Here you will find the Long Poem Tale X of poet George Crabbe
THE LOVER'S JOURNEY. It is the Soul that sees: the outward eyes Present the object, but the Mind descries; And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiff'rence rise: When minds are joyful, then we look around, And what is seen is all on fairy ground; Again they sicken, and on every view Cast their own dull and melancholy hue; Or, if absorb'd by their peculiar cares, The vacant eye on viewless matter glares, Our feelings still upon our views attend, And their own natures to the objects lend: Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure, Long as the passion reigns th' effects endure; But Love in minds his various changes makes, And clothes each object with the change he takes; His light and shade on every view he throws, And on each object what he feels bestows. Fair was the morning, and the month was June, When rose a Lover;--love awakens soon: Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while Of that day's meeting, and his Laura's smile: Fancy and love that name assign'd to her, Call'd Susan in the parish-register; And he no more was John--his Laura gave The name Orlando to her faithful slave. Bright shone the glory of the rising day, When the fond traveller took his favourite way; He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light, And all he saw was pleasing in his sight. 'Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly, And bring on hours of bless'd reality; When I shall Laura see, beside her stand, Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand.' First o'er a barren heath beside the coast Orlando rode, and joy began to boast. 'This neat low gorse,' said he, 'with golden bloom, Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume; And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers, A man at leisure might admire for hours; This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip, That yields to nothing but my Laura's lip; And then how fine this herbage! men may say A heath is barren; nothing is so gay: Barren or bare to call such charming scene Argues a mind possess'd by care and spleen.' Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat, Dust rose in clouds before the horse's feet; For now he pass'd through lanes of burning sand, Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured land; Where the dark poppy flourish'd on the dry And sterile soil, and mock'd the thin-set rye. 'How lovely this!' the rapt Orlando said; 'With what delight is labouring man repaid! The very lane has sweets that all admire, The rambling suckling, and the vigorous brier; See! wholesome wormwood grows beside the way, Where dew-press'd yet the dog-rose bends the spray; Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn, And snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn; No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall, They spring uncultured, and they bloom for all.' The Lover rode as hasty lovers ride, And reach'd a common pasture wild and wide; Small black-legg'd sheep devour with hunger keen The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean: Such o'er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray, And there, with other black-legs, find their prey. He saw some scatter'd hovels; turf was piled In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild! A mill, indeed, was in the centre found, With short sear herbage withering all around; A smith's black shed opposed a wright's long shop, And join'd an inn where humble travellers stop. 'Ay, this is Nature,' said the gentle 'Squire; 'This ease, peace, pleasure--who would not admire? With what delight these sturdy children play, And joyful rustics at the close of day; Sport follows labour; on this even space Will soon commence the wrestling and the race; Then will the village-maidens leave their home, And to the dance with buoyant spirits come; No affectation in their looks is seen, Nor know they what disguise aud flattery mean; Nor aught to move an envious pang they see, Easy their service, and their love is free; Hence early springs that love, it long endures, And life's first comfort, while they live, ensures: They the low roof and rustic comforts prize, Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes: Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, And learn what busier mortals feel and fear; Secure themselves, although by tales amazed Of towns bombarded and of cities razed; As if they doubted, in their still retreat, The very news that makes their quiet sweet, And their days happy--happier only knows He on whom Laura her regard bestows.' On rode Orlando, counting all the while The miles he pass'd, and every coming mile; Like all attracted things, he quicker flies, The place approaching where th' attraction lies; When next appear'd a dam--so call the place - Where lies a road confined in narrow space; A work of labour, for on either side Is level fen,