The Borough | Page 2

evening comes,
And social parties crowd
their favourite rooms:
Where on the table pipes and papers lie,
The
steaming bowl or foaming tankard by;
'Tis then, with all these
comforts spread around,
They hear the painful dredger's welcome
sound;
And few themselves the savoury boon deny,
The food that
feeds, the living luxury.
Yon is our Quay! those smaller hoys from town,
Its various ware, for
country use, bring down;
Those laden waggons, in return, impart

The country-produce to the city mart;
Hark! to the clamour in that
miry road,
Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load;
The
lumbering wealth she empties round the place,
Package, and parcel,
hogshead, chest, and case:
While the loud seaman and the angry hind,

Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.
Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,
Rear, for the sea, those

castles on the stocks:
See! the long keel, which soon the waves must
hide;
See! the strong ribs which form the roomy side;
Bolts yielding
slowly to the sturdiest stroke,
And planks which curve and crackle in
the smoke.
Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far
Bear the
warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.
Dabbling on shore half-naked
sea-boys crowd,
Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;
Or
in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,
And grow familiar with the
watery way:
Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are,

They know what British seamen do and dare;
Proud of that fame,
they raise and they enjoy
The rustic wonder of the village-boy.
Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,
Behold the wealth that lies in
public view,
Those far extended heaps of coal and coke,
Where
fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke. This shall pass off,
and you behold, instead,
The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed;

When from the Lighthouse brighter beams will rise,
To show the
shipman where the shallow lies.
Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene
Is rich in beauty, lively, or
serene -
Rich is that varied view with woods around,
Seen from the
seat within the shrubb'ry bound;
Where shines the distant lake, and
where appear
From ruins bolting, unmolested deer;
Lively the
village-green, the inn, the place,
Where the good widow schools her
infant-race.
Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw,
And
village-pleasures unreproved by law:
Then how serene! when in your
favourite room,
Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom;

When from your upland paddock you look down,
And just
perceive the smoke which hides the town;
When weary peasants at
the close of day
Walk to their cots, and part upon the way;
When
cattle slowly cross the shallow brook,
And shepherds pen their folds,
and rest upon their crook.
We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees,

And nothing looks
untutor'd and at ease,
On the wide heath, or in the flowery vale,
We

scent the vapours of the sea-born gale;
Broad-beaten paths lead on
from stile to stile,
And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile;

Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,
Where garden-crops
with corn and clover grow;
Fences are form'd of wreck, and placed
around,
(With tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound;
Wide and
deep ditches by the gardens run,
And there in ambush lie the trap and
gun;
Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize,
"Like
a tall bully, lifts its head and lies."
There stands a cottage with an open door,
Its garden undefended
blooms before:
Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool,
While
the lone Widow seeks the neighb'ring pool:
This gives us hope, all
views of town to shun -
No! here are tokens of the Sailor-son;
That
old blue jacket, and that shirt of check,
And silken kerchief for the
seaman's neck;
Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore,

And furry robe from frozen Labrador.
Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,
Fen, marshes, bog, and
heath all intervene;
Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,
To
some enrich th' uncultivated space:
For there are blossoms rare, and
curious rush,
The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush,

Whose velvet leaf with radiant beauty dress'd,
Forms a gay pillow for
the plover's breast.
Not distant far, a house commodious made,
(Lonely yet public stands)
for Sunday-trade;
Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,
Their
tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous;
There humble couples sit
in corner-bowers,
Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours;
Sailors and
lasses from the town attend,
The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend;

With all the idle social tribes who seek
And find their humble
pleasures once a week.
Turn to the watery world!--but who to thee
(A wonder yet unview'd)
shall paint--the Sea?
Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,



When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms,
Its colours
changing, when from clouds and sun
Shades after shades upon the
surface run;
Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,
In limpid
blue, and evanescent green;
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,

Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.
Be it the summer--noon: a sandy space
The ebbing tide has left upon
its place;
Then just the hot and stony beach above,
Light twinkling
streams in bright confusion move;
(For heated thus, the warmer air
ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends)
Then the broad
bosom of the ocean keeps
An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,

Then slowly