GEORGE CRABBE, 1754-1832.

"Farewell, dear Crabbe! thou meekest of mankind,
With heart all fervor, and all strength of mind;
With tenderest sympathy for others' woes,
Fearless all guile and malice to expose;
Steadfast of purpose in pursuit of right,

To drag forth dark hypocrisy to light,

To brand the oppressor, and to shame the proud,
To shield the righteous from the slanderous crowd;
To error lenient, and to frailty mild,
Repentance ever was thy welcome child:

In every state-as husband, parent, friend,

Scholar or bard-thou couldst the Christian blend.
Hogarth of Song! be this thy perfect praise:-
Truth prompted, and Truth purified thy lays;
The God of Truth has given thy verse and thee
Truth's holy palm-His Immortality."

GEORGE CRABBE was born at Aldborough, in Suffolk, on the 24th of December, 1754, and was the son of an officer of the customs. He was apprenticed to an apothecary, and received an education merely sufficient to qualify him for that occupation, but by no means answering to that eminent literary success which he afterward attained. His poetical taste was first kindled by the perusal of verses, which from time to time appeared in the "Philosophical Magazine,”—a periodical taken by his father. The attractions of the Muse soon overcame those of Esculapius, and in 1778 he quitted the profession of medicine, which he had always disliked, and went to London, determining to apply himself to literature. He had but little more in his pocket than a bundle of his poems; and these, alas! he could find no one who would venture to publish; so that at length he printed, at his own risk, his first published work, "The Candidate," which appeared anonymously in 1780. It was favorably noticed in the "Monthly Review," to the editor of which it was addressed. Finding, however, that he could not hope for much success while he remained personally unknown, without any introduction, and impelled by distress, he made himself known to Edmund Burke. From this moment his fortune was made. That great and good man received him with much kindness, read his productions with approbation, afforded him the advantage of his criticism and advice, recommended him to Dodsley, the publisher, invited him to his house, and introduced him to some of his distinguished literary friends, among whom were Johnson, Reynolds, and Fox.

Crabbe's first published poems, after his acquaintance with Burke, were “The Library," and "The Village," both of which received the benefit of the observations of the great statesman and critic, and the second of which was mainly composed at Burke's residence at Beaconsfield. In 1781, Crabbe, who had been qualifying himself for "the church" at Burke's recommendation, was "ordained a deacon, and took priest's orders the following year," and he, of course, had two or three "livings" presented to him.2 In 1783, appeared "The Village," which

JOHN DUNCAN, Esq., of New College, Oxford.

2 Lord Chancellor Thurlow bestowed upon him, successively, the "living" of Frome St. Quintin, in Dorsetshire, which he held for six years, and the rectories of Muston and West Allington, in the diocese of Lincoln.

had received the corrections and commendations of Dr. Johnson. He next produced "The Newspaper," in 1785, after which his poetical labors were suspended for some time, probably on account of the duties of his profession and the cares of a growing family, though he ascribes it to the loss of those early and distinguished friends who had given him the benefit of their criticism. In 1809, appeared "The Parish Register;" in 1810 one of his best poems, "The Borough;" and in 1812, "Tales in Verse." His last publication was entitled "Tales of the Hall," and was published in 1819. The latter years of his life he spent in the tranquil and amiable exercise of his domestic and clerical duties, at the rectory of Trowbridge, esteemed and admired by his parishioners, among whom he died, after a short illness, on the Sth of February, 1832.

Crabbe is one of the most original of English poets, and, as has been well remarked, "his originality is of that best kind, which displays itself not in tumid exaggeration or flighty extravagance-not in a wide departure from the sober standard of truth-but in a more rigid and uncompromising adherence to it than inferior writers venture to attempt." He is pre-eminently the poet of the poor, describing with graphic minuteness their privations, temptations, and vices.? But, while he spares some of their vices, he does more justice to their virtues, and renders them more important objects of consideration, than perhaps any other imaginative writer. His chief characteristics are simplicity, force, pathos, and truth in describing character; and through these, and the originality of his style, he compels us to bestow our attention on objects that are usually neglected. All his works are distinguished by high moral aims. He had a heart to feel for his fellow-man, in however low and humble a sphere he may be placed, and he directs our sympathy where it is well for the cause of humanity that it should be directed, but where the squalidness of misery and want too frequently repels it.3

An edition of his poems, in eight volumes, was published by Murray in 1851, the first volume being occupied by a very pleasing piece of filial biography by his son, the Rev. George Crabbe.4

THE PARISH WORKHOUSE.

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door!

1 Johnson, in a letter to Sir Joshua Reynolds, thus writes:-"I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant."

"Mr. Crabbe exhibits the common people of England pretty much as they are, and as they must appear to every one who will take the trouble of examining into their condition; at the same time that he renders his sketches in a very high degree interesting and beautiful-by selecting what is most fit for description-by grouping them into such forms as must catch the attention or awake the memory-and by scattering over the whole such traits of moral sensibility, of sarcasm, and of useful reflection, as every one must feel to be natural and own to be powerful."-Edinburgh Review, xii. 133.

2 Though his having taken a view of life too minute, too humiliating, too painful, and too just, may have deprived his works of so extensive, or, at least, so brilliant a popularity as some of his contemporaries have attained; yet I venture to believe that there is no poet of his times who will stand higher in the opinion of posterity. He generally deals with the hort and simple annals of the poor; but he exhibits them with such a deep knowledge of human nature, with such general ease and simplicity, and such accurate force of expression, whether gay or pathetical, as, in my humble judgment, no poet, except Shakspeare, has excelled.-J. WILSON CROKER, in Boswell's Johnson, viii. 164.

• See articles in "Edinburgh Review," xii. 131; xvi. 30; xx. 277; xxxii. 118; and lx. 255.

There, where the putrid vapors, flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;
There children dwell who know no parents' care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed,
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,

And crippled age with more than childhood-fears;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mix'd with the clamors of the crowd below; Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man:

Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,

And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride imbitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;

Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance,
With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who, with sad prayers, the weary doctor tease
To name the nameless ever-new disease;

Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,

And naked rafters form the sloping sides;

Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between;

Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes:
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

THE ALMSHOUSE PHYSICIAN.

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,

All pride and business, bustle and conceit;

With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,

With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go,
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye;

A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murderous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

Paid by the parish for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man; and silent sinks into the grave.

PHOEBE DAWSON.

Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas fair,
The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there;
When Phoebe Dawson gayly cross'd the green,
In haste to see and happy to be seen;
Her air, her manners, all who saw admired,
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired;
The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd,
And ease of heart her every look convey'd;
A native skill her simple robes express'd,
As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd;
The lads around admired so fair a sight,
And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight.
Admirers soon of every age she gain'd,
Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd;
Envy itself could no contempt display,

They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away;
Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;
But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power;
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.

At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast,
Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young,
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;

By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,

He served the squire, and brush'd the coat he made;
Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford,

Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth:-she sigh'd, and look'd consent.

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back.

One who an infant in her arms sustains,

And seems in patience striving with her pains;
Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled;
Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again;
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause her anxious soul alarms;
With water burden'd then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till, in mid green, she trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in the adhesive ground;
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,
While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes:
For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.

And now her path, but not her peace, she gains,
Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains;
Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the floor,
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits;
In vain-they come, she feels the inflating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.
The neighbor matron leaves her wheel, and flies
With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, not allured by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid;
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

THE HARDSHIPS OF THE POOR.

Or will you deem them amply paid in health, Labor's fair child, that languishes with wealth? Go, then! and see them rising with the sun, Through a long course of daily toil to run; See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat, When the knees tremble and the temples beat; Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labor past, and toils to come explore; See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew. There may you see the youth of slender frame Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame;