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THE SWEEPERS, by                 Poet Analysis    
First Line: I sing of sweepers, frequent in thy streets, / augusta, as the flowers
Last Line: And perished in the streets from whence she sprung.
Subject(s): Cleanliness; Industry; Labor & Laborers; Pensions; Work; Workers


I SING of sweepers, frequent in thy streets,
Augusta, as the flowers which grace the spring,
Or branches withering in autumnal shades
To form the brooms they wield. Preserved by them
From dirt, from coach-hire, and th' oppressive rheums
Which clog the springs of life, to them I sing,
And ask no inspiration but their smiles.
Hail, unowned youths, and virgins unendowed!
Whether on bulk begot, while rattled loud
The passing coaches, or th' officious hand
Of sportive link-boy wide around him dashed
The pitchy-flame, obstructive of the joy.
Or more propitious, to the dark retreat
Of round-house owe your birth, where Nature's reign
Revives, and prompted by untaught desire
The mingling sexes share promiscuous love.
And scarce the pregnant female knows to whom
She owes the precious burthen, scarce the sire
Can claim, confused, the many-featured child.
Nor blush that hence your origin we trace:
'Twas thus immortal heroes sprung of old
Strong from the stol'n embrace; by such as you,
Unhoused, unclothed, unlettered and unfed,
Were kingdoms modelled, cities taught to rise,
Firm laws enacted, Freedom's rights maintained,
The gods and patriots of an infant world!
Let others meanly chaunt in tuneful song
The blackshoe race, whose mercenary tribes
Allured by halfpence take their morning stand
Where streets divide, and to their proffered stools
Solicit wand'ring feet; vain pensioners,
And placemen of the crowd! Not so you pour
Your blessings on mankind; nor traffic vile
Be your employment deemed, ye last remains
Of public spirit, whose laborious hands,
Uncertain of reward, bid kennels know
Their wonted bounds, remove the bord'ring filth,
And give th' obstructed ordure where to glide.
What though the pitying passenger bestows
His unextorted boon, must they refuse
The well-earned bounty, scorn th' obtruded ore?
Proud were the thought and vain. And shall not we
Repay their kindly labours, men like them,
With gratitude unsought? I too have oft
Seen in our streets the withered hands of age
Toil in th' industrious task; and can we there
Be thrifty niggards? haply they have known
Far better days, and scattered liberal round
The scanty pittance we afford them now.
Soon from this office grant them their discharge,
Ye kind church-wardens! take their meagre limbs
Shiv'ring with cold and age, and wrap them warm
In those blest mansions Charity has raised.
But you of younger years, while vigour knits
Your lab'ring sinews, urge the generous task.
Nor lose in fruitless brawls the precious hours
Assigned to toil. Be your contentions who
First in the dark'ning streets, when Autumn sheds
Her earliest showers, shall clear th' obstructed pass;
Or last shall quit the field when Spring distils
Her moist'ning dews, prolific there in vain.
So may each lusty scavenger, ye fair,
Fly ardent to your arms; and every maid,
Ye gentle youths, be to your wishes kind.
Whether Ostrea's fishy fumes allure
As Venus' tresses fragrant, or the sweets
More mild and rural from her stall who toils
To feast the sages of the Samian school.
Nor ever may your hearts elate with pride
Desert this sphere of love; for should ye, youths,
When blood boils high, and some more lucky chance
Has swelled your stores, pursue the tawdry band
That romp from lamp to lamp, for health expect
Disease, for fleeting pleasure foul remorse,
And daily, nightly, agonising pains.
In vain you call for Aesculapius' aid
From White-cross alley, or the azure posts
Which beam through Haydon-yard; the god demands
More ample offerings, and rejects your prayer.
And you, ye fair, O let me warn your breasts
To shun deluding men: for some there are,
Great lords of countries, mighty men of war,
And well-dressed courtiers, who with leering eye
Can in the face begrimed with dirt discern
Strange charms, and pant for Cynthia in a cloud.
But let Lardella's fate avert your own.
Lardella once was fair, the early boast
Of proud St. Giles's, from its ample pound
To where the column points the seven-fold day.
Happy, thrice happy, had she never known
A street more spacious! but ambition led
Her youthful footsteps, artless, unassured,
To Whitehall's fatal pavement. There she plied
Like you the active broom. At sight of her
The coachman dropped his lash, the porter oft
Forgot his burthen, and with wild amaze
The tall well-booted sentry, armed in vain,
Leaned from his horse to gaze upon her charms.
But Fate reserved her for more dreadful ills:
A lord beheld her, and with powerful gold
Seduced her to his arms. What can not gold
Effect, when aided by the matron's tongue,
Long tried and practised in the trade of vice,
Against th' unwary innocent! A while
Dazzled with splendour, giddy with the height
Of unexperienced greatness, she looks down
With thoughtless pride, nor sees the gulf beneath.
But soon, too soon, the high-wrought transport sinks
In cold indifference, and a newer face
Alarms her restless lover's fickle heart.
Distressed, abandoned, whither shall she fly?
How urge her former task, and brave the winds
And piercing rains with limbs whose daintier sense
Shrinks from the evening breeze? nor has she now,
Sweet Innocence, thy calmer heart-felt aid
To solace or support the pangs she feels.
Why should the weeping Muse pursue her steps
Through the dull round of infamy, through haunts
Of public lust, and every painful stage
Of ill-feigned transport, and uneasy joy?
Too sure she tried them all, till her sunk eye
Lost its last languish, and the bloom of health,
Which revelled once on beauty's virgin cheek,
Was pale disease, and meagre penury.
Then loathed, deserted, to her life's last pang
In bitterness of soul she cursed in vain
Her proud betrayer, cursed her fatal charms,
And perished in the streets from whence she sprung.





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