Mary Robinson

Who has not waked to list the busy sounds Of summer’s morning, in the sultry smoke Of noisy London? On the pavement hot The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face And tattered covering, shrilly bawls his trade, Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell Proclaims the dustman’s office; while the street Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts; While tinmen’s shops, and noisy trunk-makers, Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters, Fruit-barrows, and the hunger-giving cries Of vegetable-vendors, fill the air. Now every shop displays its varied trade, And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet Of early walkers. At the private door The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop, Annoying the smart ’prentice, or neat girl, Tripping with band-box lightly. Now the sun Darts burning splendor on the glittering pane, Save where the canvas awning throws a shade On the gay merchandise. Now, spruce and trim, In shops (where beauty smiles with industry) Sits the smart damsel; while the passenger Peeps through the window, watching every charm. Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute Of humming insects, while the limy snare Waits to enthrall them. Now the lamp-lighter Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous, To trim the half-filled lamps, while at his feet The pot-boy yells discordant! All along The sultry pavement, the old-clothes-man cries In tone monotonous, while sidelong views The area for his traffic: now the bag Is slyly opened, and the half-worn suit (Sometimes the pilfered treasure of the base Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth, Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now Bears his huge load along the burning way; And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams, To paint the summer morning.

Pavement slipp’ry, people sneezing, Lords in ermine, beggars freezing; Titled gluttons dainties carving, Genius in a garret starving. Lofty mansions, warm and spacious; Courtiers cringing and voracious; Misers scarce the wretched heeding; Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding. Wives who laugh at passive spouses; Theatres, and meeting-houses; Balls, where simp’ring misses languish; Hospitals, and groans of anguish. Arts and sciences bewailing; Commerce drooping, credit failing; Placemen mocking subjects loyal; Separations, weddings royal. Authors who can’t earn a dinner; Many a subtle rogue a winner; Fugitives for shelter seeking; Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking. Taste and talents quite deserted; All the laws of truth perverted; Arrogance o’er merit soaring; Merit silently deploring. Ladies gambling night and morning; Fools the works of genius scorning; Ancient dames for girls mistaken, Youthful damsels quite forsaken. Some in luxury delighting; More in talking than in fighting; Lovers old, and beaux decrepid; Lordlings empty and insipid. Poets, painters, and musicians; Lawyers, doctors, politicians: Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes, Seeking fame by diff’rent roads. Gallant souls with empty purses; Gen’rals only fit for nurses; School-boys, smit with martial spirit, Taking place of vet’ran merit. Honest men who can’t get places, Knaves who shew unblushing faces; Ruin hasten’d, peace retarded; Candor spurn’d, and art rewarded.

A FORM, as any taper, fine ; A head like half-pint bason ; Where golden cords, and bands entwine, As rich as fleece of JASON. A pair of shoulders strong and wide, Like country clown enlisting ; Bare arms long dangling by the side, And shoes of ragged listing ! Cravats like towels, thick and broad, Long tippets made of bear-skin, Muffs that a RUSSIAN might applaud, And rouge to spoil a fair skin. Long petticoats to hide the feet, Silk hose with clocks of scarlet ; A load of perfume, sick'ning sweet, Bought of PARISIAN VARLET. A bush of hair, the brow to shade, Sometimes the eyes to cover ; A necklace that might be display'd By OTAHEITEAN lover ! A bowl of straw to deck the head, Like porringer unmeaning ; A bunch of POPPIES flaming red, With motly ribands streaming. Bare ears on either side the head, Like wood-wild savage SATYR ; Tinted with deep vermilion red, To shame the blush of nature. Red elbows, gauzy gloves, that add An icy cov'ring merely ; A wadded coat, the shape to pad, Like Dutch-women — or nearly. Such is CAPRICE ! but, lovely kind ! Oh ! let each mental feature Proclaim the labour of the mind , And leave your charms to NATURE.

Here bounds the gaudy, gilded chair, Bedecked with fringe and tassels gay; The melancholy mourner there Pursues her sad and painful way. Here, guarded by a motley train, The pampered Countess glares along; There, wrung by poverty and pain, Pale Misery mingles with the throng. Here, as the blazoned chariot rolls, And prancing horses scare the crowd, Great names, adorning little souls, Announce the empty, vain and proud. Here four tall lackeys slow precede A painted dame in rich array; There, the sad, shivering child of need Steals barefoot o’er the flinty way. ‘Room, room! stand back!’ they loudly cry, The wretched poor are driven around; On every side they scattered fly, And shrink before the threatening sound. Here, amidst jewels, feathers, flowers, The senseless Duchess sits demure, Heedless of all the anxious hours The sons of modest worth endure. All silvered and embroidered o’er, She neither knows nor pities pain; The beggar freezing at her door She overlooks with nice disdain. The wretch whom poverty subdues Scarce dares to raise his tearful eye; Or if by chance the throng he views, His loudest murmur is a sigh! The poor wan mother, at whose breast The pining infant craves relief, In one thin tattered garment dressed, Creeps forth to pour the plaint of grief. But ah! how little heeded here The faltering tongue reveals its woe; For high-born fools, with frown austere, Condemn the pangs they never know. ‘Take physic, Pomp!’ let Reason say: ‘What can avail thy trappings rare? The tomb shall close thy glittering day, The beggar prove thy equal there!’