OF GRAY'S ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.
ST. PAUL'S proclains the solemn midnight hour,
The weary Cit slow turns the master key;
Time-stinted Prentices up Ludgate scour,
And leave the streets to darkness, and to me.
Now glimmering lamps afford a doubtful ray,
And scarce a sound disturbs the night's dull ear;
Save where some rambling hack directs its way,
Or frequent tinklings rouse the tavern bar.
Save that in yonder iron-grated tower,
The watchmen to the constable complain
Of such as, in defiance to their power,
Molest their ancient solitary reign.
Beneath these butchers stalls, that penthouse shed,
Where rankling offals fret in many a heap,
Each in his several stye of garbage laid,
The dextrous sons of Buckhorse soundly sleep.
The cheerful call of "Chair, your honour, Chair,"
Rakes drunk and roaring from the Bedford Head,
The tongues of coachmen squabbling for a fare,
No more can rouse them from their lowly bed,
For them the blazing links no longer burn,
Or busy bunters ply their evening care;
No setters watch the muddled Cit's return,
In hopes some pittance of the prey to share.
Oft to their subtilty the fob did yield,
Their cunning oft the pocket string hath broke;
How in dark alleys bludgeons would they wield!
How bow'd the wretch beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their humble toil,
Their vulgar crimes and villainy obscure;
Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile,
The low and petty knaveries of the poor.
The titled Villain, and the Thief of Power,
The greatest rogue that ever bore a name,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour,
The paths of wickedness but lead to shame.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
If justice round their necks the halter fix,
If from the gallows to their kindred vault
They ride not pompous in a coach and six.
Gives not the lordly axe as sure a fate?
Are Peers exempt from mould'ring into dust?
Can all the gilded 'scutcheons of the Great
Stamp on polluted deeds the name of JUST?
Beneath the gibbet's self perhaps is laid
Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire;
Hands, which the sword of Nero might have sway'd,
And midst the carnage tun'd th' exulting lyre.
Ambition to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with such monstrous crimes, did ne'er unrol;
Chill Penury repress'd their native rage,
And froze the bloody current of their soul.
Full many a youth fit for each horrid scene,
The dark and sooty flues of chimnies bear;
Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen,
And dies unhang'd for want of proper care.
Some petty Chartres that with dauntless breast
Each call of worth and honesty withstood,
Some mute inglorious Wilmot here may rest
Some
guiltless of his
The votes of venal Senates to command,
The worthy man's opinion to despise ;
To scatter mischief o'er a ruin'd land,
And read their curses in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade, nor circumscribed alone,
Their growing fortunes but their crimes confin'd,
Forbade with libels to insult the throne,
And vilify the noblest of mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide,
To bid defiance to all sense of shame,
Their country's toil and labours to deride,
And heap fresh fuel on Sedition's flame;
To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice,
Their vulgar wishes ne'er presumed to soar,
Content on wheelbarrows to cog the dice,
Or pick a pocket at the playhouse door.
Yet e'en these humble vices to correct,
Old Tyburn lifts his triple front on high;
Bridewell, with bloody whips and fetters deck'd,
Frowns dreadful vengeance on the younger fry.
Their years, their names, their birth, and parentage,
Tho' doubtful all, the Grub-street bard supplies,
Prints but what first debauch'd the tender age,
And with what words the ripen'd felon dies.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
When to the dreadful tree of death consign'd,
But yearns to think upon the fatal day
That first seduced to sin his pliant mind?
No soul so callous but Remorse may sting,
No heart so hard but Guilt may teach to sigh;
Contrition forces heartfelt tears to spring,
And melt to tenderness the sternest eye.
For him, the master of the pilfering herd,
Whom certain punishment attends though late,
If when his wretched carcase is interr'd,
Some curious person should enquire his fate:
Haply some hoary-headed thief may say,
Oft have I seen him with his lighted link
Guide some unwary stranger cross the way,
And pick his pocket at the kennel's brink.
There at the foot of yonder column stretch'd,
Where the Seven Dials are exalted high,
He and his myrmidons for hours have watch'd,
And pour'd destruction on each passer by.
Hard by yon hill, where not a lamp appears,
Sculking in quest of booty he would wait;
Now as a beggar shedding artful tears,
Now smiting with his crutch some hapless pate.
One morn I miss'd him at the accustom'd place,
The seven-faced pillar, and the favorite wall;
Another came, nor yet I saw his face,
The post, the crossings, were deserted all.
At last, in dismal cart, and sad array,
Backward up Holborn-hill I saw him mount:
Here you may read, for you can read you say,
His Epitaph in the Ord'nary's account.
Here festering rests a quondam plague of earth,
To Virtue and to honest Shame unknown,
Low Cunning on a dung-hill gave him birth,
And Villainy confess'd him for her own.
Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark,
In artful knavery lay all his hope;
No pains he spar'd, and seldom miss'd the mark,
And gain'd from justice all he fear'd-a rope.
If further you his villainies would know,
And genuine anecdotes desire to meet,
Go read the story of his vice and woe,
Printed and sold by Simpson near the Fleet.
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