Isaac Ashford
(From Crabbe's Parish Register)
ONE of the most eminent of our modern poets died a few weeks ago, the Reverend George Crabbe. Mr. Crabbe was born in 1754, at Aldborough in Suffolk, and, consequently, at the time of his death, had reached the advanced age of seventy-eight. Although his last work, his Tales of the Hall in two Volumes, was published so lately as 1819, he had been for many years by far the oldest of our living poets; for his first production, The Library, was published so long ago as the year 1781. His poetical career, therefore, reckoning from this commencement to his death, had extended over more than the long space of half a century. A second poem, entitled The Village, however, which quickly followed the Library, was the only additional work which he produced during the first half of this period. It was not till 1807 that he again came before the world as an author, by the publication of two volumes of poems, comprising the Parish Register and other pieces. This publication was followed by another poem, entitled The Borough, in 1810; by two volumes of Tales, in 1812; and, as already mentioned, by his 'Tales of the Hall,' the last work which he gave to the press, in 1819. Mr. Crabbe had been Rector of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, for eighteen years before his death.
Notwithstanding considerable peculiarities, and some obvious faults of manner, it is impossible to peruse any of Crabbe's productions without feeling yourself to be in the hands of a writer of great power, and a true poet. In some of his pieces he has displayed both a soaring imagination and a delicate sense of beauty; but he is most popularly known as the poet of poverty and wretchedness,—the stern explorer and describer of the deepest and darkest recesses of human suffering and crime. Perhaps he has occasionally painted the gloom of' the regions in which he was thus accustomed to wander with somewhat of exaggeration; but it would be easy to select abundant proof from his writings, that if he delineated with an unsparing pencil both the miseries and the vices of the poor, he could also sympathize with their enjoyments and estimate their virtues as cordially as any man that ever lived. The following passage from the Third part of his Parish Register, that in which he reviews the list of burials, is an admirably drawn picture of a lofty character in humble life. The writer, it will be observed, speaks in the character of the clergyman of the parish. He has related the lives and deaths of two of his female parishioners, after which he proceeds thus:—
Next to these ladies, but in nought allied
A noble peasant Isaac Ashford, died;
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene.
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved.
To bliss domestic lie his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed,
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, ill their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew
None his superior, and his equals few.
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,
In sturdy boys, to virtuous labours trained;
Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed Pride.
He had no party's rage, no sectary's whim;
Christian and countryman was all with him:
True to his church he came; no Sunday shower
Kept him at home in that important hour;
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect
By the strong glare of their new light direct;
'On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,'
'But should be blind and lose it in your blaze.'
In times severe, when many a sturdy swain
Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain,
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,
And feel in that his comfort and his pride.
At length, he found, when seventy years were run,
His strength departed, and his labour done;
When, save his honest fame, he kept no more,
But lost his wife, and saw his children poor;
Twas then a spark of—say not discontent—
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent—
'Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied)
'That in your house for ruined age provide;
'And they are just—when young, we give you all
'And then for comforts in our weakness call.
'Why then this proud reluctance to be fed
'To join your Poor and eat the Parish bread?
'But yet I linger, loathe with him to feed,
'Who gains his plenty by the sons of need
'He who, by contract, all your Paupers took,
'And gauges stomachs with an anxious look !
'On some old master I could well depend,
'See him with joy, and thank him as a friend;
'But ill on him, who does the day's supply,
'And counts our chances, who at night may die;
'Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not complain
'Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain.'
Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew,
Daily he placed the Workhouse in his view;
But came not there; for sudden was his fate,
He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round that bald polish of that honoured head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight;
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile:
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there;
But he is blest, and I lament no more
A wise good man contented to be poor.