grave Beauty which the Nature of the Subject and Composition admits.

MORE BREAD AND CHEESE contains the Principle of the ESSAY ON WAR, and of a celebrated ESSAY ON POPULATION, which I dare say the Author never saw. It is strong, characteristic; and original: and although in the measure of the humorous Ballad, has much nerve and energy[⁶].

I have now a Remark to make which relates generally to the Versification. We may observe of HONINGTON GREEN, and most of the Poems in rhyme in this Collection, that they are strongly accentuated: and if red with a close attention to accent and emphasis, the rhythm is musical and energetic; where to a careless Reader it might appear harsh and untuneable.

The LYRIC ELEGY which concludes this little Collection is, I think, animated and pathetic in no common degree. On the Merits of VACCINE INOCULATION I do not think myself qualify'd to offer an opinion. Great Doubts have been entertain'd concerning it by medical Men of Abilities and Experience. Objections apparently strong were urg'd; and of various kinds. At present it has had Declarations in it's favor from among the most distinguish'd of it's Opposers. And it seems to have little short of a general reception in the medical World.... Time and Experience, the great Test of Truth in such instances, must determine for or against it. But, important as the Question is, poetical Merit is comparatively independent on the correctness of a philosophic System or Hypothesis. And reflecting on his former Losses and present Calamities, the Author could not but feel a deep Interest in whatever seem'd likely to obviate such an Evil to others.

I have observ'd some rather striking coincidences with VIRGIL and LUCRETIUS. I might have pointed out more; and to other classic Authors. But I should have extended this Preface too far. At the same time, such a concurrence in the Sentiments and Expressions of Genius in very distant Ages, and under widely different Circumstances, is always interesting, even where it can be resolv'd with Certainty, or Probability, into IMITATION: and much more so, when, as in these Poems, it is certain that it CAN NOT.

I have very few Words more to say in presenting this little Volume to the PUBLIC. Specimens they will find in it of such different kinds of Composition, as the same individual rarely can attempt with success. Yet through great diversity of Style, Dissimilarity of Measure, and Variety of Sentiment and Subject, may be seen the same Mind: and Traces of the same Manner, and that manner peculiarly characteristic...a mixture of contemplative equanimity, of incidental gleams of vivacity; of energy frequently pathetic, sometimes sarcastic, and not seldom sublime. And we have here an additional proof, that a true poetic Spirit, in whatever Breast it inhabits, will create Thoughts, Language, and Numbers, worthy of the Muse, however unfavourable the occupation and habits of Life.

Mr. NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD was not without his fears, however, lest it should be thought, that, although THE MUSE can visit a SHEPHERD'S BOY, there may be some employments which exclude her influence. That a TAYLOR should be a POET, he doubted, might appear too startling an Assertion. And he had said accordingly to his Brother GEORGE, in a Letter, when this Publication was first going to Press, "I want you to exclude the word Taylor. Let there be no such Word in the Book. But perhaps I am too late. I know there is in the public Mind as great contempt for him who bears the appellation of Taylor, as STERNE has made old SHANDY have for SIMKIN, NECKEY, or TRISTRAM. How many CAESARS and POMPEYS, says he, by mere inspiration of the names, have been rendered worthy of them? And how many are there who might have done exceedingly well in the World, had not their Characters and Spirits been totally depress'd and Nicodemiz'd; and I will add (says Mr. N. BLOOMFIELD) taylor'd into nothing? In the REHEARSAL, the Author, to make the most ridiculous part of it still more ridiculous, tells us, that it was written to a Taylor, and by a Taylor's Wife. And even the discerning SPECTATOR has given into this common-place raillery in the Monkey's Letter to her Mistress. He has made the Soul which inhabited Pug's Body, in recounting the humiliating State it had formerly been in, say, that he had been a Taylor, a Shrimp, and a Tom-tit. It is from these causes, as well as from the habits and appearance contracted by a recluse and sedentary Life, that, in the enlighten'd, as well as the ignorant, the ideas of Taylor and Insignificance are inseparably link'd together."

I prevail'd, notwithstanding, that this word, whose anti-poetic influence is so dreaded, should be in the Book. About half a Century ago, there seem'd a degree of incredulity as to the possibility of Courage in a Taylor. ELLIOT'S LIGHT HORSE, at that time compos'd of Taylor-Volunteers. effectually overcame that prejudice. It remain'd to dissolve another still more irrational prepossession, that a Taylor cannot be a Poet. And this Volume will be a victorious Host against an Army of such Prejudices. Indeed the Force is greater than such a Combat requires: for stubborn as other Prejudices may still be, our litterary Prejudices have, in this Age, been rapidly giving way to Candour, Reason, Common-Sense, and the Evidence of Fact. We have long known that a Scotch Plough-Boy and a Milk-Woman[⁷] could still be Poets of high and almost singular Excellence. And if Improbability were any thing against Fact, it would be far more improbable, that two Brothers should be such Poets as ROBERT and NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD are, than that a Taylor should be a Poet. It remains then for Prejudice to vanish like Mists before the Sun: while the two BROTHERS sociably ascend PARNASSUS together; higher than ever Brothers have climbed before: I might add, each of them to an height which but few have ever reach'd[⁸].

CAPEL LOFFT.
Troston-Hall, 2 Jan: 1803.

Footnote 1: [(return)]

I had said, and certainly upon full authority, 23rd April; which the Author his-self believ'd to be the Day: and had remarked accordingly it was a Day distinguish'd by the Birth and Death of SHAKESPERE. But Mr. N. BLOOMFIELD discover'd and immediately communicated the mistake as to the Day. Thus we lose an interesting coincidence: but we gain what is of greater value; a just and prompt sacrifice to truth and candor. C.L.

Footnote 2: [(return)]

Who is mention'd in the Preface to the Farmer's Boy. C.L.

Footnote 3: [(return)]

If "True natural Greatness all consists in height," the Family of the Bloomfields, is most unfortunate. The Father Mr. George Bloomfield had 2 Inches less of this Greatness.

Footnote 4: [(return)]

I had a hint from both the Brothers, GEORGE and ROBERT, that NATHANIEL had a turn for Poetry, and had written what they believ'd would much please me. C.L.

Footnote 5: [(return)]

A name-sake and relation of the Author: of the Age, as I understand, of about 14.

Footnote 6: [(return)]

I am half tempted to say of it

A Fist may hit him who a Sermon flies.

Ridiculum aeri Fortius et melius magnas quandoque fecat res. C.L.

Footnote 7: [(return)]

BURNS, and Mrs. YEARSLEY.

Footnote 8: [(return)]

Pauci quos aequus amavit Jupiter, atque ardens evexit ad aethera Virtus, Felices, potuere!

CONTENTS

ESSAY ON WAR

HONINGTON GREEN

THE CULPRIT

YORKSHIRE DIP

LOVE'S TRIUMPH

PROVERBS OF THREESCORE

MORE BREAD AND CHEESE

LYRIC ADDRESS TO DR. JENNER

ESSAY ON WAR

[War for room required by encreased Population.—With Arts of Use and Comfort spring those of War.—Blessings of the Infant State of Society.—Peace cannot last beyond the Infancy of Society.—War defined to preserve the equilibrium of Population.—War between hords of emigrating Stranger Nations.—Invasions on account of violated Women.—Love the strongest and most natural cause of War.—Violence of conflicting Passions at sight of an Enemy.—Solitary wounded Combatant amid the Dying and Dead.—Female Friends seeking for Dead or Wounded Relatives.—Morning after the Battle—Sympathy—Compassion.—Long remembrance of the Horrors of War.—Gunpowder; it's tremendous effects.—Gunpowder, a humane discovery.—Castles &c. proofs of the continued prevalence of War.—Men quit a peaceful Country to seek War abroad.—History full of War.—Slavish Peace more cruel and more horrid than War.—Obligations of Peace to the active Virtues of War.—Havock of Peace more shocking than that of War.—War between Man and the rest of the animal Creation.—War of the Elements and natural Powers.—Recapitulation.... Conclusion.]

Man's sad necessity, destructive War,

Sweeps to the grave the surplus of his sons,

Where'er the kindly clime and soil invite

To Love; and multiply the Human Race.

Around the World, in every happier spot

Where Earth spontaneous gives nutritious fruits.

Her softest verdure courting human feet,

And mossy grot's, beneath protecting shades,

The Stranger's envy, the Possessor's pride;

There, as increasing numbers throng each bower.

Frequent and fatal rivalships arise;

And ruthless War erects his hideous crest.

Soon as Appropriation's iron hand

Assays to grasp the Produce of the Earth;

And youths assert hereditary power,

Propriety exclusive, and in arms

League to defend their patrimonial rights,

Indisputable claim of Fruits and Fields

Contending, oft their massive clubs they raise

Against each other's life: often, alas,

The needy cravings of the unportion'd poor

Provoke their jealous wrath; relentlessly

Tenacious of their store, they shut him out,

'Midst desart Famine, and ferocious Beasts,

To guard his life and till the steril soil;

And thus extend the range of human feet.

Still as Experience, in her tardy school,

Instructs the Shepherd and the Husbandman

To great increase their flocks and herds to rear,

To till the ground, and plant the fruitful tree

In slow progression rising into use,

Nurtur'd by Her the infant Arts appear.

While sage Experience thus teaches Man

The useful and the pleasant Arts of Life,

She in harsh lectures, in the frequent broil,

Enjoins her Pupil still to cultivate

The fatal, necessary Art of War.

The Artizan, who from metallic ores

Forms the sharp implements to dress the glebe,

And prune the wild luxuriance of the tree; ...

By him is made the sword, the spear, the shaft,

By Man worn to defend him against Man.

Most bless'd the country where kind Nature's face

In unsophisticated Freedom smiles:

Happy the tenants of primeval days

When young society is in it's spring:

Where there is room and food for millions more,

Love knows no check, the votaries of Love,

The happy votaries of Wedded Love,

Know not the curse of peopled, polish'd, times:

The curse to wish their children may be few.

Sweet converse binds the cords of social love;

When the rude noise and gestures that ere while

Imperfectly express'd the labouring thought;

By social concourse are improv'd to Speech:

Speech, reasoning Man's distinguishing perfection;

Speech, the inestimable vehicle

Of mental light, and intellectual bliss;

Whence the fair fruits of Holy Friendship grow,

Presenting to fond Hope's enamour'd sight

The fairy prospect of perpetual Peace.

Advanc'd Society's prudential Laws,

The moral virtues of the enlighten'd mind,

And all the ties of Interest and of Love,

In vain conspire to nurse their favourite Peace,

And banish dire Immanity and War.

Strong Nature's bent, continual increase,

Still counteracts Humanity's fond wish,

The perpetuity of Peace, and Love;

Alas! progressive Increase cannot last.

Soon mourns the encumber'd land it's human load:

Too soon arrives the inauspicious hour;

The Natal Hour of the unhappy Man,

Who all his life goes mourning up and down

That there is neither bough, nor mud, nor straw

That he may take to make himself a hut;

No, not in all his native land a twig

That he may take, nor spot of green grass turf,

Where without trespass he may set his foot.

Now Want and Poverty wage War with Love;

And hard the conflict: horrible the thought,

That Love, who boasts of his all-conquering impulse,

Should have to mourn abortive energies...

But in proportion as Mankind increase,

So evils multiply: till Nature's self,

(The native passions of the human mind)

Engender War; which thins, and segregates,

And rectifies the balance of the world:

As thick-sown plants in the vegetable world,

With stretching branches wage continual War;

Each tender bud shrinks from the foreign touch

With a degree of sensitive perception;

Till one deforms, o'er-tops, and kills the other.

Like Summer swarms, that quit their native hives,

The offspring of increasing families,

Who find no room beneath their father's roofs,

No patrimony nor employ at home,

Colleagu'd in bands explore the desart wilds,

To seek adventures; or to seek their food:

If chance they meet with rovers (like themselves)

Whose home is far away in distant vales,

Behind the mountains, or beyond the lake;

Instinctively they war where'er they meet:

The friendly parley cannot intervene;

The unknown tongue does but create alarm:

With jealous fears, stern looks, and brandish'd arms,

They stand aloof: as birds of distant groves

At the strange note prepare for instant War.

At first they skirmishing dispute the right

Of hunting in the unappropriate waste:

But every onset aggravates their hate;

Till each increasing force, whetting their swords,

With purpos'd malice seeking out the foe,

Alternate by reprisal and revenge,

Doubly compensate each discomfiture,

Yet seek not to attack each-other's home,

Where Age, and Infancy, in safety dwell:

They war but with freebooters: private Peace

And Female Covert, Valour scorns to assail.

But when in evil hour some female hand,

Whether by force of Love, or force of Arms,

Is led across the desart by the Foe;

The jealous fury kindles to a flame:

No longer sacred the domestic hearth:

Fire, Death, and Devastation, mark their way,

And all the horrid crimes of savage War.

Now War becomes the business of the State:

The most humane, the most pacific men,

Must arm for War, or lose all they hold dear:

The sorrows of the Aged, Infant cries,

And Female Tears, resistlessly prevail:

Can gentlest natures be in love with Peace,

When Love, most tender Love, excites to War?

No.... When some lov'd and honour'd youth distrest'd,

Raising his head amongst his arm'd compeers,

Tells that the well-known honourable Maid,

The Virgin Mistress of his dearest hopes,

Is ravish'd from him, borne by force away;

Though pierc'd with grief, yet nobly he exclaims,

'Think not I wish to embroil you in my fate:

'For though not one of you espouse my cause,

'I singly will attempt the desperate deed.

'Farewell: I go to find my Love, or die!'

Silent and motionless the legions stand,

By looks examining each-other's heart:

But soon a murmur through the ranks proceeds,

Swelling as quickly a terrific roar;

Like heavy waters breaking from their mounds,

A long, and loud, and inarticulate shout,

While every weapon vibrates in the air,

And hisses it's fierce vengeance at the foe.

The righteous cause admits of no delay;

No tardy foot impedes the immediate march:

The Enemy, not taken by surprise,

Wak'd by the watchful fears of conscious guilt,

On their frontiers await the coming foe.

Now at the near approach of threatening Death,

Full many a thinking, sighing, aching heart,

Indulges secretly the hopeless wish

For Life, and Peace.... Alas! it cannot be:

To advance is to encounter dreadful danger;

But to recede, inevitable death;

His own associates would deal the blow:

Thus led by Fate, behold upon the plain,

The adverse bands in view, and in advance.

Now Fear, Self-pity, and affected Courage,

Speak in their hideous shouts with voice scarce human;

Like that which issues from his hollow throat

Who sleeping bellows in a frightful dream.

More near their glaring eye-balls flashing meet;

Terror and Rage distorting every face,

Inflame each-other into trembling fury.

Soft-ey'd Humanity, oh! veil thy sight!

Tis not in Rationality to view

(Even in thought) the dire ensuing scene;

For Madness, Madness reigns, and urges men

To deeds that Rationality disowns.

Now here and there about the horrid Field,

Striding across the dying and the dead,

Stalks up a man by strength superior,

Or skill and prowess in the arduous fight,

Preserv'd alive: ... fainting he looks around;

Fearing pursuit, nor caring to pursue.

The supplicating voice of bitterest moans,

Contortions of excruciating pain,

The shriek of torture and the groan of death,

Surround him; and as Night her mantle spreads,

To veil the horrors of the mourning Field,

With cautious step shaping his devious way,

He seeks a covert where to hide and rest:

At every leaf that rustles in the breeze

Starting, he grasps his sword; and every nerve

Is ready strain'd, for combat or for flight.

Thus list'ning to ward off approaching foes,

A distant whispering, fighting, murmuring sound

Salutes his ear, and to his throbbing heart

Soft tidings tells of tenderness and love.

For on that fatal day of vengeful ire.

At fearful distance following the host,

From either country came a female throng;

And now beneath the covert of the night

Advancing, guided by the voice of woe,

Where on the earth the wounded mourners lay,

With trembling steps and fearful whispering voice,

Each seeks, and calls him whom she came to seek:

And many a fugitive, whom force or fear

Had driven from the Field, steals softly back,

Anxious to know the fate of some lov'd friend.

Mutual fears appal the mingled group,

Starting alternate at the unknown tongue: