George Crabbe (1754 – 1832)
English poet, known for his realistic and unsentimental portrayals of peasant life.
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A master passion is the love of news.
Who calls a lawyer rogue, may find, too late
Upon one of these depends his whole estate.
Oh, rather give me commentators plain,
Who with no deep researches vex the brain;
Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,
And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.
But 'twas a maxim he had often tried,
That right was right, and there he would abide.
The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace.
'T was good advice, and meant, my son, Be good.
Secrets with girls, like loaded guns with boys,
Are never valued till they make a noise.
Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.
Habit with him was all the test of truth,
It must be right: I’ve done it from my youth.
To sigh, yet not recede; to grieve, yet not repent.
Books cannot always please, however good;
Minds are not ever craving for their food.
In idle wishes fools supinely stay;
Be there a will, and wisdom finds a way.
Her air, her manners, all who saw admir'd;
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd;
The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd,
And ease of heart her every look convey'd.
He tried the luxury of doing good.
In this fool's paradise he drank delight.
Where Plenty smiles - alas! she smiles for few,
And those who taste not, yet behold her store,
Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore,
The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.
Time has touched me gently in his race,
And left no odious furrows in my face.
Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain,
Like other farmers, flourish and complain.
And took for truth the test of ridicule.
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