THE

COUNTRY JUSTICE.

IN THREE PARTS.

1

THE

COUNTRY JUSTICE,

A POEM.

IN THREE PARTS.

PART I.

IN

IN Richard's days, when lost his pastur'd plain, The wand'ring Briton sought the wild wood's reign, With great disdain beheld the feudal hord Poor life-let vassals of a Norman lord; And, what no brave man ever lost, possess'd Himself-for freedom bound him to her breast. Lov'st thou that freedom? by her holy shrine, If yet one drop of British blood be thinc, See, I conjure thee, in the desert shade, His bow unstrung, his little houshold laid, Some brave forefather, while his fields they share, By Saxon, Dane, or Norman, banish'd there! And thinks he tells thee, as his soul withdraws, As his heart swells against a tyrant's laws, The war with fate though fruitless to maintain, To guard that liberty he lov'd in vain.

Were thoughts like these the dream of ancient time? Peculiar only to some age, or clime?

And does not nature thoughts like these impart,
Breathe in the soul, and write upon the heart?

Ask on their mountains yon deserted band,
That point to Paoli with no plausive hand;
Despising still, their freeborn souls unbroke,
Alike the Gallic and Ligurian yoke!

Yet while the patriot's gen'rous rage we share, Still civil safety calls us back to care;

To Britain lost in either Henry's day,

Her woods her mountains one wild scene of prey;
Fair
peace from all her bounteous vallies fled,

And law beneath the barbed arrows bled.

In happier days, with more auspicious fate,
The far fam'd Edward heal'd his wounded state;
Dread of his foes, but to his subjects dear,
These learn'd to love, as those are taught to fear,
Their laurell'd prince, with British pride obey,
His glory shone their discontent away.
With care the tender flower of love to save,
And plant the olive on disorder's grave,
For civil storms fresh barriers to provide,
He caught the fav'ring calm and falling tide.

The social laws from insult to protect,

To cherish Peace, to cultivate respect;

The rich from wanton cruelty restrain,

To smooth the bed of penury and pain;
The hapless vagrant to his rest restore,

The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore;
The thoughtless maiden, when subdu'd by art,
To aid, and bring her rover to her heart;
Wild riot's voice, with dignity to quell,
Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel,
Wrest from revenge the meditated harm,
For this fair justice rais'd her sacred arm;
For this the rural, magistrate of yore,
Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore.

Oft, where old air, in conscious glory sails, On silver waves that flow through, smiling vales; In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was laid, Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; With many a group of antique columns crown'd, In gothic guise such mansion have oft found. Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race, Ye cits that sore bedizzen nature's face, Of the more manly structures here, ye view; They rose for greatness that ye never knew! Ye reptile cits, that oft have mov'd my spleen With Venus and the graces on your green Let Plutus growling o'er his ill-got wealth, Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth,