Politics & government

      LINES ON THE CORN BILL.

WHEN on thoſe lands, which now are let ſo high,
The ploughſhare ſped beneath our Grandſires' eye,
(The humble Farmer held one farm alone)
Oh ! ſay, was Want, was Famine ever known ?
Of one great whole each felt himſelf a part,
And Britain's Intereſts warm'd each Briton's heart ;
Then from the Palace to the Peaſant's ſhed,
Each laughing board was crown'd with wholeſome Bread ;
Then " Peace and Plenty" were our wiſh, our boaſt,
And " King and Conſtitution" was the toaſt.
Alas, how chang'd ! who now is heard to ſing,
" Britannia, rule the waves !"—" God ſave the King !"
A cold ſelf-feeling chills the great man's breaſt,
And Care and Hunger break the Artiſt's reft ;
I'll can his ſcanty earnings now ſupply
Thoſe wants which tremble in the infant eye ;
But ſtill, through every lapſe of joy and weel,
Which twenty lingering years have made him feel,
Mild Hope has pointed to the hour of Peace,
And whiſper'd, " Then thy Wants, thy Cares ſhall ceaſe !"
But ſhould this fatal Bill become a Law,
Down ſinks his heart at once—his hopes withdraw,
And he muſt wander, from his country hurl'd,
A cheerleſs exile in the Weſtern World.
But, train'd by habit to induſtrious hours,
He there will uſe thoſe great Mechanic Powers,
Thoſe arts to ſhape the tool, and weave the robe,
Which now make Britain Miſtreſs of the Globe.
From this dark picture ſhould we turn our view,
Another meets it, not leſs ſad or true.
See ! to the Work-houſe, ſhivering, pale, and wild,
The Soldiet's Widow leads her famiſh'd Child ;
There worn Mechanics, Artiſans repair,
And Fortune's former favourites too are there ;
All honeſt pride, all independence fled
Before that mighty Want—the Want of Bread ;
Till, with leſiltleſs ruin, Pariſh Rates
The Middle Ctaſs of Men annihilates.
Oh ! call to mind, in ages long ſince filed,
How England's noble ſons have fought and bled,
Gain'd Magna Charta from the tyrant John,
And laid the Bill of Rights on William's throne ;
Or, awe-ſtruck, read the Record of your God,
And tremble at his juſt avenging rod—
" Ancients and Princes ! ye who thus devour
" The vineyard's produce, and who ſpoil the Poor,
" Who grind their faces—in this hour of need
" The Lord himſelf will judge, avenge, and plead."*
When to the wilderneſs the people ſped,
To hear their Saviour's precepts, They were Fed ;
His holy words the ſacred duty paint—
" I have compaſſion on them, left they faint."†
Humanity ! oh, ſhame ! be huſh'd the word,
Nor let our annals ever more record,
That men are here, who, far as Afric's ſhore,
Could raiſe the cry of " Slavery, be no more !"
And yet, to feeling, pity, juſtice, dead,
Can hear the Poor of Britain cry for Bread !

                                                                        J.H.

        * Isa. iii. 13, 14, 15.             † Matt.xv. 32.

Tynemouth, March, 1815.

                                                    Marſhall, Printer, Newcaſtle.