George Crabbe

(24 December 1754 - 3 February 1832 / Aldeburgh, Suffulk)

George Crabbe Poems

1. A Marriage Ring 1/4/2003
2. An English Peasant 4/16/2010
3. Inebriety 4/16/2010
4. Late Wisdom 1/4/2003
5. Meeting 1/4/2003
6. Reflections 4/16/2010
7. Sir Eustace Grey 4/16/2010
8. Tale I 4/16/2010
9. Tale Ii 4/16/2010
10. Tale Iii 4/16/2010
11. Tale Iv 4/16/2010
12. Tale Ix 4/16/2010
13. Tale V 4/16/2010
14. Tale Vi 4/16/2010
15. Tale Vii 4/16/2010
16. Tale Viii 4/16/2010
17. Tale X 4/16/2010
18. Tale Xi 4/16/2010
19. Tale Xii 4/16/2010
20. Tale Xiii 4/16/2010
21. Tale Xiv 4/16/2010
22. Tale Xix 4/16/2010
23. Tale Xv 4/16/2010
24. Tale Xvi 4/16/2010
25. Tale Xvii 4/16/2010
26. Tale Xviii 4/16/2010
27. Tale Xx 4/16/2010
28. Tale Xxi 4/16/2010
29. The Birth Of Flattery 4/16/2010
30. The Borough. Letter I 4/16/2010
31. The Borough. Letter Ii: The Church 4/16/2010
32. The Borough. Letter Iii: The Vicar--The Curate 4/16/2010
33. The Borough. Letter Iv: Sects And Professions In Religion 4/16/2010
34. The Borough. Letter Ix: Amusements 4/16/2010
35. The Borough. Letter V: The Election 4/16/2010
36. The Borough. Letter Vi: Professions--Law 4/16/2010
37. The Borough. Letter Vii: Professions--Physic 4/16/2010
38. The Borough. Letter Viii: Trades 4/16/2010
39. The Borough. Letter X: Clubs And Social Meetings 4/16/2010
40. The Borough. Letter Xi: Inns 4/16/2010

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Best Poem of George Crabbe

The Borough. Letter Xxii: Peter Grimes

Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ,
His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy,
And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy:
To town came quiet Peter with his fish,
And had of all a civil word and wish.
He left his trade upon the sabbath-day,
And took young Peter in his hand to pray:
But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose,
At first refused, then added his abuse:
His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied,
But being drunk, wept sorely when he died.

Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there came
Much of his ...

Read the full of The Borough. Letter Xxii: Peter Grimes

The Village: Book I

The Village Life, and every care that reigns
O'er youthful peasants and declining swains;
What labour yields, and what, that labour past,
Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;
What form the real picture of the poor,
Demand a song--the Muse can give no more.

Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains,
The rustic poet praised his native plains:

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