William Whitehead (Уильям Уайтхед)
The Sweepers
I sing of Sweepers, frequent in thy streets, AUGUSTA, as the flowers which grace the spring, Or branches withering in autumnal shades To form the brooms they wield. Preserv'd by them From dirt, from coach-hire, and th' oppressive rheums Which clog the springs of life, to them I sing, And ask no inspiration but their smiles. Hail, unown'd youths, and virgins unendow'd! Whether on bulk begot, while rattled loud The passing coaches, or th' officious hand Of sportive link-boy wide around him dash'd The pitchy flame, obstructive of the joy. Or more propitious to the dark retreat Of round-house owe your birth, where Nature's reign Revives, and emulous of Spartan fame The mingling sexes share promiscuous love. And scarce the pregnant female knows to whom She owes the precious burthen, scarce the sire Can claim, confus'd, the many-featur'd child. Nor blush that hence your origin we trace: 'Twas thus immortal heroes sprung of old Strong from the stol'n embrace; but such as you Unhous'd, uncloath'd, unletter'd, and unfed, Were kingdoms model'd, cities taught to rise, Firm laws enacted, freedom's rights maintain'd, The gods and patriots of an infant world! Let others meanly chaunt in tuneful song The blackshoe race, whose mercenary tribes Allur'd by halfpence take their morning stand Where streets divide, and to their proferr'd stools Solicit wand'ring feet; vain prisoners, And placemen of the croud! nor traffic vile Be your employment deem'd, ye last remains Of public spirits, whose laborious hands, Uncertain of reward, bid kennels know Their wonted bounds, remove the bord'ring filth And give th' obstructed ordure where to glide. What tho' the pitying passenger bestows His unextorted boon, must they refuse The well-earn'd bounty, scorn th' obtruded ore? Proud were the thoughts and vain. And shall not we Repay their kindly labors, men like them, With gratitude unsought? I too have oft Seen in our streets the wither'd hands of age Toil in th' industrious task; and can we there Be thrifty niggards? haply they have known Far better days, and scatter'd liberal round The scanty pittance we afford them now. Soon from this office grant them their discharge, Ye kind church-wardens! take their meagre limbs Shiv'ring with cold and age, and wrap them warm In those blest manifolds Charity has rais'd. But you of younger years, while vigor knits Your lab'ring sinews, urge the generous task. Nor lose in fruitless brawls the precious hours Assign'd to toil. Be your contentions who First in the dark'ning streets, when Autumn sheds Her earliest showers, shall clear th' obstructed pass; Or last shall quit the field when Spring distills Her moist'ning dews, prolific there in vain. So may each lusty scavenger, ye fair, Fly ardent to your arms; and every maid, Ye gentle youths, be to your wishes kind. Whether OSTREA'S fishy fumes allure As VENUS' tresses fragrant, or the sweets More mild and rural from her flail who toils To feast the sages of the Samian school. Nor ever may your hearts elate with pride Desert this sphere of love; for should ye, youths, When blood boils high, and some more lucky chance Has swell'd your stores, pursue the tawdry band That romp from lamp to lamp — for health expect Disease, for fleeting pleasure foul remorse, And daily, nightly, agonizing pains. In vain you call for AESCULAPIUS' aid From White-cross alley, or the azure posts Which beam thro' Haydon-yard: the god demands More ample offerings, and rejects your prayer. And you, ye fair, O let me warn your breasts To shun deluding men: for some there are, Great lords of countries, mighty men of war, And well-dress'd courtiers, who with leering eye Can in the face begrim'd with dirt discern Strange charms, and pant for CYNTHIA in a cloud. But let LARDELLA'S fate avert your own. LARDELLA once was fair, the early boast Of proud St. Giles, from its ample pound To where the column points the seven-fold day. Happy, thrice happy, had she never known A street more spacious! but ambition led Her youthful footsteps, artless, unassur'd, To Whitehall's fatal pavement. There she ply'd Like you the active broom. At sight of her The coachman drop'd his lash, the porter oft Forgot his burthen, and with wild amaze The tall well-booted sentry, arm'd in vain, Lean'd from his horse to gaze upon her charms. But Fate reserv'd her for more dreadful ills: A lord beheld her, and with powerful gold Seduc'd her to his arms. What can not gold Effect, when aided by the matron's tongue, Long tried, and practis'd in the trade of vice, Against th' unwary innocent! A while Dazzled with splendor, giddy with the height Of unexperienc'd greatness, she looks down With thoughtless pride, nor sees the gulph beneath. But soon, too soon, the high-wrought transport sinks In cold indifference, and a newer face Alarms her restless lover's fickle heart. Distrest, abandon'd, whither shall she fly? How urge her former task, and brave the winds And piercing rains with limbs whose daintier sense Shrinks from the evening breeze? nor has she now, Sweet Innocence, thy calmer heart-felt aid, To solace or support the pangs she feels. Why should the weeping Muse pursue her steps Thro' the dull round of infamy, thro' haunts Of public lust, and every painful stage Of ill-feign'd transport, and uneasy joy? Too sure she try'd them all, till her sunk eye Lost its last languish, and the bloom of health, Which revel'd once on Beauty's virgin cheek, Was pale disease, and meagre penury. Then, loath'd, deserted, to her life's last pang In bitterness of soul she curs'd in vain Her proud betrayer, curs'd her fatal charms, And perish'd in the streets from whence she sprung.
William Whitehead’s other poems:
