Analysis of Tale III
George Crabbe 1754 (Aldborough) – 1832 (Trowbridge)
THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.
Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all,
Who dwelt around, 'the Gentleman' would call;
Whether in pure humility or pride,
They only knew, and they would not decide.
Far different he from that dull plodding tribe
Whom it was his amusement to describe;
Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod,
But treading still as their dull fathers trod;
Who lived in times when not a man had seen
Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine!
He was of those whose skill assigns the prize
For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;
And who, in places where improvers meet,
To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;
Who in large mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms but as amusing things;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,
And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.
Two are the species in this genus known;
One, who is rich in his profession grown,
Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,
From fortune's favours and a favouring lease;
Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns;
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can, -
This is the Farmer made the Gentleman.
The second species from the world is sent,
Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content;
In books and men beyond the former read
To farming solely by a passion led,
Or by a fashion; curious in his land;
Now planning much, now changing what he plann'd;
Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd,
And ever certain to succeed the next;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade, -
This is the Gentleman, a farmer made.
Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew
Early in life, his reasons known to few;
Some disappointments said, some pure good sense,
The love of land, the press of indolence;
His fortune known, and coming to retire,
If not a Farmer, men had call'd him 'Squire.
Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross'd the still tenour of his chosen life;
Much land he purchased, planted far around,
And let some portions of superfluous ground
To farmers near him, not displeased to say
'My tenants,' nor 'our worthy landlord,' they.
Fix'd in his farm, he soon display'd his skill
In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, and the drill;
From these he rose to themes of nobler kind,
And show'd the riches of a fertile mind;
To all around their visits he repaid
And thus his mansion and himself display'd.
His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat,
And guests politely call'd his house a Seat;
At much expense was each apartment graced,
His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste;
In full festoons the crimson curtains fell,
The sofas rose in bold elastic swell;
Mirrors in gilded frames display'd the tints
Of glowing carpets and of colour'd prints:
The weary eye saw every object shine,
And all was costly, fanciful, and fine.
As with his friends he pass'd the social hours,
His generous spirit scorn'd to hide its powers;
Powers unexpected, for his eye and air
Gave no sure signs that eloquence was there;
Oft he began with sudden fire and force,
As loth to lose occasion for discourse;
Some, 'tis observed, who feel a wish to speak,
Will a due place for introduction seek;
On to their purpose step by step they steal,
And all their way, by certain signals, feel;
Others plunge in at once, and never heed
Whose turn they take, whose purpose they impede;
Resolved to shine, they hasten to begin,
Of ending thoughtless--and of these was Gwyn.
And thus he spake: -
'It grieves me to the soul,
To see how man submits to man's control;
How overpower'd and shackled minds are led
In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred;
The coward never on himself relies,
But to an equal for assistance flies;
Man yields to custom, as he bows to fate,
In all things ruled--mind, body, and estate;
In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply
To them we know not, and we know not why;
But that the creature has some jargon read,
And got some Scotchman's system in his head;
Some grave impostor, who will health ensure,
Long as your patience or your wealth endure,
But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew,
They have not health, and can they give it you?
These solemn cheats their various methods choose,
A system fires them, as a bard his muse:
Hence wordy wars arise; the learn'd divide,
And groaning patients curse each erring guide.
'Next, our affairs are govern'd, buy or sell,
Upon the deed the law must fix its spell;
Whether we hire or let, we must have still
The dubious aid of an attorney's skill;
They take
Scheme | Text too long |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 010010 1101010101 1101010011 1001010011 110101111 11001111101 1111010101 1011010101 1101111101 1101110111 1111111001 1111110101 1101010101 01010111 110111101 1011011101 0111110101 1101001101 0111010111 1101001101 1111010101 1101110101 11010011 1111011101 1111010101 1101011111 1101010100 0101010111 10111111110 0101010101 11010010101 11010100011 1101110111 1111011101 0101010101 1101010101 1101000101 1111110101 1001110111 1001011111 01110111 1101010101 1101011111 1001111111 101111101 1111010101 011101101 1101110111 1101101011 1011110111 0111011001 1111111101 0101010101 1101110101 0111000101 1101010111 0101011101 1101110101 1111011111 011010101 0101010101 1001010101 1101001101 01011100101 0111010001 11111101010 110010111110 1001011101 1111110011 11011101001 1111010110 1101110111 101110101 1111011111 0111110101 1010110101 1111110101 0111110101 1101001111 0111 111101 111111101 1010010111 0101010101 0101010101 1111010101 1111011111 0111110001 0101011101 1111101111 1101011101 011110011 1101011101 1111011101 1111010101 1111011111 11011100101 01010110111 1101010101 0101011101 11001110111 0101011111 10110111111 01001110101 11 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,370 |
Words | 811 |
Sentences | 14 |
Stanzas | 2 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 104 |
Lines Amount | 105 |
Letters per line (avg) | 33 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 1,739 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 405 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:09 min read
- 135 Views
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"Tale III" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 16 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/14856/tale-iii>.
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