Far from the hamlet, where their fathers grew, The sons have never wish’d nor sought to stray; Fortune their humble dwelling never knew, And Science there ne’er shed her piercing ray. Yet, e’en their welcome holiday they keep, A smile of pleasure sparkles in their eyes; Drest in their Sunday’s suits, and drinking deep, They draw the smile and pity of the wise. Their wants, their woes, without disguise made known, The void, in conversation oft supply: And many saving maxims are laid down, That teach the poor, lank hunger to defy. For who, to penury and grief a prey, At Christmas-tide no signs of pleasure shows? Flies from the scenes of happiness away, Nor casts one wistful glance where plenty flows? At that glad time the face in smiles is drest, And ev’ry honest heart around is gay; E’en the poor lab’ror strives to have a feast, E’en the sad widow wipes her tears away. For thee who, mindful of this festal day, Dost try in rhyme its pleasures to relate, If chance, when Reason shall regain her sway, Some boon companion should enquire thy fate, Haply some near-observing friend may say, “When all was o’er, we saw him scour along, Splashing through every puddle in his way, In hopes to gain his home e’er morning sprung. “There in yon stream, that slowly wanders down The silent vale, remote from care and strife, His listless length at midnight hour was thrown, And ’scap’d, by chance, with scarce a sign of life. “Along yon trackless heath, his dreary way, Mutt’ring ten thousand curses, he explor’d: Now starting, wild with terror and dismay, Now dreading yet th’ unfathomable ford. “That morn we missed him ope his cottage door, Within the barn, and on the bowling green; Another fill’d his chair at dinner hour: Nor at the sports, nor ale-house was he seen. “At night, by friends and neighbours homeward borne, We saw him pillow’d on the couch of rest, Approach and hear his faithful Mary mourn, And mark the throbbings of the anxious breast.” THE SOLILOQUY. Here rests his head, now free from care or mirth, A man for drinking and misfortunes known; Cold poverty presided at his birth, And ever since has mark’d him for her own. Large were the draughts he quaff’d, by passion driv’n, And reason’s power was lost amid the flow; He gave his sorrow to the winds of heaven, And snatch’d a short oblivion to his woe. No further seek his frailties to disclose, Or tell each little failing of his life, Here they, forgot in silence, should repose―― The bosom of his confidant and wife. From _The Pleasures of Nature; or, the Charms of Rural Life. With other Poems_. By David Carey. London: Vernon and Hood. 1803.