George Crabbe: Poems, Volume 3 (of 3)
BOOK XXII.
_THE VISIT CONCLUDED._
“No letters, Tom?” said Richard—“None to-day.”— “Excuse me, Brother, I must now away; Matilda never in her life so long Deferr’d—Alas! there must be something wrong!” “Comfort!” said George, and all he could he lent; } Wait till your promised day, and I consent; } Two days, and those of hope, may cheerfully [be] spent. } “And keep your purpose, to review the place, My choice; and I beseech you do it grace: Mark each apartment, their proportions learn, 10 And either use or elegance discern; Look o’er the land, the gardens, and their wall, Find out the something to admire in all; And, should you praise them in a knowing style, I’ll take it kindly—it is well—a smile.”
* * * * *
Richard must now his morning visits pay, And bid farewell! for he must go away. He sought the Rector first, not lately seen, For he had absent from his parish been; “Farewell!” the younger man with feeling cried, 20 “Farewell!” the cold but worthy priest replied; “When do you leave us?”—“I have days but two.”— “’Tis a short time—but, well—Adieu, adieu!” “Now here is one,” said Richard, as he went To the next friend in pensive discontent, With whom I sate in social, friendly ease, Whom I respected, whom I wish’d to please; Whose love professed, I question’d not, was true— And now to hear his heartless, ‘Well! adieu!’ “But ’tis not well—and he a man of sense, 30 Grave, but yet looking strong benevolence; Whose slight acerbity and roughness told To his advantage; yet the man is cold; Nor will he know, when rising in the morn, That such a being to the world was born. “Are such the friendships we contract in life? O! give me then the friendship of a wife! Adieus, nay, parting-pains to us are sweet: They make so glad the moments when we meet. “For, though we look not for regard intense 40 Or warm professions in a man of sense, Yet in the daily intercourse of mind I thought that found which I desired to find, Feeling and frankness—thus it seem’d to me, And such farewell!—Well, Rector, let it be!” Of the fair sisters then he took his leave, Forget he could not, he must think and grieve; Must the impression of their wrongs retain, Their very patience adding to his pain; And still, the better they their sorrows bore, 50 His friendly nature made him feel them more. He judged they must have many a heavy hour When the mind suffers from a want of power; When, troubled long, we find our strength decay’d, And cannot then recal our better aid; For to the mind ere yet that aid has flown, Grief has possess’d, and made it all his own; And patience suffers, till, with gather’d might, The scatter’d forces of the soul unite. But few and short such times of suffering were 60 In Lucy’s mind, and brief the reign of care. Jane had, indeed, her flights, but had in them What we could pity, but must not condemn; For they were always pure and oft sublime, And such as triumph’d over earth and time: Thoughts of eternal love that souls possess, Foretaste divine of Heaven’s own happiness. Oft had he seen them, and esteem had sprung In his free mind for maids so sad and young, So good and grieving, and his place was high 70 In their esteem, his friendly brother’s nigh, But yet beneath; and when he said adieu! Their tone was kind, and was responsive too. Parting was painful; when adieu he cried, “You will return?” the gentle girls replied; “You must return! your Brother knows you now, But to exist without you knows not how; Has he not told us of the lively joy He takes—forgive us—in the Brother-boy? He is alone and pensive; you can give 80 Pleasure to one by whom a number live In daily comfort—sure for this you met, That for his debtors you might pay a debt— The poor are call’d ungrateful, but you still Will have their thanks for this—indeed you will.” Richard but little said, for he of late Held with himself contention and debate. “My Brother loves me, his regard I know, But will not such affection weary grow? He kindly says, ‘defer the parting day,’ 90 But yet may wish me in his heart away; Nothing but kindness I in him perceive, In me ’tis kindness then to take my leave. Why should I grieve if he should weary be? There have been visitors who wearied me; He yet may love, and we may part in peace, Nay, in affection—novelty must cease— Man is but man; the thing he most desires Pleases awhile—then pleases not—then tires; George to his former habits and his friends 100 Will now return, and so my visit ends.” Thus Richard communed with his heart; but still He found opposed his reason and his will; Found that his thoughts were busy in this train, And he was striving to be calm in vain. These thoughts were passing, while he yet forbore To leave the friends whom he might see no more. Then came a chubby child and sought relief, Sobbing in all the impotence of grief; A full-fed girl she was, with ruddy cheek, 110 And features coarse, that grosser feelings speak, To whom another miss, with passions strong, And slender fist, had done some baby-wrong. On Lucy’s gentle mind had Barlow wrought To teach this child, whom she had labouring taught With unpaid love—this unproductive brain Would little comprehend, and less retain. A farmer’s daughter, with redundant health, And double Lucy’s weight and Lucy’s wealth, Had won the man’s regard, and he with her 120 Possess’d the treasure vulgar minds prefer. A man of thrift, and thriving, he possess’d What he esteem’d of earthly good the best; And Lucy’s well-stored mind had not a charm For this true lover of the well-stock’d farm, This slave to petty wealth and rustic toil, This earth-devoted wooer of the soil.— But she with meekness took the wayward child, And sought to make the savage nature mild. But Jane her judgment with decision gave— 130 “Train not an idiot to oblige a slave.” “And where is Bloomer?” Richard would have said, But he was cautious, feeling, and afraid; And little either of the hero knew, And little sought—he might be married too. Now to his home, the morning visits past, Return’d the guest—that evening was his last. He met his Brother, and they spoke of those From whom his comforts in the village rose; Spoke of the favourites, whom so good and kind 140 It was peculiar happiness to find; Then for the sisters in their griefs they felt, And, sad themselves, on saddening subjects dwelt. But George was willing all this woe to spare, And let to-morrow be to-morrow’s care. He of his purchase talk’d—a thing of course, As men will boldly praise a new-bought horse. Richard was not to all its beauty blind, And promised still to seek, with hope to find: The price indeed——” “Yes, that,” said George, “is high; 150 But, if I bought not, one was sure to buy, Who might the social comforts we enjoy, And every comfort, lessen or destroy. “We must not always reckon what we give, But think how precious ’tis in peace to live; Some neighbour Nimrod might in very pride Have stirr’d my anger, and have then defied; Or worse, have loved, and teased me to excess By his kind care to give me happiness; Or might his lady and her daughters bring 160 To raise my spirits, to converse, and sing. ’Twas not the benefit alone I view’d, But thought what horrid things I might exclude. “Some party man might here have sat him down, Some country champion, railing at the crown; Or some true courtier, both prepared to prove, Who loved not them, could not their country love: If we have value for our health and ease, Should we not buy off enemies like these?” So pass’d the evening in a quiet way, 170 When, lo! the morning of the parting day. Each to the table went with clouded look, And George in silence gazed upon a book; Something that chance had offer’d to his view— He knew not what, or cared not, if he knew. Richard his hand upon a paper laid— His vacant eye upon the carpet stray’d; His tongue was talking something of the day, And his vex’d mind was wandering on his way. They spake by fits—but neither had concern 180 In the replies—they nothing wish’d to learn, Nor to relate; each sat as one who tries To baffle sadnesses and sympathies. Each of his Brother took a steady view— As actor he, and as observer too. Richard, whose heart was ever free and frank, Had now a trial, and before it sank: He thought his Brother—parting now so near— Appear’d not as his Brother should appear; He could as much of tenderness remark 190 When parting for a ramble in the park. “Yet, is it just?” he thought; “and would I see My Brother wretched but to part with me? What can he further in my mind explore? He saw enough, and he would see no more. Happy himself, he wishes now to slide } Back to his habits——He is satisfied; } But I am not—this cannot be denied. } “He has been kind—so let me think him still; Yet he expresses not a wish, a will 200 To meet again!”——And thus affection strove With pride, and petulance made war on love. He thought his Brother cool—he knew him kind— And there was sore division in his mind. “Hours yet remain—’tis misery to sit With minds for conversation all unfit; No evil can from change of place arise, And good will spring from air and exercise: Suppose I take the purposed ride with you, And guide your jaded praise to objects new, 210 That buyers see?”—— And Richard gave assent } Without resistance, and without intent; } He liked not nor declined—and forth the Brothers went. } “Come, my dear Richard! let us cast away } All evil thoughts—let us forget the day, } And fight like men with grief till we like boys are gay.” } Thus George—and even this in Richard’s mind Was judged an effort rather wise than kind; This flow’d from something he observed of late, And he could feel it, but he could not state; 220 He thought some change appear’d—yet fail’d to prove, Even as he tried, abatement in the love; But in his Brother’s manner was restraint That he could feel, and yet he could not paint. That they should part in peace full well he knew, But much he fear’d to part with coolness too. George had been peevish when the subject rose, And never fail’d the parting to oppose; Name it, and straight his features cloudy grew To stop the journey as the clouds will do;— 230 And thus they rode along in pensive mood, Their thoughts pursuing, by their cares pursued. “Richard,” said George, “I see it is in vain By love or prayer my Brother to retain; And, truth to tell, it was a foolish thing A man like thee from thy repose to bring Ours to disturb——Say, how am I to live Without the comforts thou art wont to give? How will the heavy hours my mind afflict— No one t’ agree, no one to contradict; 240 None to awake, excite me, or prevent; To hear a tale, or hold an argument; To help my worship in a case of doubt, And bring me in my blunders fairly out. “Who now by manners lively or serene Comes between me and sorrow like a screen, And giving, what I look’d not to have found, A care, an interest in the world around?” Silent was Richard, striving to adjust His thoughts for speech—for speak, he thought, he must. 250 Something like war within his bosom strove— His mild, kind nature, and his proud self-love; Grateful he was, and with his courage meek— But he was hurt, and he resolved to speak. “Yes, my dear Brother! from my soul I grieve Thee and the proofs of thy regard to leave. Thou hast been all that I could wish—my pride Exults to find that I am thus allied; Yet, to express a feeling—how it came, The pain it gives, its nature and its name, 260 I know not—but of late, I will confess, Not that thy love is little, but is less. “Hadst thou received me in thy present mood, Sure I had held thee to be kind and good; But thou wert all the warmest heart could state, Affection dream, or hope anticipate; I must have wearied thee yet day by day— ‘Stay!’ said my Brother, and ’twas good to stay; But now, forgive me, thinking I perceive Change undefined, and as I think I grieve. 270 “Have I offended?—Proud although I be, I will be humble, and concede to thee. Have I intruded on thee when thy mind Was vex’d, and then to solitude inclined? O! there are times when all things will molest Minds so disposed, so heavy, so oppress’d; And thine, I know, is delicate and nice, Sickening at folly, and at war with vice: Then, at a time when thou wert vex’d with these, I have intruded, let affection tease, 280 And so offended.”—— “Richard, if thou hast, ’Tis at this instant, nothing in the past. No, thou art all a Brother’s love would choose; And, having lost thee, I shall interest lose In all that I possess; I pray thee tell Wherein thy host has fail’d to please thee well— Do I neglect thy comforts?”— “O! not thou, But art thyself uncomfortable now; And ’tis from thee and from thy looks I gain This painful knowledge—’tis my Brother’s pain; 290 And yet, that something in my spirit lives, Something that spleen excites and sorrow gives, I may confess—for not in thee I trace Alone this change, it is in all the place. Smile if thou wilt in scorn, for I am glad A smile at any rate is to be had. “But there is Jacques, who ever seem’d to treat Thy Brother kindly as we chanced to meet; Nor with thee only pleased our worthy guide, But, in the hedge-row path and green-wood side, 300 There he would speak with that familiar ease That makes a trifle, makes a nothing please. “But now to my farewell—and that I spoke With honest sorrow—with a careless look, Gazing unalter’d on some stupid prose— His sermon for the Sunday I suppose— ‘Going?’ said he: ‘why then the ’Squire and you Will part at last—You’re going?—Well, adieu!’ “True, we were not in friendship bound like those Who will adopt each other’s friends and foes, 310 Without esteem or hatred of their own— But still we were to intimacy grown; And, sure, of Jacques when I had taken leave It would have grieved me—and it ought to grieve; But I in him could not affection trace— } Careless he put his sermons in their place, } With no more feeling than his sermon-case. } “Not so those generous girls beyond the brook— It quite unmann’d me as my leave I took. “But, my dear Brother! when I take at night, 320 In my own home and in their mother’s sight, By turns my children, or together see A pair contending for the vacant knee; When to Matilda I begin to tell What in my visit first and last befell— Of this your village, of her tower and spire, And, above all, her Rector and her ‘Squire, How will the tale be marr’d when I shall end— I left displeased the Brother and the friend?” “Nay, Jacques is honest—Marry, he was then 330 Engaged—What! part an author and his pen? Just in the fit, and when th’ inspiring ray Shot on his brain, t’ arrest it in its way! Come, thou shalt see him in an easier vein, Nor of his looks nor of his words complain; Art thou content?”— If Richard had replied, “I am,” his manner had his words belied. Even from his Brother’s cheerfulness he drew Something to vex him—what, he scarcely knew; So he evading said, “My evil fate 340 Upon my comforts throws a gloom of late: Matilda writes not; and, when last she wrote, I read no letter—’twas a trader’s note— ‘Yours I received,’ and all that formal prate That is so hateful, that she knows I hate. “Dejection reigns, I feel, but cannot tell Why upon me the dire infection fell. Madmen may say that they alone are sane, And all beside have a distemper’d brain; Something like this I feel—and I include 350 Myself among the frantic multitude; But, come, Matilda writes, although but ill, And home has health, and that is comfort still.” George stopt his horse, and with the kindest look Spoke to his Brother—earnestly he spoke, As one who to his friend his heart reveals. And all the hazard with the comfort feels. “Soon as I loved thee, Richard—and I loved Before my reason had the will approved, Who yet right early had her sanction lent, 360 And with affection in her verdict went— So soon I felt, that thus a friend to gain, And then to lose, is but to purchase pain. Daily the pleasure grew, then sad the day That takes it all in its increase away! “Patient thou wert, and kind—but well I knew } The husband’s wishes, and the father’s too; } I saw how check’d they were, and yet in secret grew. } Once and again, I urged thee to delay Thy purposed journey, still deferr’d the day; 370 And still on its approach the pain increased Till my request and thy compliance ceased. I could not further thy affection task, Nor more of one so self-resisting ask; But yet to lose thee, Richard, and with thee All hope of social joys—it cannot be. Nor could I bear to meet thee, as a boy } From school his parents, to obtain a joy, } That lessens day by day, and one will soon destroy. } “No! I would have thee, Brother, all my own, 380 To grow beside me as my trees have grown: For ever near me, pleasant in my sight, And, in my mind, my pride and my delight. “Yet will I tell thee, Richard: had I found Thy mind dependent and thy heart unsound; Hadst thou been poor, obsequious, and disposed With any wish or measure to have closed; Willing on me, and gladly, to attend, The younger brother, the convenient friend: Thy speculation its reward had made 390 Like other ventures—thou hadst gain’d in trade. What reason urged, or Jacques esteem’d thy due, Thine had it been, and I, a trader too, Had paid my debt, and home my Brother sent, Nor glad nor sorry that he came or went; Who to his wife and children would have told, They had an uncle, and the man was old; Till every girl and boy had learn’d to prate Of uncle George, his gout, and his estate. “Thus had we parted; but as now thou art, 400 I must not lose thee—No! I cannot part; Is it in human nature to consent, To give up all the good that heaven has lent, All social ease and comfort to forego, And live again the solitary? No! “We part no more, dear Richard! thou wilt need Thy Brother’s help to teach thy boys to read; And I should love to hear Matilda’s psalm, To keep my spirit in a morning calm, And feel the soft devotion that prepares 410 The soul to rise above its earthly cares. Then thou and I, an independent two, May have our parties, and defend them too; Thy liberal notions, and my loyal fears, Will give us subjects for our future years; We will for truth alone contend and read, And our good Jacques shall oversee our creed. “Such were my views; and I had quickly made Some bold attempts my Brother to persuade To think as I did; but I knew too well 420 Whose now thou wert, with whom thou wert to dwell; And why, I said, return him doubtful home, Six months to argue if he then would come Some six months after? and, beside, I know That all the happy are of course the slow; And thou at home art happy, there wilt stay, } Dallying ’twixt will and will-not many a day, } And fret the gloss of hope, and hope itself, away. } “Jacques is my friend; to him I gave my heart: ‘You see my Brother, see I would not part; 430 Wilt thou an embassy of love disdain? Go to this sister, and my views explain; Gloss o’er my failings; paint me with a grace That Love beholds; put meaning in my face; Describe that dwelling; talk how well we live, And all its glory to our village give; Praise the kind sisters whom we love so much, And thine own virtues like an artist touch. “‘Tell her, and here my secret purpose show, That no dependence shall my sister know; 440 Hers all the freedom that she loves shall be, And mine the debt—then press her to agree; Say, that my Brother’s wishes wait on hers, And his affection what she wills prefers.’ “Forgive me, Brother—these my words and more Our friendly Rector to Matilda bore; At large, at length, were all my views explain’d, And to my joy my wishes I obtain’d. “Dwell in that house, and we shall still be near, Absence and parting I no more shall fear; 450 Dwell in thy home, and at thy will exclude All who shall dare upon thee to intrude. “Again thy pardon—’twas not my design To give surprise; a better view was mine; But let it pass—and yet I wish’d to see That meeting too; and happy may it be!” Thus George had spoken, and then look’d around, And smiled as one who then his road had found; “Follow!” he cried, and briskly urged his horse. Richard was puzzled, but obey’d of course; 460 He was affected like a man astray, Lost, but yet knowing something of the way; Till, a wood clear’d, that still conceal’d the view, Richard the purchase of his Brother knew; And something flash’d upon his mind not clear, But much with pleasure mix’d, in part with fear. As one who, wandering through a stormy night, Sees his own home, and gladdens at the sight, Yet feels some doubt if fortune had decreed That lively pleasure in such time of need: 470 So Richard felt—but now the mansion came In view direct—he knew it for the same; There too the garden walk, the elms design’d To guard the peaches from the eastern wind; And there the sloping glass, that when he shines Gives the sun’s vigour to the ripening vines.— “It is my Brother’s!”— “No!” he answers, “No! ’Tis to thy own possession that we go; It is thy wife’s, and will thy children’s be, Earth, wood, and water!—all for thine and thee; 480 Bought in thy name—Alight, my friend, and come, I do beseech thee, to thy proper home; There wilt thou soon thy own Matilda view; She knows our deed, and she approves it too; Before her all our views and plans were laid, And Jacques was there t’ explain and to persuade. Here, on this lawn, thy boys and girls shall run, And play their gambols when their tasks are done; There, from that window, shall their mother view The happy tribe, and smile at all they do; 490 While thou, more gravely, hiding thy delight, Shalt cry ‘O! childish!’ and enjoy the sight. “Well, my dear Richard, there’s no more to say— Stay, as you will—do any thing—but stay; Be, I dispute not, steward—what you will, Take your own name, but be my Brother still. And hear me, Richard! if I should offend, Assume the patron, and forget the friend; If aught in word or manner I express That only touches on thy happiness; 500 If I be peevish, humorsome, unkind, Spoil’d as I am by each subservient mind; For I am humour’d by a tribe who make Me more capricious for the pains they take To make me quiet; shouldst thou ever feel A wound from this, this leave not time to heal, But let thy wife her cheerful smile withhold, Let her be civil, distant, cautious, cold; Then shall I woo forgiveness, and repent, Nor bear to lose the blessings Heaven has lent.” 510 But this was needless—there was joy of heart, All felt the good that all desired t’ impart; Respect, affection, and esteem combined, In sundry portions ruled in every mind; And o’er the whole an unobtrusive air Of pious joy, that urged the silent prayer, And bless’d the new-born feelings——Here we close Our Tale of Tales!—Health, reader, and repose!
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
TALE I.
_SILFORD HALL; OR, THE HAPPY DAY._
Within a village, many a mile from town, A place of small resort and no renown— Save that it form’d a way, and gave a name To SILFORD HALL, it made no claim to fame— It was the gain of some, the pride of all, That travellers stopt to ask for SILFORD HALL. Small as it was, the place could boast a School, In which Nathaniel Perkin bore the rule. Not mark’d for learning deep, or talents rare, But for his varying tasks and ceaseless care, 10 Some forty boys, the sons of thrifty men, He taught to read, and part to use the pen; While, by more studious care, a favourite few } Increased his pride—for, if the Scholar knew } Enough for praise, say what the Teacher’s due?— } These to his presence, slates in hand, moved on, And a grim smile their feats in figures won. This Man of Letters woo’d in early life The Vicar’s maiden, whom he made his wife. She too can read, as by her song she proves— 20 The song Nathaniel made about their loves. Five rosy girls, and one fair boy, increased The Father’s care, whose labours seldom ceased. No day of rest was his. If, now and then, His boys for play laid by the book and pen, For Lawyer Slow there was some deed to write, Or some young farmer’s letter to indite, Or land to measure, or, with legal skill, To frame some yeoman’s widow’s peevish will; And on the Sabbath—when his neighbours drest 30 To hear their duties, and to take their rest— Then, when the Vicar’s periods ceased to flow, Was heard Nathaniel, in his seat below. Such were his labours; but the time is come When his son Peter clears the hours of gloom, And brings him aid: though yet a boy, he shares In staid Nathaniel’s multifarious cares. A king his father, he, a prince, has rule— The first of subjects, viceroy of the school; But, though a prince within that realm he reigns, 40 Hard is the part his duteous soul sustains. He, with his Father, o’er the furrow’d land, } Draws the long chain in his uneasy hand, } And neatly forms at home, what there they rudely plann’d; } Content, for all his labour if he gains Some words of praise, and sixpence for his pains. Thus many a hungry day the Boy has fared, And would have ask’d a dinner, had he dared. When boys are playing, he for hours of school Has sums to set, and copy-books to rule; 50 When all are met, for some sad dunce afraid, He, by allowance, lends his timely aid— Taught at the student’s failings to connive, Yet keep his Father’s dignity alive; For ev’n Nathaniel fears, and might offend, If too severe, the farmer, now his friend; Or her, that farmer’s lady, who well knows Her boy is bright, and needs nor threats nor blows. This seem’d to Peter hard; and he was loth, T’ obey and rule, and have the cares of both— 60 To miss the master’s dignity, and yet, No portion of the school-boy’s play to get. To him the Fiend, as once to Launcelot, cried, “Run from thy wrongs!”—“Run where?” his fear replied. “Run!”—said the Tempter; “if but hard thy fare, Hard is it now—it _may_ be mended there.” But still, though tempted, he refused to part, And felt the Mother clinging at his heart. Nor this alone—he, in that weight of care, Had help, and bore it as a man should bear. 70 A drop of comfort in his cup was thrown; It was his treasure, and it was his own. His Father’s shelves contained a motley store Of letter’d wealth; and this he might explore. A part his mother in her youth had gain’d, } A part Nathaniel from his club obtain’d, } And part—a well-worn kind—from sire to son remain’d. } He sought his Mother’s hoard, and there he found Romance in sheets, and poetry unbound; Soft Tales of Love, which never damsel read, 80 But tears of pity stain’d her virgin bed. There were Jane Shore and Rosamond the Fair, And humbler heroines frail as these were there; There was a tale of one forsaken Maid, Who till her death the work of vengeance stay’d; Her Lover, then at sea, while round him stood A dauntless crew, the angry ghost pursued; In a small boat, without an oar or sail, She came to call him, nor would force avail, Nor prayer; but, conscience-stricken, down he leapt, 90 And o’er his corse the closing billows slept; All vanish’d then! but of the crew were some Wondering whose ghost would on the morrow come. A learned Book was there, and in it schemes How to cast Fortunes and interpret Dreams; Ballads were there of Lover’s bliss or bale, The Kitchen Story, and the Nursery Tale. His hungry mind disdain’d not humble food, And read with relish keen of Robin Hood; Of him, all-powerful made by magic gift 100 And Giants slain—of mighty Hickerthrift; Through Crusoe’s Isle delighted had he stray’d; } Nocturnal visits had to witches paid, } Gliding through haunted scenes, enraptured and afraid. } A loftier shelf with real books was graced, Bound, or part bound, and ranged in comely taste: Books of high mark, the mind’s more solid food, Which some might think the owner understood; But Fluxions, Sections, Algebraic lore, Our Peter left for others to explore, 110 And, quickly turning to a favourite kind, Found what rejoiced him at his heart to find. Sir Walter wrote not then, or He by whom Such gain and glory to Sir Walter come— That Fairy-Helper, by whose secret aid Such views of life are to the world convey’d— As inspiration known in after-times, The sole assistant in his prose or rhymes. But there were fictions wild that please the boy, Which men, too, read, condemn, reject, enjoy— 120 Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales were there, One volume each, and both the worse for wear; There by Quarles’ Emblems Esop’s Fables stood, The coats in tatters, and the cuts in wood. There, too, “The English History,” by the pen Of Doctor Cooke, and other learned men, In numbers, sixpence each; by these was seen, And highly prized, the Monthly Magazine— Not such as now will men of taste engage, But the cold gleanings of a former age, 130 Scraps cut from sermons, scenes removed from plays, With heads of heroes famed in Tyburn’s palmy days. The rest we pass—though Peter pass’d them not, But here his cares and labours all forgot. Stain’d, torn, and blotted every noble page, Stood the chief poets of a former age— And of the present; not their works complete, } But in such portions as on bulks we meet, } The refuse of the shops, thrown down upon the street. } There Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton found a place, 140 With some a nameless, some a shameless, race, Which many a weary walker resting reads, And, pondering o’er the short relief, proceeds, While others, lingering, pay the written sum, Half loth, but longing for delight to come. Of the Youth’s morals we would something speak, Taught by his Mother what to shun or seek. She show’d the heavenly way, and in his youth, Press’d on his yielding mind the Gospel truth, How weak is man, how much to ill inclined, 150 And where his help is placed, and how to find. These words of weight sank deeply in his breast, And awful Fear and holy Hope imprest. He shrank from vice, and at the startling view, As from an adder in his path, withdrew. All else was cheerful. Peter’s easy mind To the gay scenes of village-life inclined. The lark that soaring sings his notes of joy, Was not more lively than th’ awaken’d boy. Yet oft with this a softening sadness dwelt, 160 While, feeling thus, he marvell’d why he felt. “I am not sorry,” said the Boy, “but still, The tear will drop—I wonder why it will!” His books, his walks, his musing, morn and eve, Gave such impressions as such minds receive; And with his moral and religious views Wove the wild fancies of an Infant-Muse, Inspiring thoughts that he could not express, [Obscure-sublime]! his secret happiness. Oft would he strive for words, and oft begin 170 To frame in verse the views he had within; But ever fail’d: for how can words explain The unform’d ideas of a teeming brain? Such was my Hero, whom I would portray In one exploit—the Hero of a Day. At six miles’ distance from his native town Stood Silford Hall, a seat of much renown— Computed miles such weary travellers ride, When they in chance wayfaring men confide. Beauty and grandeur were within; around, 180} Lawn, wood, and water; the delicious ground } Had parks where deer disport, had fields where game abound. } Fruits of all tastes in spacious gardens grew; And flowers of every scent and every hue, That native in more favour’d climes arise, Are here protected from th’ inclement skies. To this fair place, with mingled pride and shame This lad of learning without knowledge came— Shame for his conscious ignorance, and pride To this fair seat in this gay style to ride. 190 The cause that brought him was a small account, His father’s due, and he must take the amount, And sign a stamp’d receipt! this done, he might Look all around him, and enjoy the sight. So far to walk was, in his mother’s view, More than her darling Peter ought to do; Peter indeed knew more, but he would hide His better knowledge, for he wish’d to ride; So had his father’s nag, a beast so small, That if he fell, he had not far to fall. 200 His fond and anxious mother in his best Her darling child for the occasion drest; All in his coat of green she clothed her boy, And stood admiring with a mother’s joy; Large was it made and long, as meant to do } For Sunday-service, when he older grew— } Not brought in daily use in one year’s wear or two. } White was his waistcoat, and what else he wore Had clothed the lamb or parent ewe before; In all the mother show’d her care or skill; 210 A riband black she tied beneath his frill; Gave him his stockings, white as driven snow, And bad him heed the miry way below; On the black varnish of the comely shoe Shone the large buckle of a silvery hue; Boots he had worn, had he such things possest— But bootless grief!—he was full proudly drest, Full proudly look’d, and light he was of heart. When thus for Silford Hall prepared to start. Nathaniel’s self with joy the stripling eyed, 220 And gave a shilling with a father’s pride; Rules of politeness too with pomp he gave, And show’d the lad how scholars should behave. Ere yet he left her home, the Mother told— For she had seen—what things he should behold. There, she related, her young eyes had view’d Stone figures shaped like naked flesh and blood, Which, in the hall and up the gallery placed, Were proofs, they told her, of a noble taste; Nor she denied—but, in a public hall, 230 Her judgment taken, she had clothed them all. There, too, were station’d, each upon its seat, Half forms of men, without their hands and feet; These and what more within that hall might be She saw, and oh! how long’d her son to see! Yet could he hope to view that noble place, Who dared not look the porter in the face? Forth went the pony, and the rider’s knees Cleaved to her sides—he did not ride with ease; One hand a whip, and one a bridle, held, 240 In case the pony falter’d or rebell’d. The village boys beheld him as he pass’d, And looks of envy on the hero cast; But he was meek, nor let his pride appear; Nay, truth to speak, he felt a sense of fear, Lest the rude beast, unmindful of the rein, Should take a fancy to turn back again. He found, and wonder ’tis he found, his way, The orders many that he must obey: “Now to the right, then left, and now again 250 Directly onward, through the winding lane; Then, half way o’er the common, by the mill, Turn from the cottage and ascend the hill; Then—spare the pony, boy!—as you ascend, You see the Hall, and that’s your journey’s end.” Yes, he succeeded, not remembering aught Of this advice, but by his pony taught. Soon as he doubted he the bridle threw On the steed’s neck, and said—“Remember you!” For oft the creature had his father borne, 260 Sound on his way, and safe on his return. So he succeeded, and the modest youth Gave praise, where praise had been assign’d by truth. His business done—for fortune led his way To him whose office was such debts to pay, The farmer-bailiff; but he saw no more } Than a small room, with bare and oaken floor, } A desk with books thereon—he’d seen such things before; } “Good day!” he said, but linger’d as he spoke “Good day,” and gazed about with serious look; 270 Then slowly moved, and then delay’d awhile, In dumb dismay which raised a lordly smile In those who eyed him—then again moved on, As all might see, unwilling to be gone. While puzzled thus, and puzzling all about, Involved, absorb’d, in some bewildering doubt, A lady enter’d, Madam Johnson call’d, Within whose presence stood the lad appall’d. A learned Lady this, who knew the names Of all the pictures in the golden frames; 280 Could every subject, every painter, tell, And on their merits and their failures dwell; And if perchance there was a slight mistake— These the most knowing on such matters make. “And what dost mean, my pretty lad?” she cried, } “Dost stay or go?”—He first for courage tried, } Then for fit words—then boldly he replied, } That he “would give a hundred pounds, if so He had them, all about that house to go; For he had heard that it contain’d such things 290 As never house could boast, except the king’s.” The ruling Lady, smiling, said, “In truth Thou shalt behold them all, my pretty youth. Tom! first the creature to the stable lead, Let it be fed; and you, my child, must feed; For three good hours must pass e’er dinner come”— “Supper,” thought he, “she means, our time at home.” First was he feasted to his heart’s content; Then, all in rapture, with the Lady went; Through rooms immense, and galleries wide and tall, 300 He walk’d entranced—he breathed in Silford Hall. Now could he look on that delightful place, The glorious dwelling of a princely race; His vast delight was mixed with equal awe, There was such magic in the things he saw; Oft standing still, with open mouth and eyes } Turn’d here and there, alarm’d as one who tries } T’ escape from something strange that would before him rise. } The wall would part, and beings without name Would come—for such to his adventures came; 310 Hence undefined and solemn terror press’d Upon his mind, and all his powers possess’d. All he had read of magic, every charm, Were he alone, might come and do him harm; But his gaze rested on his friendly guide— “I’m safe,” he thought, “so long as you abide.” In one large room was found a bed of state— “And can they soundly sleep beneath such weight, Where they may figures in the night explore, Form’d by the dim light dancing on the floor 320 From the far window; mirrors broad and high Doubling each terror to the anxious eye?— ’Tis strange,” thought Peter, “that such things produce No fear in _her_; but there is much in use.” On that reflecting brightness, passing by, The Boy one instant fix’d his restless eye— And saw himself: he had before descried His face in one his mother’s store supplied; But here he could his whole dimensions view, From the pale forehead to the jet-black shoe. 330 Passing, he look’d and, looking, grieved to pass From the fair figure smiling in the glass. ’Twas so Narcissus saw the boy advance In the dear fount, and met th’ admiring glance So loved—But no! our happier boy admired, Not the slim form, but what the form attired— The riband, shirt, and frill, all pure and clean, The white ribb’d stockings, and the coat of green. The Lady now appear’d to move away— And this was threat’ning; for he dared not stay, 340 Lost and alone; but earnestly he pray’d— “Oh! do not leave me—I am not afraid, But ’tis so lonesome; I shall never find My way alone, no better than the blind.” The Matron kindly to the Boy replied, “Trust in my promise, I will be thy guide.” Then to the Chapel moved the friendly pair, And well for Peter that his guide was there! Dim, silent, solemn was the scene—he felt The cedar’s power, that so unearthly smelt; 350 And then the stain’d, dark, narrow windows threw Strange, partial beams on pulpit, desk, and pew: Upon the altar, glorious to behold, Stood a vast pair of candlesticks in gold! With candles tall, and large, and firm, and white. Such as the halls of giant-kings would light. There was an organ, too, but now unseen; A long black curtain served it for a screen; Not so the clock that, both by night and day, Click’d the short moments as they pass’d away. 360 “Is this a church? and does the parson read”— Said Peter—“here?—I mean, a church indeed?”— “Indeed it is, or as a church is used,” Was the reply—and Peter deeply mused, Not without awe. His sadness to dispel, They sought the gallery; and then all was well. Yet, enter’d there, although so clear his mind From every fear substantial and defined, Yet there remain’d some touch of native fear— } Of something awful to the eye and ear— 370} A ghostly voice might sound—a ghost itself appear. } There noble Pictures fill’d his mind with joy— He gazed and thought, and was no more the boy; And Madam heard him speak, with some surprise, Of heroes known to him from histories; He knew the actors in the deeds of old— He could the Roman marvels all unfold. He to his guide a theme for wonder grew, At once so little and so much he knew— Little of what was passing every day, 380 And much of that which long had pass’d away;— So like a man, and yet so like a child, That his good friend stood wond’ring as she smiled. The Scripture Pieces caused a serious awe, And he with reverence look’d on all he saw; His pious wonder he express’d aloud, And at the Saviour Form devoutly bow’d. Portraits he pass’d, admiring; but with pain Turn’d from some objects, nor would look again. He seem’d to think that something wrong was done, 390 When crimes were shown he blush’d to look upon. Not so his guide—“What youth is that?” she cried, “That handsome stripling at the lady’s side; Can you inform me how the youth is named?” He answer’d, “Joseph”; but he look’d ashamed. “Well, and what then? Had you been Joseph, boy! Would you have been so peevish and so coy?” Our hero answer’d, with a glowing face, “His mother told him he should pray for grace.” A transient cloud o’ercast the matron’s brow; 400 She seem’d disposed to laugh——but knew not how; Silent awhile, then placid she appear’d— “’Tis but a child,” she thought, and all was clear’d. No—laugh she could not; still, the more she sought To hide her thoughts, the more of his she caught. A hundred times she had these pictures named, And never felt perplex’d, disturb’d, ashamed; Yet now the feelings of a lad so young Call’d home her thoughts and paralysed her tongue. She pass’d the offensive pictures silent by, 410 With one reflecting, self-reproving sigh; Reasoning, how habit will the mind entice To approach and gaze upon the bounds of vice, As men, by custom, from some cliff’s vast height, Look pleased, and make their danger their delight. “Come, let us on!—see there a Flemish view, A Country Fair, and all as Nature true. See there the merry creatures, great and small, Engaged in drinking, gaming, dancing all, Fiddling or fighting—all in drunken joy!”— 420 “But is this Nature?” said the wondering Boy. “Be sure it is! and those Banditti there— } Observe the faces, forms, the eyes, the air; } See rage, revenge, remorse, disdain, despair!” } “And is that Nature, too?” the stripling cried.— “Corrupted Nature,” said the serious guide. She then displayed her knowledge.—“That, my dear, Is call’d a Titian, this a Guido here, And yon a Claude—you see that lovely light, So soft and solemn, neither day nor night.” 430 “Yes!” quoth the Boy, “and there is just the breeze, That curls the water, and that fans the trees; The ships that anchor in that pleasant bay All look so safe and quiet—Claude, you say?” On a small picture Peter gazed and stood In admiration—“’twas so dearly good.” “For how much money think you, then, my Lad, Is such a ‘dear good picture’ to be had? ’Tis a famed master’s work—a Gerard Dow, At least the seller told the buyer so.” 440 “I tell the price!” quoth Peter—“I as soon Could tell the price of pictures in the moon; But I have heard, when the great race was done, How much was offer’d for the horse that won.”— “A thousand pounds: but, look the country round, And, may be, ten such horses might be found; While, ride or run where’er you choose to go, You’ll nowhere find so fine a Gerard Dow.” “If this be true,” says Peter, “then, of course, You’d rate the picture higher than the horse.” 450 “Why, thou’rt a reasoner, Boy!” the lady cried; “But see that Infant on the other side; ’Tis by Sir Joshua. Did you ever see A Babe so charming?”—“No, indeed,” said he; “I wonder how he could that look invent, That seems so sly, and yet so innocent.” In this long room were various Statues seen, And Peter gazed thereon with awe-struck mien. “Why look so earnest, Boy?”—“Because they bring To me a story of an awful thing.”— 460 “Tell then thy story.”——He, who never stay’d For words or matter, instantly obey’d.— “A holy pilgrim to a city sail’d, Where every sin o’er sinful men prevail’d; Who, when he landed, look’d in every street, As he was wont, a busy crowd to meet; But now of living beings found he none; Death had been there, and turn’d them all to stone. All in an instant, as they were employ’d, Was life in every living man destroy’d— 470 The rich, the poor, the timid, and the bold, Made in a moment such as we behold.” “Come, my good lad, you’ve yet a room to see. Are you awake?”—“I am amazed,” said he; I know they’re figures form’d by human skill, But ’tis so awful, and this place so still! “And what is this?” said Peter, who had seen A long wide table, with its cloth of green, Its net-work pockets, and its studs of gold— For such they seem’d, and precious to behold. 480 There too were ivory balls, and one was red, Laid with long sticks upon the soft green bed, And printed tables on the wall beside— “Oh! what are these?” the wondering Peter cried. “This, my good lad, is call’d the Billiard-room,” Answer’d his guide; “and here the gentry come, And with these maces and these cues they play, At their spare time, or in a rainy day.” “And what this chequer’d box?—for play, I guess?”— “You judge it right; ’tis for the game of Chess. 490 There! take your time, examine what you will, There’s King, Queen, Knight—it is a game of skill: And these are Bishops; you the difference see.”— “What! do they make a game of _them_?” quoth he.— “Bishops, like Kings,” she said, “are here but names; Not that I answer for their Honours’ games.” All round the house did Peter go, and found Food for his wonder all the house around. There guns of various bore, and rods, and lines, And all that man for deed of death designs, 500 In beast, or bird, or fish, or worm, or fly— } Life in these last must means of death supply; } The living bait is gorged, and both the victims die. } “God gives man leave his creatures to destroy.”— “What! for his sport?” replied the pitying Boy.— “Nay,” said the Lady, “why the sport condemn? As die they must, ’tis much the same to them.” Peter had doubts; but with so kind a friend He would not on a dubious point contend. Much had he seen, and every thing he saw 510 Excited pleasure not unmix’d with awe. Leaving each room, he turn’d as if once more To enjoy the pleasure that he felt before— “What then must their possessors feel? how grand And happy they who can such joys command! For they may pleasures all their lives pursue, The winter pleasures, and the summer’s too— Pleasures for every hour in every day— Oh! how their time must pass in joy away!” So Peter said.—Replied the courteous Dame: 520 “What you call pleasure scarcely owns the name. The very changes of amusement prove There’s nothing that deserves a lasting love. They hunt, they course, they shoot, they fish, they game; The objects vary, though the end the same— A search for that which flies them; no, my Boy! ’Tis not enjoyment, ’tis pursuit of joy.” Peter was thoughtful—thinking, What! not these, Who can command, or purchase, what they please— Whom many serve, who only speak the word, 530 And they have all that earth or seas afford— All that can charm the mind and please the eye— And _they_ not happy!—but I’ll ask her why. So Peter ask’d.—“’Tis not,” she said, “for us, Their Honours’ inward feelings to discuss; But, if they’re happy, they would still confess ’Tis not these things that make their happiness. “Look from this window! at his work behold Yon gardener’s helper—he is poor and old, He not one thing of all you see can call 540 His own; but, haply, he o’erlooks them all. Hear him! he whistles through his work, or stops But to admire his labours and his crops. To-day as every former day he fares, And for the morrow has nor doubts nor cares; Pious and cheerful, proud when he can please— Judge if Joe Tompkin wants such things as these. “Come, let us forward!” and she walk’d in haste To a large room, itself a work of taste, But chiefly valued for the works that drew 550 The eyes of Peter—this indeed was new, Was most imposing—Books of every kind Were there disposed, the food for every mind. With joy perplex’d, round cast he wondering eyes, Still in his joy, and dumb in his surprise. Above, beneath, around, on every side, Of every form and size were Books descried; Like Bishop Hatto, when the rats drew near, And war’s new dangers waked his guilty fear, When thousands came beside, behind, before, 560 And up and down came on ten thousand more, A tail’d and whisker’d army, each with claws As sharp as needles, and with teeth like saws— So fill’d with awe, and wonder in his looks, Stood Peter ‘midst this multitude of Books; But guiltless he and fearless; yet he sigh’d To think what treasures were to him denied. But wonder ceases on continued view; And the Boy sharp for close inspection grew. Prints on the table he at first survey’d, 570 Then to the Books his full attention paid. At first, from tome to tome, as fancy led, He view’d the binding, and the titles read; Lost in delight, and with his freedom pleased, Then three huge folios from their shelf he seized; Fixing on one, with prints of every race, Of beast and bird most rare in every place— Serpents, the giants of their tribe, whose prey Are giants too—a wild ox once a day; Here the fierce tiger, and the desert’s kings, 580 And all that move on feet, or fins, or wings— Most rare and strange; a second volume told Of battles dire, and dreadful to behold, On sea or land, and fleets dispersed in storms; A third has all creative fancy forms— Hydra and dire chimera, deserts rude, And ruins grand, enriching solitude: Whatever was, or was supposed to be, Saw Peter here, and still desired to see. Again he look’d, but happier had he been, 590 That Book of Wonders he had never seen; For there were tales of men of wicked mind, And how the Foe of Man deludes mankind. Magic and murder every leaf bespread— } Enchanted halls, and chambers of the dead, } And ghosts that haunt the scenes where once the victims bled. } Just at this time, when Peter’s heart began To admit the fear that shames the valiant man, He paused—but why? “Here’s one my guard to be; } When thus protected, none can trouble me.”— 600} Then rising look’d he round, and lo! alone was he. } Three ponderous doors, with locks of shining brass, Seem’d to invite the trembling Boy to pass; But fear forbad, till fear itself supplied The place of courage, and at length he tried. He grasp’d the key—Alas! though great his need, The key turn’d not, the bolt would not recede. Try then again; for what will not distress? Again he tried, and with the same success. Yet one remains, remains untried one door— 610 A failing hope, for two had fail’d before; But a bold prince, with fifty doors in sight, Tried forty-nine before he found the right; Before he mounted on the brazen horse, And o’er the walls pursued his airy course. So his cold hand on this last key he laid: “Now turn,” said he; the treacherous bolt obey’d— The door receded—bringing full in view The dim, dull chapel, pulpit, desk, and pew. It was not right—it would have vex’d a saint; 620 And Peter’s anger rose above restraint. “Was this her love,” he cried, “to bring me here, Among the dead, to die myself with fear!”— For Peter judged, with monuments around, The dead must surely in the place be found:— “With cold to shiver, and with hunger pine! ‘We’ll see the rooms,’ she said, ‘before we dine;’ And spake so kind! That window gives no light: } Here is enough the boldest man to fright; } It hardly now is day, and soon it will be night.” 630} Deeply he sigh’d, nor from his heart could chase The dread of dying in that dismal place; Anger and sorrow in his bosom strove, And banish’d all that yet remain’d of love; When soon despair had seized the trembling Boy— But hark, a voice! the sound of peace and joy. “Where art thou, lad?”—“Oh! here am I, in doubt, And sorely frighten’d—can you let me out?”— “Oh! yes, my child; it was indeed a sin, Forgetful as I was, to bolt you in. 640 I left you reading, and from habit lock’d The door behind me, but in truth am shock’d To serve you thus; but we will make amends For such mistake. Come, cheerly, we are friends.” “Oh! yes,” said Peter, quite alive to be So kindly used, and have so much to see, And having so much seen; his way he spied, Forgot his peril, and rejoin’d his guide. Now all beheld, his admiration raised, The lady thank’d, her condescension praised, 650 And fix’d the hour for dinner, forth the Boy Went in a tumult of o’erpowering joy, To view the gardens, and what more was found In the wide circuit of that spacious ground; Till, with his thoughts bewilder’d, and oppress’d With too much feeling, he inclined to rest. Then in the park he sought its deepest shade, By trees more aged than the mansion made, That ages stood; and there unseen a brook Ran not unheard, and thus our traveller spoke— 660 “I am so happy, and have such delight, I cannot bear to see another sight; It wearies one like work;” and so, with deep Unconscious sigh—he laid him down to sleep. Thus he reclining slept, and, oh! the joy That in his dreams possess’d the happy Boy— Composed of all he knew, and all he read, Heard, or conceived, the living and the dead. The Caliph Haroun, walking forth by night To see young David and Goliath fight, 670 Rose on his passive fancy—then appear’d The fleshless forms of beings scorn’d or fear’d By just or evil men—the baneful race Of spirits restless, borne from place to place; Rivers of blood from conquer’d armies ran; The flying steed was by, the marble man; Then danced the fairies round their pygmy queen, And their feet twinkled on the dewy green, All in the moon-beams’ glory. As they fled, The mountain loadstone rear’d its fatal head, 680 And drew the iron-bolted ships on shore, } Where he distinctly heard the billows roar, } Mix’d with a living voice of—“Youngster, sleep no more, } But haste to dinner.” Starting from the ground, The waking boy obey’d that welcome sound. He went and sat, with equal shame and pride, A welcome guest at Madam Johnson’s side; At his right hand was Mistress Kitty placed, And Lucy, maiden sly, the stripling faced. Then each the proper seat at table took— 690 Groom, butler, footman, laundress, coachman, cook; For all their station and their office knew, Nor sat as rustics or the rabble do. The Youth to each the due attention paid, And hob-or-nob’d with Lady Charlotte’s maid; With much respect each other they address’d, And all encouraged their enchanted guest. Wine, fruit, and sweetmeats closed repast so long, And Mistress Flora sang an opera song. Such was the Day the happy Boy had spent, 700 And forth delighted from the Hall he went. Bowing his thanks, he mounted on his steed, More largely fed than he was wont to feed; And well for Peter that his pony knew From whence he came, the road he should pursue; For the young rider had his mind estranged From all around, disturb’d and disarranged, In pleasing tumult, in a dream of bliss, Enjoy’d but seldom in a world like this. But though the pleasures of the Day were past— 710 For lively pleasures are not form’d to last— And though less vivid they became, less strong, Through life they lived, and were enjoy’d as long. So deep the impression of that happy Day, Not time nor cares could wear it all away; Ev’n to the last, in his declining years, He told of all his glories, all his fears: How blithely forward in that morn he went, How blest the hours in that fair palace spent, How vast that Mansion, sure for monarch plann’d, 720 The rooms so many, and yet each so grand— Millions of books in one large hall were found, And glorious pictures every room around; Beside that strangest of the wonders there, That house itself contain’d a house of prayer. He told of park and wood, of sun and shade, And how the lake below the lawn was made; He spake of feasting such as never boy, Taught in his school, was fated to enjoy— Of ladies’ maids as ladies’ selves who dress’d, 730} And her, his friend, distinguish’d from the rest, } By grandeur in her look, and state that she possess’d. } He pass’d not one; his grateful mind o’erflow’d With sense of all he felt, and they bestow’d. He spake of every office, great or small, } Within, without, and spake with praise of all— } So pass’d the happy Boy that Day at Silford Hall. }
TALE II.
_THE FAMILY OF LOVE._
In a large town, a wealthy, thriving place, Where hopes of gain excite an anxious race; Which dark, dense wreaths of cloudy volumes cloak, And mark, for leagues around, the place of smoke; Where fire to water lends its powerful aid, And steam produces—strong ally to trade— Arrived a Stranger, whom no merchant knew, Nor could conjecture what he came to do. He came not there his fortune to amend; He came not there a fortune made to spend; 10 His age not that which men in trade employ; The place not that where men their wealth enjoy; Yet there was something in his air that told Of competency gain’d, before the man was old. He brought no servants with him; those he sought Were soon his habits and his manners taught— His manners easy, civil, kind, and free; His habits such as aged men’s will be, To self indulgent; wealthy men like him Plead for these failings—’tis their way, their whim. 20 His frank good-humour, his untroubled air, His free address, and language bold but fair, Soon made him friends—such friends as all may make, Who take the way that he was pleased to take. He gave his dinners in a handsome style, And met his neighbours with a social smile; The wealthy all their easy friend approved, Whom the more liberal for his bounty loved; And ev’n the cautious and reserved began To speak with kindness of the frank old man, 30 Who, though associate with the rich and grave, Laugh’d with the gay, and to the needy gave What need requires. At church a seat was shown, That he was kindly ask’d to think his own. Thither he went, and neither cold nor heat, Pains or pretences, kept him from his seat. This to his credit in the town was told, And ladies said, “’Tis pity he is old; Yet, for his years, the Stranger moves like one Who, of his race, has no small part to run.” 40 No envy he by ostentation raised, And all his hospitable table praised. His quiet life censorious talk suppress’d, And numbers hail’d him as their welcome guest. ’Twas thought a man so mild, and bounteous too, A world of good within the town might do; To vote him honours, therefore, they inclined; But these he sought not, and with thanks resign’d; His days of business, he declared, were past, And he would wait in quiet for the last; 50 But for a dinner and a day of mirth He was the readiest being upon earth. Men call’d him Captain, and they found the name By him accepted without pride or shame. Not in the Navy—that did not appear: Not in the Army—that at least was clear— “But as he speaks of sea-affairs, he made, No doubt, his fortune in the way of trade; He might, perhaps, an India-ship command— We’ll call him Captain now he comes to land.” 60 The Stranger much of various life had seen, Been poor, been rich, and in the state between; Had much of kindness met, and much deceit, And all that man who deals with men must meet. Not much he read; but from his youth had thought, And been by care and observation taught: ’Tis thus a man his own opinions makes; He holds that fast, which he with trouble takes; While one whose notions all from books arise, } Upon his authors, not himself, relies— 70} A borrow’d wisdom this, that does not make us wise. } Inured to scenes, where wealth and place command Th’ observant eye, and the obedient hand, A Tory-spírit his—he ever paid Obedience due, and look’d to be obey’d. “Man upon man depends, and, break the chain, He soon returns to savage life again; As of fair virgins dancing in a round Each binds another, and herself is bound, On either hand a social tribe he sees, 80 By those assisted, and assisting these; While to the general welfare all belong, The high in power, the low in number strong.” Such was the Stranger’s creed—if not profound, He judg’d it useful, and proclaimed it sound; And many liked it; invitations went To Captain Elliot, and from him were sent— These last so often, that his friends confess’d, The Captain’s cook had not a place of rest. Still were they something at a loss to guess 90 What his profession was from his address; For much he knew, and too correct was he For a man train’d and nurtured on the sea; Yet well he knew the seaman’s words and ways— Seaman’s his look, and nautical his phrase: In fact, all ended, just where they began, With many a doubt of this amphibious man. Though kind to all, he look’d with special grace } On a few members of an ancient race, } Long known, and well respected in the place— 100} Dyson their name; but how regard for these Rose in his mind, or why they seem’d to please, Or by what ways, what virtues—not a cause Can we assign, for Fancy has no laws; But, as the Captain show’d them such respect, We will not treat the Dysons with neglect. Their Father died, while yet engaged by trade To make a fortune that was never made, But to his children taught; for he would say “I place them—all I can—in Fortune’s way.” 110 James was his first-born; when his father died, He, in their large domain, the place supplied, And found, as to the Dysons all appear’d, Affairs less gloomy than their sire had fear’d; But then, if rich or poor, all now agree, Frugal and careful James must wealthy be: And, wealth in wedlock sought, he married soon, And ruled his Lady from the honey-moon. Nor shall we wonder; for, his house beside, } He had a sturdy multitude to guide, 120} Who now his spirit vex’d, and now his temper tried: } Men who by labours live, and, day by day, Work, weave, and spin their active lives away; Like bees industrious, they for others strive, With, now and then, some murmuring in the hive. James was a churchman—’twas his pride and boast; Loyal his heart, and “Church and King” his toast; He for Religion might not warmly feel, But for the Church he had abounding zeal. Yet no dissenting sect would he condemn, 130 “They’re nought to us,” said he, “nor we to them; ’Tis innovation of our own I hate, Whims and inventions of a modern date. “Why send you Bibles all the world about, That men may read amiss, and learn to doubt? Why teach the children of the poor to read, That a new race of doubters may succeed? Now can you scarcely rule the stubborn crew, And what if they should know as much as you? Will a man labour when to learning bred, 140 Or use his hands who can employ his head? Will he a clerk or master’s self obey, Who thinks himself as well-inform’d as they?” These were his favourite subjects—these he chose, And where he ruled no creature durst oppose. “[We’re] rich,” quoth James; “but if we thus proceed, And give to all, we shall be poor indeed: In war we subsidise the world—in peace We christianise—our bounties never cease; We learn each stranger’s tongue, that they with ease 150 May read translated Scriptures, if they please; We buy them presses, print them books, and then Pay and export poor learned, pious men; Vainly we strive a fortune now to get, So tax’d by private claims, and public debt.” Still he proceeds—“You make your prisons light, Airy and clean, your robbers to invite; And in such ways your pity show to vice, That you the rogues encourage, and entice.” For lenient measures James had no regard— 160 “Hardship,” he said, “must work upon the hard; Labour and chains such desperate men require; To soften iron you must use the fire.” Active himself, he labour’d to express, In his strong words, his scorn of idleness; From him in vain the beggar sought relief— “Who will not labour is an idle thief, Stealing from those who will;” he knew not how For the untaught and ill-taught to allow, Children of want and vice, inured to ill, 170 Unchain’d the passions, and uncurb’d the will. Alas! he look’d but to his own affairs, Or to the rivals in his trade, and theirs; Knew not the thousands who must all be fed, Yet ne’er were taught to earn their daily bread; Whom crimes, misfortunes, errors only teach To seek their food where’er within their reach; Who for their parents’ sins, or for their own, Are now as vagrants, wanderers, beggars known, Hunted and hunting through the world, to share 180 Alms and contempt, and shame and scorn to bear; Whom Law condemns, and Justice, with a sigh, Pursuing, shakes her sword and passes by.— If to the prison we should these commit, They for the gallows will be render’d fit. But James had virtues—was esteem’d as one Whom men look’d up to, and relied upon. Kind to his equals, social when they met— If out of spirits, always out of debt; True to his promise, he a lie disdain’d, 190 And e’en when tempted in his trade, refrain’d; Frugal he was, and loved the cash to spare, Gain’d by much skill, and nursed by constant care; Yet liked the social board, and when he spoke, Some hail’d his wisdom, some enjoy’d his joke. To him a Brother look’d as one to whom, If fortune frown’d, he might in trouble come; His Sisters view’d the important man with awe, As if a parent in his place they saw: All lived in Love; none sought their private ends: 200 The Dysons were a Family of Friends. His brother David was a studious boy, Yet could his sports as well as books enjoy. E’en when a boy, he was not quickly read, If by the heart you judged him, or the head. His father thought he was decreed to shine, And be in time an eminent Divine; But if he ever to the Church inclined, It is too certain that he changed his mind. He spoke of scruples; but who knew him best 210 Affirm’d, no scruples broke on David’s rest. Physic and Law were each in turn proposed, He weigh’d them nicely, and with Physic closed. He had a serious air, a smooth address, And a firm spirit that ensured success. He watched his brethren of the time, how they Rose into fame, that he might choose his way. Some, he observed, a kind of roughness used, And now their patients banter’d, now abused: The awe-struck people were at once dismay’d, 220 As if they begg’d the advice for which they paid. There are who hold that no disease is slight, Who magnify the foe with whom they fight. The sick was told that his was that disease But rarely known on mortal frame to seize; Which only skill profound, and full command Of all the powers in nature could withstand. Then, if he lived, what fame the conquest gave! And if he died—“No human power could save!” Mere fortune sometimes, and a lucky case, 230 Will make a man the idol of a place— Who last, advice to some fair duchess gave, Or snatch’d a widow’s darling from the grave, Him first she honours of the lucky tribe, Fills him with praise, and woos him to prescribe. In his own chariot soon he rattles on, And half believes the lies that built him one. But not of these was David: care and pain, And studious toil prepar’d his way to gain. At first observed, then trusted, he became 240 At length respected, and acquired a name. Keen, close, attentive, he could read mankind, The feeble body, and the failing mind; And if his heart remain’d untouch’d, his eyes, His air, and tone, with all could sympathise. This brought him fees, and not a man was he In weak compassion to refuse a fee. Yet though the Doctor’s purse was well supplied, Though patients came, and fees were multiplied, Some secret drain, that none presumed to know, 250 And few e’en guess’d, for ever kept it low. Some of a patient spake, a tender fair, Of whom the doctor took peculiar care, But not a fee; he, rather, largely gave, Nor spared himself, ’twas said, this gentle friend to save. Her case consumptive, with perpetual need Still to be fed, and still desire to feed; An eager craving, seldom known to cease, And gold alone brought temporary peace.— So, rich he was not; James some fear express’d, 260 Dear Doctor David would be yet distress’d; For if now poor, when so repaid his skill, What fate were his, if he himself were ill! In his religion, Doctor Dyson sought To teach himself—“A man should not be taught, Should not, by forms or creeds, his mind debase, That keep in awe an unreflecting race.” He heeded not what Clarke and Paley say, But thought himself as good a judge as they; Yet to the Church profess’d himself a friend, 270} And would the rector for his hour attend; } Nay, praise the learn’d discourse, and learnedly defend. } For, since the common herd of men are blind, He judged it right that guides should be assign’d; And that the few who could themselves direct Should treat those guides with honour and respect. He was from all contracted notions freed, But gave his Brother credit for his creed; And, if in smaller matters he indulged, ’Twas well, so long as they were not divulged. 280 Oft was the spirit of the Doctor tried, When his grave Sister wish’d to be his guide. She told him, “all his real friends were grieved To hear it said, how little he believed: Of all who bore the name she never knew One to his pastor or his church untrue; All have the truth with mutual zeal profess’d, And why, dear Doctor, differ from the rest?” “’Tis my hard fate,” with serious looks replied The man of doubt, “to err with such a guide.”— 290 “Then why not turn from such a painful state?”— The doubting man replied, “It is my fate.” Strong in her zeal, by texts and reasons back’d, In his grave mood the Doctor she attack’d; Cull’d words from Scripture to announce his doom, And bade him “think of dreadful things to come.” “If such,” he answer’d, “be that state untried, In peace, dear Martha, let me here abide; Forbear to insult a man whose fate is known, And leave to Heaven a matter all its own.” 300 In the same cause the Merchant, too, would strive; He ask’d, “Did ever unbeliever thrive? Had he respect? could he a fortune make? And why not then such impious men forsake?” “Thanks, my dear James, and be assured I feel, If not your reason, yet at least your zeal; And when those wicked thoughts, that keep me poor, And bar respect, assail me as before With force combin’d, you’ll drive the fiend away; For you shall reason, James, and Martha pray.” 310 But though the Doctor could reply with ease To all such trivial arguments as these— Though he could reason, or at least deride, There was a power that would not be defied; A closer reasoner, whom he could not shun, Could not refute, from whom he could not run: For Conscience lived within; she slept, ’tis true, But when she waked, her pangs awaken’d too. She bade him think; and, as he thought, a sigh Of deep remorse precluded all reply. 320 No soft insulting smile, no bitter jest, } Could this commanding power of strength divest, } But with reluctant fear her terrors he confess’d. } His weak advisers he could scorn or slight, } But not their cause; for, in their folly’s spite, } They took the wiser part, and chose their way aright. } Such was the Doctor, upon whom for aid Had some good ladies call’d, but were afraid— Afraid of one who, if report were just, The arm of flesh, and that alone, would trust. 330 But these were few—the many took no care Of what they judged to be his own affair; And if he them from their diseases freed, They neither cared nor thought about his creed; They said his merits would for much atone, And only wonder’d that he lived alone. The widow’d Sister near the Merchant dwelt, And her late loss with lingering sorrow felt. Small was her jointure, and o’er this she sigh’d, } That to her heart its bounteous wish denied, 340} Which yet all common wants, but not her all, supplied. } Sorrows like showers descend, and as the heart For them prepares, they good or ill impart; Some on the mind, as on the ocean rain, Fall and disturb, but soon are lost again; Some, as to fertile lands, a boon bestow, And [seeds], that else had perish’d, live and grow; Some fall on barren soil, and thence proceed The idle blossom, and the useless weed. But how her griefs the Widow’s heart impress’d 350 Must from the tenor of her life be guess’d. Rigid she was, persisting in her grief, Fond of complaint, and adverse to relief. In her religion she was all severe, And as she was, was anxious to appear. When sorrow died restraint usurp’d the place, And sate in solemn state upon her face. Reading she loved not, nor would deign to waste Her precious time on trifling works of taste; Though what she did with all that precious time 360 We know not, but to waste it was a crime— As oft she said, when with a serious friend She spent the hours as duty bids us spend; To read a novel was a kind of sin— Albeit once Clarissa took her in; And now of late, she heard with much surprise, Novels there were that made a compromise Betwixt amusement and religion: these Might charm the worldly, whom the stories please, And please the serious, whom the sense would charm, 370 And thus, indulging, be secured from harm— A happy thought, when from the foe we take His arms, and use them for religion’s sake. Her Bible she perused by day, by night; It was her task—she said ’twas her delight; Found in her room, her chamber, and her pew, For ever studied, yet for ever new— All must be new that we cannot retain, And new we find it when we read again. The hardest texts she could with ease expound, 380 And meaning for the most mysterious found, Knew which of dubious senses to prefer. The want of Greek was not a want in her;— Instinctive light no aid from Hebrew needs— But full conviction without study breeds; O’er mortal powers by inborn strength prevails, Where Reason trembles, and where Learning fails. To the church strictly from her childhood bred, She now her zeal with party-spirit fed: For brother James she lively hopes express’d, 390 But for the Doctor’s safety felt distress’d; And her light Sister, poor, and deaf, and blind, Fill’d her with fears of most tremendous kind. But David mocked her for the pains she took, And Fanny gave resentment for rebuke; While James approved the zeal, and praised the call, “That brought,” he said, “a blessing on them all: Goodness like this to all the House extends, For were they not a Family of Friends?” Their sister Frances, though her prime was past, 400 Had beauty still—nay, beauty form’d to last; ’Twas not the lily and the rose combined, Nor must we say the beauty of the mind; But feature, form, and that engaging air, That lives when ladies are no longer fair. Lovers she had, as she remember’d yet, For who the glories of their reign forget? Some she rejected in her maiden pride } And some in maiden hesitation tried— } Unwilling to renounce, unable to decide. 410} One lost, another would her grace implore, Till all were lost, and lovers came no more. Nor had she that, in beauty’s failing state, Which will recall a lover, or create; Hers was the slender portion, that supplied Her real wants, but all beyond denied. When Fanny Dyson reach’d her fortieth year, She would no more of love or lovers hear; But one dear Friend she chose, her guide, her stay And to each other all the world were they; 420 For all the world had grown to them unkind, One sex censorious, and the other blind. The Friend of Frances longer time had known The world’s deceits, and from its follies flown. With her dear Friend life’s sober joys to share Was all that now became her wish and care. They walk’d together, they conversed and read, And tender tears for well-feign’d sorrows shed: And were so happy in their quiet lives, They pitied sighing maids, and weeping wives. 430 But Fortune to our state such change imparts, That Pity stays not long in human hearts; When sad for others’ woes our hearts are grown, This soon gives place to sorrows of our own. There was among our guardian Volunteers A Major Bright—he reckoned fifty years: A reading man of peace, but call’d to take His sword and musket for his country’s sake; Not to go forth and fight, but here to stay, Invaders, should they come, to chase or slay. 440 Him had the elder Lady long admired, As one from vain and trivial things retired; With him conversed; but to a Friend so dear Gave not that pleasure—Why? is not so clear. But chance effected this; the Major now Gave both the time his duties would allow; In walks, in visits, when abroad, at home, The friendly Major would to either come. He never spoke—for he was not a boy— Of ladies’ charms, or lovers’ grief and joy. 450 All his discourses were of serious kind, The heart they touch’d not, but they fill’d the mind. Yet—oh, the pity! from this grave good man The cause of coolness in the Friends began. The sage Sophronia—that the chosen name— Now more polite, and more estranged became. She could but feel that she had longer known This valued friend—he was indeed her own; But Frances Dyson, to confess the truth, Had more of softness—yes, and more of youth; 460 And, though he said such things had ceased to please, The worthy Major was not blind to these: So without thought, without intent, he paid More frequent visits to the younger Maid. Such the offence; and, though the Major tried To tie again the knot he thus untied, His utmost efforts no kind looks repaid— He moved no more the inexorable maid. The Friends too parted, and the elder told Tales of false hearts, and friendships waxing cold; 470 And wonder’d what a man of sense could see In the light airs of wither’d vanity. ’Tis said that Frances now the world reviews, Unwilling all the little left to lose; She and the Major on the walks are seen, And all the world is wondering what they mean. Such were the four whom Captain Elliot drew To his own board, as the selected few. For why? they seem’d each other to approve, And called themselves a Family of Love. 480 These were not all: there was a Youth beside, Left to his uncles when his parents died; A Girl, their sister, by a Boy was led } To Scotland, where a boy and girl may wed— } And they return’d to seek for pardon, pence, and bread. } Five years they lived to labour, weep, and pray, When Death, in mercy, took them both away. Uncles and aunts received this lively child, Grieved at his fate, and at his follies smiled; But, when the child to boy’s estate grew on, 490 The smile was vanish’d, and the pity gone. Slight was the burden, but in time increased, Until at length both love and pity ceased. Then Tom was idle; he would find his way To his aunt’s stores, and make her sweets his prey; By uncle Doctor on a message sent, He stopp’d to play, and lost it as he went. His grave aunt Martha, with a frown austere And a rough hand, produced a transient fear; But Tom, to whom his rude companions taught 500 Language as rude, vindictive measures sought; He used such words that, when she wish’d to speak Of his offence, she had her words to seek. The little wretch had call’d her—’twas a shame To think such thought, and more to name such name. Thus fed and beaten, Tom was taught to pray For his true friends; “but who,” said he, “are they?” By nature kind, when kindly used, the Boy Hail’d the strange good with tears of love and joy; But, roughly used, he felt his bosom burn 510 With wrath he dared not on his uncles turn; So with indignant spirit, still and strong, He nursed the vengeance, and endured the wrong. To a cheap school, far north, the boy was sent: Without a tear of love or grief he went; Where, doom’d to fast and study, fight and play, He staid five years, and wish’d five more to stay. He loved o’er plains to run, up hills to climb, Without a thought of kindred, home, or time; Till from the cabin of a coasting hoy, 520 Landed at last the thin and freckled boy, With sharp keen eye, but pale and hollow cheek, All made more sad from sickness of a week. His aunts and uncles felt—nor strove to hide From the poor boy, their pity and their pride; He had been taught that he had not a friend Save these on earth, on whom he might depend; And such dependence upon these he had As made him sometimes desperate, always sad. “Awkward and weak, where can the lad be placed, 530 And we not troubled, censured, or disgraced? Do, Brother James, th’ unhappy boy enrol Among your set; you only can control.” James sigh’d, and Thomas to the Factory went, Who there his days in sundry duties spent. He ran, he wrought, he wrote—to read or play He had no time, nor much to feed or pray. What pass’d without he heard not—or he heard Without concern, what he nor wish’d nor fear’d; Told of the Captain and his wealth, he sigh’d, 540 And said, “how well his table is supplied!” But with the sigh it caused the sorrow fled; } He was not feasted, but he must be fed; } And he could sleep full sound, though not full soft his bed. } But still, ambitious thoughts his mind possess’d, And dreams of joy broke in upon his rest. Improved in person, and enlarged in mind, The good he found not he could hope to find; Though now enslaved, he hail’d the approaching day, When he should break his chains and flee away. 550 Such were the Dysons: they were first of those Whom Captain Elliot as companions chose; Them he invited, and the more approved, As it appear’d that each the other loved. Proud of their brothers were the sister pair; And, if not proud, yet kind the brothers were. This pleased the Captain, who had never known, Or he had loved, such kindred of his own; Them he invited, save the Orphan lad, Whose name was not the one his Uncles had; 560 No Dyson he, nor with the party came— The worthy Captain never heard his name; Uncles and Aunts forbore to name the boy, For then, of course, must follow his employ. Though all were silent, as with one consent, None told another what his silence meant, What hers; but each suppress’d the useless truth, And not a word was mentioned of the youth. Familiar grown, the Dysons saw their host, With none beside them; it became their boast, 570 Their pride, their pleasure; but to some it seem’d Beyond the worth their talents were esteem’d. This wrought no change within the Captain’s mind; To all men courteous, he to them was kind. One day with these he sat, and only these, In a light humour, talking at his ease. Familiar grown, he was disposed to tell Of times long past, and what in them befell— Not of his life their wonder to attract, But the choice tale, or insulated fact. 580 Then, as it seem’d, he had acquired a right To hear what they could from their stores recite. Their lives, they said, were all of common kind; He could no pleasure in such trifles find. They had an Uncle—’tis their father’s tale— Who in all seas had gone where ship can sail; Who in all lands had been, where men can live; “He could indeed some strange relations give, And many a bold adventure; but in vain We look for him; he comes not home again.” 590 “And is it so? why then, if so it be,” Said Captain Elliot, “you must look to me: I knew John Dyson”——Instant every one Was moved to wonder—“Knew my Uncle John! Can he be rich? be childless? he is old, That is most certain—What! can more be told? Will he return, who has so long been gone, And lost to us? Oh! what of Uncle John?” This was aside: their unobservant friend Seem’d on their thoughts but little to attend; 600 A traveller speaking, he was more inclined To tell his story than their thoughts to find. “Although, my Friends, I love you well, ’tis true, } ’Twas your relation turn’d my mind to you; } For we were friends of old, and friends like us are few; } And, though from dearest friends a man will hide His private vices in his native pride, Yet such our friendship from its early rise, We no reserve admitted, no disguise; But ’tis the story of my friend I tell, 610 And to all others let me bid farewell. “Take each your glass, and you shall hear how John, My old companion, through the world has gone; I can describe him to the very life, Him and his ways, his ventures, and his wife.” “Wife!” whisper’d all; “then what his life to us, His ways and ventures, if he ventured thus?” This, too, apart; yet were they all intent, And, gravely listening, sigh’d with one consent. “My friend, your Uncle, was design’d for trade, 620 To make a fortune as his father made; But early he perceived the house declined, And his domestic views at once resign’d; While stout of heart, with life in every limb, He would to sea, and either sink or swim. No one forbad; his father shook his hand, Within it leaving what he could command. “He left his home, but I will not relate What storms he braved, and how he bore his fate, Till his brave frigate was a Spanish prize, 630 And prison-walls received his first-born sighs— Sighs for the freedom that an English boy, Or English man, is eager to enjoy. “Exchanged, he breathed in freedom, and aboard An English ship, he found his peace restored; War raged around, each British tar was press’d To serve his king, and John among the rest; Oft had he fought and bled, and ’twas his fate In that same ship to grow to man’s estate. Again ’twas war: of France a ship appear’d 640 Of greater force, but neither shunn’d nor fear’d; ’Twas in the Indian Sea, the land was nigh, When all prepared to fight, and some to die; Man after man was in the ocean thrown, } Limb after limb was to the surgeon shown, } And John at length, poor John! held forth his own.— } “A tedious case—the battle ceased with day, And in the night the foe had slipp’d away. Of many wounded were a part convey’d To land, and he among the number laid. 650 Poor, suffering, friendless—who shall now impart Life to his hope, or comfort to his heart? A kind good priest among the English there Selected him as his peculiar care; And, when recover’d, to a powerful friend Was pleased the lad he loved to recommend; Who read your Uncle’s mind, and, pleased to read, Placed him where talents will in time succeed. “I will not tease you with details of trade, But say he there a decent fortune made— 660 Not such as gave him, if return’d, to buy A duke’s estate, or principality, But a fair fortune; years of peace he knew, That were so happy, and that seem’d so few. “Then came a cloud; for who on earth has seen A changeless fortune, and a life serene? Ah! then how joyous were the hours we spent! But joy is restless, joy is not content. “There one resided, who, to serve his friend, Was pleased a gay fair lady to commend; 670 Was pleased t’ invite the happy man to dine, And introduced the subject o’er their wine; Was pleased the lady his good friend should know, And as a secret his regard would show. “A modest man lacks courage; but, thus train’d, Your Uncle sought her favour and obtain’d. To me he spake, enraptured with her face, Her angel smile, her unaffected grace; Her fortune small indeed; but, ‘curse the pelf, She is a glorious fortune in herself!’ 680 ‘John!’ answer’d I, ‘friend John, to be sincere, These are fine things, but may be bought too dear. You are no stripling, and, it must be said, Have not the form that charms a youthful maid. What you possess, and what you leave behind, When you depart, may captivate her mind; And I suspect she will rejoice at heart, Your will once made, if you should soon depart.’ “Long our debate, and much we disagreed; ‘You need no wife,’ I said—said he, ‘I need; 690 I want a house, I want in all I see To take an interest; what is mine to me?’ So spake the man, who to his word was just, And took the words of others upon trust. He could not think that friend in power so high, So much esteem’d, could like a villain lie; Nor, till the knot, the fatal knot, was tied, Had urged his wedding a dishonour’d bride. The man he challenged, for his heart was rent With rage and grief, and was to prison sent; 700 For men in power—and this, alas! was one— Revenge on all the wrongs themselves have done; And he whose spirit bends not to the blow } The tyrants strike shall no forgiveness know; } For ’tis to slaves alone that tyrants favour show. } “This cost him much; but that he did not heed; The lady died, and my poor friend was freed. ‘Enough of ladies!’ then said he, and smiled; ‘I’ve now no longings for a neighbour’s child.’ So patient he return’d, and not in vain, 710 To his late duties, and grew rich again. He was no miser; but the man who takes Care to be rich will love the gain he makes; Pursuing wealth, he soon forgot his woes; No acts of his were bars to his repose. “Now John was rich, and, old and weary grown, Talk’d of the country that he calls his own— And talk’d to me; for now, in fact, began My better knowledge of the real man. Though long estranged, he felt a strong desire, 720 That made him for his former friends enquire; What Dysons yet remain’d, he long’d to know, And doubtless meant some proofs of love to show. His purpose known, our native land I sought, And with the wishes of my Friend am fraught.” Fix’d were all eyes, suspense each bosom shook, And expectation hung on every look. “‘Go to my kindred, seek them all around, Find all you can, and tell me all that’s found; Seek them if prosperous, seek them in distress, 730 Hear what they need, know what they all possess; What minds, what hearts they have, how good they are, How far from goodness—speak, and no one spare, And no one slander: let me clearly see What is in them, and what remains for me.’ “Such is my charge, and haply I shall send Tidings of joy and comfort to my Friend. Oft would he say, ‘If of our race survive Some two or three, to keep the name alive— I will not ask if rich or great they be, 740 But if they live in love, like you and me.’ “’Twas not my purpose yet awhile to speak As I have spoken; but why further seek? All that I heard I in my heart approve; You are indeed a Family of Love; And my old friend were happy in the sight Of those of whom I shall such tidings write.” The Captain wrote not: he perhaps was slow; Perhaps he wish’d a little more to know. He wrote not yet; and, while he thus delay’d, 750 Frances alone an early visit paid. The maiden Lady braved the morning cold, To tell her Friend what duty bade be told, Yet not abruptly—she has first to say, “How cold the morning, but how fine the day!— I fear you slept but ill, we kept you long, You made us all so happy, but ’twas wrong— So entertain’d, no wonder we forgot How the time pass’d; I fear me you did not.” In this fair way the Lady seldom fail’d 760 To steer her course, still sounding as she sail’d. “Dear Captain Elliot, how your Friends you read! We are a loving Family indeed; Left in the world each other’s aid to be, And join to raise a fallen family. Oh! little thought we there was one so near, And one so distant, to us all so dear— All, all alike; he cannot know, dear man! Who needs him most, as one among us can: One who can all our wants distinctly view, 770 And tell him fairly what were just to do. But you, dear Captain Elliot, as his friend, As ours, no doubt, will your assistance lend. Not for the world would I my Brothers blame; Good men they are: ’twas not for that I came. No! did they guess what shifts I make, the grief That I sustain, they’d fly to my relief; But I am proud as poor; I cannot plead My cause with them, nor show how much I need. But to my Uncle’s Friend it is no shame, 780 Nor have I fear, to seem the thing I am; My humble pittance life’s mere need supplies, But all indulgence, all beyond denies. I aid no pauper, I myself am poor; I cannot help the beggar at my door; I from my scanty table send no meat; Cook’d and recook’d is every joint I eat. At Church a sermon begs our help—I stop And drop a tear; nought else have I to drop; But pass the out-stretch’d plate with sorrow by, 790 And my sad heart this kind relief deny. My dress—I strive with all my maiden skill To make it pass, but ’tis disgraceful still; Yet from all others I my wants conceal— Oh! Captain Elliot, there are few that feel! But did that rich and worthy Uncle know } What you, dear Sir, will in your kindness show, } He would his friendly aid with generous hand bestow. } “Good men my Brothers both, and both are raised Far above want—the Power that gave be praised! 800 My Sister’s jointure, if not ample, gives All she can need, who as a lady lives; But I, unaided, may through all my years Endure these ills—forgive these foolish tears. “Once, my dear Sir—I then was young and gay, And men would talk—but I have had my day: Now all I wish is so to live, that men May not despise me whom they flatter’d then. If you, kind Sir—— Thus far the Captain heard, Nor save by sign or look had interfered; 810 But now he spoke; to all she said agreed, And she conceived it useless to proceed. Something he promised, and the Lady went Half-pleased away, yet wondering what he meant; Polite he was and kind, but she could trace A smile, or something like it, in his face; ’Twas not a look that gave her joy or pain— She tried to read it, but she tried in vain. Then call’d the Doctor—’twas his usual way— To ask “How fares my worthy friend to-day?” 820 To feel his pulse, and as a friend to give Unfee’d advice, how such a man should live; And thus, digressing, he could soon contrive, At his own purpose smoothly to arrive. “My Brother? yes, he lives without a care, And, though he needs not, yet he loves to spare. James I respect; and yet it must be told, His speech is friendly, but his heart is cold. His smile assumed has not the real glow Of love!—a sunbeam shining on the snow. 830 Children he has; but are they causes why He should our pleas resist, our claims deny? Our father left the means by which he thrives, While we are labouring to support our lives— _We_, need I say? my widow’d Sister lives On a large jointure; nay, she largely gives;— And Fanny sighs—for gold does Fanny sigh? Or wants she that which money cannot buy— Youth and young hopes?—Ah! could my kindred share The liberal mind’s distress, and daily care, 840 The painful toil to gain the petty fee— They’d bless their stars, and join to pity me. Hard is his fate, who would, with eager joy, To save mankind, his every power employ; Yet in his walk unnumber’d insults meets And gains ‘mid scorn the food that chokes him as he eats. “Oh, Captain Elliot! you who know mankind, With all the anguish of the feeling mind, Bear to our kind relation these the woes That e’en to you ’tis misery to disclose. 850 You can describe what I but faintly trace— A man of learning cannot bear disgrace; Refinement sharpens woes that wants create, And ’tis fresh grief such grievous things to state; Yet those so near me let me not reprove— I love them well, and they deserve my love; But want they know not—Oh! that I could say I am in this as ignorant as they.” The Doctor thus.—The Captain grave and kind, } To the sad tale with serious looks inclined, 860} And promise made to keep th’ important speech in mind. } James and the Widow, how is yet unknown, Heard of these visits, and would make their own. All was not fair, they judged, and both agreed To their good Friend together to proceed. Forth then they went to see him, and persuade— As warm a pair as ever Anger made. The Widow lady must the speaker be: So James agreed; for words at will had she; And then her Brother, if she needed proof, 870 Should add, “’Tis truth;”—it was for him enough. “Oh, sir! it grieves me”—for we need not dwell On introduction: all was kind and well— Oh, sir! it grieves, it shocks us both to hear } What has, with selfish purpose, gain’d your ear— } Our very flesh and blood, and, as you know, how dear. } Doubtless they came your noble mind t’ impress With strange descriptions of their own distress; But I would to the Doctor’s face declare, } That he has more to spend and more to spare, 880} With all his craft, than we with all our care. } “And for our Sister, all she has she spends Upon herself; herself alone befriends. She has the portion that our father left, While me of mine a careless wretch bereft, Save a small part; yet I could joyful live, Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give. For this she cares not; Frances does not know Their heartfelt joy who largely can bestow. You, Captain Elliot, feel the pure delight, 890 That our kind acts in tender hearts excite, When to the poor we can our alms extend, And make the Father of all Good our friend; And, I repeat, I could with pleasure live, Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give. “We speak not thus, dear Sir, with vile intent, Our nearest friends to wrong or circumvent; But that our Uncle, worthy man! should know How best his wealth, Heaven’s blessing, to bestow: What widows need, and chiefly those who feel 900 For all the sufferings which they cannot heal; And men in trade, with numbers in their pay, Who must be ready for the reckoning-day, Or gain or lose!”— —“Thank Heaven,” said James, “as yet I’ve not been troubled by a dun or debt.” —The Widow sigh’d, convinced that men so weak Will ever hurt the cause for which they speak; However tempted to deceive, still they Are ever blundering to the broad high-way Of very truth.—But Martha pass’d it by 910 With a slight frown, and half-distinguish’d sigh.— “Say to our Uncle, sir, how much I long To see him sit his kindred race among; To hear his brave exploits, to nurse his age, And cheer him in his evening’s pilgrimage. How were I blest to guide him in the way Where the religious poor in secret pray; To be the humble means by which his heart And liberal hand might peace and joy impart! But now, farewell!”—and slowly, softly fell 920 The tender accents as she said “farewell!” The Merchant stretch’d his hand, his leave to take, And gave the Captain’s a familiar shake; Yet seem’d to doubt if this was not too free; But, gaining courage, said, “Remember me.” Some days elaps’d; the Captain did not write, But still was pleased the party to invite; And, as he walk’d, his custom every day, A tall pale stripling met him on his way, Who made some efforts, but they proved too weak, 930 And only show’d he was inclined to speak. “What would’st thou, lad?” the Captain ask’d, and gave The youth a power his purposed boon to crave, Yet not in terms direct—“My name,” quoth he, “Is Thomas Bethel; you have heard of me”— “Not good nor evil, Thomas—had I need Of so much knowledge;—but pray now proceed.”— “Dyson’s my mother’s name; but I have not That interest with you, and the worse my lot. I serve my Uncle James, and run and write, 940 And watch and work from morning until night; Confined among the looms, and webs, and wheels, You cannot think how like a slave one feels. ’Tis said you have a ship at your command— An’ please you, sir, I’m weary of the land, And I have read of foreign parts such things As make me sick of Uncle’s wheels and springs.” “But, Thomas, why to sea? you look too slim For that rough work—and, Thomas, can you swim?” That he could not, but still he scorn’d a lie, 950 And boldly answer’d, “No, but I can try.”— “Well, my good lad, but tell me, can you read?” Now, with some pride he answer’d, “Yes, indeed! I construe Virgil, and our usher said, I might have been in Homer had I staid; And he was sorry when I came away, And so was I, but Uncle would not pay; He told the master I had read enough, And Greek was all unprofitable stuff; So all my learning now is thrown away, 960 And I’ve no time for study or for play; I’m ordered here and there, above, below, And call’d a dunce for what I cannot know; Oh, that I were but from this bondage free! Do, please your honour, let me go to sea.”— “But why to sea? they want no Latin there; Hard is their work, and very hard their fare.” “But then,” said Thomas, “if on land, I doubt My Uncle Dyson soon would find me out; And, though he tells me what I yearly cost, 970 ’Tis my belief he’d miss me were I lost. For he has said, that I can act as well As he himself—but this you must not tell.”— “Tell, Thomas! no, I scorn the base design, Give me your hand, I pledge my word with mine; And, if I cannot do thee good, my friend, Thou may’st at least upon that word depend. And hark ye, lad, thy worthy name retain To the last hour, or I shall help in vain; And then the more severe and hard thy part, 980 Thine the more praise, and thine the happier art. We meet again—farewell!”—and Thomas went Forth to his tasks, half angry, half content. “I never ask’d for help,” thought he, “but twice, And all they then would give me was advice; My Uncle Doctor, when I begg’d his aid, Bade me work on, and never be afraid, But still be good; and I’ve been good so long, I’m half persuaded that they tell me wrong. And now this Captain still repeats the same; 990 But who can live upon a virtuous name, Starving and praised?—‘have patience—patience still!’ He said, and smiled; and, if I can, I will.” So Thomas rested with a mind intent On what the Captain by his kindness meant. Again the invited party all attend, These dear relations, on this generous Friend. They ate, they drank, each striving to appear Fond, frank, forgiving—above all, sincere. Such kindred souls could not admit disguise, 1000 Or envious fears, or painful jealousies; So each declared, and all in turn replied, “’Tis just indeed, and cannot be denied.” Now various subjects rose—the country’s cause, The war, the allies, the lottery, and the laws. The widow’d Sister then advantage took Of a short pause, and, smiling softly, spoke: She judged what subject would his mind excite— “Tell us, dear Captain, of that bloody fight, When our brave Uncle, bleeding at his gun, 1010 Gave a loud shout to see the Frenchmen run.” “Another day”—replied the modest host; “One cannot always of one’s battles boast. Look not surprise—behold the man in me! Another Uncle shall you never see. No other Dyson to this place shall come; Here end my travels, here I place my home; Here to repose my shatter’d frame I mean, Until the last long journey close the scene.” The Ladies softly brush’d the tear away; 1020 James look’d surprise, but knew not what to say; But Doctor Dyson lifted up his voice, And said, “Dear Uncle, how we all rejoice!” “No question, Friends! and I your joy approve, We are, you know, a Family of Love.” So said the wary Uncle, but the while } Wore on his face a questionable smile, } That vanish’d, as he spake in grave and solemn style— } “Friends and relations! let us henceforth seem Just as we are, nor of our virtues dream, 1030 That with our waking vanish.—What we are Full well we know—t’ improve it be our care. Forgive the trial I have made: ’tis one That has no more than I expected done. If as frail mortals you, my Friends, appear, I look’d for no angelic beings here, For none that riches spurn’d as idle pelf, Or served another as he served himself. Deceived no longer, let us all forgive; I’m old, but yet a tedious time may live. 1040 This dark complexion India’s suns bestow, These shrivell’d looks to years of care I owe; But no disease ensures my early doom— And I may live—forgive me—years to come. But, while I live, there may some good be done, Perchance to many, but at least to One.”— Here he arose, retired, return’d, and brought The Orphan boy, whom he had train’d and taught For this his purpose; and the happy boy, Though bade to hide, could ill suppress, his joy.— 1050 “This young relation, with your leave, I take, That he his progress in the world may make— Not in my house a slave or spy to be, And first to flatter, then to govern me;— He shall not nurse me when my senses sleep, Nor shall the key of all my secrets keep, And be so useful that a dread to part Shall make him master of my easy heart;— But to be placed where merit may be proved, And all that now impedes his way removed. 1060 “And now no more on these affairs I dwell; } What I possess that I alone can tell, } And to that subject we will bid farewell. } As go I must, when Heaven is pleased to call, What I shall leave will seem or large or small, As you shall view it. When this pulse is still, You may behold my wealth, and read my will. “And now, as Captain Elliot much has known, That to your Uncle never had been shown, From him one word of honest counsel hear— 1070 _And think it always gain to be sincere_.”
TALE III.
_THE EQUAL MARRIAGE._
There are gay nymphs whom serious matrons blame, And men adventurous treat as lawful game— Misses, who strive, with deep and practised arts, To gain and torture inexperienced hearts. The hearts entangled they in pride retain, And at their pleasure make them feel their chain; For this they learn to manage air and face, To look a virtue, and to act a grace, To be whatever men with warmth pursue— } Chaste, gay, retiring, tender, timid, true, 10} To-day approaching near, to-morrow just in view. } Maria Glossip was a thing like this— A much observing, much experienced Miss; Who on a stranger-youth would first decide Th’ important question—“Shall I be his bride?” But, if unworthy of a lot so bless’d, ’Twas something yet to rob the man of rest; The heart, when stricken, she with hope could feed, Could court pursuit, and, when pursued, recede. Hearts she had won, and with delusion fed, 20 With doubt bewilder’d, and with hope misled; Mothers and rivals she had made afraid, And wrung the breast of many a jealous maid; Friendship, the snare of lovers, she profess’d, And turn’d the heart’s best feelings to a jest. Yet seem’d the Nymph as gentle as a dove, Like one all guiltless of the game of love— Whose guileless innocence might well be gay; } Who had no selfish secrets to betray; } Sure, if she play’d, she knew not how to play. 30} Oh! she had looks so placid and demure, Not Eve, ere fallen, seem’d more meek or pure; And yet the Tempter of the falling Eve Could not with deeper subtilty deceive. A Sailor’s heart the Lady’s kindness moved, And winning looks, to say how well he loved; Then left her hopeful for the stormy main, Assured of love when he return’d again. Alas! the gay Lieutenant reach’d the shore, To be rejected, and was gay no more; 40 Wine and strong drink the bosom’s pain suppress’d, Till Death procured, what Love denied him—rest. But men of more experience learn to treat These fair enslavers with their own deceit. Finch was a younger brother’s youngest son, Who pleased an Uncle with his song and gun; Who call’d him ‘Bob,’ and ‘Captain,’ by that name Anticipating future rank and fame; Not but there was for this some fair pretence— He was a cornet in the Home Defence. 50 The Youth was ever drest in dapper style, Wore spotless linen, and a ceaseless smile; His step was measured, and his air was nice— They bought him high, who had him at the price That his own judgment and becoming pride, And all the merit he assumed, implied. A life he loved of liberty and ease, And all his pleasant labour was to please; Not call’d at present hostile men to slay, He made the hearts of gentle dames his prey. 60 Hence tales arose, and one of sad report: A fond, fair girl became his folly’s sport— A cottage lass, who “knew the youth would prove For ever true, and give her love for love; Sure when he could, and that would soon be known, He would be proud to show her as his own.” But still she felt the village damsels’ sneer, And her sad soul was fill’d with secret fear; His love excepted, earth was all a void, And he, the excepted man, her peace destroy’d. 70 When the poor Jane was buried, we could hear The threat of rustics whisper’d round her bier. Stories like this were told, but yet, in time Fair ladies lost their horror at the crime. They knew that cottage girls were forward things, Who never heed a nettle till it stings; Then, too, the Captain had his fault confess’d, And scorn’d to turn a murder to a jest. Away with murder!—This accomplish’d swain Beheld Maria, and confess’d her reign— 80 She came, invited by the rector’s wife, Who “never saw such sweetness in her life.” Now, as the rector was the Uncle’s friend, It pleased the Nephew there his steps to bend, Where the fair damsel then her visit paid, And seem’d an unassuming rustic maid. A face so fair, a look so meek, he found Had pierced that heart no other nymph could wound. “Oh, sweet Maria”—so began the Youth His meditations—“thine the simple truth! 90 Thou hast no wicked wisdom of thy sex, No wish to gain a subject-heart—then vex. That heavenly bosom no proud passion swells; No serpent’s wisdom with thy meekness dwells. Oh! could I bind thee to my heart, and live In love with thee, on what our fortunes give! Far from the busy world, in some dear spot, Where Love reigns king, we’d find some peaceful cot. To wed, indeed, no prudent man would choose; But such a maid will lighter bonds refuse!” 100 And was this youth a rake?—In very truth; Yet, feeling love, he felt it as a youth; If he had vices, they were laid aside; He quite forgot the simple girl who died; With dear Maria he in peace would live, And what had pass’d—Maria would forgive. The fair Coquette at first was pleased to find A swain so knowing had become so blind; And she determined, with her utmost skill, To bind the rebel to her sovereign will. 110 She heard the story of the old deceit, And now resolved he should with justice meet;— “Soon as she saw him on her hook secure, He should the pangs of perjured man endure.” These her first thoughts—but as, from time to time, The Lover came, she dwelt not on his crime— “Crime could she call it? prudes, indeed, condemn These slips of youth—but she was not of them.” So gentler thoughts arose as, day by day, The Captain came his passion to display. 120 When he display’d his passion, and she felt, Not without fear, her heart begin to melt— Joy came with terror at a state so new; Glad of his truth; if he indeed were true! This she decided as the heart decides, Resolved to be the happiest of brides. “Not great my fortune—hence,” said she, “’tis plain, Me, and not mine, dear Youth! he hopes to gain; Nor has he much; but, as he sweetly talks, We from our cot shall have delightful walks, 130 Love, lord within it! I shall smile to see My little cherubs on the father’s knee.” Then sigh’d the nymph, and in her fancied lot, She all the mischiefs of the past forgot. Such were their tender meditations; thus Would they the visions of the day discuss: Each, too, the old sad habits would no more Indulge; both dare be virtuous and be poor. They both had past the year when law allows Free-will to lover who would fain be spouse: 140 Yet the good youth his Uncle’s sanction sought— “Marry her, Bob! and are you really caught? Then you’ve exchanged, I warrant, heart for heart— ’Tis well! I meant to warn her of your art; This Parson’s Babe has made you quite a fool— But are you sure your ardour will not cool? Have you not habits, Boy? but take your chance! How will you live? I cannot much advance. But hear you not what through the village flies That this your dove is famed for her disguise? 150 Yet, say they not, she leads a gayish life? Art sure she’ll show the virtues of a wife?”— “Oh, Sir, she’s all that mortal man can love!”— “Then marry, Bob! and that the fact will prove— Yet, in a kind of lightness, folk agree.”— } “Lightness in her! indeed, it cannot be— } ’Tis Innocence alone that makes her manners free.”— } “Well, my good friend! then Innocence alone Is to a something like Flirtation prone; And I advise—but let me not offend— 160 That Prudence should on Innocence attend, Lest some her sportive purity mistake, And term your angel more than half a rake.” The Nymph, now sure, could not entirely curb The native wish her lover to disturb. Oft he observed her, and could ill endure The gentle coquetry of maid so pure: Men he beheld press round her, and the Fair Caught every sigh, and smiled at every prayer; And grieved he was with jealous pains to see 170 The effects of all her wit and pleasantry. “Yet why alarm’d?”—he said; “with so much sense, She has no freedom, dashing, or pretence: ’Tis her gay mind, and I should feel a pride In her chaste levities”—he said, and sigh’d. Yet, when apart from company, he chose To talk a little of his bosom’s woes— But one sweet smile, and one soft speech, suppress’d All pain, and set his feeling heart at rest. Nay, in return, she felt, or feign’d, a fear: 180 “He was too lively to be quite sincere— She knew a certain lady, and could name } A certain time”—So, even was the blame, } And thus the loving pair more deep in love became. } They married soon—for why delay the thing } That such amazing happiness would bring?— } Now of that blissful state, O Muse of Hymen! sing. } Love dies all kinds of death: in some so quick It comes—he is not previously sick; But ere the sun has on the couple shed 190 The morning rays, the smile of Love is fled. And what the cause? for Love should not expire, And none the reason of such fate require. Both had a mask, that with such pains they wore; Each took it off when it avail’d no more. They had no feeling of each other’s pain; To wear it longer had been crime in vain. As in some pleasant eve we view the scene, Though cool yet calm, if joyless yet serene— Who has not felt a quiet still delight 200 In the clear, silent, love-befriending night? The moon so sweetly bright, so softly fair, That all but happy lovers would be there— Thinking there must be in her still domain Something that soothes the sting of mortal pain; While earth itself is dress’d in light so clear, That they might rest contented to be here! Such is the night; but, when the morn awakes, The storm arises, and the forest shakes; This mighty change the grieving travellers find, 210 The freezing snows fast drifting in the wind; Firs deeply laden shake the snowy top, Streams slowly freezing, fretting till they stop; And void of stars the angry clouds look down On the cold earth, exchanging frown with frown. Such seem’d, at first, the cottage of our pair— Fix’d in their fondness, in their prospects fair; Youth, health, affection, all that life supplies, Bright as the stars that gild the cloudless skies— Were theirs—or seem’d to be; but soon the scene 220 Was black as if its light had never been. Weary full soon, and restless then, they grew; } Then off the painful mask of prudence threw; } For Time has told them all, and taught them what to rue. } They long again to tread the former round Of dissipation—“Why should he be bound, While his sweet inmate of the cottage sighs For adulation, rout, and rhapsodies? Not Love himself, did love exist, could lead A heart like hers, that flutter’d to be freed.” 230 But Love, or what seem’d like him, quickly died; Nor Prudence, nor Esteem, his place supplied. Disguise thrown off, each reads the other’s heart, And feels with horror that they cannot part. Still they can speak—and ’tis some comfort still, That each can vex the other when they will: Words half in jest to words in earnest led, } And these the earnest angry passions fed, } Till all was fierce reproach, and peace for ever fled. } “And so you own it! own it to my face, 240 Your love is vanish’d—infamous and base!”— “Madam, I loved you truly, while I deem’d You were the truthful being that you seem’d; But, when I see your native temper rise Above control, and break through all disguise, Casting it off, as serpents do their skin, } And showing all the folds of vice within— } What see I then to love? was I in love with Sin?”— } “So may I think, and you may feel it too; A loving couple, Sir, were Sin and you! 250 Whence all this anger? is it that you find You cannot always make a woman blind? You talk of falsehood and disguise—talk on! But all my trust and confidence are gone; Remember you, with what a serious air You talk’d of love, as if you were at prayer? You spoke of home-born comforts, quiet, ease, And the pure pleasure, that must always please, With an assumed and sentimental air, Smiting your breast, and acting like a player. 260 Then your life’s comfort! and your holy joys! Holy, forsooth! and your sweet girls and boys, How you would train them!—All this farce review, And then, Sir, talk of being just and true!”— “Madam! your sex expects that ours should lie. The simple creatures know it, and comply— You hate the truth; there’s nothing you despise Like a plain man, who spurns your vanities. Are you not early taught your prey to catch? When your mammas pronounce—‘A proper match!’ 270 What said your own?—‘Do, daughter! curb your tongue, And you may win him, for the man is young; But if he views you as ourselves, good-by To speculation!—He will never try.’ “Then is the mask assumed, and then you bait Your hook with kindness! and as anglers wait, Now here, now there, with keen and eager glance, Marking your victims as the shoals advance; When, if the gaping wretch should make a snap, You jerk him up, and have him in your trap: 280 Who gasping, panting, in your presence lies, And you exulting view the imprison’d prize. “Such are your arts! while he did but intend In harmless play an idle hour to spend, Lightly to talk of love! your fix’d intent } Is on to lure him, where he never meant } To go, but, going, must his speed repent. } If he of Cupid speaks, you watch your man, And make a change for Hymen, if you can; Thus he, ingenuous, easy, fond, and weak, 290 Speaks the rash words he has been led to speak; Puts the dire question that he meant to shun, And by a moment’s frenzy is undone.”— “Well!” said the Wife, “admit this nonsense true— A mighty prize she gains in catching you! For my part, Sir, I most sincerely wish My landing-net had miss’d my precious fish!”— “Would that it had! or I had wisely lent An ear to those who said I should repent.”— “Hold, Sir! at least my reputation spare, 300 And add another falsehood if you dare.”— “Your reputation, Madam!—rest secure: That will all scandal and reproach endure, And be the same in worth; it is like him Who floats, but finds he cannot sink or swim; Half raised above the storm, half sunk below, It just exists, and that is all we know. Such the good name that you so much regard, And yet to keep afloat find somewhat hard. Nay, no reply! in future I decline 310 Dispute, and take my way.”— “And I, Sir, mine.” Oh! happy, happy, happy pair! both sought, Both seeking—catching both [—], and caught!
TALE IV.
_RACHEL._
It chanced we walk’d upon the heath, and met A wandering woman; her thin clothing wet With morning fog; the little care she took Of things like these was written in her look. Not pain from pinching cold was in her face, But hurrying grief, that knows no resting place— Appearing ever as on business sent, The wandering victim of a fix’d intent; Yet in her fancied consequence and speed, Impell’d to beg assistance for her need. 10 When she beheld my friend and me, with eye And pleading hand she sought our charity; More to engage our friendly thoughts the while, She threw upon her miseries a smile, That, like a varnish on a picture laid, More prominent and bold the figures made; Yet was there sign of joy that we complied, The moment’s wish indulged and gratified. “Where art thou wandering, Rachel? whither stray, From thy poor heath in such unwholesome day?” 20 Ask’d my kind friend, who had familiar grown With Rachel’s grief, and oft compassion shown; Oft to her hovel had in winter sent The means of comfort—oft with comforts went. Him well she knew, and with requests pursued, Though too much lost and spent for gratitude. “Where art thou wandering, Rachel? let me hear?”— “The fleet! the fleet!” she answer’d, “will appear Within the bay, and I shall surely know The news to-night!—turn tide, and breezes blow! 30 For if I lose my time, I must remain Till the next year before they come again!” “What can they tell thee, Rachel?”— “Should I say, I must repent me to my dying day. Then I should lose the pension that they give; For who would trust their secrets to a sieve? I must be gone!”—And with her wild, but keen And crafty look, that would appear to mean, She hurried on; but turn’d again to say, “All will be known; they anchor in the bay; 40 Adieu! be secret!—sailors have no home; Blow wind, turn tide!—Be sure the fleet will come.” Grown wilder still, the frantic creature strode With hurried feet upon the flinty road. On her departing form I gazed with pain— “And should you not,” I cried, “her ways restrain? What hopes the wild deluded wretch to meet? And means she aught by this expected fleet? Knows she her purpose? has she hope to see Some friend to aid her in her poverty? 50 Why leave her thus bewilder’d to pursue The fancy’s good, that never comes in view?”— “Nay! she is harmless, and, if more confined, Would more distress in the coercion find. Save at the times when to the coast she flies, She rests, nor shows her mind’s obliquities; But ever talks she of the sea, and shows Her sympathy with every wind that blows. We think it, therefore, useless to restrain A creature of whose conduct none complain; 60 Whose age and looks protect her—should they fail, Her craft and wild demeanour will prevail. A soldier once attack’d her on her way— She spared him not, but bade him kneel and pray— Praying herself aloud—th’ astonish’d man Was so confounded, that away he ran. “Her sailor left her, with, perhaps, intent To make her his—’tis doubtful what he meant: But he was captured, and the life he led Drove all such young engagements from his head. 70 On him she ever thought, and none beside, Seeking her love, were favour’d or denied; On her dear David she had fix’d her view, And fancy judged him ever fond and true. Nay, young and handsome—Time could not destroy— No—he was still the same—her gallant boy! Labour had made her coarse, and her attire Show’d that she wanted no one to admire; None to commend her; but she could conceive The same of him, as when he took his leave, 80 And gaily told what riches he would bring, And grace her hand with the symbolic ring. “With want and labour was her mind subdued; She lived in sorrow and in solitude. Religious neighbours, kindly calling, found Her thoughts unsettled, anxious, and unsound; Low, superstitious, querulous, and weak, She sought for rest, but knew not how to seek; And their instructions, though in kindness meant Were far from yielding the desired content. 90 They hoped to give her notions of their own, And talk’d of ‘feelings’ she had never known; They ask’d of her ‘experience,’ and they bred In her weak mind a melancholy dread Of something wanting in her faith, of some— She knew not what—‘acceptance,’ that should come; And, as it came not, she was much afraid That she in vain had served her God and pray’d. “She thought her Lover dead. In prayer she named The erring Youth, and hoped he was reclaim’d. 100 This she confess’d; and trembling, heard them say, ‘Her prayers were sinful—So the papists pray. Her David’s fate had been decided long, And prayers and wishes for his state were wrong.’ “Had these her guides united love and skill, They might have ruled and rectified her will; But they perceived not the bewilder’d mind, And show’d her paths that she could never find. The weakness that was Nature’s, they reproved, And all its comforts from the Heart removed. 110 “Ev’n in this state, she loved the winds that sweep O’er the wild heath, and curl the restless deep; A turf-built hut beneath a hill she chose, And oft at night in winter storms arose, Hearing, or dreaming, the distracted cry Of drowning seamen on the breakers by; For there were rocks, that when the tides were low Appear’d, and vanish’d when the waters flow; And there she stood, all patient to behold Some seaman’s body on the billows roll’d. 120 “One calm, cold evening, when the moon was high, And rode sublime within the cloudless sky, She sat within her hut, nor seem’d to feel Or cold or want, but turn’d her idle wheel, And with sad song its melancholy tone Mix’d, all unconscious that she dwelt alone. “But none will harm her—Or who, willing can? She is too wretched to have fear of man— Not man! but something—if it should appear, That once was man—that something did she fear. 130 “No causeless terror!—In that moon’s clear light It came, and seem’d a parley to invite; It was no hollow voice—no brushing by Of a strange being, who escapes the eye— No cold or thrilling touch, that will but last While we can think, and then for ever past. But this sad face—though not the same she knew, Enough the same to prove the vision true— Look’d full upon her!—starting in affright She fled, her wildness doubling at the sight; 140 With shrieks of terror, and emotion strong, She pass’d it by, and madly rush’d along To the bare rocks—While David, who, that day, Had left his ship at anchor in the bay, Had seen his friends who yet survived, and heard Of her who loved him—and who thus appear’d— He tried to soothe her, but retired afraid T’ approach, and left her to return for aid. “None came! and Rachel in the morn was found } Turning her wheel, without its spindles, round, 150} With household look of care, low singing to the sound. } “Since that event, she is what you have seen; But time and habit make her more serene, The edge of anguish blunted—yet, it seems, Sea, ships, and sailors’ miseries are her dreams.”
TALE V.
_VILLARS._
_Poet._ Know you the fate of Villars?— _Friend._ What! the lad At school so fond of solitude, and sad; Who broke our bounds because he scorn’d a guide, And would walk lonely by the river’s side?— _P._ The same!—who rose at midnight to behold The moonbeams shedding their ethereal gold; Who held our sports and pleasures in disgrace, For Guy of Warwick, and old Chevy Chase.— _F._ Who sought for friendships, gave his generous heart To every boy who chose to act the part, 10 Or judged he felt it—not aware that boys Have poor conceit of intellectual joys. Theirs is no season for superfluous friends, And none they need—but those whom Nature lends.— _P._ But he, too, loved?— _F._ Oh, yes! his friend betray’d The tender passion for the angel-maid. Some child, whose features he at church had seen, Became his bosom’s and his fancy’s queen; Some favourite look was on his mind impress’d— His warm and fruitful fondness gave the rest.— 20 _P._ He left his father?— _F._ Yes! and rambled round The land on foot—I know not what he found. Early he came to his paternal land, And took the course he had in rambling plann’d. Ten years we lost him: he was then employ’d In the wild schemes that he, perhaps, enjoy’d. His mode of life, when he to manhood grew, Was all his own—its shape disclosed to few. Our grave, stern dames, who know the deeds of all, Say that some damsels owe to him their fall; 30 And, though a Christian in his creed profess’d, He had some heathen notions in his breast. Yet we may doubt; for women, in his eyes, Were high and glorious, queens and deities; But he, perhaps, adorer and yet man, Transgress’d, yet worshipp’d. There are those who can. Near him a Widow’s mansion he survey’d— The lovely mother of a lovelier Maid; Not great their wealth, though they were proud to claim Alliance with a house of noblest name. 40 Now, had I skill, I would right fain devise To bring the highborn spinster to your eyes. I could discourse of lip, and chin, and cheek; But you would see no picture as I speak. Such colours cannot—mix them as I may— Paint you this nymph—We’ll try a different way. First take Calista in her glowing charms, Ere yet she sank within Lothario’s arms— Endued with beauties ripe, and large desires, And all that feels delight, and that inspires. 50 Add Cleopatra’s great, yet tender, soul, Her boundless pride, her fondness of control, Her daring spirit, and her wily art, That, though it tortures, yet commands the heart; Add woman’s anger for a lover’s slight, And the revenge, that insult will excite; Add looks for veils, that she at will could wear, As Juliet fond, as Imogen sincere— Like Portia grave, sententious, and design’d For high affairs, or gay as Rosalind— 60 Catch, if you can, some notion of the dame, And let Matilda serve her for a name. Think next how Villars saw th’ enchanting maid, And how he loved, pursued, adored, obey’d— Obey’d in all, except the dire command, No more to dream of that bewitching hand. His love provoked her scorn, his wealth she spurn’d, And frowns for praise, contempt for prayer return’d; But, proud yet shrewd, the wily sex despise The would-be husband—yet the votary prize. 70 As Roman conquerors, of their triumph vain, Saw humbled monarchs in their pompous train, Who, when no more they swell’d the show of pride, In secret sorrow’d, or in silence died: So, when our friend adored the Beauty’s shrine, She mark’d the act, and gave the nod divine; And strove with scatter’d smiles, yet scarcely strove, To keep the lover, while she scorn’d his love. These, and his hope, the doubtful man sustain’d; For who that loves believes himself disdain’d?— 80 Each look, each motion, by his fondness read, Became Love’s food, and greater fondness bred; The pettiest favour was to him the sign, Of secret love, and said, “I’ll yet be thine!” One doleful year she held the captive swain, Who felt and cursed, and wore and bless’d, the chain; Who pass’d a thousand galling insults by, For one kind glance of that ambiguous eye. _P._ Well! time, perhaps, might to the coldest heart Some gentle thought of one so fond impart; 90 And pride itself has often favour shown To what it governs, and can call its own. _F._ Thus were they placed, when to the village came That lordly stranger, whom I need not name; Known since too well, but then as rich and young, Untried his prowess, and his crimes unsung. Smooth was his speech, and show’d a gentle mind, } Deaf to his praise, and to his merits blind, } But raised by woman’s smile, and pleased with all mankind. } At humble distance he this fair survey’d, 100 Read her high temper, yet adored the Maid; Far off he gazed, as if afraid to meet, Or show the hope her anger would defeat. Awful his love, and kept a guarded way, Afraid to venture, till it finds it may. And soon it found! nor could the Lady’s pride Her triumph bury, or her pleasure hide. And jealous Love, that ever looks to spy The dreaded wandering of a lady’s eye, Perceived with anguish, that the prize long sought 110 A sudden rival from his hopes had caught. Still Villars loved; at length, in strong despair, O’er-tortured passion thus preferr’d its prayer:— “Life of my life! at once my fate decree— I wait my death, or more than life, from thee. I have no arts, nor powers, thy soul to move, But doting constancy, and boundless love; This is my all: had I the world to give, Thine were its throne—now bid me die or live!” “Or die or live”—the gentle Lady cried— 120 “As suits thee best; that point thyself decide! But, if to death thou hast thyself decreed, Then like a man perform the manly deed; The well-charged pistol to the ear apply, Make loud report, and like a hero die! Let rogues and rats on ropes and poison seize— Shame not thy friends by petty death like these; Sure we must grieve at what thou think’st to do, But spare us blushes for the manner too!” Then with inviting smiles she turn’d aside, 130 Allay’d his anger, and consoled his pride. Oft had the fickle fair beheld with scorn The unhappy man bewilder’d and forlorn; Then with one softening glance of those bright eyes Restored his spirit, and dispersed his sighs. Oft had I seen him on the lea below, As feelings moved him, walking quick or slow: Now a glad thought, and now a doleful came, And he adored or cursed the changeful dame, Who was to him as cause is to effect— 140 Poor tool of pride, perverseness, and neglect! Upon thy rival were her thoughts bestow’d; Ambitious love within her bosom glow’d; And oft she wish’d, and strong was her desire, The Lord could love her like the faithful Squire. But she was rivall’d in that noble breast— He loved her passing well, but not the best; For self reign’d there; but still he call’d her fair, And woo’d the Muse, his passion to declare. His verses all were flaming, all were fine, 150 With sweetness, nay with sense, in every line— Not as Lord Byron would have done the thing, But better far than lords are used to sing. It pleased the Maid, and she, in very truth, Loved, in Calista’s love, the noble youth; Not, like sweet Juliet, with that pure delight, Fond and yet chaste, enraptur’d and yet right; Not like the tender Imogen, confined To one, but one! the true, the wedded mind; True, one preferr’d our sighing nymph as these, 160 But thought not, like them, one alone could please. Time pass’d, nor yet the youthful peer proposed To end his suit, nor his had Villars closed; Fond hints the one, the other cruel, bore; That was more cautious, this was kind the more: Both for soft moments waited—that, to take Of these advantage; fairly, this, to make. These moments came—or so my Lord believed— He dropp’d his mask; and both were undeceived. She saw the vice that would no longer feign, 170 And he an angry beauty’s pure disdain. Villars that night had in my ear confess’d, He thought himself her spaniel and her jest. He saw his rival of his goddess sure; “But then,” he cried, “her virtue is secure. Should he offend, I haply may obtain The high reward of vigilance and pain; Till then I take, and on my bended knee, Scraps from the banquet, gleanings of the tree.” Pitying, I smiled; for I had known the time 180 Of Love insulted—constancy my crime. Not thus our friend: for him the morning shone In tenfold glory, as for him alone; He wept, expecting still reproof to meet, And all that was not cruel count as sweet. Back he return’d, all eagerness and joy; Proud as a prince, and restless as a boy. He sought to speak, but could not aptly find Words for his use, they enter’d not his mind; So full of bliss, that wonder and delight 190 Seem’d in those happy moments to unite. He was like one who gains, but dreads to lose, A prize that seems to vanish as he views; And in his look was wildness and alarm— Like a sad conjuror, who forgets his charm And, when the demon at the call appears, Cannot command the spirit for his fears: So Villars seem’d by his own bliss perplex’d, And scarcely knowing what would happen next. But soon, a witness to their vows, I saw 200 The maiden his, if not by love, by law; The bells proclaim’d it—merry call’d by those Who have no foresight of their neighbours’ woes. How proudly show’d the man his lovely bride, Demurely pacing, pondering, at his side! While all the loving maids around declared, That faith and constancy deserved reward! The baffled Lord retreated from the scene Of so much gladness, with a world of spleen; And left the wedded couple, to protest, 210} That he no fear, that she no love, possess’d; } That all his vows were scorn’d, and all his hope a jest. } Then fell the oaks, to let in light of day; Then rose the mansion that we now survey; Then all the world flock’d gaily to the scene Of so much splendour, and its splendid queen. But, whether all within the gentle breast Of him, of her, was happy or at rest; Whether no lonely sigh confess’d regret— Was then unknown, and is a secret yet; 220 And we may think, in common duty bound, That no complaint is made where none is found. Then came the Rival to his villa down, Lost to the pleasures of the heartless town; Famous he grew, and he invited all Whom he had known to banquet at the Hall; Talk’d of his love, and said, with many a sigh, “’Tis death to lose her, and I wish to die.” Twice met the parties; but with cool disdain In her, in him with looks of awe and pain. 230 Villars had pity, and conceived it hard That true regret should meet with no regard— “Smile, my Matilda! virtue should inflict No needless pain, nor be so sternly strict.” The Hall was furnish’d in superior style, And money wanted from our sister isle; The lady-mother to the husband sued— “Alas! that care should on our bliss intrude! You must to Ireland; our possessions there Require your presence, nay, demand your care. 240 My pensive daughter begs with you to sail; But spare your wife, nor let the wish prevail!” He went, and found upon his Irish land Cases and griefs he could not understand. Some glimmering light at first his prospect cheer’d— Clear it was not, but would in time be clear’d; But, when his lawyers had their efforts made, No mind in man the darkness could pervade; ’Twas palpably obscure: week after week He sought for comfort, but was still to seek. 250 At length, impatient to return, he strove No more with law, but gave the rein to love; And to his Lady and their native shore Vow’d to return, and thence to turn no more. While yet on Irish ground in trouble kept, The Husband’s terrors in his toils had slept; But he no sooner touch’d the British soil, Than jealous terrors took the place of toil— Where has she been? and how attended? Who Has watch’d her conduct, and will vouch her true? 260 She sigh’d at parting; but methought her sighs Were more profound than would from nature rise; And, though she wept as never wife before, Yet were her eyelids neither swell’d nor sore. Her lady-mother has a good repute As watchful dragon of forbidden fruit; Yet dragons sleep, and mothers have been known To guard a daughter’s secret as their own; Nor can the absent in their travel see How a fond wife and mother may agree. 270 “Suppose the lady is most virtuous!—then, What can she know of the deceits of men? Of all they plan she neither thinks nor cares, But keeps, good lady! at her books and prayers. “In all her letters there are love, respect, } Esteem, regret, affection, all correct— } Too much—she fears that I should see neglect; } And there are fond expressions, but unlike The rest, as meant to be observed and strike; Like quoted words, they have the show of art, 280 And come not freely from the gentle heart— Adopted words, and brought from memory’s store, When the chill faltering heart supplies no more: ’Tis so the hypocrite pretends to feel, And speaks the words of earnestness and zeal, “Hers was a sudden, though a sweet consent; May she not now as suddenly repent? My rival’s vices drove him from her door; But hates she vice as truly as before? How do I know, if he should plead again, 290 That all her scorn and anger would remain? “Oh, words of folly!—is it thus I deem Of the chaste object of my fond esteem? Away with doubt! to jealousy adieu! I know her fondness, and believe her true.— “Yet why that haste to furnish every need, And send me forth with comfort, and with speed? Yes; for she dreaded that the winter’s rage And our frail hoy should on the seas engage. “But that vile girl! I saw a treacherous eye 300 Glance on her mistress! so demure and sly, So forward too—and would Matilda’s pride Admit of that, if there was nought beside?” Such, as he told me, were the doubt, the dread, By jealous fears on observations fed. Home he proceeded: there remain’d to him But a few miles—the night was wet and dim; Thick, heavy dews descended on the ground, And all was sad and melancholy round. While thinking thus, an inn’s far gleaming fire 310 Caused new emotions in the pensive Squire: Here I may learn, and seeming careless too, If all is well, ere I my way pursue.— How fare you, landlord?—how, my friend, are all— Have you not seen—my people at the Hall? Well, I may judge?——” “Oh! yes, your Honour, well, As Joseph knows; and he was sent to tell.”— “How? sent?—I miss’d him—Joseph, do you say? Why sent, if well?—I miss’d him on the way.” There was a poacher on the chimney-seat, 320 A gipsy, conjuror, smuggler, stroller, cheat. The Squire had fined him for a captured hare, Whipp’d and imprison’d—he had felt the fare, And he remember’d: “Will your Honour know How does my Lady? that myself can show. On Monday early—for your Honour sees The poor man must not slumber at his ease, Nor must he into woods and coverts lurk, Nor work alone, but must be seen to work: ’Tis not, your Honour knows, sufficient now 330 For us to live, but we must prove it—how. Stay, please your Honour—I was early up, And forth without a morsel or a sup. There was my Lady’s carriage—Whew! it drove As if the horses had been spurr’d by Love.” “A poet, John!” said Villars—feebly said, Confused with fear, and humbled and dismay’d— “And where this carriage?—but, my heart! enough— Why do I listen to the villain’s stuff?— And where wert thou? and what the spur of thine 340 That led thee forth?—we surely may divine!” “Hunger, your Honour! I and my poor wife Have now no other in our wane of life. Were Phœbe handsome, and were I a Squire, I might suspect her, and young Lords admire.”— What, rascal!——”—“Nay, your Honour, on my word, I should be jealous of that fine young Lord; Yet him my Lady in the carriage took, But innocent—I’d swear it on the book.”— “You villain, swear!”—for still he wish’d to stay, 350 And hear what more the fellow had to say.— “‘Phœbe,’ said I, ‘a rogue that had a heart To do the deed would make his Honour smart.’— Says Phœbe, wisely, ‘Think you, would he go, If he were jealous, from my Lady?—No.’” This was too much! poor Villars left the inn, To end the grief that did but then begin. “With my Matilda in the coach!—what lies Will the vile rascal in his spleen devise? Yet this is true, that on some vile pretence 360 Men may entrap the purest innocence. He saw my fears—alas! I am not free From every doubt—but, no! it cannot be!” Villars moved slow, moved quick, as check’d by fear Or urged by Love, and drew his mansion near. Light burst upon him, yet he fancied gloom, Nor came a twinkling from Matilda’s room.— What then? ’tis idle to expect that all Should be produced at jealous fancy’s call; How! the park-gate wide open! who would dare 370 Do this, if her presiding glance were there? But yet, by chance—I know not what to think, For thought is hell, and I’m upon the brink! Not for a thousand worlds, ten thousand lives, Would I——Oh! what depends upon our wives! Pains, labours, terrors, all would I endure, Yes, all but this—and this, could I be sure——” Just then a light within the window shone, And show’d a lady, weeping and alone. His heart beat fondly—on another view, 380 It beat more strongly, and in terror too— It was his Sister!—and there now appear’d A servant, creeping like a man that fear’d. He spoke with terror—“Sir, did Joseph tell? Have you not met him?”— “Is your Lady well?” Well? Sir—your Honour——” “Heaven and earth! what mean Your stupid questions? I have nothing seen, Nor heard, nor know, nor—Do, good Thomas, speak! Your mistress——” “Sir, has gone from home a week— My Lady, Sir, your sister”—— But, too late 390 Was this—my Friend had yielded to his fate. He heard the truth, became serene and mild, Patient and still, as a corrected child; At once his spirit with his fortune fell To the last ebb, and whisper’d—‘It is well.’ Such was his fall; and grievous the effect! } From henceforth all things fell into neglect— } The mind no more alert, the form no more erect. } Villars long since, as he indulged his spleen By lonely travel on the coast, had seen 400 A large old mansion suffer’d to decay In some law-strife, and slowly drop away. Dark elms around the constant herons bred; Those the marsh dykes, the neighbouring ocean, fed; Rocks near the coast no shipping would allow, And stubborn heath around forbad the plough; Dull must the scene have been in years of old, But now was wildly dismal to behold— One level sadness! marsh, and heath, and sea, And, save these high dark elms, nor plant nor tree. 410 In this bleak ruin Villars found a room, Square, small, and lofty—seat of grief and gloom. A sloping skylight on the white wall threw, When the sun set, a melancholy hue; The Hall of Vathek has a room so bare, So small, so sad, so form’d to nourish care. “Here,” said the Traveller, “all so dark within, And dull without, a man might mourn for sin, Or punish sinners—here a wanton wife And vengeful husband might be cursed for life.” 420 His mind was now in just that wretched state That deems Revenge our right, and crime our fate. All other views he banish’d from his soul, And let this tyrant vex him and control; Life he despised, and had that Lord defied, But that he long’d for Vengeance e’er he died. The law he spurn’d, the combat he declined, And to his purpose all his soul resign’d. Full fifteen months had pass’d, and we began To have some hope of the returning man; 430 Now to his steward of his small affairs He wrote, and mention’d leases and repairs; But yet his soul was on its scheme intent, And but a moment to his interest lent. His faithless wife and her triumphant peer Despised his vengeance, and disdained to fear; In splendid lodgings near the town they dwelt, Nor fears from wrath, nor threats from conscience, felt. Long time our friend had watch’d, and much had paid For vulgar minds, who lent his vengeance aid. 440 At length one evening, late returning home, Thoughtless and fearless of the ills to come, The Wife was seized, when void of all alarm And vainly trusting to a footman’s arm. Death in his hand, the Husband stood in view, Commanding silence, and obedience too; Forced to his carriage, sinking at his side, Madly he drove her—Vengeance was his guide. All in that ruin Villars had prepared, And meant her fate and sorrow to have shared; 450 There he design’d they should for ever dwell, The weeping pair of a monastic cell. An ancient couple from their cottage went, Won by his pay, to this imprisonment; And all was order’d in his mind—the pain He must inflict, the shame she must sustain; But such his gentle spirit, such his love, The proof might fail of all he meant to prove. Features so dear had still maintain’d their sway, And looks so loved had taught him to obey; 460 Rage and Revenge had yielded to the sight Of charms that waken wonder and delight; The harsher passions from the heart had flown, And LOVE regain’d his Subject and his Throne.
THE FAREWELL AND RETURN
[The next Tale, and a number of others, were originally designed for a separate volume, to be entitled “The Farewell and Return.” In a letter to Mrs. Leadbetter, written in 1823, the poet says—“In my ‘Farewell and Return’ I suppose a young man to take leave of his native place, and to exchange _farewells_ with his friends and acquaintance there—in short, with as many characters as I have fancied I could manage. These, and their several situations and prospects, being briefly sketched, an interval is supposed to elapse; and our youth, a youth no more, _returns_ to the scene of his early days. Twenty years have passed; and the interest, if there be any, consists in the completion, more or less unexpected, of the history of each person to whom he had originally bidden farewell.”
The reader will find the Tales written on this plan divided each into two or more sections, and will easily perceive where the _farewell_ terminates and the _return_ begins.]
TALE VI.
_THE FAREWELL AND RETURN._
I.
I am of age, and, now no more the Boy, Am ready Fortune’s favours to enjoy, Were they, too, ready; but, with grief I speak, Mine is the fortune that I yet must seek. And let me seek it; there’s the world around— And if not sought it never can be found. It will not come, if I the chase decline; Wishes and wants will never make it mine. Then let me shake these lingering fears away; What one day must be, let it be to-day; 10 Lest courage fail ere I the search commence, And resolution pall upon suspense. Yet, while amid these well-known scenes I dwell, Let me to friends and neighbours bid Farewell. First to our men of wealth—these are but few— In duty bound I humbly bid adieu. This is not painful, for they know me not, Fortune in different states has placed our lot; It is not pleasant, for full well I know The lordly pity that the rich bestow— 20 A proud contemptuous pity, by whose aid Their own triumphant virtues are display’d.— “Going, you say? and what intends the Lad? ‘To seek his fortune?’ ‘Fortune!’ is he mad? Has he the knowledge? is he duly taught? I think we know how Fortune should be sought. Perhaps he takes his chance to sink or swim; Perhaps he dreams of Fortune’s seeking him? Life is his lottery, and away he flies, Without a ticket to obtain his prize; 30 But never man acquired a weighty sum, Without foreseeing whence it was to come.” Fortunes are made, if I the facts may state— Though poor myself, I know the fortunate— First, there’s a knowledge of the way from whence Good fortune comes—and that is sterling sense; Then perseverance, never to decline The chase of riches till the prey is thine; And firmness, never to be drawn away By any passion from that noble prey— 40 By love, ambition, study, travel, fame, Or the vain hope that lives upon a name.
* * * * *
The whistling Boy that holds the plough, Lured by the tale that soldiers tell, Resolves to part, yet knows not how To leave the land he loves so well. He now rejects the thought, and now Looks o’er the lea, and sighs “Farewell!”
“Farewell!” the pensive Maiden cries, Who dreams of London, dreams awake— 50 But, when her favourite Lad she spies, With whom she loved her way to take: Then Doubts within her soul arise, And equal Hopes her bosom shake!
Thus, like the Boy, and like the Maid, I wish to go, yet tarry here; And, now resolved, and now afraid, To minds disturb’d old views appear In melancholy charms array’d, And, once indifferent, now are dear. 60 How shall I go, my fate to learn— And, oh! how taught shall I return?
II.
Yes!—twenty years have pass’d, and I am come, Unknown, unwelcomed, to my early home; A stranger, striving in my walks to trace The youthful features in some aged face. On as I move, some curious looks I read; We pause a moment, doubt, and then proceed. They’re like what once I saw, but not the same; I lose the air, the features, and the name. 70 Yet something seems like knowledge, but the change Confuses me, and all in him is strange. That bronzed old Sailor, with his wig awry— Sure he will know me! No, he passes by. They seem like me in doubt; but they can call Their friends around them—I am lost to all. The very place is alter’d. What I left Seems of its space and dignity bereft: The streets are narrow, and the buildings mean; Did I, or Fancy, leave them broad and clean? 80 The ancient church, in which I felt a pride, As struck by magic, is but half as wide; The tower is shorter, the sonorous bell Tells not the hour as it was wont to tell; The market dwindles, every shop and stall Sinks in my view; there’s littleness in all. Mine is the error; prepossess’d I see; And all the change I mourn is change in me. One object only is the same; the sight Of the wide Ocean by the moon’s pale light, 90 With her long ray of glory, that we mark On the wild waves when all beside is dark. This is the work of Nature, and the eye In vain the boundless prospect would descry: What mocks our view cannot contracted be; We cannot lessen what we cannot see. Would I could now a single Friend behold, Who would the yet mysterious facts unfold, That Time yet spares, and to a stranger show Th’ events he wishes, and yet fears to know! 100 Much by myself I might in listening glean, Mix’d with the crowd, unmark’d if not unseen; Uninterrupted, I might ramble on, Nor cause an interest, nor a thought, in one. For who looks backward to a being tost About the world, forgotten long, and lost; For whom, departing, not a tear was shed, Who disappear’d, was missing, and was dead— Save that he left no grave, where some might pass, And ask each other who that being was! 110 I, as a ghost invisible, can stray Among the crowd, and cannot lose my way; My ways are where the voice of man is known, Though no occasion offers for my own; My eager mind to fill with food I seek, And, like the ghost, await for one to speak. See I not One whom I before have seen? That face, though now untroubled and serene, That air, though steady now, that look, though tame, Pertain to one, whom, though I doubt to name, 120 Yet was he not a dashing youth and wild, Proud as a man, and haughty when a child? Talents were his; he was in nature kind, With lofty, strong, and independent mind; His father wealthy, but, in very truth, He was a rash, untamed, expensive youth; And, as I now remember the report, Told how his father’s money he would sport. Yet in his dress and manner now appears No sign of faults that stain’d his earlier years; 130 Mildness there seems, and marks of sober sense, That bear no token of that wild expense Such as to ruin leads!—I may mistake, Yet may, perchance, a useful friendship make. He looks as one whom I should not offend, Address’d as him whom I would make a friend. Men with respect attend him.—He proceeds To yonder public room—why, then he reads! Suppose me right—a mighty change is wrought; But Time ere now has care and caution taught. 140 May I address him? And yet, why afraid? } Deny he may, but he will not upbraid; } Nor must I lose him, for I want his aid. } Propitious fate! beyond my hope I find } A being well-inform’d, and much inclined } To solve my many doubts, and ease my anxious mind. } Now shall we meet, and he will give reply To all I ask!—How full of fears am I; Poor, nervous, trembling! what have I to fear? } Have I a wife, a child, one creature here, 150} Whose health would bring me joy, whose death would claim a tear? } This is the time appointed, this the place: Now shall I learn, how some have run their race With honour, some with shame; and I shall know How man behaves in Fortune’s ebb and flow;— What wealth or want, what trouble, sorrow, joy, Have been allotted to the [girl] and boy Whom I left laughing at the ills of life— Now the grave father, or the awful wife. Then shall I hear, how tried the wise and good! 160} How fall’n the house that once in honour stood! } And moving accidents, from war and fire and flood! } These shall I hear, if to his promise true; His word is pledged to tell me all he knew Of living men; and memory then will trace Those who no more with living men have place, As they were borne to their last quiet homes— This shall I learn!—And lo! my Teacher comes.
TALE VII.
_THE SCHOOL-FELLOW._
I.
Yes! I must leave thee, brother of my heart, The world demands us, and at length we part; Thou whom that heart, since first it felt, approved— I thought not why, nor question’d how I loved; In my first thoughts, first notions, and first cares, Associate; partner in my mind’s affairs, In my young dreams, my fancies ill-express’d But well conceived, and to the heart address’d— A fellow-reader in the books I read; A fellow-mourner in the tears I shed; 10 A friend, partaking every grief and joy; A lively, frank, engaging, generous boy. At school each other’s prompters, day by day Companions in the frolic or the fray; Prompt in disputes—we never sought the cause; The laws of friendship were our only laws: We ask’d not how or why the strife began, But David’s foe was foe to Jonathan. In after-years my Friend, the elder boy, Would speak of Love, its tumult and its joy; 20 A new and strong emotion, thus imprest, Prepared for pain to come the yielding breast; For, though no object then the fancy found, She dreamt of darts, and gloried at the wound; Smooth verse and tender tales the spirit moved, And ere the Chloes came the Strephons loved. This is the Friend I leave; for he remains Bound to his home by strong but viewless chains: Nor need I fear that his aspiring soul Will fail his adverse fortunes to controul, 30 Or lose the fame he merits; yet awhile The clouds may lour—but then his sun will smile. O Time, thou teller of men’s fortunes, lend Thy aid, and be propitious to my Friend! Let me behold him prosperous, and his name Enroll’d among the darling sons of Fame; In love befriend him, and be his the bride, Proud of her choice, and of her lord the pride! “So shall my little bark attendant sail”— (As Pope has sung)—and prosperous be the gale! 40
II.
He is not here: the Youth I loved so well Dwells in some place where kindred spirits dwell; But I shall learn. Oh! tell me of my Friend, With whom I hoped life’s evening-calm to spend; With whom was spent the morn, the happy morn, When gay conceits and glorious views are born; With whom conversing I began to find The early stirrings of an active mind, That, done the tasks and lessons of the day, } Sought for new pleasures in our untried way, 50} And stray’d in fairy land, where much we long’d to stray. } Here he abides not; could not surely fix In this dull place, with these dull souls to mix; He finds his place where lively spirits meet, And loftier souls from baser kind retreat. First, of my early Friend I gave the name, Well known to me, and, as I judged, to Fame; My grave informer doubted, then replied, “That Lad!—why, yes!—some ten years since he died.” _P._ Died! and unknown! the man I loved so well! 60 But is this all? the whole that you can tell Of one so gifted?— _F._ Gifted! why, in truth, You puzzle me; how gifted was the Youth? I recollect him, now—his long, pale face— He dress’d in drab, and walk’d as in a race. _P._ Good Heaven! what did I not of him expect! And is this all indeed you recollect— Of wit that charm’d me, with delightful ease— } And gay good-humour that must ever please— } His taste, his genius! know you nought of these? 70} _F._ No, not of these:—but stop! in passing near, I’ve heard his flute—it was not much to hear. As for his genius—let me not offend; I never had a genius for a friend, And doubt of yours; but still, he did his best, And was a decent Lad—there let him rest! He lies in peace, with all his humble race, And has no stone to mark his burial place; Nor left he that which to the world might show That he was one that world was bound to know, 80 For aught he gave it.—Here his story ends! _P._ And is this all? This character my Friend’s! That may, alas! be mine——“_a decent Lad!_”— The very phrase would make a Poet mad! And he is gone!—Oh! proudly did I think That we together at that fount should drink; Together climb the steep ascent of Fame; Together gain an ever-during name, And give due credit to our native home— Yet here he lies, without a name or tomb; 90 Perhaps not honour’d by a single tear; Just enter’d in a parish-register, With common dust, forgotten to remain— And shall I seek, what thou could’st not obtain— A name for men when I am dead to speak?— Oh! let me something more substantial seek; Let me no more on man’s poor praise depend, But learn one lesson from my buried Friend!
TALE VIII.
_BARNABY, THE SHOPMAN._
I.
Farewell! to _him_ whom, just across my way, I see his shop attending day by day; Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes. Young though he is, yet careful there he stands, Opening his shop with his own ready hands; Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves, Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves— But yet preserves not: in his zeal for trade He has his shop an ark for all things made; 10 And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye, His sundry wares in strange confusion lie— Delightful token of the haste that keeps Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps; Yet ere he rests, he takes them all away, And order smiles on the returning day. Most ready tradesman he of men! alive To all that turns to money—he must thrive. Obsequious, civil, loath t’ offend or trust, And full of awe for greatness—thrive he must: 20 For well he knows to creep; and he in time, By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb. Pains-taking lad he was, and with his slate For hours in useful meditation sate; Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand, To make him—hard the labour!—understand. But, when of learning he enough possess’d For his affairs, who would might learn the rest; All else was useless, when he had obtain’d Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain’d. 30 He envied no man for his learning: he Who was not rich, was poor with BARNABY; But he for envy has no thought to spare, Nor love nor hate—his heart is in his ware. Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise! To him how bright the opening day, how blest The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest! To him the nation’s state is all unknown, Whose watchful eye is ever on his own. 40 You talk of patriots, men who give up all, Yea, life itself, at their dear country’s call: He look’d on such as men of other date— Men to admire, and not to imitate; They as his Bible-Saints to him appear’d: Lost to the world, but still to be revered. Yet there’s a Widow, in a neighbouring street, Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet; Her’s house and land; and these are more delight To him than learning, in the proverb’s spite. 50 The Widow sees at once the Trader’s views, And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse. Yet there are moments when a woman fails In such design, and so the man prevails. Love she has not; but, in a guardless hour, May lose her purpose, and resign her power; Yet all such hazard she resolves to run, Pleased to be woo’d, and fearless to be won. Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside, Are kept and shown to feed a woman’s pride: 60 Old-fashion’d, ugly, call them what she will, They serve as signs of her importance still. She thinks they might inferior forms adorn And does not love to hear them used with scorn; Till, on some day when she has need of dress, And none at hand to serve her in distress, She takes th’ insulted robe, and turns about; Long-hidden beauties one by one peer out. “’Tis not so bad! see, Jenny—I declare, ’Tis pretty well, and then ’tis lasting wear; 70 And what is fashion?—if a woman’s wise, She will the substance, not the shadow, prize; ’Tis a choice silk; and, if I put it on, Off go these ugly trappings every one.” The dress is worn; a friendly smile is raised, But the good lady for her courage praised— Till wonder dies.—The dress is worn with pride, And not one trapping yet is cast aside. Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews; And on the seventh he worships Heav’n, and woos, 80 I leave thee, Barnaby; and if I see Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be.
II.
But how is this? I left a thriving man, Hight BARNABY, when he to trade began— Trade his delight and hope; and, if alive, Doubt I had none that Barnaby would thrive. Yet here I see him, sweeping as before The very dust from forth the very door. So would a miser! but, methinks, the shop Itself is meaner—has he made a stop? 90 I thought I should at least a burgess see, And lo! ’tis but an older Barnaby; With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare As coats of his once begging kindred were; Brush’d to the thread that is distinctly seen, And beggarly would be, but that ’tis clean. Why, how is this? Upon a closer view, The shop is narrow’d; it is cut in two. Is all that business from its station fled? Why, Barnaby! thy very shop is dead! 100 Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate— And what the fall from that predicted fate.
* * * * *
_F._ A common cause: it seems his lawful gains Came slowly forth, and came with care and pains. These he, indeed, was willing to bestow; But still his progress to his point was slow, And might be quicken’d, “could he cheat the eyes } Of all those rascal officers and spies, } The Customs’ greedy tribe, the wolves of the Excise.” } Tea, coffee, spirits, laces, silks, and spice, 110 And sundry drugs that bear a noble price, Are bought for little, but, ere sold, the things Are deeply charged for duty of the king’s. Now, if the servants of this king would keep At a kind distance, or would wink or sleep, Just till the goods in safety were disposed, Why then his labours would be quickly closed. True! some have thriven—but they the laws defied, And shunn’d the powers they should have satisfied. Their way he tried, and, finding some success, 120 His heart grew stouter, and his caution less; Then—for why doubt, when placed in Fortune’s way?— There was a bank, and that was sure to pay. Yes, every partner in that thriving bank He judged a man of a superior rank. Were _he_ but one in a concern so grand— Why, he might build a house, and buy him land; Then, too, the Widow, whom he loved so well, Would not refuse with such a man to dwell; And, to complete his views, he might be made 130 A Borough-Justice, when he ceased to trade; For he had known—well pleased to know—a mayor Who once had dealt in cheese and vinegar. Who hastens to be rich, resembles him Who is resolved that he will quickly swim, And trusts his full-blown bladders! He, indeed, With these supported, moves along with speed; He laughs at those whom untried depths alarm, By caution led, and moved by strength of arm; Till in mid-way, the way his folly chose, 140 His full-blown bladder bursts, and down he goes! Or, if preserved, ’tis by their friendly aid Whom he despised as cautious and afraid. Who could resist? Not Barnaby. Success Awhile his pride exalted—to depress. Three years he pass’d in feverish hopes and fears, When fled the profits of the former years; Shook by the Law’s strong arm, all he had gain’d He dropp’d—and hopeless, pennyless remain’d. The cruel Widow, whom he yet pursued, 150 Was kind but cautious, then was stern and rude. “Should wealth, now hers, from that dear man which came, Be thrown away to prop a smuggler’s fame?” She spake, insulting; and, with many a sigh, The fallen Trader passed her mansion by. Fear, shame, and sorrow, for a time endured, Th’ adventurous man was ruin’d, but was cured— His weakness pitied, and his once-good name The means of his returning peace became. He was assisted, to his shop withdrew, 160 Half let, half rented, and began anew To smile on custom, that in part return’d, With the small gains that he no longer spurn’d. Warn’d by the past, he rises with the day, And tries to sweep off sorrow.——_Sweep away!_
TALE IX.
_JANE._
I.
Known but of late, I yet am loth to leave The gentle JANE, and wonder why I grieve— Not for her wants, for she has no distress, She has no suffering that her looks express, Her air or manner—hers the mild good sense That wins its way by making no pretence. When yet a child, her dying mother knew What, left by her, the widow’d man would do, And gave her Jane, for she had power, enough To live in ease—of love and care a proof. 10 Enabled thus, the maid is kind to all— Is pious too, and that without a call. Not that she doubts of calls that Heav’n has sent— Calls to believe, or warnings to repent: But that she rests upon the Word divine, Without presuming on a dubious sign— A sudden light, the momentary zeal Of those who rashly hope, and warmly feel; These she rejects not, nor on these relies, And neither feels the influence nor denies. 20 Upon the sure and written Word she trusts, And by the Law Divine her life adjusts; She blames not her who other creed prefers, And all she asks is charity for hers. Her great example is her gracious Lord, Her hope his promise, and her guide his Word; Her quiet alms are known to God alone, Her left hand knows not what her right has done; Her talents, not the few, she well improves, And puts to use in labour that she loves. 30 Pensive, though good, I leave thee, gentle maid, In thee confiding, of thy peace afraid, In a strange world to act a trying part, With a soft temper, and a yielding heart!
II.
_P._ How fares my gentle Jane, with spirit meek, Whose fate with some foreboding care I seek: Her whom I pitied in my pride, while she, For many a cause more weighty, pitied me; For she has wonder’d how the idle boy His head or hands would usefully employ— 40 At least for thee his grateful spirit pray’d, And now to ask thy fortune is afraid.— ——How fares ‘the gentle Jane?— _F._ Know first, she fares As one who bade adieu to earthly cares; As one by virtue guided, and who, tried By man’s deceit, has never lost her guide. Her age I knew not, but it seem’d the age When Love is wont a serious war to wage In female hearts,—when hopes and fears are strong, And ’tis a fatal step to place them wrong; 50 For childish fancies now have ta’en their flight, And love’s impressions are no longer light. Just at this time—what time I do not tell— There came a Stranger in the place to dwell; He seem’d as one who sacred truth reveres, And like her own his sentiments and years; His person manly, with engaging mien; His spirit quiet, and his looks serene. He kept from all disgraceful deeds aloof, Severely tried, and found temptation-proof: 60 This was by most unquestioned, and the few Who made inquiry said report was true. His very choice of our neglected place Endear’d him to us—’twas an act of grace; And soon to Jane, our unobtrusive maid, In still respect was his attention paid; Each in the other found what both approved, Good sense and quiet manners: these they loved. So came regard, and then esteem, and then The kind of friendship women have with men: 70 At length t’was love, but candid, open, fair, Such as became their years and character. In their discourse religion had its place, When he of doctrines talk’d, and she of grace: He knew the different sects, the varying creeds, While she, less learned, spake of virtuous deeds; He dwelt on errors into which we fall, She on the gracious remedy for all; So between both, his knowledge and her own, Was the whole Christian to perfection shown. 80 Though neither quite approved the other’s part— Hers without learning, his without a heart— Still to each other they were dear, were good, And all these matters kindly understood; For Jane was liberal, and her friend could trust,— “He thinks not with me! but is fair and just.” Her prudent lover to her man of law } Show’d how he lived: it seem’d without a flaw; } She saw their moderate means—content with what she saw. } Jane had no doubts—with so much to admire, 90 She judged it insult farther to inquire. The lover sought—what lover brooks delay?— } For full assent, and for an early day— } And he would construe well the soft consenting Nay! } The day was near, and Jane, with book in hand, Sat down to read—perhaps might understand; For what prevented?—say, she seem’d to read; When one there came, her own sad cause to plead; A stranger she, who fearless named that cause, A breach in love’s and honour’s sacred laws. 100 “In a far country, Lady, bleak and wild, Report has reach’d me: how art thou beguiled! Or dared he tell thee, that for ten sad years He saw me struggling with fond hopes and fears? “From my dear home he won me, blest and free, To be his victim.”——“Madam, who is _he_?” “Not yet thy husband, Lady; no! not yet; For he has first to pay a mighty debt.” “Speaks he not of religion?”—“So he speaks, When he the ruin of his victim seeks. 110 How smooth and gracious were his words, how sweet— The fiend his master prompting his deceit! Me he with kind instruction led to trust In one who seem’d so grave, so kind, so just. Books to amuse me, and inform, he brought, Like that old serpent with temptation fraught; His like the precepts of the wise appear’d, Till I imbibed the vice I had not fear’d. By pleasant tales and dissertations gay, He wiled the lessons of my youth away. 120 “Of moral duties he would talk, and prove They gave a sanction, and commanded love; His sober smile at forms and rites was shown, To make my mind depraved, and like his own. “But wilt thou take him? wilt thou ruin take, With a grave robber, a religious rake? ’Tis not to serve thee, Lady, that I came— ’Tis not to claim him, ’tis not to reclaim— But ’tis that he may for my wrongs be paid, And feel the vengeance of the wretch he made. 130 “Not for myself I thy attention claim } My children dare not take their father’s name; } They know no parent’s love—love will not dwell with shame. } What law would force, he not without it gives, And hates each living wretch, because it lives! Yet, with these sinful stains, the man is mine: } How will he curse me for this rash design! } Yes—I will bear his curse, but him will not resign. } “I see thee grieved; but, Lady, what thy grief? It may be pungent, but it must be brief. 140 Pious thou art; but what will profit thee, Match’d with a demon, woman’s piety? Not for thy sake my wrongs and wrath I tell, Revenge I seek! but yet, I wish thee well. And now I leave thee! Thou art warn’d by one, The rock on which her peace was wreck’d to shun.” The Lover heard; but not in time to stay A woman’s vengeance in its headlong way. Yet he essay’d, with no unpractised skill, To warp the judgment, or at least the will; 150 To raise such tumults in the poor weak heart, That Jane, believing all—yet should not dare to part. But there was Virtue in her mind that strove With all his eloquence, and all her love; He told what hope and frailty dared to tell, And all was answered by a stern _Farewell_! Home with his consort he returned once more; And they resumed the life they led before. Not so our maiden. She, before resign’d, } Had now the anguish of a wounded mind— 160} And felt the languid grief that the deserted find. } On him she had reposed each worldly view, And when he fail’d, the world itself withdrew, With all its prospects. Nothing could restore To life its value; hope would live no more: Pensive by nature, she can not sustain The sneer of pity that the heartless feign; But to the pressure of her griefs gives way, A quiet victim, and a patient prey; The one bright view that she had cherish’d dies, 170 And other hope must from the future rise. She still extends to grief and want her aid, And by the comfort she imparts, is paid. Death is her soul’s relief; to him she flies For consolation that this world denies. No more to life’s false promises she clings, } She longs to change this troubled state of things, } Till every rising morn the happier prospect brings. }
TALE X.
_THE ANCIENT MANSION._
I.
To part is painful; nay, to bid adieu Ev’n to a favourite spot is painful too. That fine old Seat, with all those oaks around, } Oft have I view’d with reverence so profound, } As something sacred dwelt in that delicious ground. } There, with its tenantry about, reside A genuine English race, the country’s pride; And now a Lady, last of all that race, Is the departing spirit of the place. Hers is the last of all that noble blood, 10 That flow’d through generations brave and good; And, if there dwells a native pride in her, It is the pride of name and character. True, she will speak, in her abundant zeal, Of stainless honour; that she needs must feel; She must lament, that she is now the last Of all who gave such splendour to the past. Still are her habits of the ancient kind; She knows the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind. She holds, so she believes, her wealth in trust; 20 And being kind, with her, is being just. Though soul and body she delights to aid, Yet of her skill she’s prudently afraid; So to her chaplain’s care she _this_ commends, And, when _that_ craves, the village doctor sends. At church attendance she requires of all Who would be held in credit at the Hall; A due respect to each degree she shows, And pays the debt that every mortal owes; ’Tis by opinion that respect is led: 30 The rich esteem because the poor are fed. Her servants all, if so we may describe That ancient, grave, observant, decent tribe, Who with her share the blessings of the Hall, Are kind but grave, are proud but courteous all— Proud of their lucky lot! behold, how stands That grey-haired butler, waiting her commands; The Lady dines, and every day he feels That his good mistress falters in her meals. With what respectful manners he entreats 40 That she would eat—yet Jacob little eats; When she forbears, his supplicating eye Intreats the noble dame once more to try. Their years the same; and he has never known Another place; and this he deems his own— All appertains to him. Whate’er he sees Is _ours_!—“our house, our land, our walks, our trees!” But still he fears the time is just at hand, When he no more shall in that presence stand; And he resolves with mingled grief and pride, 50 To serve no being in the world beside. “He has enough,” he says, with many a sigh, “For him to serve his God, and learn to die: He and his lady shall have heard their call, And the new folk, the strangers, may have all.” But, leaving these to their accustom’d way, The Seat itself demands a short delay. We all have interest there—the trees that grow } Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe; } They take, but largely pay, and equal grace bestow. 60} They hide a part, but still, the part they shade Is more inviting to our fancy made; And, if the eye be robb’d of half its sight, Th’ imagination feels the more delight. These giant oaks by no man’s order stand; Heaven did the work, by no man was it plann’d. Here I behold no puny works of art; } None give me reasons why these views impart } Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the heart. } These very pinnacles, and turrets small, 70 And windows dim, have beauty in them all. How stately stand yon pines upon the hill; How soft the murmurs of that living rill; And o’er the park’s tall paling, scarcely higher, Peeps the low Church and shows the modest spire. Unnumber’d violets on those banks appear, And all the first-born beauties of the year; The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring The large wild bees upon the labouring wing. Then comes the Summer with augmented pride, 80 Whose pure small streams along the valleys glide; Her richer Flora their brief charms display, And, as the fruit advances, fall away. Then shall th’ autumnal yellow clothe the leaf, What time the reaper binds the burden’d sheaf; Then silent groves denote the dying year, The morning frost, and noon-tide gossamer; And all be silent in the scene around— All, save the distant sea’s uncertain sound, Or here and there the gun, whose loud report 90 Proclaims to man that Death is but his sport. And then the wintry winds begin to blow; Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow; When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue, Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew; The aged moss grows brittle on the pale; The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale; And every changing season of the year Stamps on the scene its English character. Farewell! a prouder Mansion I may see, 100 But much must meet in that which equals thee!
II.
I leave the town, and take a well-known way To that old Mansion in the closing day, When beams of golden light are shed around, And sweet is every night and every sound. Pass but this hill, and I shall then behold The Seat so honour’d, no admired of old, And yet admired—— Alas! I see a change, Of odious kind, and lamentably strange. Who had done this? The good old Lady lies 110 Within her tomb; but, who could this advise? What barbarous hand could all this mischief do, And spoil a noble house, to make it new? Who had done this? Some genuine Son of Trade Has all this dreadful devastation made; Some man with line and rule, and evil eye, Who could no beauty in a tree descry, Save in a clump, when stationed by his hand, And standing where his genius bade them stand; Some true admirer of the time’s reform, 120 Who strips an ancient dwelling like a storm; Strips it of all its dignity and grace, To put his own dear fancies in their place. He hates concealment: all that was enclosed By venerable wood is now exposed, And a few stripling elms all oaks appear, Fenced round by boards, to keep them from the deer. I miss the grandeur of the rich old scene, And see not what these clumps and patches mean! This shrubby belt that runs the land around 130 Shuts freedom out! what being likes a bound? The shrubs indeed, and ill-placed flowers, are gay, } And some would praise; I wish they were away, } That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might stray. } The things themselves are pleasant to behold, But not like those which we beheld of old— That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain, } Unbound and unsubdued!—but sighs are vain; } It is the rage of Taste—the rule and compass reign. } As thus my spleen upon the view I fed, 140 A man approach’d me, by his grandchild led— A blind old man, and she a fair young maid, Listening in love to what her grandsire said.
And thus with gentle voice he spoke— “Come lead me, lassie, to the shade, Where willows grow beside the brook; For well I know the sound it made, When, dashing o’er the stony rill, It murmur’d to St. Osyth’s Mill.”
The Lass replied—“The trees are fled, 150 They’ve cut the brook a straighter bed: No shades the present lords allow, The miller only murmurs now; The waters now his mill forsake, And form a pond they call a lake.”—
“Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on, And to the holy water bring; A cup is fasten’d to the stone, And I would taste the healing spring, That soon its rocky cist forsakes, 160 And green its mossy passage makes.”—
“The holy spring is turn’d aside, The rock is gone, the stream is dried; The plough has levell’d all around, And here is now no holy ground.”—
“Then, lass, thy grandsire’s footsteps guide To Bulmer’s Tree, the giant oak, Whose boughs the keeper’s cottage hide, And part the church-way lane o’erlook; A boy, I climb’d the topmost bough, 170 And I would feel its shadow now!
“Or, lassie, lead me to the west, Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall, Where rooks unnumber’d build their nest— Deliberate birds, and prudent all: Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude, But they’re a social multitude.”
“The rooks are shot, the trees are fell’d, And nest and nursery all expell’d; With better fate the giant-tree, 180 Old Bulmer’s Oak, is gone to sea. The church-way walk is now no more, And men must other ways explore; Though this indeed promotion gains, For this the park’s new wall contains; And here I fear we shall not meet A shade—although, perchance, a seat.” “O then, my lassie, lead the way To Comfort’s Home, the ancient inn: That something holds, if we can pay— 190 Old David is our living kin; A servant once, he still preserves His name, and in his office serves.”
“Alas! that mine should be the fate Old David’s sorrows to relate! But they were brief; not long before He died, his office was no more. The kennel stands upon the ground, With something of the former sound.”
“O then,” the grieving Man replied, 200 “No further, lassie, let me stray; Here’s nothing left of ancient pride, Of what was grand, of what was gay; But all is chang’d, is lost, is sold— All, all that’s left is chilling cold. I seek for comfort here in vain; Then lead me to my cot again!”
TALE XI.
_THE MERCHANT._
I.
Lo! one appears, to whom if I should dare To say _farewell_, the lordly man would stare, Would stretch his goodly form some inches higher, And then, without a single word, retire; Or from his state might haply condescend To doubt his memory—“Ha! your name, my friend?” He is the master of these things we see: Those vessels proudly riding by the quay; With all those mountain heaps of coal that lie, For half a county’s wonder and supply. 10 Boats, cables, anchors, all to him pertain— A swimming fortune, all his father’s gain. He was a porter on the quay, and one Proud of his fortune, prouder of his son— Who was ashamed of him, and much distress’d To see his father was no better dress’d. Yet for this parent did the son erect A tomb—’tis whisper’d, he must not expect The like for him, when he shall near it sleep— Where we behold the marble cherubs weep. 20 There are no merchants who with us reside In half his state—no wonder he has pride; Then he parades around that vast estate, As if he spurn’d the slaves that make him great; Speaking in tone so high, as if the ware Was nothing worth—at least not worth his care; Yet should he not these bulky stores contemn, For all his glory he derives from them; And, were it not for that neglected store, This great rich man would be extremely poor. 30 Generous men call him, for he deigns to give; He condescends to say the poor must live. Yet in his seamen not a sign appears That they have much respect, or many fears; With inattention they their patron meet, As if they thought his dignity a cheat; Or of himself as, having much to do With their affairs, he very little knew; As if his ways to them so well were known That they might hear, and bow, and take their own. 40 He might contempt for men so humble feel, But this experience taught him to conceal; For sailors do not to a lord at land As to their captain in submission stand; Nor have mere pomp and pride, of look or speech, Been able yet respect or awe to teach. Guns, when with powder charged, will make a noise, To frighten babes, and be the sport of boys; But, when within men find there’s nothing more, They shout contemptuous at the idle roar. 50 Thus will our lofty man to all appear, With nothing charged that they respect or fear. His Lady, too, to her large purse applies, And all she fancies at the instant buys. How bows the market, when from stall to stall She walks, attended! how respectful all! To her free orders every maid attends, And strangers wonder what the woman spends. There is an auction, and the people, shy, Are loth to bid, and yet desire to buy. 60 Jealous they gaze with mingled hope and fear, Of buying cheaply, and of paying dear. They see the hammer with determined air Seized for despatch, and bid in pure despair! They bid—the hand is quiet as before— Still stands old Puff till one advances more.— Behold great madam, gliding through the crowd; Hear her too bid—decisive tone and loud! “Going! ’tis gone!” the hammer-holder cries— “Joy to you, Lady! you have gain’d a prize.” 70 Thus comes and goes the wealth, that, saved or spent, Buys not a moment’s credit or content. _Farewell!_ your fortune I forbear to guess; For chance, as well as sense, may give success.
II.
_P._ Say, what yon buildings, neat indeed, but low, So much alike, in one commodious row? _F._ You see our Alms-house: ancient men, decay’d, Are here sustain’d, who lost their way in trade; Here they have all that sober men require— So thought the Poet—“meat, and clothes, and fire”; 80 A little garden to each house pertains, Convenient each, and kept with little pains. Here for the sick are nurse and medicine found; Here walks and shaded alleys for the sound; Books of devotion on the shelves are placed, And not forbidden are the books of taste. The Church is near them—in a common seat The pious men with grateful spirit meet; Thus from the world, which they no more admire, They all in silent gratitude retire. 90 _P._ And is it so? Have all, with grateful mind, The world relinquish’d, and its ways resign’d? Look they not back with lingering love and slow, And fain would once again the oft-tried follies know? _F._ Too surely some! We must not think that all, Call’d to be hermits, would obey the call; We must not think that all forget the state In which they moved, and bless their humbler fate; But all may here the waste of life retrieve, And, ere they leave the world, its vices leave. 100 See yonder man, who walks apart, and seems Wrapt in some fond and visionary schemes; Who looks uneasy, as a man oppress’d By that large copper badge upon his breast. His painful shame, his self-tormenting pride, Would all that’s visible in bounty hide; And much his anxious breast is swell’d with woe, That where he goes his badge must with him go. _P._ Who then is he? Do I behold aright? My lofty Merchant in this humble plight! 110 Still has he pride? _F._ If common fame be just, He yet has pride—the pride that licks the dust; Pride that can stoop, and feed upon the base And wretched flattery of this humbling place; Nay, feeds himself! his failing is avow’d: He of the cause that made him poor is proud; Proud of his greatness, of the sums he spent, And honours shown him wheresoe’er he went. Yes! there he walks, that lofty man is he, Who was so rich; but great he could not be. 120 Now to the paupers who about him stand He tells of wonders, by his bounty plann’d; Tells of his traffic, where his vessels sail’d, And what a trade he drove—before he fail’d; Then what a failure, not a paltry sum, Like a mean trader, but for half a plum; His Lady’s wardrobe was apprised so high At his own sale, that nobody would buy!— “But she is gone,” he cries, “and never saw The spoil and havoc of our cruel law; 130 My steeds, our chariot that so roll’d along, Admired of all! they sold them for a song. You all can witness what my purse could do; And now I wear a badge like one of you, Who in my service had been proud to live— And this is all a thankless town will give. I, who have raised the credit of that town, And gave it, thankless as it is, renown— Who’ve done, what no man there had done before, Now hide my head within an Alms-house door— 140 Deprived of all—my wife, my wealth, my vote, And in this blue defilement——_Curse the Coat!_”
TALE XII.
_THE BROTHER BURGESSES._
I.
Two busy BROTHERS in our place reside, And wealthy each, his party’s boast and pride; Sons of one father, of two mothers born, They hold each other in true party-scorn. JAMES is the one who for the people fights, The sturdy champion of their dubious rights; Merchant and seaman rough, but not the less Keen in pursuit of his own happiness; And what his happiness?—To see his store Of wealth increase, till Mammon groans, “No more!” 10 JAMES goes to church—because his father went, But does not hide his leaning to dissent; Reasons for this, whoe’er may frown, he’ll speak— Yet the old pew receives him once a week. CHARLES is a churchman, and has all the zeal That a strong member of his church can feel; A loyal subject is the name he seeks; He of “his King and Country” proudly speaks: He says, his brother and a rebel-crew, Minded like him, the nation would undo, 20 If they had power, or were esteem’d enough Of those who had, to bring their plans to proof. JAMES answers sharply—“I will never place My hopes upon a Lordship or a Grace! To some great man you bow, to greater he, Who to the greatest bends his supple knee, That so the manna from the head may drop, And at the lowest of the kneelers stop. Lords call you loyal, and on them you call To spare you something from our plunder’d all: 30 If tricks like these to slaves can treasure bring, Slaves well may shout them hoarse for ‘Church and King!’” “Brother!” says Charles,—“yet ‘brother’ is a name I own with pity, and I speak with shame— One of these days you’ll surely lead a mob, And then the hangman will conclude the job.” “And would you, Charles, in that unlucky case, } Beg for his life whose death would bring disgrace } On you, and all the loyal of our race? } Your worth would surely from the halter bring 40} One neck, and I, a patriot, then might sing— } A brother patriot I—‘God save our noble King!’” } “James!” said the graver man, in manner grave— “Your neck I could not, I your soul would save; Oh! ere that day, alas, too likely! come, I would prepare your mind to meet your doom, That then the priest, who prays with that bad race Of men, may find you not devoid of grace.” These are the men who, from their seats above, Hear frequent sermons on fraternal love; 50 Nay, each approves, and answers—“Very true! Brother would heed it, were he not a Jew.”
II.
_P._ Read I aright? beneath this stately stone THE BROTHERS rest in peace, their grave is one! What friend, what fortune interfered, that they Take their long sleep together, clay with clay? How came it thus?— _F._ It was their own request, By both repeated, that they thus might rest. _P._ ’Tis well! Did friends at length the pair unite? Or was it done because the deed was right? 60 Did the cool spirit of enfeebling age Chill the warm blood, and calm the party rage, And kindly lead them, in their closing day, To put their animosity away, Incline their hearts to live in love and peace, And bid the ferment in each bosom cease? _F._ Rich men have runners, who will to and fro In search of food for their amusement go; Who watch their spirits, and with tales of grief Yield to their melancholy minds relief; 70 Who of their foes will each mishap relate, And of their friends the fall or failings state. One of this breed—the Jackall who supplied Our Burgess Charles with food for spleen and pride— Before he utter’d what his memory brought, On its effect, in doubtful matters, thought, Lest he, perchance, in his intent might trip, Or a strange fact might indiscreetly slip.— But he, one morning, had a tale to bring, And felt full sure he need not weigh the thing; 80 _That_ must be welcome! With a smiling face He watch’d th’ accustom’d nod, and took his place. “Well! you have news—I see it—Good, my friend, No preface, Peter! Speak, man; I attend.” “Then, sir, I’m told—nay, ’tis beyond dispute— Our Burgess James is routed horse and foot; He’ll not be seen; a clerk for him appears, And their precautions testify their fears; Before the week be ended you shall see, That our famed patriot will a bankrupt be.”— 90 “Will he, by——! No, I will not be profane, But _James_ a bankrupt! Boy, my hat and cane! No! he’ll refuse my offers—Let me think! So would I his; here, give me pen and ink! There! that will do.—What! let my father’s son, My brother, want, and I—away! and run; Run, as for life, and then return—but stay To take his message—now, away, away!” The pride of James was shaken as he read— The Brothers met—the angry spirit fled. 100 Few words were needed—in the look of each There was a language words can never reach; But, when they took each other’s hand, and press’d, Subsiding tumult sank to endless rest; Nor party wrath with quick affection strove, Drown’d in the tears of reconciling love. Affairs confused, and business at a stand, Were soon set right by Charles’s powerful hand; The rudest mind in this rude place enjoy’d The pleasing thought of enmity destroy’d, 110 And so destroy’d, that neither spite nor spleen, Nor peevish look from that blest hour were seen; Yet each his party and his spirit kept, Though all the harsh and angry passions slept. _P._ And they too sleep! and, at their joint request, Within one tomb, beneath one stone, they rest!
TALE XIII.
_THE DEAN’S LADY._
I.
Next, to a LADY I must bid adieu— Whom some in mirth or malice call a “_Blue_.” There needs no more—when that same word is said, The men grow shy, respectful, and afraid; Save the choice friends who in her colour dress, And all her praise in words like hers express. Why should proud man in man that knowledge prize, Which he affects in woman to despise? Is he not envious when a lady gains, } In hours of leisure, and with little pains, 10} What he in many a year with painful toil obtains? } For surely knowledge should not odious grow, Nor ladies be despised for what they know; Truth, to no sex confined, her friends invites, And woman, long restrain’d, demands her rights. Nor should a light and odious name be thrown On the fair dame who makes that knowledge known— Who bravely dares the world’s sarcastic sneer, And what she is, is willing to appear. “And what she is not!” peevish man replies, 20 His envy owning what his pride denies. But let him, envious as he is, repair To this sage Dame, and meet conviction there! MIRANDA sees her morning levee fill’d With men, in every art and science skill’d— Men who have gain’d a name, whom she invites, Because in men of genius she delights. To these she puts her questions, that produce Discussion vivid, and discourse abstruse; She no opinion for its boldness spares, 30 But loves to show her audience what she dares; The creeds of all men she takes leave to sift, And, quite impartial, turns her own adrift. Her noble mind, with independent force, Her Rector questions on his late discourse; Perplex’d and pain’d, he wishes to retire From one whom critics, nay, whom crowds, admire— From her whose faith on no man’s dictate leans; Who her large creed from many a teacher gleans; Who for herself will judge, debate, decide, 40 And be her own “philosopher and guide.” Why call a lady _Blue_? It is because She reads, converses, studies for applause; And therefore all that she desires to know Is just as much as she can fairly show. The real knowledge we in secret hide; It is the counterfeit that makes our pride. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”— So sings the Poet, and so let him sing; But, if from little learning danger rose, 50 I know not who in safety could repose. The evil rises from our own mistake, When we our ignorance for knowledge take; Or when the little that we have, through pride And vain poor self-love view’d, is magnified. Nor is your deepest Azure always free From these same dangerous calls of vanity. Yet of the sex are those who never show, By way of exhibition, what they know. Their books are read and praised, and so are they, 60 But all without design, without display. Is there not One who reads the hearts of men, And paints them strongly with unrivall’d pen? All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear; Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear; Looks in the close recesses of the mind, And gives the finish’d portraits to mankind, By skill conducted, and to Nature true— And yet no man on earth would call JOANNA _Blue_! Not so MIRANDA! She is ever prest 70 To give opinions, and she gives her best. To these with gentle smile her guests incline, Who come to hear, improve, applaud—and dine. Her hungry mind on every subject feeds; She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads; Locke entertains her, and she wonders why His famous Essay is consider’d dry. For her amusement in her vacant hours Are earths and rocks, and animals and flowers; She could the farmer at his work assist, 80 A systematic agriculturist. Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind, Nor let us see that they themselves are blind; But—thank our stars!—the liberal times allow, That all may think, and men have rivals now. Miranda deems all knowledge might be gain’d— “But she is idle, nor has much attain’d; Men are in her deceived: she knows at most A few light matters, for she scorns to boast. Her mathematic studies she resign’d— 90 They did not suit the genius of her mind. She thought indeed the higher parts sublime, But then they took a monstrous deal of time!” Frequent and full the letters she delights To read in part; she names not him who writes— But here and there a precious sentence shows, Telling what literary debts she owes. Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come, “Alas!” she cries, “and I must seal their doom. Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain— 100 Ah! why must truth be told, or man be vain?” Much she has written, and still deigns to write, But not an effort yet must see the light. “Cruel!” her friends exclaim; “unkind, unjust!” But, no! the envious mass she will not trust; Content to hear that fame is due to her, Which on her works the world might not confer— Content with loud applauses while she lives; Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives.
II.
_P._ Now where the Learned Lady? Doth she live, 110 Her dinners yet and sentiments to give— The Dean’s wise consort, with the many friends, From whom she borrows, and to whom she lends Her precious maxims? _F._ Yes, she lives to shed Her light around her; but her Dean is dead. Seen her I have, but seldom could I see; Borrow she could not, could not lend to me. Yet I attended, and beheld the tribe Attending too, whom I will not describe— Miranda Thomson! Yes, I sometimes found 120 A seat among a circle so profound; When all the science of the age combined Was in that room, and hers the master-mind. Well I remember the admiring crowd, Who spoke their wonder and applause aloud; They strove who highest should her glory raise, And cramm’d the hungry mind with honied praise— While she, with grateful hand, a table spread, The Dean assenting—but the Dean is dead; And, though her sentiments are still divine, She asks no more her auditors to dine. 130 Once from her lips came wisdom; when she spoke, Her friends in transport or amazement broke. Now to her dictates there attend but few, And they expect to meet attention too; Respect she finds is purchased at some cost, And deference is withheld, when dinner’s lost. She, once the guide and glory of the place Exists between oblivion and disgrace; Praise, once afforded, now—they say not why, 140 They dare not say it—fickle men deny; That buzz of fame a new Minerva cheers, Which our deserted queen no longer hears. Old, but not wise, forsaken, not resign’d, She gives to honours past her feeble mind; Back to her former state her fancy moves, And lives on past applause, that still she loves; Yet holds in scorn the fame no more in view, } And flies the glory that would not pursue } To yon small cot a poorly jointured _Blue_. 150}
TALE XIV.
_THE WIFE AND WIDOW._
I.
I leave SOPHIA; it would please me well, Before we part, on so much worth to dwell. ’Tis said of one who lived in times of strife, There was no boyhood in his busy life; Born to do all that mortal being can, The thinking child became at once the man; So this fair girl in early youth was led, By reasons strong in early youth, to wed. In her new state her prudence was her guide, And of experience well the place supplied; 10 With life’s important business full in view, She had no time for its amusements too; She had no practised look man’s heart t’ allure, No frown to kill him, and no smile to cure; No art coquettish, nothing of the prude; She was with strong yet simple sense endued, Intent on duties, and resolved to shun Nothing that ought to be, and could be, done. A Captain’s wife, with him she long sustain’d The toil of war, and in a camp remain’d; 20 Her husband wounded, with a child in arms, She nurst them both, unheeded all alarms; All useless terror in her soul supprest— None could discern in hers a troubled breast. Her wounded soldier is a prisoner made— She hears, prepares, and is at once convey’d Through hostile ranks; with air sedate she goes, And makes admiring friends of wondering foes. Her dying husband to her care confides } Affairs perplex’d; she reasons, she decides; 30} If intricate her way, her walk discretion guides. } Home to her country she returns alone, Her health decay’d, her child, her husband, gone; There she in peace reposes, there resumes Her female duties, and in rest reblooms; She is not one at common ills to droop, Nor to vain murmuring will her spirit stoop. I leave her thus: her fortieth year is nigh, She will not for another captain sigh; Will not a young and gay lieutenant take, 40 Because ’tis pretty to reform a rake; Yet she again may plight her widow’d hand, Should love invite, or charity demand, And make her days, although for duty’s sake, As sad as folly and mischance can make.
II.
_P._ Lives yet the WIDOW, whose firm spirit bore Ills unrepining?— _F._ Here she lives no more; But where—I speak with some good people’s leave— Where all good works their due reward receive; Though, what reward to our best works is due, 50 I leave to them—and will my tale pursue. Again she married, to her husband’s friend, Whose wife was hers; whom going to attend, As on her death-bed she, yet young, was laid, The anxious parent took her hand and said: “Prove _now_ your love; let these poor infants be As thine, and find a mother’s love in thee!”— “And must I woo their father?”—“Nay, indeed; } He no encouragement but hope will need; } In hope too let me die, and think my wish decreed!” 60} The wife expires; the widow’d pair unite; Their love was sober, and their prospect bright. She train’d the children with a studious love, That knew full well t’ encourage and reprove; Nicely she dealt her praise and her disgrace; Not harsh and not indulgent out of place; Not to the forward partial—to the slow } All patient, waiting for the time to sow } The seeds that, suited to the soil, would grow. } Nor watch’d she less the Husband’s weaker soul, 70 But learn’d to lead him who abhorr’d control; Who thought a nursery, next a kitchen, best To women suited—and she acquiesced; She only begg’d to rule in small affairs, And ease her wedded lord of common cares; Till he at length thought every care was small, Beneath his notice, and she had them all. He on his throne the lawful monarch sate, And she was by—the minister of state; He gave assent, and he required no more, 80 But sign’d the act that she decreed before. Again, her fates in other work decree A mind so active should experienced be. One of the name, who roved the world around, At length had something of its treasures found, And childless died, amid his goods and gain, In far Barbadoes on the western main. His kinsman heard, and wish’d the wealth to share, But had no mind to be transported there: “His Wife could sail—her courage who could doubt?— 90 And she was not tormented with the gout.” She liked it not; but for his children’s sake, And for their father’s, would the duty take. Storms she encounter’d, ere she reach’d the shore, And other storms when these were heard no more— The rage of lawyers forced to drop their prey— And once again to England made her way. She found her Husband with his gout removed, And a young nurse, most skilful and approved; Whom—for he yet was weak—he urged to stay, 100 And nurse him while his consort was away:— “She was so handy, so discreet, so nice, As kind as comfort, though as cold as ice! Else,” he assured his lady, “in no case, So young a creature should have fill’d the place.” It has been held—indeed, the point is clear— “None are so deaf as those who will not hear;” And, by the same good logic, we shall find, “As those who will not see, are none so blind.” The thankful Wife repaid th’ attention shown, 110 But now would make the duty all her own. Again the gout return’d; but, seizing now A vital part, would no relief allow. The Husband died, but left a will that proved He much respected whom he coolly loved. All power was hers; nor yet was such her age But rivals strove her favour to engage. They talk’d of love with so much warmth and zeal, That they believed the woman’s heart must feel; Adding such praises of her worth beside, 120 As vanquish prudence oft by help of pride. In vain! her heart was by discretion led— She to the children of her Friend was wed; These she establish’d in the world, and died, In ease and hope, serene and satisfied. And loves not man that woman who can charm Life’s grievous ills, and grief itself disarm; Who in his fears and troubles brings him aid, And seldom is, and never seems, afraid? No! ask of man the fair one whom he loves: 130 You’ll find her one of the desponding doves, Who tender troubles as her portion brings, And with them fondly to a husband clings— Who never moves abroad, nor sits at home, Without distress, past, present, or to come— Who never walks the unfrequented street, Without a dread that death and she shall meet: At land, on water, she must guarded be, Who sees the danger none besides her see, And is determined by her cries to call 140 All men around her: she will have them all. Man loves to think the tender being lives But by the power that his protection gives: He loves the feeble step, the plaintive tone, And flies to help who cannot stand alone; He thinks of propping elms and clasping vines, And in her weakness thinks her virtue shines; On him not one of her desires is lost, And he admires her for this care and cost. But, when afflictions come, when beauty dies, 150 Or sorrows vex the heart, or danger tries— When time of trouble brings the daily care, And gives of pain as much as he can bear: ’Tis then he wants, if not the helping hand, At least a soothing temper, meek and bland; He wants the heart that shares in his distress— At least, the kindness that would make it less; And when, instead, he hears th’ eternal grief For some light want, and not for his relief— And when he hears the tender trembler sigh 160 For some indulgence he cannot supply— When, in the midst of many a care, his “dear” Would like a duchess at a ball appear, And, while he feels a weight that wears him down, Would see the prettiest sight in all the town— Love then departs; and, if some Pity lives, That Pity half despises, half forgives; ’Tis join’d with grief, is not from shame exempt, And has a plenteous mixture of contempt.
TALE XV.
_BELINDA WATERS._
I.
Of all the beauties in our favour’d place, BELINDA WATERS was the pride and grace. Say ye, who sagely can our fortunes read, Shall this fair damsel in the world succeed? A rosy beauty she, and fresh and fair, Who never felt a caution or a care; Gentle by nature, ever fond of ease, And more consenting than inclined to please. A tame good nature in her spirit lives— She hates refusal for the pain it gives: 10 From opposition arguments arise, And, to prevent the trouble, she complies. She, if in Scotland, would be _fash’d_ all day, If call’d to any work or any play; She lets no busy, idle wish intrude, But is by nature negatively good. In marriage hers will be a dubious fate: She is not fitted for a high estate— There wants the grace, the polish, and the pride; } Less is she fitted for a humble bride: 20} Whom fair Belinda weds—let chance decide! } She sees her father oft engross’d by cares, And therefore hates to hear of men’s affairs. An active mother in the household reigns, And spares Belinda all domestic pains; Of food she knows but this, that we are fed; Though, duly taught, she prays for daily bread, Yet, whence it comes, of hers is no concern— It comes; and more she never wants to learn. She on the table sees the common fare, 30 But, how provided, is beneath her care. Lovely and useless, she has no concern About the things that aunts and mothers learn; But thinks, when married—if she thinks at all— That what she needs will answer to her call. To write is business, and, though taught to write, She keeps the pen and paper out of sight; What once was painful she cannot allow To be enjoyment or amusement now. She wonders why the ladies are so fond 40 Of such long letters, when they correspond; Crowded and cross’d by ink of different stain, She thinks to read them would confuse her brain; Nor much mistakes; but still has no pretence To praise for this, her critic’s indolence. Behold her now! she on her sofa looks O’er half a shelf of circulating books. This she admired, but she forgets the name, And reads again another, or the same. She likes to read of strange and bold escapes, 50} Of plans and plottings, murders and mishaps, } Love in all hearts, and lovers in all shapes. } She sighs for pity, and her sorrows flow From the dark eyelash on the page below; And is so glad when, all the misery past, The dear adventurous lovers meet at last— Meet and are happy; and she thinks it hard, When thus an author might a pair reward— When they, the troubles all dispersed, might wed— He makes them part, and die of grief instead! 60 Yet tales of terror are her dear delight, All in the wintry storm to read at night; And to her maid she turns in all her doubt,— “This shall I like? and what is that about?” She had “Clarissa” for her heart’s dear friend— Was pleased each well-tried virtue to commend. And praised the scenes that one might fairly doubt If one so young could know so much about. Pious and pure, th’ heroic beauty strove Against the lover and against the love; 70 But strange that maid so young should know the strife, In all its views, was painted to the life! Belinda knew not—nor a tale would read, That could so slowly on its way proceed; And, ere Clarissa reach’d the wicked town, The weary damsel threw the volume down. “Give me,” she said, “for I would laugh or cry, ‘Scenes from the Life,’ and ‘Sensibility;’ ‘Winters at Bath,’—I would that I had one! } ‘The Constant Lover,’ the ‘Discarded Son,’ 80} ‘The Rose of Raby,’ ‘Delmore,’ or ‘The Nun.’ } These promise something, and may please, perhaps, Like ‘Ethelinda,’ and the dear ‘Relapse.’” To these her heart the gentle maid resign’d, And such the food that fed the gentle mind.
II.
_P._ Knew you the fair BELINDA, once the boast Of a vain mother, and a favourite toast Of clerks and young lieutenants, a gay set Of light admirers?—Is she married yet? _F._ Yes! she is married; though she waited long, 90 Not from a prudent fear of choosing wrong, But want of choice.—She took a surgeon’s mate, With his half-pay, that was his whole estate. Fled is the charming bloom that nature spread } Upon her cheek, the pure, the rosy red— } This, and the look serene, the calm, kind look, are fled. } Sorrow and sadness now the place possess, And the pale cast of anxious fretfulness. She _wonders_ much—as, why they live so ill; Why the rude butcher brings his weekly bill; 100 She wonders why that baker will not trust, And says, most truly says,—“Indeed, he must.” She wonders where her former friends are gone— And thus, from day to day, she wonders on. Howe’er she can—she dresses gaily yet, And then she wonders how they came in debt. Her husband loves her, and in accent mild Answers, and treats her like a fretted child; But when he, ruffled, makes severe replies, } And seems unhappy—then she pouts, and cries 110} “She wonders when she’ll die!”—She faints, but never dies. } “How well my father lived!” she says.—“How well, My dear, your father’s creditors could tell!” And then she weeps, till comfort is applied, That soothes her spleen or gratifies her pride: Her dress and novels, visits and success In a chance-game, are soft’ners of distress. So life goes on!—But who, that loved his life, Would take a fair Belinda for his wife! Who thinks that all are for their stations born, 120 Some to indulge themselves, and to adorn; And some, a useful people, to prepare, Not being rich, good things for those who are, And who are born, it cannot be denied, To have their wants and their demands supplied. She knows that money is a needful thing, That fathers first, and then that husbands bring; Or, if those persons should the aid deny, Daughters and wives have but to faint and die, Till flesh and blood cannot endure the pain; 130 And then the lady lives and laughs again. To wed an ague, and to feel, for life, Hot fits and cold succeeding in a wife; To take the pestilence with poison’d breath, And wed some potent minister of death, Is cruel fate—yet death is then relief; But thus to wed is ever-during grief. Oft have I heard, how blest the youth who weds Belinda Waters!—rather he who dreads That fate—a truth her husband well approves, 140 Who blames and fondles, humours, chides, and loves.
TALE XVI.
_THE DEALER AND CLERK._
I.
Bad men are seldom cheerful; but we see That, when successful, they can merry be. ONE, whom I leave, his darling money lends, On terms well known, to his unhappy friends; He farms and trades, and in his method treats His guests, whom first he comforts, then he cheats. He knows their private griefs, their inward groans, And then applies his leeches and his loans To failing, falling families—and gets, I know not how, with large increase, their debts. 10 He early married, and the woman made A losing bargain; she with scorn was paid For no small fortune. On this slave he vents His peevish slights, his moody discontents. Her he neglects, indulging, in her stead, One whom he bribed to leave a husband’s bed— A young fair mother too, the pride and joy Of him whom her desertion will destroy. The poor man walks by the adulterer’s door, To see the wife, whom he must meet no more; 20 She will not look upon the face of one Whom she has blighted, ruined, and undone. He feels the shame; his heart with grief is rent; Hers is the guilt, and his the punishment. The cruel spoiler to his need would lend Unsought relief—his need will soon have end. Let a few wint’ry months in sorrow pass, And on his corse shall grow the vernal grass. Neighbours, indignant, of his griefs partake, And hate the villain for the victim’s sake; 30 Wond’ring what bolt within the stores of heaven Shall on that bold, offending wretch be driven. Alas! my grieving friends, we cannot know Why Heaven inflicts, and why suspends, the blow. Meanwhile the godless man, who thus destroys Another’s peace, in peace his wealth enjoys, And, every law evaded or defied, Is with long life and prosperous fortune tried. “How long?” the Prophet cried, and we, “how long?” } But think how quick that Eye, that Arm how strong, 40} And bear what seems not right, and trust it is not wrong! } Does Heaven forbear? then sinners mercy find— Do sinners fall? ’tis mercy to mankind. ADIEU! can one so miserable be, Rich, wretched man, to barter fates with thee?
II.
Yet, ere I go, some notice must be paid To JOHN, his Clerk, a man full sore afraid Of his own frailty—many a troubled day Has he walk’d doubtful in some close by-way, Beseeching Conscience on her watch to keep, 50 Afraid that she one day should fall asleep. A quiet man was John; his mind was slow; Little he knew, and little sought to know. He gave respect to worth, to riches more, And had instinctive dread of being poor. Humble and careful, diligent and neat, He in the Dealer’s office found a seat; Happy in all things, till a fear began To break his rest—He served a wicked man, Who spurn’d the way direct of honest trade, 60 But praised the laws his cunning could evade. This crafty Dealer of religion spoke, As if design’d to be the wise man’s cloak, And the weak man’s encumbrance, whom it awes, And keeps in dread of conscience and the laws. Yet, for himself, he loved not to appear In her grave dress; ’twas troublesome to wear. This Dealer played at games of skill, and won Sums that surprised the simple mind of John; Nor trusted skill alone; for well he knew, 70 What a sharp eye and dext’rous hand could do; When, if suspected, he had always by The daring oath to back the cunning lie. John was distress’d, and said, with aching heart, “I from the vile, usurious man must part; For, if I go not—yet I mean to go— This friend to me will to my soul be foe. I serve my master: there is nought to blame; But, whom he serves, I tremble but to name.” From such reflections sprung the painful fear— 80 “The Foe of Souls is too familiar here; My master stands between: so far, so good; But ’tis at best a dangerous neighbourhood.” Then livelier thoughts began this fear to chase— “It is a gainful, a convenient place. If I should quit—another takes the pen, And what a chance for my preferment then? Religion nothing by my going gains; If I depart, my master still remains. True, I record the deeds that I abhor, 90 But these that master has to answer for. Then say, I leave the office: his success, And his injustice, will not be the less; Nay, would be greater—I am right to stay; It checks him, doubtless, in his fearful way. Fain would I stay, and yet be not beguiled; But pitch is near, and man is soon defiled.”
III.
_P._ Such were the MAN and MASTER—and I now Would know if they together live, and how. To such enquiries, thus my Friend replied:— 100 _F._ The Wife was slain—or, say at least, she died. But there are murders that the human eye Cannot detect—which human laws defy. There are the wrongs insulted fondness feels, In many a secret wound that never heals; The Savage murders with a single blow; Murders like this are secret and are slow. Yet, when his victim lay upon her bier, There were who witness’d that he dropt a tear; Nay, more, he praised the woman he had lost, 110 And undisputed paid the funeral cost. The Favourite now, her lord and master freed, Prepared to wed, and be a wife indeed. The day, ’twas said, was fix’d, the robes were bought, A feast was order’d; but a cold was caught, And pain ensued, with fever—grievous pain, With the mind’s anguish that disturb’d the brain— Till nature ceased to struggle, and the mind Saw clearly death before, and sin behind. Priests and physicians gave what they could give; 120 She turn’d away, and, shuddering, ceased to live. The Dealer now appeared awhile as one Lost, with but little of his race to run, And that in sorrow; men with one consent, And one kind hope, said, “Bonner will repent.” Alas! we saw not what his fate would be, But this we fear’d—no penitence had he; Nor time for penitence, nor any time, So quick the summons, to look back on crime. When he the partner of his sin entomb’d, 130 He paused awhile, and then the way resumed, Ev’n as before; yet was he not the same: The tempter once, he now the dupe became. John long had left him, nor did one remain Who would his harlot in her course refrain; Obsequious, humble, studious of his ease, The present Phœbe only sought to please. “With one so artless, what,” said he, “to fear, Or what to doubt, in one who holds me dear? Friends she may have, but me she will not wrong; 140 If weak her judgment, yet her love is strong; And I am lucky now in age to find A friend so trusty, and a nurse so kind.” Yet neither party was in peace; the man Had restless nights, and in the morn began To cough and tremble; he was hot and cold— He had a nervous fever, he was told. His dreams—’twas strange, for none reflected less On his past life—were frightful to excess; His favourite dinners were no more enjoy’d, 150 And, in a word, his spirits were destroy’d. And what of Phœbe? She her measures plann’d; All but his money was at her command; All would be hers, when Heav’n her Friend should call; But Heav’n was slow, and much she long’d for all:— “Mine when he dies, mean wretch! and why not mine, When it would prove him generous to resign What he enjoys not!”—Phœbe, at command, Gave him his brandy with a liberal hand. A way more quick and safe she did not know, 160 And brandy, though it might be sure, was slow. But more she dared not; for she felt a dread Of being tried, and only wish’d him dead. Such was her restless strife of hope and fear— He might cough on for many a weary year; Nay, his poor mind was changing, and, when ill, } Some foe to her may wicked thoughts instil! } Oh! ’tis a trial sore to watch a Miser’s will! } Thus, though the pair appear’d in peace to live, They felt that vice has not that peace to give. 170 There watch’d a cur before the Miser’s gate— A very cur, whom all men seem’d to hate; Gaunt, savage, shaggy, with an eye that shone Like a live coal, and he possess’d but one; His bark was wild and eager, and became } That meagre body and that eye of flame; } His master prized him much, and _Fang_ his name. } His master fed him largely; but not that, Nor aught of kindness, made the snarler fat. Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay; 180 He bark’d, and snarl’d, and growl’d it all away. His ribs were seen extended like a rack, And coarse red hair hung roughly o’er his back. Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore, Now his sore body made his temper sore. Such was the friend of him, who could not find, Nor make him one, ‘mong creatures of his kind. Brave deeds of Fang his master often told, The son of Fury, famed in days of old, From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they 190 In earlier times—each dog will have his day. The notes of Fang were to his master known, And dear—they bore some likeness to his own; For both convey’d to the experienced ear, “I snarl and bite, because I hate and fear.” None pass’d ungreeted by the master’s door; Fang rail’d at all, but chiefly at the poor; And, when the nights were stormy, cold, and dark, The act of Fang was a perpetual bark; But though the master loved the growl of Fang, 200 There were who vow’d the ugly cur to hang; Whose angry master, watchful for his friend, As strongly vow’d his servant to defend. In one dark night, and such as Fang before Was ever known its tempests to outroar, To his protector’s wonder now express’d No angry notes—his anger was at rest. The wond’ring master sought the silent yard, Left Phœbe sleeping, and his door unbarr’d; Nor more returned to that forsaken bed— 210 But lo! the morning came, and he was dead. Fang and his master side by side were laid In grim repose—their debt of nature paid! The master’s hand upon the cur’s cold chest Was now reclined, and had before been press’d, As if he search’d how deep and wide the wound That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound; And, when he found it was the sleep of death, A sympathising sorrow stopp’d his breath. Close to his trusty servant he was found, 220 As cold his body, and his sleep as sound. We know no more; but who on horrors dwell Of that same night have dreadful things to tell. Of outward force, they say, was not a sign— The hand that struck him was the Hand Divine; And then the Fiend, in that same stormy night, Was heard—as many thought—to claim his right; While grinning imps the body danced about, And then they vanish’d with triumphant shout. So think the crowd, and well it seems in them, 230 That ev’n their dreams and fancies vice condemn; That not alone for virtue Reason pleads, But Nature shudders at unholy deeds; While our strong fancy lists in her defence, And takes the side of Truth and Innocence.
IV.
_P._ But, what the fortune of the MAN, whose fear Inform’d his Conscience that the foe was near; But yet whose interest to his desk confined That sober CLERK of indecisive mind? _F._ JOHN served his master, with himself at strife, 240 For he with Conscience lived like man and wife; Now jarring, now at peace,—the life they led Was all contention, both at board and bed: His meals were troubled by his scruples all, And in his dreams he was about to fall Into some strong temptation—for it seems He never could resist it in his dreams. At length his MASTER, dealer, smuggler, cheat, As John would call him in his temper’s heat, Proposed a something—what, is dubious still— 230 That John resisted with a stout good-will. Scruples like his were treated with disdain, Whose waking conscience spurn’d the offer’d gain. “Quit then my office, scoundrel, and begone!” “I dare not do it,” said the affrighten’d John. “What fear’st thou, driveller! can thy fancy tell?” “I doubt,” said John—“I’m sure, there is a hell.” “No question, wretch! thy foot is on the door; To be in hell, thou fool! is to be poor. Wilt thou consent?”—But John, with many a sigh, 260 Refused, then sank beneath his stronger eye, Who with a curse dismiss’d the fool that dared Not join a venture which he might have shared. The worthy Clerk then served a man in trade, And was his friend and his companion made— A sickly man, who sundry wares retail’d, Till, while his trade increased, his spirit fail’d. John was to him a treasure, whom he proved, And, finding faithful, as a brother loved. To John his views and business he consign’d, 270 And forward look’d with a contented mind; As sickness bore him onward to the grave, A charge of all things to his friend he gave. But neighbours talk’d—’twas idle—of the day When Richard Shale should walk the dark highway— And whisper’d—tatlers!—that the wife received Such hints with anger, but she nothing grieved. These whispers reach’d the man, who weak, and ill In mind and body, had to make his will; And, though he died in peace, and all resign’d, 280 ’Twas plain he harbour’d fancies in his mind. With jealous foresight, all that he had gain’d His widow’s was, while widow she remain’d; But, if another should the dame persuade To wed again, farewell the gains of trade: For if the widow’d dove could not refrain, She must return to poverty again. The man was buried, and the will was read, And censure spared them not, alive or dead! At first the Widow and the Clerk, her friend, 290 Spent their free days as prudence bade them spend. At the same table they would dine, ’tis true, And they would worship in the self-same pew: Each had the common interest so at heart, It would have griev’d them terribly to part; And as they both were serious and sedate, ’Twas long before the world began to prate. But when it prated—though without a cause,— It put the pair in mind of breaking laws, Led them to reason what it was that gave 300 A husband power, when quiet in his grave. The marriage contract they had now by heart— “Till death!”—you see, no longer—“do us part.” “Well! death has loosed us from the tie, but still The loosen’d husband makes a binding will; Unjust and cruel are the acts of men.” “Thus they—and then they sigh’d—and then—and then, ’Twas snaring souls,” they said; and how he dared They did not know—they wonder’d—and were snared. “It is a marriage, surely! Conscience might 310 Allow an act so very nearly right; Was it not witness to our solemn vow, As man and wife? it must the act allow.” But Conscience, stubborn to the last, replied, “It cannot be! I am not satisfied; ’Tis not a marriage: either dare be poor, Or dare be virtuous—part, and sin no more!” Alas! they many a fond evasion made; They could relinquish neither love nor trade. They went to church, but, thinking, fail’d to pray; 320 They felt not ease or comfort at a play. If times were good—“We merit not such times;” If ill—“Is this the produce of our crimes?” When sick—“’Tis thus forbidden pleasures cease;” When well—they both demand, “Had Zimri peace? For though our worthy master was not slain, His injured ghost has reason to complain.” Ah, John! bethink thee of thy generous joy, When Conscience drove thee from thy late employ; When thou wert poor, and knew not where to run, 330 But then could say, “The will of God be done!” When thou that will, and not thine own, obey’d— Of Him alone, and not of man afraid. Thou then hadst pity on that wretch, and, free Thyself, couldst pray for him who injured thee; Then how alert thy step, thyself how light All the day long! thy sleep how sound at night! But now, though plenty on thy board be found, And thou hast credit with thy neighbours round, Yet there is something in thy looks that tells, 340 An odious secret in thy bosom dwells. Thy form is not erect, thy neighbours trace A coward spirit in thy shifting pace. Thou goest to meeting, not from any call, But just to hear, that we are sinners all— And equal sinners, or the difference made ’Twixt man and man has but the slightest shade; That reformation asks a world of pains, And, after all, must leave a thousand stains; And, worst of all, we must the work begin 350 By first attacking the prevailing sin!— These thoughts the feeble mind of John assail, And o’er his reason and his fears prevail; They fill his mind with hopes of gifts and grace, } Faith, feelings!—something that supplies the place } Of true conversion—this will he embrace; } For John perceives that he was scarcely tried By the first conquest, that increased his pride, When he refused his master’s crime to aid, And by his self-applause was amply paid. 360 But now he feels the difference—feels it hard Against his will and favourite wish to guard; He mourns his weakness, hopes he shall prevail Against his frailty, and yet still is frail. Such is his life! and such the life must be Of all who will be bound, yet would be free; Who would unite what God to part decrees— The offended conscience, and the mind at ease: Who think, but vainly think, to sin and pray, And God and Mammon in their turn obey. 370 Such is his life!—and so I would not live For all that wealthy widows have to give.
TALE XVII.
_DANVERS AND RAYNER._
I.
The purest Friendship, like the finest ware, Deserves our praises, but demands our care. For admiration we the things produce, But they are not design’d for common use; Flaws the most trifling from their virtue take, And lamentation for their loss we make; While common Friendships, like the wares of clay, Are a cheap kind, but useful every day. Though crack’d and damaged, still we make them do; And, when they’re broken, they’re forgotten too. 10 There is within the world in which we dwell A Friendship, answering to that world full well: An interchange of looks and actions kind, And, in some sense, an intercourse of mind; A useful commerce, a convenient trade, By which both parties are the happier made; And, when the thing is rightly understood, And justly valued, it is wise and good. I speak not here of Friendships that excite In boys at school such wonder and delight— 20 Of high, heroic Friends, in serious strife Contending which should yield a forfeit life— Such wondrous love, in their maturer days, Men, if they credit, are content to praise. I speak not here of Friendships true and just, When friend can friend with life and honour trust; Where mind to mind has long familiar grown, And every failing, every virtue known. Of these I speak not—things so rich and rare, That we degrade with jewels to compare, 30 Or bullion pure and massy.—I intend To treat of one whose Neighbour called him Friend, Or called him Neighbour; and with reason good— The friendship rising from the neighbourhood: A sober kind, in common service known, Not such as is in death and peril shown; Such as will give or ask a helping hand, But no important sacrifice demand; In fact, a friendship that will long abide, If seldom rashly, never strongly, tried. 40 Yes! these are sober friendships, made for use, And much convenience they in life produce: Like a good coat, that keeps us from the cold, The cloth of frieze is not a cloth of gold; But neither is it pyebald, pieced, and poor; ’Tis a good useful coat, and nothing more. Such is the Friendship of the world approved, And here the Friends so loving and so loved.— DANVERS and RAYNER, equals, who had made Each decent fortune, both were yet in trade; 50 While sons and daughters, with a youthful zeal, Seem’d the hereditary love to feel; And ev’n their wives, though either might pretend To claim some notice, call’d each other friend. While yet their offspring boys and girls appear’d, The fathers ask’d, “What evil could be fear’d?” Nor is it easy to assign the year, When cautious parents should begin to fear. The boys must leave their schools, and, by and by, The girls are sure to grow reserved and shy; 60 And then, suppose a real love should rise, It but unites the equal families. Love does not always from such freedom spring; Distrust, perhaps, would sooner cause the thing. “We will not check it, neither will we force”— Thus said the fathers—“Let it take its course.” It took its course:—young Richard Danvers’ mind In Phœbe Rayner found what lovers find— Sense, beauty, sweetness; all that mortal eyes Can see, or heart conceive, or thought devise. 70 And Phœbe’s eye, and thought, and heart could trace In Richard Danvers every manly grace— All that e’er maiden wish’d, or matron prized— So well these good young people sympathised. All their relations, neighbours, and allies, All their dependants, visitors, and spies, Such as a wealthy family caress, Said here was love, and drank to love’s success. ’Tis thus I leave the parties, young and old, Lovers and Friends. Will Love and Friendship hold? 80 Will Prudence with the children’s wish comply, And Friendship strengthen with that new ally?
II.
_P._ I see no more within our borough’s bound The name of DANVERS! Is it to be found? Were the young pair in Hymen’s fetters tied, Or did succeeding years the Friends divide? _F._ Nay! take the story, as by time brought forth, And of such Love and Friendship judge the worth. While the lad’s love—his parents call’d it so— Was going on, as well as love could go, 90 A wealthy Danvers, in a distant place, Left a large fortune to this favour’d race. To that same place the father quickly went, And Richard only murmur’d weak dissent. Of Richard’s heart the parent truly guess’d:— “Well, my good lad! then do what suits thee best; No doubt thy brothers will do all they can T’ obey the orders of the good old man. Well, I would not thy free-born spirit bind; Take, Dick, the way to which thou’rt most inclined.” 100 No answer gave the youth; nor did he swear The old man’s riches were beneath his care; Nor that he would with his dear Phœbe stay, And let his heartless father move away. No! kind and constant, tender, faithful, fond— Thus far he’d go—but not one step beyond! Not disobedient to a parent’s will— A lover constant—but dependent still. Letters, at first, between the constant swain And the kind damsel banish’d all their pain. 110 Both full and quick they were; for lovers write With vast despatch, and read with vast delight— So quick they were—for Love is never slow— So full, they ever seem’d to overflow. Their hearts are ever fill’d with grief or joy, And these to paint is every hour’s employ; Joy they would not retain, and, for their grief, To read such letters is a sure relief. But, in due time, both joy and grief supprest, They found their comfort in a little rest. 120 Mails went and came without the accustom’d freight, For Love grew patient, and content to wait— Yet was not dead, nor yet afraid to die; For, though he wrote not, Richard wonder’d why. He could not justly tell how letters pass’d, But, as to him appear’d, he wrote the last; In this he meant not to accuse the maid— Love, in some cases, ceases to upbraid. Yet not indifferent was our Lover grown, Although the ardour of the flame was flown; 130 He still of Phœbe thought, her lip, her smile— But grew contented with his fate the while. Thus, not inconstant were the youthful pair— The Lad remembered still the Lass was fair; And Phœbe still, with half-affected sigh, Thought it a pity that such love should die; And had they then, with this persuasion, met, Love had rekindled, and been glowing yet. But times were changed; no mention now was made By the old Squire, or by the young, of trade. 140 The worthy Lady, and her children all, Had due respect—The People at the Hall. His Worship now read Burn, and talk’d with skill About the poor-house, and the turnpike-bill; Lord of a manor, he had serious claims, And knew the poaching rascals by their names. And, if the father thus improved his mind, Be sure the children were not far behind: To rank and riches what respect was due, To them and theirs what deference, well they knew, 150 And, from the greatest to the least, could show What to the favouring few the favour’d many owe. The mind of man must have whereon to work, Or it will rust—we see it in the Turk; And Justice Danvers, though he read the news, And all of law that magistrates peruse— Bills about roads and charities—yet still Wanted employ his vacant mind to fill; These were not like the shipping, once his pride, Now, with his blue surtout, laid all aside. 160 No doubt, his spirits in their ebb to raise, He found some help in men’s respect and praise— Praise of his house, his land, his lawn, his trees— He cared not what—to praise him was to please: Yet, though his rural neighbours called to dine, And some might kindly praise his food and wine, This was not certain, and, another day, He must the visit and the praise repay. By better motives urged—we will suppose— He thus began his purpose to disclose 170 To his good lady:—“We have lived a year, And never ask’d our friends the Rayners here. Do let us ask them—as for Richard’s flame, It went, we see, as idly as it came— Invite them kindly—here’s a power of room, And the poor people will be glad to come. Outside and in, the coach will hold them all, And set them down beside the garden wall.” The Lady wrote, for that was all he meant, Kind soul! by asking for his wife’s assent; 180 And every Rayner was besought to come To dine in Hulver Hall’s grand dining-room. About this time old Rayner, who had lost His Friend’s advice, was by misfortune cross’d: Some debtors fail’d, when large amounts were due, So large, that he was nearly failing too; But he, grown wary, that he might not fail, Brought to in adverse gales, and shorten’d sail; This done, he rested, and could now attend The invitation of his distant Friend. 190 “Well! he would go; but not, indeed, t’ admire The state and grandeur of the new-made Squire; Danvers, belike, now wealthy, might impart Some of his gold; for Danvers had a heart, And may have heard, though guarded so around, That I have lost the fortune he has found. Yes! Dick is kind, or he and his fine seat Might go to——where we never more should meet.” Now, lo! the Rayners all at Hulver Place— Or Hulver Hall—’tis not a certain case; 200 ’Tis only known that Ladies’ notes were sent Directed both ways, and they always went. We pass the greetings, and the dinner pass, All the male gossip o’er the sparkling glass, And female, when retired.—The Squire invites His Friend, by sleep refresh’d, to see his sights— His land and lions, granary, barns, and crops, } His dairy, piggery, pinery, apples, hops;— } But here a hill appears, and Peter Rayner stops. } “Ah! my old Friend, I give you joy,” he cries; 210 “But some are born to fall, and some to rise; You’re better many a thousand, I the worse— Dick, there’s no dealing with a failing purse; Nor does it shame me (mine is all mischance) To wish some friendly neighbour would advance”— ——But here the guest on such a theme was low. His host, meantime, intent upon the show, In hearing heard not—they came out to see— And, pushing forward, “There’s a view,” quoth he; “Observe that ruin, built, you see, to catch 220 The gazer’s eye; that cottage with the thatch— It cost me—guess you what?”—that sound of _cost_ Was accidental, but it was not lost. “Ah! my good Friend, be sure such things as these Suit well enough a man who lives at ease. Think what ‘The Betsy’ _cost_, and think the shock Of losing her upon the Dodder-Rock! The tidings reach’d me on the very day That villain robb’d us, and then ran away. Loss upon loss! now if”—— “Do stay a bit;” 230 Exclaim’d the Squire, “these matters hardly fit A morning ramble—let me show you now My team of oxen, and my patent plough. Talk of your horses! I the plan condemn— They eat us up—but oxen! we eat them; For first they plough and bring us bread to eat, And then we fat and kill them—there’s the meat. What’s your opinion?”— —“I am poorly fed, And much afraid to want both meat and bread,” Said Rayner, half indignant; and the Squire 240} Sigh’d, as he felt he must no more require } A man, whose prospects fail’d, his prospects to admire. } Homeward they moved, and met a gentle pair, The poor man’s daughter, and the rich man’s heir. This caused some thought; but on the couple went, And a soft hour in tender converse spent. This pair, in fact, their passion roused anew, Alone much comfort from the visit drew. At home the Ladies were engaged, and all Show’d or were shown the wonders of the Hall; 250 From room to room the weary guests went on, Till every Rayner wish’d the show was done. Home they return’d; the Father deeply sigh’d } To find he vainly had for aid applied; } It hurt him much to ask—and more to be denied. } The younger Richard, who alone sustain’d The dying Friendship, true to Love remain’d. His Phœbe’s smiles, although he did not yet Fly to behold, he could not long forget; Nor durst he visit, nor was love so strong, 260 That he could more than think his Father wrong; For, wrong or right, that father still profess’d The most obedient son should fare the best. So time pass’d on; the second spring appear’d, Ere Richard ventured on the deed he fear’d.— He dared at length; and not so much for love, I grieve to add, but that he meant to prove He had a will.—His father, in reply, This known, had answer’d, “So, my son, have I.” But Richard’s courage was by prudence taught, 270 And he his nymph in secret service sought. Some days of absence—not with full consent, } But with slow leave—were to entreaty lent; } And forth the Lover rode, uncertain what he meant. } He reached the dwelling he had known so long, When a pert damsel told him, “he was wrong; Their house she did not just precisely know, But he would find it somewhere in _the Row_; The Rayners now were come a little down, Nor more the topmost people in the town.” 280 She might have added, they their life enjoy’d, Although on things less hazardous employ’d. This was not much; but yet the damsel’s sneer, And the Row-dwelling of a lass so dear, Were somewhat startling. He had heard, indeed, That Rayner’s business did not well succeed: “But what of that? They lived in decent style, No doubt, and Phœbe still retain’d her smile; And why,” he asked, “should all men choose to dwell In broad cold streets?—the Row does just as well, 290 Quiet and snug;” and then the favourite maid Rose in his fancy, tastefully array’d, Looking with grateful joy upon the swain, Who could his love in trying times retain. Soothed by such thoughts, to the new house he came, Surveyed its aspect, sigh’d, and gave his name. But ere they opened, he had waited long, And heard a movement—Was there somewhat wrong? Nay, but a friendly party, he was told; } And look’d around, as wishing to behold 300} Some friends—but these were not the friends of old. } Old Peter Rayner, in his own old mode, Bade the Squire welcome to his new abode, For Richard had been kind, and doubtless meant To make proposals now, and ask consent. Mamma and misses, too, were civil all; But what their awkward courtesy to call, He knew not; neither could he well express His sad sensations at their strange address. And then their laughter loud, their story-telling, 310 All seem’d befitting to that Row and dwelling; The hearty welcome to the various treat Was lost on him—he could nor laugh nor eat. But one thing pleased him, when he look’d around, His clearest Phœbe could not there be found: “Wise and discreet,” he says, “she shuns the crew Of vulgar neighbours, some kind act to do; In some fair house, some female friend to meet, Or take at evening prayer in church her seat.” Meantime there rose, amid the ceaseless din, 320} A mingled scent, that crowded room within, } Rum and red-herring, Cheshire cheese and gin; } Pipes, too, and punch, and sausages, with tea, Were things that Richard was disturbed to see. Impatient now, he left them in disdain, To call on Phœbe, when he call’d again; To walk with her, the morning fair and bright, And lose the painful feelings of the night. All in the Row, and tripping at the side Of a young Sailor, he the nymph espied, 330 As, homeward hastening with her happy boy, She went to join the party, and enjoy. “Fie!” Phœbe cried, as her companion spoke, Yet laugh’d to hear the fie-compelling joke;— Then ’twas her chance to meet, her shame to know, } Her tender Richard, moving sad and slow, } Musing on things full strange, the manners of the Row. } At first amazed, and then alarm’d, the fair Late-laughing maid now stood in dumb despair. As when a debtor meets in human shape 340 The foe of debtors, and cannot escape, He stands in terror, nor can longer aim To keep his credit, or preserve his name, Stood Phœbe fix’d! “Unlucky time and place! An earlier hour had kept me from disgrace!” She thought—but now the sailor, undismay’d, Said, “My dear Phœbe, why are you afraid? The man seems civil, or he soon should prove That I can well defend the girl I love. Are you not mine?” She utter’d no reply:— 350} “Thine I must be,” she thought; “more foolish I!” } While Richard at the scene stood mute and wondering by. } His spirits hurried, but his bosom light, He left his Phœbe with a calm “good night!” So Love like Friendship fell! The youth awhile Dreamt, sorely moved, of Phœbe’s witching smile— But learned in daylight visions to forego The Sailor’s laughing Lass, the Phœbe of the Row. Home turn’d young Richard, in due time to turn, With all old Richard’s zeal, the leaves of Burn; 360 And home turned Phœbe—in due time to grace A tottering cabin with a tattered race.
TALE XVIII.
_THE BOAT RACE._
I.
The man who dwells where party-spirit reigns, May feel its triumphs, but must wear its chains; He must the friends and foes of party take For his, and suffer for his honour’s sake; When once enlisted upon either side, He must the rude septennial storm abide— A storm that when its utmost rage is gone, In cold and angry mutterings murmurs on; A slow unbending scorn, a cold disdain— Till years bring the full tempest back again. 10 Within our Borough two stiff sailors dwelt, Who both this party storm and triumph felt; Men who had talents, and were both design’d For better things, but anger made them blind. In the same year they married, and their wives Had pass’d in friendship their yet peaceful lives, And, as they married in a time of peace, Had no suspicion that their love must cease. In fact it did not; but they met by stealth, And that perhaps might keep their love in health; 20 Like children watch’d, desirous yet afraid, Their visits all were with discretion paid. One Captain, so by courtesy we call Our [hoys’] commanders—they are captains all— Had sons and daughters many; while but one The rival Captain bless’d—a darling son. Each was a burgess to his party tied, And each was fix’d, but on a different side; And he who sought his son’s pure mind to fill With wholesome food, would evil too instil. 30 The last in part succeeded—but in part— For Charles had sense, had virtue, had a heart; And he had soon the cause of Nature tried With the stern father, but this father died; Who on his death-bed thus his son address’d:— “Swear to me, Charles, and let my spirit rest— Swear to our party to be ever true, And let me die in peace—I pray thee, do.” With some reluctance, but obedience more, The weeping youth reflected, sigh’d, and swore; 40 Trembling, he swore for ever to be true, And wear no colour but the untainted Blue. This done, the Captain died in so much joy, As if he’d wrought salvation for his boy. The female friends their wishes yet retain’d, But seldom met, by female fears restrain’d; Yet in such town, where girls and boys must meet, And every house is known in every street, Charles had before, nay since his father’s death, Met, say by chance, the young Elizabeth; 50 Who was both good and graceful, and in truth Was but too pleasing to th’ observing youth; And why I know not, but the youth to her Seem’d just that being that she could prefer. Both were disposed to think that party-strife Destroy’d the happiest intercourse of life; Charles, too, his growing passion could defend— His father’s foe he call’d his mother’s friend. Mothers, indeed, he knew were ever kind; But in the Captain should he favour find? 60 He doubted this—yet could he that command Which fathers love, and few its power withstand. The mothers both agreed their joint request Should to the Captain jointly be address’d; And first the lover should his heart assail, } And then the ladies, and, if all should fail, } They’d singly watch the hour, and jointly might prevail. } The Captain’s heart, although unused to melt, A strong impression from persuasion felt; His pride was soften’d by the prayers he heard, 70 And then advantage in the match appear’d. At length he answer’d—“Let the lad enlist In our good cause, and I no more resist; For I have sworn, and to my oath am true, To hate that colour, that rebellious Blue. His father once, ere master of the brig, For that advantage turn’d a rascal Whig; Now let the son—a wife’s a better thing— A Tory turn, and say, God save the King! For I am pledged to serve that sacred cause, 80 And love my country, while I keep her laws.” The women trembled, for they knew full well The fact they dare not to the Captain tell; And the poor youth declared, with tears and sighs, “My oath was pass’d; I dare not compromise.” But Charles to reason made his strong appeal, And to the heart—he bade him think and feel: The Captain answering, with reply as strong— “If you be right, then how can I be wrong? You to your father swore to take his part; 90 I to oppose it ever, head and heart; You to a parent made your oath, and I To God! and can I to my Maker lie? Much, my dear lad, I for your sake would do, But I have sworn, and to my oath am true.” Thus stood the parties, when my fortunes bore Me far away from this my native shore; And who prevail’d, I know not—Young or Old; But, I beseech you, let the tale be told.
II.
_P._ How fared these lovers? Many a time I thought 100 How with their ill-starr’d passion Time had wrought. Did either party from his oath recede, Or were they never from the bondage freed? _F._ Alas! replied my Friend—the tale I tell With some reluctance, nor can do it well. There are three females in the place, and they, Like skilful painters, could the facts portray In their strong colours—all that I can do } Is to present a weak imperfect view; } The colours I must leave—the outlines shall be true. 110} Soon did each party see the other’s mind, What bound them both, and what was like to bind; Oaths deeply taken in such time and place, To break them now was dreadful—was disgrace! “That oath a dying father bade me take, Can I—yourself a father—can I break? “That oath which I, a living sinner, took Shall I make void, and yet for mercy look?” The women wept; the men, themselves distress’d, The cruel rage of party zeal confess’d; 120 But solemn oaths, though sprung from party zeal, Feel them we must, as Christians ought to feel. Yet shall a youth so good, a girl so fair, From their obedience only draw despair? Must they be parted? Is there not a way For them both love and duty to obey? Strongly they hoped; and by their friends around A way, at least a lover’s way, was found. “Give up your vote; you’ll then no longer be Free in one sense, but in the better free.” 130 Such was of reasoning friends the kind advice, And how could lovers in such case be nice? A man may swear to walk directly on, While sight remains; but how, if sight be gone? “Oaths are not binding when the party’s dead, Or when the power to keep the oath is fled; If I’ve no vote, I’ve neither friend nor foe, Nor can be said on either side to go.” They were no casuists:—“Well!” the Captain cried, “Give up your vote, man, and behold your bride!” 140 Thus was it fix’d, and fix’d the day for both To take the vow, and set aside the oath. It gave some pain; but all agreed to say, “You’re now absolved, and have no other way. ’Tis not expected you should love resign At man’s commands, for love’s are all divine.” When all is quiet and the mind at rest, All in the calm of innocence are blest; But when some scruple mixes with our joy, We love to give the anxious mind employ. 150 In autumn late, when evening suns were bright, The day was fix’d the lovers to unite; But one before the eager Captain chose To break, with jocund act, his girl’s repose, And, sailor-like, said, “Hear how I intend One day, before the day of days, to spend! All round the quay, and by the river’s side, Shall be a scene of glory for the bride. We’ll have a RACE, and colours will devise For every boat, for every man, a prize; 160 But that which first returns shall bear away The proudest pendant—Let us name the day!” They named the day; and never morn more bright Rose on the river, nor so proud a sight; Or, if too calm appear’d the cloudless skies, Experienced seamen said the wind would rise. To that full quay from this then vacant place Thronged a vast crowd to see the promised Race. Mid boats new painted, all with streamers fair, That flagg’d or flutter’d in that quiet air— 170 The Captain’s boat that was so gay and trim, That made his pride, and seem’d as proud of him— Her, in her beauty, we might all discern, Her rigging new, and painted on the stern, As one who could not in the contest fail, “Learn of _the little Nautilus_ to sail.” So forth they started at the signal gun, And down the river had three leagues to run; This sail’d, they then their watery way retrace, And the first landed conquers in the race. 180 The crowd await, till they no more discern; Then, parting, say, “At evening we return.” I could proceed; but you will guess the fate, And but too well my tale anticipate. _P._ True! yet proceed— _F._ The lovers had some grief In this day’s parting, but the time was brief; And the poor girl, between his smiles and sighs, Ask’d, “Do you wish to gain so poor a prize?” “But that your father wishes,” he replied, “I would the honour had been still denied: 190 It makes me gloomy, though I would be gay, And oh! it seems an everlasting day.” So thought the lass, and as she said, “Farewell!” Soft sighs arose, and tears unbidden fell. The morn was calm, and ev’n till noon the strong Unruffled flood moved quietly along; In the dead calm the billows softly fell, And mock’d the whistling sea-boy’s favourite spell: So rests at noon the reaper, but to rise With mightier force and twofold energies. 200 The deep, broad stream moved softly, all was hush’d, When o’er the flood the breeze awakening brush’d; A sullen sound was heard along the deep, The stormy spirit rousing from his sleep; The porpoise rolling on the troubled wave, Unwieldy tokens of his pleasure gave; Dark, chilling clouds the troubled deep deform, And, led by terror downward, rush’d the storm. As evening came, along the river’s side, Or on the quay, impatient crowds divide, 210 And then collect; some whispering, as afraid Of what they saw, and more of what they said, And yet must speak: how sudden and how great The danger seem’d, and what might be the fate Of men so toss’d about in craft so small, Lost in the dark, and subject to the squall. Then sounds are so appalling in the night, And, could we see, how terrible the sight; None knew the evils that they all suspect, And Hope at once they covet and reject. 220 But where the wife, her friend, her daughter, where? Alas! in grief, in terror, in despair— At home, abroad, upon the quay. No rest In any place, but where they are not, best. Fearful they ask, but dread the sad reply, And many a sailor tells the friendly lie— “There is no danger—that is, we believe, And think—and hope”—but this does not deceive, Although it soothes them; while they look around, Trembling at every sight and every sound. 230 Let me not dwell on terrors——It is dark, And lights are carried to and fro, and hark! There is a cry—“a boat, a boat at hand!” } What a still terror is there now on land! } “Whose, whose?” they all enquire, and none can understand. } At length they come—and oh! how then rejoice A wife and children at that welcome voice! It is not theirs—but what have these to tell? “Where did you leave the Captain—were they well?” Alas! they know not, they had felt an awe 240 In dread of death, and knew not what they saw. Thus they depart—The evening darker grows, The lights shake wildly, and as wildly blows The stormy night-wind; fear possesses all, The hardest hearts, in this sad interval. But hark again to voices loud and high! Once more that hope, that dread, that agony, That panting expectation! “Oh! reveal What must be known, and think what pangs we feel!” In vain they ask! The men now landed speak 250 Confused and quick, and to escape them seek. Our female party on a sailor press, } But nothing learn that makes their terror less; } Nothing the man can show, or nothing will confess. } To some, indeed, they whisper, bringing news For them alone, but others they refuse; And steal away, as if they could not bear The griefs they cause and, if they cause, must share. They too are gone! and our unhappy Three, Half wild with fear, are trembling on the quay. 260 They can no ease, no peace, no quiet find, The storm is gathering in the troubled mind; Thoughts after thoughts in wild succession rise, And all within is changing like the skies. Their friends persuade them, “Do depart, we pray!” } They will not, must not, cannot go away, } But chill’d with icy fear, for certain tidings stay. } And now again there must a boat be seen— Men run together! It must something mean! Some figure moves upon the [oozy] bound, 270 Where flows the tide—Oh! what can he have found— What lost? And who is he?—The only one Of the loved three—the Captain’s younger son. Their boat was fill’d and sank—He knows no more, But that he only hardly reach’d the shore. He saw them swimming—for he once was near— But he was sinking, and he could not hear; And then the waves curl’d round him, but, at length, He struck upon the boat with dying strength, And that preserved him; when he turn’d around, 280} Nought but the dark, wild, billowy flood was found— } That flood was all he saw, that flood’s the only sound— } Save that the angry wind, with ceaseless roar, Dash’d the wild waves upon the rocky shore. The Widows dwell together—so we call The younger woman; widow’d are they all; But she, the poor Elizabeth, it seems Not life in her—she lives not, but she dreams; She looks on Philip, and in him can find Not much to mark in body or in mind— 290 He who was saved; and then her very soul Is in that scene—her thoughts, beyond control, Fix’d on that night, and bearing her along, Amid the waters terrible and strong; Till there she sees within the troubled waves The bodies sinking in their wat’ry graves, When from her lover, yielding up his breath, There comes a voice,—“Farewell, Elizabeth!” Yet Resignation in the house is seen, Subdued Affliction, Piety serene, 300 And Hope, for ever striving to instil The balm for grief—“It is the Heavenly will.” And in that will our duty bids us rest, For all that Heaven ordains is good, is best; We sin and suffer—this alone we know, Grief is our portion, is our part below; But we shall rise, that world of bliss to see, Where sin and suffering never more shall be.
TALE XIX.
_MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD’S LOVE._
I.
I have remembrance of a BOY, whose mind Was weak: he seem’d not for the world design’d; Seem’d not as one who in that world could strive, And keep his spirits even and alive— A feeling BOY, and happy, though the less, From that fine feeling, form’d for happiness. His mother left him to his favourite ways, And what he made his pleasure brought him praise. Romantic, tender, visionary, mild, Affectionate, reflecting when a child, 10 With fear instinctive he from harshness fled, And gentle tears for all who suffer’d shed; Tales of misfortune touch’d his generous heart, Of maidens left, and lovers forced to part. In spite of all that weak indulgence wrought, That love permitted, or that flattery taught; In spite of teachers who no fault would find, The Boy was neither selfish nor unkind. Justice and truth his honest heart approved, And all things lovely he admired and loved. 20 Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales, he read, And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed. The long Romances, wild Adventures fired His stirring thoughts: he felt like Boy inspired. The cruel fight, the constant love, the art Of vile magicians, thrill’d his inmost heart: An early Quixote, dreaming dreadful sights Of warring dragons, and victorious knights— In every dream some beauteous Princess shone, The pride of thousands, and the prize of one. 30 Not yet he read, nor, reading, would approve The Novel’s hero, or its ladies’ love. He would Sophia for a wanton take, Jones for a wicked, nay a vulgar rake. He would no time on Smollett’s page bestow; Such men he knew not, would disdain to know: And if he read, he travell’d slowly on, Teazed by the tame and faultless Grandison. He in that hero’s deeds could not delight— “He loved two ladies, and he would not fight.” 40 The minor works of this prolific kind Presented beings he could never find: Beings, he thought, that no man should describe, A vile, intriguing, lying, perjured tribe, With impious habits, and dishonest views; The men he knew, had souls they feared to lose; These had no views that could their sins controul, With them nor fears nor hopes disturb’d the soul. To dear Romance with fresh delight he turn’d, And vicious men, like recreant cowards, spurn’d. 50 The Scripture Stories he with reverence read, And duly took his Bible to his bed. Yet Joshua, Samson, David, were a race He dared not with his favourite heroes place. Young as he was, the difference well he knew Between the Truth, and what we fancy true: He was with these entranced, of those afraid, With Guy he triumph’d, but with David pray’d.
II.
_P._ Such was the Boy, and what the man would be, I might conjecture, but could not foresee. 60 _F._ He has his trials met, his troubles seen, And now deluded, now deserted, been. His easy nature has been oft assail’d By grief assumed, scorn hid, and flattery veil’d. _P._ But has he, safe and cautious, shunn’d the snares That life presents?—I ask not of its cares. _F._ Your gentle Boy a course of life began That made him, what he is, the gentle-man, A man of business. He in courts presides Among their Worships, whom his judgment guides. 70 He in the Temple studied, and came down A very lawyer, though without a gown; Still he is kind, but prudent, steady, just, And takes but little that he hears on trust. He has no visions now, no boyish plans; All his designs and prospects are the man’s, The man of sound discretion— _P._ How so made? What could his mind to change like this persuade— What first awaken’d our romantic friend— For such he is— _F._ If you would know, attend. 80 In those gay years, when boys their manhood prove, Because they talk of girls, and dream of love, In William’s way there came a maiden fair, With soft, meek look, and sweet, retiring air; With just the rosy tint upon her cheek, With sparkling eye, and tongue unused to speak; With manner decent, quiet, chaste, that one, Modest himself, might love to look upon. As William look’d; and thus the gentle Squire Began the Nymph, albeit poor, t’admire. 90 She was, to wit, the gardener’s niece; her place Gave to her care the Lady’s silks and lace; With other duties of an easy kind, } And left her time, as much she felt inclined, } T’adorn her graceful form, and fill her craving mind; } Nay, left her leisure to employ some hours Of the long day, among her uncle’s flowers— Myrtle and rose, of which she took the care, And was as sweet as pinks and lilies are. Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld 100 With passion unencouraged, unrepell’d; For how encourage what was not in view, Or how repel what strove not to pursue? What books inspired, or glowing fancy wrought; What dreams suggested, or reflection taught; Whate’er of love was to the mind convey’d— Was all directed to his darling maid. He saw his damsel with a lover’s eyes, As pliant fancy wove the fair disguise; A Quixote he, who in his nymph could trace 110 The high-born beauty, changed and—out of place, That William loved, mamma, with easy smile, Would jesting say; but love _might_ grow the while; The damsel’s self, with unassuming pride, With love so led by fear was gratified. What cause for censure? Could a man reprove A child for fondness, or miscall it love? Not William’s self; yet well inform’d was he, That love it was, and endless love would be. Month after month the sweet delusion bred 120 Wild, feverish hopes, that flourish’d, and then fled, Like Fanny’s sweetest flower—and that was lost In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost. In some soft evenings, mid the garden’s bloom, Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come; And Fanny came, by chance it may be; still, There was a gentle bias of the will, Such as the soundest minds may act upon, When motives of superior kind are gone. There then they met, and Master William’s look 130 Was the less timid, for he held a book; And when the sweetness of the evening hours, The fresh soft air, the beauty of the flowers, The night-bird’s note, the gently falling dew, Were all discuss’d, and silence would ensue, There were some lovely Lines—if she could stay— And Fanny rises not to go away.
* * * * *
“Young Paris was the shepherd’s pride, As well the fair Œnone knew; They sat the mountain stream beside, 140 And o’er the bank a poplar grew.
“Upon its bark this verse he traced: ‘Bear witness to the vow I make; Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste, E’er I my matchless maid forsake.
“‘No prince or peasant lad am I, Nor crown nor crook to me belong; But I will love thee till I die, And die before I do thee wrong.’
“Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run, 150 Paris is now a prince of Troy; He leaves the Fair his flattery won, Himself and country to destroy.
“He seizes on a sovereign’s wife, The pride of Greece, and with her flies; He causes thus a ten years’ strife, And with his dying parent dies.
“Oh! think me not this Shepherd’s Boy, Who from the Maid he loves would run: Oh! think me not a Prince of Troy, 160 By whom such treacherous deeds are done.”
* * * * *
The Lines were read, and many an idle word Pronounced with emphasis, and underscored, As if the writer had resolved that all His nouns and verbs should be emphatical But what they were the damsel little thought; The sense escaped her, but the voice she caught, Soft, tender, trembling; and the gipsy felt As if by listening she unfairly dealt; For she, if not mamma, had rightly guess’d, 170 That William’s bosom was no seat of rest. But Love’s young hope must die.—There was a day When nature smiled, and all around was gay; The Boy o’ertook the damsel, as she went The village road—unknown was her intent; He, happy hour, when lock’d in Fanny’s arm, Walk’d on enamour’d, every look a charm! Yet her soft looks were but her heart’s disguise, There was no answering love in Fanny’s eyes; But, or by prudence or by pity moved, 180 She thought it time his folly was reproved; Then took her measures, not perchance without Some conscious pride in what she was about. Along the brook with gentle pace they go, The Youth unconscious of th’ impending woe; And oft he urged the absent Maid to talk, As she was wont in many a former walk; And still she slowly walk’d beside the brook, Or look’d around—for what could Fanny look? Something there must be! What, did not appear; 190 But William’s eye betray’d the anxious fear, The cause unseen!—— But who, with giant-stride, Bounds o’er the brook, and is at Fanny’s side? Who takes her arm? and oh! what villain dares To press those lips? Not even her lips he spares! Nay, she herself, the Fanny, the divine, Lip to his lip can wickedly incline! The lad, unnerved by horror, with an air Of wonder quits her arm and looks despair; Nor will proceed. Oh no! he must return, 200 Though his drown’d sight cannot the path discern. “Come, Master William! come, Sir, let us on. What can you fear? You’re not afraid of John?” “What ails our youngster?” quoth the burly swain, Six feet in height—but he inquires in vain. William, in deep resentment, scans the frame Of the fond giant, and abhors his name; Thinks him a demon of th’ infernal brood, And longs to shed his most pernicious blood. Again the monster spake in thoughtless joy,— 210 “We shall be married soon, my pretty Boy! And dwell in Madam’s cottage, where you’ll see The strawberry-beds, and cherries on the tree.” Back to his home in silent scorn return’d Th’ indignant Boy, and all endearment spurn’d. Fanny perforce with Master takes her way, But finds him to th’ o’erwhelming grief a prey, Wrapt in resentful silence, till he came Where he might vent his woes, and hide his shame. Fierce was his strife, but with success he strove, 220 And freed his troubled breast from fruitless love; Or what of love his reason fail’d to cool Was lost and perish’d in a public school— Those seats and sources both of good and ill, By what they cure in Boys, and what they kill.
TALE XX.
_THE WILL._
I.
Thus to his Friend an angry Father spoke— Nay, do not think that I the WILL revoke. My cruel Son in every way I’ve tried, } And every vice have found in him but pride; } For he, of pride possess’d, would meaner vices hide. } Money he wastes, I will not say he spends; } He neither makes the poor nor rich his friends— } To those he nothing gives, to these he never lends. } “’Tis for himself each legal pale he breaks; He joins the miser’s spirit to the rake’s. 10 Like the worst Roman in the worst of times, He can be guilty of conflicting crimes; Greedy of others’ wealth, unknown the use, And of his own contemptuously profuse. “To such a mind shall I my wealth confide, That you to nobler, worthier ends, may guide? No! let my Will my scorn of vice express, And let him learn repentance from distress.” So said the Father; and the Friend, who spurn’d Wealth ill-acquired, his sober speech return’d— 20 “The youth is faulty, but his faults are weigh’d With a strong bias, and by wrath repaid; Pleasure deludes him, not the vain design Of making vices unallied combine. He wastes your wealth, for he is yet a boy; He covets more, for he would more enjoy. For, my good friend, believe me, very few, } At once are prodigals and misers too— } The spendthrift vice engrafted on the Jew. } Leave me one thousand pounds; for I confess 30 I have my wants, and will not tax you less. But your estate let this young man enjoy: If he reforms, you’ve saved a grateful boy; If not, a father’s cares and troubles cease, You’ve done your duty, and may rest in peace.” The Will in hand, the Father musing stood, Then gravely answered, “Your advice is good; Yet take the paper, and in safety keep; I’ll make another Will before I sleep; But, if I hear of some atrocious deed, 40 That deed I’ll burn, and yours will then succeed. Two thousand I bequeath you. No reproof! And there are small bequests—he’ll have enough; For, if he wastes, he would with all be poor; And, if he wastes not, he will need no more.” The Friends then parted; this the Will possess’d, And that another made—so things had rest. George, who was conscious that his Father grew Sick and infirm, engaged in nothing new. No letters came from injured man or maid; 50 No bills from wearied duns, that must be paid; No fierce reproaches from deserted fair, Mixed with wild tenderness of desperate prayer; So hope rose softly in the parent’s breast; } He, dying, called his son and fondly blest, } Hailed the propitious tear, and mildly sunk to rest. } Unhappy Youth! e’er yet the tomb was closed, And dust to dust convey’d in peace repos’d, He sought his father’s closet, search’d around, To find a Will: the important Will was found. 60 Well pleased he read, “These lands, this manor, all, Now call me master!—I obey the call.” Then from the window look’d the valley o’er, And never saw it look so rich before. He viewed the dairy, view’d the men at plough, } With other eyes, with other feelings now, } And with a new-formed taste found beauty in a cow. } The distant swain who drove the plough along Was a good useful slave, and passing strong! In short, the view was pleasing, nay, was fine: 70 “Good as my father’s, excellent as mine!” Again he reads—but he had read enough; What followed put his virtue to a proof. [How’s] this? to David Wright two thousand pounds! } A monstrous sum! beyond all reason!—zounds! } This is your friendship running out of bounds! } “Then here are cousins Susan, Robert, Joe— } Five hundred each. Do they deserve it? No! } Claim they have none—I wonder if they know } What the good man intended to bestow! 80} This might be paid—but Wright’s enormous sum Is—I’m alone—there’s nobody can come— ’Tis all his hand, no lawyer was employ’d To write this prose, that ought to be destroy’d! To no attorney would my father trust: He wished his son to judge of what was just; As if he said, ‘My boy will find the Will, And, as he likes, destroy it or fulfil.’ This now is reason, this I understand— What was at his, is now at my, command. 90 As for this paper, with these cousiny names, I—’tis _my_ Will—commit it to the flames. Hence! disappear! now am I lord alone: They’ll groan, I know; but, curse them, let them groan. Who wants his money like a new made heir, To put all things in order and repair? I need the whole the worthy man could save, To do my father credit in his grave: It takes no trifle to have squires convey’d To their last house with honour and parade. 100 All this, attended by a world of cost, Requires, demands, that nothing should be lost. These fond bequests cannot demanded be— Where no Will is, can be no legacy; And none is here! I safely swear it—none!— The very ashes are dispersed and gone. All would be well, would that same sober Friend, } That Wright, my father on his way attend; } My fears—but why afraid?—my troubles then would end.” } In triumph, yet in trouble, meets our Squire 110} The friends assembled, who a Will require. } “There is no Will,” he said.—They murmur and retire. } Days pass away, while yet the Heir is blest By pleasant cares, and thoughts that banish rest; When comes the Friend, and asks, in solemn tone, If he may see the busy Squire alone. They are in private—all about is still— When thus the Guest:—“Your father left a Will, And I would see it.”—Rising in reply, The youth beheld a fix’d and piercing eye, 120 From which his own receded; and the sound Of his own words was in disorder drown’d. He answered softly—“I in vain have spent Days in the search; I pray you be content; And, if a Will”—— The pertinacious Man, } At ‘if’ displeased, with steady tone began— } “There _is_ a Will—produce it, for you can.”— } “Sir, I have sought in vain, and what the use? What has no being, how can I produce?”— “Two days I give you; to my words attend,” 130 Was the reply, “and let the business end.” Two days were past, and still the same reply To the same question—“Not a Will have I.” More grave, more earnest, then the Friend appear’d; He spoke with power, as one who would be heard— “A Will your father made! I witness’d one.” The Heir arose in anger—“Sir, begone! Think you my spirit by your looks to awe? Go to your lodgings, friend, or to your law. To what would you our easy souls persuade? 140 Once more I tell you, not a Will was made; There’s none with me, I swear it—now, deny This if you can!”— “That, surely, cannot I; Nay, I believe you, and, as no such deed Is found with you, _this_ surely will succeed!”— He said, and from his pocket slowly drew } Of the first testament a copy true, } And held it spread abroad, that he might see it too. } “Read, and be sure; your parent’s pleasure see— Then leave this mansion and these lands to me.” 150 He said, and terror seized the guilty youth; He saw his misery, meanness, and the truth; Could not before his stern accuser stand, Yet could not quit that hall, that park, that land; But, when surprise had pass’d away, his grief Began to think in law to find relief. “While courts are open, why should I despair? Juries will feel for an abandon’d heir. I will resist,” he said, impell’d by pride— “I must submit,” recurring fear replied. 160 As wheels the vane when winds around it play, So his strong passions turn’d him every way; But growing terrors seized th’ unhappy youth: He knew the Man, and more, he knew—the Truth; When, stung by all he fear’d, and all he felt, He sought for mercy, and in terror knelt. Grieved, but indignant—“Let me not despise Thy father’s son,” replied the Friend; “arise! To my fix’d purpose your attention lend, And know, your fate will on yourself depend. 170 “Thou shalt not want, young man! nor yet abound, And time shall try thee, if thy heart be sound; Thou shalt be watch’d till thou hast learn’d to know Th’ All-seeing Watcher of the world below, And worlds above, and thoughts within; from Whom Must be thy certain, just, and final doom. Thy doors all closely barr’d, thy windows blind, Before all silent, silent all behind— Thy hand was stretch’d to do whate’er thy soul In secret would—no mortal could—controul. 180 Oh, fool! to think that thou thy act could’st keep From that All-piercing Eye, which cannot sleep! “Go to thy trial! and may I—with thee A fellow-sinner, who to mercy flee— That mercy find, as justly I dispense Between thy frailty and thy penitence! “Go to thy trial! and be wise in time, And know that no man can conceal a crime. God and his Conscience witness all that’s done, And these he cannot cheat, he cannot shun. 190 What, then, could fortune, what could safety, give, If [he] with these at enmity must live? “Go!”—and the young man from his presence went, } Confused, uncertain of his own intent— } To sin, if pride prevail’d; if soften’d, to repent. }
II.
_P._ Lives yet the Friend of that unhappy Boy, Who could the WILL that made him rich destroy, And made him poor? And what the after-plan, For one so selfish, of that stern, good man? _F._ “Choose,” said this Friend, “thy way in life, and I 200 Will means to aid thee in thy work supply.” He will the army, thought this guardian, choose, And there the sense of his dishonour lose. Humbly he answer’d—“With your kind consent, Of your estate I would a portion rent, And farm with care”—— “Alas! the wretched fruit Of evil habit! he will hunt and shoot!” So judged the Friend, but soon perceived a change, To him important, and to all men strange. Industrious, temperate, with the sun he rose, 210 And of his time gave little to repose: Nor to the labour only bent his will, But sought experience, and improved with skill; With cautious prudence placed his gains to use, Inquiring always, “What will this produce?” The Friend, not long suspicious, now began To think more kindly of the alter’d man— In his opinion alter’d; but, in truth, The same the spirit that still ruled the youth. That dwelt within, where other demons dwell, 220 Avarice unsated and insatiable. But this Wright saw not; he was more inclined To trace the way of a repenting mind; And he was now by strong disease assail’d, That quickly o’er the vital powers prevail’d: And now the son had all, was rich beyond His fondest hope, and he, indeed, was fond. His life’s great care has been his zeal to prove, And time to dotage has increased his love. A Miser now, the one strong passion guides 230 The heart and soul; there’s not a love besides. Where’er he comes, he sees in every face A look that tells him of his own disgrace. Men’s features vary, but the mildest show— “It is a tale of infamy we know.” Some with contempt the wealthy miser view, Some with disgust, yet mix’d with pity too; A part the looks of wrath and hatred wear, And some, less happy, lose their scorn in fear. Meanwhile, devoid of kindness, comfort, friends, 240 On his possessions solely he depends. Yet is he wretched; for his fate decrees That his own feelings should deny him ease. With talents gifted, he himself reproves, And can but scorn the vile pursuit he loves; He can but feel that there abides within The secret shame, the unrepented sin, And the strong sense, that bids him to confess He has not found the way to happiness. But ’tis the way where he has travell’d long— 250 And turn he will not, though he feels it wrong; Like a sad traveller, who, at closing day, Finds he has wander’d widely from his way, Yet wanders on, nor will new paths explore, Till the night falls, and he can walk no more.
TALE XXI.
_THE COUSINS._
I.
_P._ I left a frugal Merchant, who began Early to thrive, and grew a wealthy man; Retired from business with a favourite Niece, He lived in plenty, or, if not—in peace. Their small affairs, conforming to his will, The maiden managed with superior skill. He had a Nephew too, a brother’s child— But James offended, for the lad was wild: And Patty’s tender soul was vex’d to hear, “Your Cousin James will rot in gaol, my dear; 10 And now, I charge you, by no kind of gift Show him that folly may be help’d by thrift.” This Patty heard, but in her generous mind Precept so harsh could no admission find. Her Cousin James, too sure in prison laid, With strong petitions plied the gentle maid, That she would humbly on their Uncle press His deep repentance, and his sore distress; How that he mourn’d in durance, night and day, And, which removed, he would for ever pray. 20 “Nought will I give, his worthless life to save,” The Uncle said; and nought in fact he gave. But the kind maiden from her pittance took All that she could, and gave with pitying look; For soft compassion in her bosom reign’d, And her heart melted when the Youth complain’d. Of his complaints the Uncle loved to hear, As Patty told them, shedding many a tear; While he would wonder how the girl could pray For a young rake, to place him in her way, 30 Or once admit him in his Uncle’s view; “But these,” said he, “are things that women do.” Thus were the Cousins, young, unguarded, fond, Bound in true friendship—so they named the bond— Nor call’d it love—and James resolved, when free, A most correct and frugal man to be. He sought her prayers, but not for heavenly aid: “Pray to my Uncle,” and she kindly pray’d— “James will be careful,” said the Niece; “and I Will be as careful,” was the stern reply. 40 Thus he resisted, and I know not how He could be soften’d—Is he kinder now? Hard was his heart; but yet a heart of steel May melt in dying, and dissolving feel.
II.
_F._ What were his feelings I cannot explain, His actions only on my mind remain. He never married, that indeed we know, But childless was not, as his foes could show— Perhaps his friends—for friends, as well as foes, Will the infirmities of man disclose. 50 When young, our Merchant, though of sober fame, Had a rude passion that he could not tame; And, not to dwell upon the passion’s strife, He had a Son, who never had a wife; The father paid just what the law required, Nor saw the infant, nor to see desired. That infant, thriving on the parish fare, Without a parent’s love, consent, or care, Became a sailor, and sustain’d his part So like a man, it touch’d his father’s heart.— 60 He for protection gave the ready pay, And placed the seaman in preferment’s way; Who doubted not, with sanguine heart, to rise, And bring home riches, gain’d from many a prize. But Jack—for so we call’d him—Jack once more, And never after, touch’d his native shore; Nor was it known if he in battle fell, Or sickening died—we sought, but none could tell. The father sigh’d—as some report, he wept; And then his sorrow with the Sailor slept; 70 Then age came on; he found his spirits droop, And his kind Niece remain’d the only hope. Premising this, our story then proceeds— Our gentle Patty for her Cousin pleads; And now her Uncle, to his room confined, And kindly nursed, was soften’d and was kind. James, whom the law had from his prison sent, } With much contrition to his Uncle went, } And, humbly kneeling, said, “Forgive me, I repent.” } Reproach, of course, his humbled spirit bore; 80 He knew for pardon anger opes the door; The man, whom we with too much warmth reprove, Has the best chance our softening hearts to move; And this he had—“Why, Patty, love! it seems,” Said the old man, “there’s something good in James; I must forgive; but you my child, are yet My stay and prop; I cannot this forget. Still, my dear Niece, as a reforming man, I mean to aid your Cousin, if I can.” Then Patty smiled; for James and she had now 90 Time for their loves, and pledged the constant vow. James the fair way to favouring thoughts discern’d— He learn’d the news, and told of all he learn’d; Read all the papers in an easy style, And knew the bits would raise his Uncle’s smile; Then would refrain, to hear the good man say, “You did not come as usual yesterday; I must not take you from your duties, lad, But of your daily visits should be glad!” Patty was certain that their Uncle now 100 Would their affection all it ask’d allow; She was convinced her lover now would find The past forgotten and old Uncle kind. “It matters not,” she added, “who receives The larger portion; what to one he leaves We both inherit! let us nothing hide, Dear James, from him in whom we both confide.” “Not for your life!” quoth James. “Let Uncle choose Our ways for us—or we the way shall lose. For know you, Cousin, all these miser men”—— 110 “Nay, my dear James!”— “Our worthy Uncle, then, And all, like Uncle, like to be obey’d By their dependants, who must seem afraid Of their own will.—If we to wed incline, You’ll quickly hear him peevishly repine, Object, dispute, and sundry reasons give, To prove we ne’er could find the means to live; And then, due credit for his speech to gain, He’ll leave us poor—lest wealth should prove it vain. Let him propose the measure, and then we 120 May for his pleasure to his plan agree. I, when at last assenting, shall be still But giving way to a kind Uncle’s will; Then will he deem it just, amends to make To one who ventures all things for his sake; So, should you deign to take this worthless hand, Be sure, dear Patty, ’tis at his command!” But Patty questioned—“Is it, let me ask, The will of God that we should wear a mask?” This startled James: he lifted up his eyes, 130 And said with some contempt, besides surprise, “Patty, my love! the will of God, ’tis plain, Is that we live by what we can obtain; Shall we a weak and foolish man offend, And when our trial is so near our end?” This hurt the maiden, and she said, “’Tis well! Unask’d I will not of your purpose tell, But will not lie.”— “Lie! Patty, no, indeed; Your downright lying never will succeed! A better way our prudence may devise 140 Than such unprofitable things as lies. Yet, a dependant, if he would not starve, The way through life must with discretion carve, And, though a lie he may with pride disdain, He must not every useless truth maintain. If one respect to these fond men would show, Conceal the facts that give them pain to know; While all that pleases may be placed in view, And, if it be not, they will think it true.” The humble Patty dropp’d a silent tear, 150 And said, “Indeed, ’tis best to be sincere.” James answer’d not—there could be no reply To what he would not grant nor could deny; But from that time he in the maiden saw What he condemn’d; yet James was kept in awe. He felt her virtue, but was sore afraid For the frank blunders of the virtuous maid. Meantime he daily to his Uncle read The news, and to his favourite subjects led: If closely press’d, he sometimes staid to dine, 160 Eat of one dish, and drank one glass of wine; For James was crafty grown, and felt his way To favour, step by step, and day by day; He talk’d of business, till the Uncle prized The lad’s opinion, whom he once despised, And, glad to see him thus his faults survive, “This Boy,” quoth he, “will keep our name alive. Women are weak, and Patty, though the best Of her weak sex, is woman like the rest: An idle husband will her money spend, 170 And bring my hard-earn’d savings to an end.” Far as he dared, his Nephew this way led, And told his tales of lasses rashly wed, Told them as matters that “He heard, he knew Not where,” he said—“they might be false or true: One must confess that girls are apt to dote On the bright scarlet of a coxcomb’s coat; And that with ease a woman they beguile With a fool’s flattery, or a rascal’s smile;— But then,” he added, fearing to displease, 180 “Our Patty never saw such men as these.” “True! but she may—some scoundrel may command The girl’s whole store, if he can gain her hand. Her very goodness will itself deceive, And her weak virtue help her to believe; Yet she is kind; and, Nephew! go, and say, I need her now—You’ll come another day.” In such discourses, while the maiden went About her household, many an hour was spent, Till James was sure that when his Uncle died, 190} He should at least the property divide; } Nor long had he to wait—the fact was quickly tried. } The Uncle now, to his last bed confined, To James and Patty his affairs resign’d; The doctor took his final fee in hand; The man of law received his last command; The silent priest sat watching in his chair, If he might wake the dying man to prayer— When the last groan was heard; then all was still, And James indulged his musings—on the Will. 200 This in due time was read, and Patty saw Her own dear Cousin made the heir-by-law. Something indeed was hers, but yet she felt As if her Uncle had not kindly dealt; And but that James was one whom she could trust, She would have thought it cruel and unjust. Ev’n as it was, it gave her some surprise, And tears unbidden started in her eyes; Yet she confess’d it was the same to her, And it was likely men would men prefer. 210 Loth was the Niece to think her Uncle wrong; And other thoughts engaged her—“Is it long That custom bids us tarry ere we wed, When a kind Uncle is so lately dead? At any rate,” the maiden judged, “’tis he That first will speak—it does not rest with me.” James to the Will his every thought confined, And found some parts that vex’d his sober mind. He, getting much, to angry thoughts gave way, For the poor pittance that he had to pay, 220 With Patty’s larger claim. Save these alone, The weeping heir beheld the whole his own; Yet something painful in his mind would dwell— It was not likely, but was possible—” No—Fortune lately was to James so kind, He was determined not to think her blind: She saw his merit, and would never throw His prospects down by such malicious blow.” Patty, meanwhile, had quite enough betray’d Of her own mind to make her James afraid 230 Of one so simply pure: his hardening heart Inclined to anger—he resolved to part. Why marry Patty?—if he look’d around, More advantageous matches might be found; But, though he might a richer wife command, He first must break her hold upon his hand. She with a spinster-friend retired awhile— “Not long,” she said—and said it with a smile. Not so had James determined.—He essay’d To move suspicion in the gentle maid. 240 Words not succeeding, he design’d to pass The spinster’s window with some forward lass. If in her heart so pure no pang was known, At least he might affect it in his own. There was a brother of her friend, and he, Though poor and rude, might serve for jealousy. If all should fail, he, though of schemes bereft, Might leave her yet!—They fail’d, and she was left. Poor Patty bore it with a woman’s mind, And with an angel’s, sorrowing and resign’d. 250 Ere this in secret long she wept and pray’d, Long tried to think her lover but delay’d The union, once his hope, his prayer, his pride;— She could in James as in herself confide: Was he not bound by all that man can bind, In love, in honour, to be just and kind? Large was his debt, and, when their debts are large, The ungrateful cancel what the just discharge; Nor payment only in their pride refuse, But first they wrong their friend, and then accuse. 260 Thus Patty finds her bosom’s claims denied, Her love insulted, and her right defied. She urged it not; her claim the maid withdrew, } For maiden pride would not the wretch pursue; } She sigh’d to find him false, herself so good and true. } Now all his fears, at least the present, still— He talk’d, good man! about his uncle’s will— “All unexpected,” he declared—“surprised Was he—and his good uncle ill-advised. He no such luck had look’d for, he was sure, 270 Nor such deserved,” he said, with look demure; “He did not merit such exceeding love; But his, he meant, so help him God, to prove.” And he has proved it! all his cares and schemes Have proved the exceeding love James bears to James. But to proceed—for we have yet the facts That show how Justice looks on wicked acts; For, though not always, she at times appears— To wake in man her salutary fears. James, restless grown—for no such mind can rest— 280 Would build a house, that should his wealth attest; In fact, he saw, in many a clouded face, } A certain token of his own disgrace, } And wish’d to overawe the murmurs of the place. } The finish’d building show’d the master’s wealth, And noisy workmen drank his Honour’s health— “His and his heirs”—and at the thoughtless word A strange commotion in his bosom stirr’d. “‘Heirs!’ said the idiots?”—and again that clause In the strange Will corrected their applause. 290 Prophetic fears! for now reports arose That spoil’d “his Honour’s” comforts and repose. A stout young Sailor, though in battle maim’d, Arrived in port, and his possessions claim’d. The Will he read: he stated his demand, And his attorney grasp’d at house and land. The Will provided—“If my son survive, He shall inherit;” and lo! Jack’s alive! Yes! he was that lost lad, preserved by fate, And now was bent on finding his estate. 300 But claim like this the angry James denied, And to the law the sturdy heir applied. James did what men when placed like him would do— Avow’d his right, and fee’d his lawyer too: The Will, indeed, provided for a son; But was this Sailor youth the very one? Ere Jack’s strong proofs in all their strength were shown, } To gain a part James used a milder tone; } But the instructed tar would reign alone. } At last he reign’d: to James a large bequest 310 Was frankly dealt; the Seaman had the rest— Save a like portion to the gentle Niece, Who lived in comfort, and regain’d her peace. In her neat room her talent she employ’d, With more true peace than ever James enjoy’d. The young, the aged, in her praise agreed— Meek in her manner, bounteous in her deed; The very children their respect avow’d: “’Twas the good lady,” they were told, and bow’d. The merry Seaman much the maid approv’d— 320 Nor that alone—he like a seaman loved; Loved as a man who did not much complain; Loved like a sailor, not a sighing swain; Had heard of wooing maids, but knew not how— “Lass, if you love me, prithee tell me now,” Was his address—but this was nothing cold— “Tell if you love me;” and she smiled and told. He brought her presents, such as sailors buy, } Glittering like gold, to please a maiden’s eye, } All silk and silver, fringe and finery; 330} These she accepted in respect to him, And thought but little of the missing limb. Of this he told her, for he loved to tell A warlike tale, and judged he told it well:— “You mark me, love! the French were two to one, And so, you see, they were ashamed to run; We fought an hour; and then there came the shot That struck me here—a man must take his lot;— A minute after, and the Frenchman struck: One minute sooner had been better luck; 340 But, if you can a crippled cousin like, You ne’er shall see him for a trifle strike.” Patty, whose gentle heart was not so nice As to reject the thought of loving twice, Judged her new Cousin was by nature kind, With no suspicions in his honest mind, Such as our virtuous ladies now and then Find strongly floating in the minds of men. So they were married, and the lasses vow’d That Patty’s luck would make an angel proud: 350 “Not but that time would come when she must prove That men are men, no matter how they love!”— And she has prov’d it; for she finds her man As kind and true as when their loves began. James is unhappy; not that he is poor, But, having much, because he has no more; Because a rival’s pleasure gives him pain; Because his vices work’d their way in vain; And, more than these, because he sees the smile Of a wrong’d woman pitying man so vile. 360 He sought an office, serves in the excise, } And every wish, but that for wealth, denies; } Wealth is the world to him, and he is worldly wise. } But disappointment in his face appears; } Care and vexation, sad regret and fears } Have fix’d on him their fangs, and done the work of years. } Yet grows he wealthy in a strange degree, And neighbours wonder how the fact can be. He lives alone, contracts a sordid air, And sees with sullen grief the cheerful pair; 370 Feels a keen pang, as he beholds the door Where peace abides, and mutters—“_I am poor!_”
TALE XXII.
_PREACHING AND PRACTICE._
I.
_P._ What I have ask’d are questions that relate To those once known, that I might learn their fate. But there was ONE, whom though I scarcely knew, Much do I wish to learn his fortunes too. Yet what expect?—He was a rich man’s Heir, His conduct doubtful, but his prospects fair; Thoughtless and brave, extravagant and gay, Wild as the wind, and open as the day; His freaks and follies were a thousand times Brought full in view; I heard not of his crimes. 10 Like our Prince Hal, his company he chose Among the lawless, of restraint the foes; But, though to their poor pleasures he could stoop, He was not, rumour said, their victim-dupe. His mother’s Sister was a maiden prim, Pious and poor, and much in debt to him. This she repaid with volumes of reproof, And sage advice, till he would cry “Enough!” His father’s Brother no such hints allow’d— Peevish and rich, and insolent and proud, 20 Of stern, strong spirit. Him the Youth withstood, At length; “Presume not” (said he) “on our blood! Treat with politeness him whom you advise, Nor think I fear your doting prophecies!” And fame has told of many an angry word, When anger this, and that contempt had stirr’d. “Boy! thou wilt beg thy bread, I plainly see.”— “Upbraid not, Uncle! till I beg of thee.”— “Oh! thou wilt run to ruin and disgrace.”— “What! and so kind an Uncle in the place?”— 30 “Nay, for I hold thee stranger to my blood.”— “Then must I treat thee as a stranger would; For, if you throw the tie of blood aside, You must the roughness of your speech abide.”— “What! to your father’s Brother do you give A challenge?—Mercy! in what times we live!” Now, I confess, the youth who could supply Thus that poor Spinster, and could thus defy This wealthy Uncle;—who could mix with them Whom his strong sense and feeling must condemn, 40 And in their follies his amusement find, Yet never lose the vigour of his mind— A youth like this, with much we must reprove, Had something still to win esteem and love. Perhaps he lives not; but he seem’d not made To pass through life entirely in the shade. _F._ Suppose you saw him—does your mind retain So much, that you would know the man again? Yet hold in mind, he may have felt the press Of grief or guilt, the withering of distress; 50 He now may show the stamp of woe and pain, And nothing of his lively cast remain. Survey these features—see if nothing there May old impressions on your mind repair! Is there not something in this shattered frame Like to that— _P._ No! not like it, but the same; That eye so brilliant, and that smile so gay, Are lighted up, and sparkle through decay. But may I question? Will you that allow? There was a difference, and there must be now; 60 And yet, permitted, I would gladly hear What must have pass’d in many a troubled year.
* * * * *
_F._ Then hear my tale; but I the price demand: } That understood, I too must understand } Thy wanderings through, or sufferings in, the land; } And, if our virtues cannot much produce, Perhaps our errors may be found of use. To all the wealth my Father’s care laid by, I added wings, and taught it how to fly. To him that act had been of grievous sight; 70 But he survived not to behold the flight. Strange doth it seem to grave and sober minds, How the dear vice the simple votary blinds, So that he goes to ruin smoothly on, And scarcely feels he’s going, till he’s gone. I had made over, in a lucky hour, Funds for my Aunt, and placed beyond my power: The rest was flown, I speak it with remorse, And now a pistol seem’d a thing in course. But, though its precepts I had not obey’d, 80 Thoughts of my Bible made me much afraid Of such rebellion, and, though not content, I must live on when life’s supports were spent; Nay, I must eat, and of my frugal Aunt Must grateful take what gracious she would grant; And true, she granted, but with much discourse— Oh! with what words did she her sense enforce! Great was her wonder, in my need that I Should on the prop myself had raised rely— I, who provided for her in my care, 90 “Must be assured how little she could spare!” I stood confounded, and with angry tone, With rage and grief, that blended oath and groan, I fled her presence—yet I saw her air Of resignation, and I heard her prayer; “Now Heaven,” she utter’d, “make his burden light!” And I, in parting, cried, “Thou hypocrite!” But I was wrong—she might have meant to pray; Though not to give her soul—her cash—away. Of course, my Uncle would the spendthrift shun; 100 So friends on earth I now could reckon none. One morn I rambled, thinking of the past, Far in the country—Did you ever fast Through a long summer’s day? or, sturdy, go To pluck the crab, the bramble, and the sloe, The hyp, the cornel, and the beech, the food And the wild solace of the gypsy brood? To pick the cress, embrown’d by summer sun, From the dry bed where streams no longer run? Have you, like school-boy, mingling play and toil, 110 Dug for the ground-nut, and enjoy’d the spoil? Or chafed with feverish hand the ripening wheat, Resolved to fast, and yet compell’d to eat? Say, did you this, and drink the crystal spring, And think yourself an abdicated king, Driv’n from your state by a rebellious race? And, in your pride contending with disgrace, Could you your hunger in your anger lose, And call the ills you bear the ways you choose? Thus, on myself depending, I began 120 To feel the pride of a neglected man; Not yet correct, but still I could command Unshaken nerves, and a determined hand. “Lo! men at work!” I said, “and I, a man, Can work! I feel it is my pride, I can.” This said, I wander’d on, and join’d the poor, Assumed a labourer’s dress, and was no more Than labour made—Upon the road I broke Stones for my bread, and startled at the stroke; But every day the labour seem’d more light, 130 And sounder, sweeter still the sleep of every night. “Thus will I live,” I cried, “nor more return To herd with men, whose love and hate I spurn. All creatures toil; the beast, if tamed or free, Must toil for daily sustenance like me; The feather’d people hunt as well as sing, And catch their flying food upon the wing. The fish, the insect, all who live, employ Their powers to keep on life, or to enjoy, Their life th’ enjoyment; thus will I proceed, 140 A man from man’s detested favours freed.” Thus was I reasoning, when at length there came A gift, a present, but without a name. “That Spinster-witch, has she then found a way To cure her conscience, and her Nephew pay, And sends her pittance? Well, and let it buy What sweetens labour; need I this deny? I thank her not; it is as if I found The fairy-gift upon this stony ground.” Still I wrought on; again occurred the day, 150 And then the same addition to my pay. Then, lo! another Friend, if not the same, For that I knew not, with a message came— “Canst keep accounts?” the man was pleased to ask— “I could not cash!—but that the harder task.” “Yet try,” he said; and I was quickly brought To Lawyer Snell, and in his office taught. Not much my pay, but my desires were less, And I for evil days reserved th’ excess. Such day occurr’d not: quickly came there one, 160 When I was told my present work was done. My Friend then brought me to a building large, And gave far weightier business to my charge. There I was told I had accounts to keep Of those vast Works, where wonders never sleep, Where spindles, bobbins, rovings, threads, and pins, [Make] up the complex mass that ever spins. There, at my desk, in my six feet of room, I noted every power of every loom; Sounds of all kinds I heard from mortal lungs— 170 Eternal battle of unwearied tongues, The jar of men and women, girls and boys, And the huge Babel’s own dull whirring, grinding noise. My care was mark’d, and I had soon in charge Important matters, and my pay was large. I at my fortune marvell’d; it was strange, And so the outward and the inward change, Till to the Power who “gives and takes away” I turn’d in praise, and taught my soul to pray. Another came! “I come,” he said, “to show, 180 Your unknown Friend—have you a wish to know?” Much I desired, and forth we rode, and found My Uncle dying, but his judgment sound. The good old man, whom I abused, had been The guardian power, directing but unseen; And thus the wild but grateful boy he led To take new motives at his dying bed. The rest you judge—I now have all I need— And now the tale you promised!—Come, proceed.
* * * * *
_P._ ’Tis due, I own, but yet in mercy spare! 190} Alas! no Uncle was my guide—my care } Was all my own; no guardian took a share. } I, like Columbus, for a world unknown— ’Twas no great effort—sacrificed my own— My own sad world, where I had never seen The earth productive, or the sky serene. But this is past—and I at length am come To see what changes have been wrought at home; Happy in this, that I can set me down At worst a stranger in my native town. 200 _F._ Then be it so! but mean you not to show How time has pass’d? for we expect to know; And, if you tell not, know you we shall trace Your movements for ourselves from place to place! Your wants, your wishes, all you’ve sought or seen, Shall be the food for our remark and spleen. So, warn’d in time, the real page unfold, And let the Truth, before the Lie, be told. _P._ This might be done; but wonders I have none; All my adventures are of Self alone. 210 _F._ What then? I grant you, if your way was clear, All smooth and right—we’ve no desire to hear; But, if you’ve lewd and wicked things to tell, } Low passions, cruel deeds, nay crimes—’tis well: } Who would not listen?—— } _P._ Hark! I hear the bell. } It calls to dinner with inviting sound, For now we know where dinners may be found, And can behold and share the glad repast, Without a dread that we behold our last. _F._ Come then, shy friend, let doleful subjects cease, 220 And thank our God that we can dine in peace.
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES
(1780—1829)
PREVIOUSLY PRINTED AND NOW FIRST ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL SEQUENCE.
POETICAL EPISTLES.
[April, 1780.]
(1.) FROM THE DEVIL. AN EPISTLE GENERAL.
(2.) FROM THE AUTHOR.
_An Introduction to the former of these, by the learned Martinus Scriblerus._
Peradventure it may surprize thee, Reader, that an Author of our Dignity and Importance should stoop to the servile employment of introducing to the World the flimsy Production of an anonymous Scribler; unless thou art indeed persuaded that the great Personage above mentioned should have prevailed upon us to recommend his Labours to an Age not extremely partial to poetical Composition.
But, whatever Intimacy we may be favoured with in either “Profound,” we are in this Case totally innocent of any Intention to deceive thee; for, we apprehend, did the Genius aforesaid think proper to add the Sin of Rhyme to his other Failings, he has too great a Correspondence and Reputation among Mankind to need our Solicitations in his Favour, were we ever so well disposed to grant them; but, knowing of no due Authority which any man hath to accuse Satan of this Infirmity, we judge it both Cruel and unnecessary to load him with so heavy a Charge, as would in all probability render him more odious to Company in general than any other Accusation he now labours under.
We are however aware of this Objection, that, as the Devil is “_ab Origine_” the Author of Evil, so Poetry, as one Species of it, may properly be placed to his Account; but, as our argument principally relates to the Piece before us, we shall waive all general Discourse, and observe only that our Reasoning went no farther than to show (whatever may be his Talent for Poetry,) that we have no right to affix his Name in a particular Manner to any one Publication.
The very title of the Work we have thought proper to introduce to our Acquaintance; for, besides that it is an Approved Custom amongst Editors, we did not choose our honest and venerated Name should appear to countenance a Falsity.
As pure Compassion is our motive for recommending this little Work to our learned Friends, so would we have its real Author sensible of the Honour we do him, and not, with an Author-like spirit, carp at our Emendations, at the Time we are studiously aiming at his Benefit. Nor could we allow the Title he has chosen to pass at any rate, did he not assure us he can think of no other so likely to take with the humour of the Town.
It having occurred to us, that the judicious Authors of a periodical Publication, called “The World,” did, in their first Paper, counsel their Readers against being witty—purely for the Wit’s sake—at their Expence, and more particularly did guard them against such Expressions of pretended Disapprobation as these, “’tis a vile World,” “a sad World,” &c.: so, gentle Friends, we would borrow a Thought from the excellent Mr Fitz-Adam, and advise ye, not to abuse our Author with the Terms “poor Devil,” “dull Devil,” “stupid Devil,” and so forth, notwithstanding we do agree that it shall be imputed unto ye for wit when ye shall say of the ensueing Poem, “it is devilish good,” “devilish clever,” and such-like.
And to all our Brethren, the real Critics and Judges of Literary productions, we would towards that before us recommend Lenity; it is a first performance and of a young Author; and, albeit there shall be found blemishes and Failings therein, we do in a certain Degree perceive Beauties not altogether unworthy our Approbation, the which if ye likewise behold, and point out to the Public after a friendly Sort, ye shall do well.
EPISTLE I.
Ye Mortals, whom Poets with Verses perplex, Whom Churchmen misguide, and Philosophers vex, Whose Heads are disturbed with the Tenets of Schools, Whom Terror betrays, and whom Conscience befools— From the Regions below, with a Heart full of Love, I send to my excellent Subjects above, And, tho’ ’tis Advice that now dictates my Strain, I must freely confess I’ve no Cause to complain. With Pleasure I hear, how the Demon of War Is hurling his blessed Confusion from far, 10 Has bade the slow Spaniard to Battle advance And has got a good Footing in England and France. It delights me to find, the Designs of the Dutch Are to move for a Peace, but to hinder it much; For my trusty Disciples of Holland are known To have no kind of Feeling for aught but their own; And the Kingdoms around are, as far as I see, Just acting the Part they have borrow’d from me. Nor is it without a great Share of Delight I find so much wrong is confounded with Right. 20 Where Justice alone on one Party is clear, Why, Truth may prevail and a Peace may be near; But, where Good and Evil are properly mixed, The Cause is obscure, and Destruction more fix’d; Since each on the first will rest all their Pretensions, The latter to stretch to its utmost Dimensions. With much Satisfaction, I likewise confess, I behold so much Deviltry drop from the Press; But this is a Subject I will not say much on, Because what hereafter I purpose to touch on. 30 At present to all, in their several Degrees, I pay my Respect in such Verses as these; And, my rough-moving Lines should your Critics condemn, I shall talk in a much rougher Language to them. Ye Monarchs! Ye Rulers of Nations! attend To a Ruler, your Equal! the first Monarch’s Friend! Whose Empire at least is as large as your own, As crowded his Army, as splendid his Throne; His Spirit as great, and, whatever his Cause, A greater Obedience is paid to his Laws! 40 Attend and receive your Instructions from me; Though a Counsellor famous, I covet no fee; Prefer me before all your ignoble Tribe— What Mortal in Black ever acts without Bribe? Let Empire unbounded your Bosoms possess; You’re as noble as Cæsar, and scorn to be less. Be your Counsellors such as may aid your Designs— Good Jockeys, great Gamblers, rare Judges of Wines! And then, should you happen to fail in your Ends, Your People may lay all the Blame on your Friends, 50 And say, “’tis a pity a Monarch so just Such a pack of damn’d Villainous Fellows should trust.” Nor judge in this Case my Advice is confin’d: Be it common as Air, and as free as the Wind; Obey’d in the Climes which Sol scarce can appear in, Caress’d in the Countries he passes the year in! Nor would I like him from my Friends fly away: Wherever I’m courted I constantly stay, To Spain, France, or Flanders extending my Care, And England! in spite of my Enemies there. 60 With its monarch of old I was social and free, And the Present must die—that’s some Comfort to me. Believe me, my Brethren—for when I advise I always speak Truth, tho’ the Father of Lies— ’Tis a foolish Mistake to imagine Mankind Were not for their Monarch’s good Pleasure design’d. We know and believe they’re as truly his own As the Farmer’s his Beast, or the wheat he has sown; And he’s a most stupid and scandalous Block Who would not be part of so noble a Stock, 70 To fetch and to carry, be curried and fed, As his Master has Work, or his Master has Bread. Ye Statesmen, I next to your Honours apply: Ye know the old Subject; ye ken who am I! I would give each Advice how to act in his Station; But most have without it entire Approbation. Nay, let us confess, and give Mortals their due, We borrow a great many Maxims from you! And would ne’er have you heed what your Satirists say, Who expose to the World all your pensions and pay. 80 Such Wretches, by jealous Emotions betray’d, Are as knavish as you, and yet never get paid. Sejanus politely his Compliments sends, To show he remembers his very good Friends, And tells you, with Grief which his Feelings betray, He hears ye are some of ye veering away. If this—and there’s Reason to fear it—be true, I’d have ye consider what end ye pursue; You’ll find you’ve a very bad bargain at last, Despis’d for the present and damn’d for the past. 90 Ye Commons, your Nation’s most able Protectors, Ye generous Elected, ye well-paid Electors, Your Patron here greets you, and, though but in Song, He praises the Path ye have mov’d in so long— A Path he has form’d with such exquisite Care That it leads you directly, he need not say where. At a Crisis important to Europe and us, It becomes us, my Friends, to act constantly thus: To stick to our Cause with a strong perseverance, Else Nobody knows what may happen a year hence; 100 For in Times of Disturbance ’tis frequently seen, That Virtue’s more busy than when they’re serene; And, from a good Spirit in brisk fermentation, A Clear-settled Habit may reign in each Nation; The which to prevent ’tis my serious Command You carefully lend each his Heart and his Hand. In England I’ve studied that People’s Condition, And seen the Contents of each County’s petition; By which I collect, with a Logic my own, The Seeds of Dissension are properly sown; 110 And I’m not without Hope but, if suffer’d to grow, I may reap in due Time what I taught you to sow. But I’m sorry to find that, in spite of my Care For that Country’s Estate, I’ve my Enemies there, Whom though I’ve attended with studious Skill, I don’t know a people have us’d me so ill. Go, Wretches ingrate; see my Subjects in France, With what excellent skill they my Business advance! Do they stick to Agreements, or such Kind of Things? Is there Truth in their Courtiers, or Faith in their Kings? Their Notions of Honour, or keeping of Treaties, 121 Are govern’d by that kind of Body their Fleet is; While you of a Nation I take such Delight in Are inferior in Fraud, tho’ you beat them at fighting. Ye Spirits uncurb’d by the Dictates of Schools, The Lectures of Priests, or Morality’s Rules, Or the pitifull Dreams of the Herd we dispise— The Puritan dull, and the Prelate precise; Ye learned Philosophers, Deists devout, Who know not the Depth of the Thing you’re about— 130 But, I’m willing to own it, ’tis proper you should And Satan here thanks you: ye’ve done him much Good. Before ye began to reform Men’s Opinions, How bounded my Realm, how restrain’d my Dominions! But now, since ’tis clear that there’s no Revelation, } I’ve a pretty good Footing, my Friends, in the Nation; } And I’d have you go on with each learn’d Dissertation. } For our firmest Adherents we commonly call The Man who believes there’s no Devil at all; And, as you so clearly convince your attendants 140 We’re nothing, and all our good Company send hence, Your learned Opinion, I find as I read it, Advances my Gain, whilst it shatters my Credit, As Bankrupts who wilfully plunge into Shame, To gain in their purse what they lose in their Fame. For the learned, the wise, and the deep-sighted Few, I’ve an excellent Work which I’d have ye pursue! Your Genius may mend a dull Devil’s Designs, May alter my Manner, and polish my Lines. The Scheme is exalted! is quite in your walk; 150 And I care not in what kind of Language I talk. ’Tis to prove to Mankind, to whom pleasures belong, Your Moralists, too, as your Pastors, are wrong; That not to Religion alone is confin’d Our work, but a full Reformation’s design’d; Till your Country all Kinds of Enjoyment excell in, And [become] much the Kind of a Place which we dwell in. But first you’ll my Congratulations receive For the exquisite Pleasure your arguments give, Which we hear with a vast deal of Joy and Delight 160 At Coachmakers’ Hall, almost every Night, And are so entertain’d with the things in that Style That we’d thoughts of erecting our Houses-Carlisle. But the Motion was quash’d on a due recollection— Our good Subjects here ev’ry Party and Sect shun— That we have the same Constant Business in View, And can never dissent in opinion like you; Nor suffer we here any Authors to write; And to talk of the State, why, ’tis deemed impolite; And the Point Revelation, that’s banish’d your Creed, 170 Would not move a Debate where we all are agreed; Nor have we a Subject which Satan can reckon Is fit for a Genius among us to speak on. But, by Way of Digression, we can but admire That your Ladies to argue should cooly desire, Should one at a Time any Subject discuss: They ne’er could be brought to that Order with us. But they still altogether their Subjects pursue With the Knack which they formerly had among you; And we marvel that Men of Discretion can teach 180 To such Lips the all-conquering Graces of Speech! But my Plan to return to, ye Sages, assist; Let’s our Heads lay together, our Arguments twist, And prove by the Light we thought proper to kindle In our dearly beloved, our Toland and Tindal! With Arguments all unresisted as these, That men have a right to do just what they please; And, because I shall chance my own Worth to proclaim, My Actions, my Spirit, my Merit and Fame, With Modesty such as you can but approve 190 I shall speak in the Words of my Vot’ries above. Yet, again to digress: you must never suppose But even the learned are sometimes my Foes; Nor is it a volatile Genius alone, Or eccentric Attempt, that proclaims you my own, There was Priestley, they told me, had wrote in my Cause, And publish’d good Things with a deal of Applause; But ’tis mere Imposition—he scribble for me! He scrawl in my Favour! No, damn him, not he! Yet ’tis some Consolation that Blunderers make 200 His meanings so strange, that they’re ours by Mistake. And now, having settled the principal Points, Your Master the Head of his Prophet anoints, And, judging all Conscience no more in the Way, Thus bids you to sing, or thus bids you to say. “What pictures of Life do the Dogmatists paint! What a dull Dissertation comes forth from the Saint! How they roar against Sin and contribute to drub Every Demon from Earth, both in Pulpit and Tub; Enjoyment how plaguily low do they rate it, 210 How rail at all Pleasure, and tell you they hate it; As Jockeys, designing to purchase your Horse, Will assure you no Mortal on Earth has a worse, Display ev’ry Failing with exquisite Skill, Yet bestride him themselves with a hearty good Will! “’Twere well if the Earth had their Censure engross’d; But the Devil engages their Spleen to his Cost! Poor Devil! from whom half our Blessings accrue,— But the Saints give to no one the Qualities due. Else, how might they praise without Flatt’ry’s Appearance 220 His Honour, his Spirit, his known Perseverance; How seldom his Friendship’s remember’d to alter; How he smiles on the Block, and how softens the Halter! The Friends to his Cause he with Spirit supports, Attends them at Tyburn, conveys them to Courts; With noble Profusion gives all he can give, And scorns to forsake them, so long as they live; In mystery deep, a great Metaphysician; In history known, and a rare Politician; A merry Companion, yet sage in due Places, 230 He knows good Behaviour and studies the Graces; Can the Springs of good Humour and Harmony feel— Not Stanhope himself could be half so genteel; Is the last to disturb them where people are gay, And the first to drive stupid Reflection away. Then spare him, ye Preachers, without whose assistance Your dull Congregations as well were at Distance; Retract your Abuse, wheresoever you’ve spread it, And lament your Attack on a Gentleman’s Credit. “Would you know the vile Sources of Sorrow and Grief, 240 We’re fully persuaded We’ll tell you the Chief. But, first, ’tis but right we our Talents should use To take from the Guiltless a Load of abuse. “Our Moralists tell us, indulg’d Inclinations Breed all our Disasters, and nurse our Vexations; That Sin, Satan’s Daughter, as Milton has told us, Has dealt to Mankind all the Plagues which enfold us. ’Tis false—I acquit her with lenient Sentence; The Plagues they describe are the Plagues of Repentance; And surely ’tis hard we should blame her for Woes 250 She strives to keep from us wherever she goes. To bully Devotion and banter her Laws, To seduce a Weak Mind, and to plead in the Cause, A Friend to betray, or a Father to wound, And revel in Folly’s fantastical round, Are Vices, they cry—but they make a Man known, Give Honour, give Pleasure, and Fame and Renown, Are Gentlemen’s Actions, and Joy must accrue From Actions which Gentlemen so often do; And, in spite of what Moralists tell us, I find 260 The antient Philosophers were of our Mind: Who, each in his Way, though to wisdom akin, Have labour’d to beautify some kind of Sin. Then why should we fear on dull Morals to trample, Who’re blest with the Boon of such noble Example? “To Sickness and cruel Disease are assign’d A part of the Sorrows which trouble Mankind; But do we not see how Mankind are agreed To be sick unto Death when there can be no Need? Why faints the soft Nymph? Why the Vapours and Spleen? What can Nameless Complaints and Infirmities mean— 271 The pain of a Moment, the Headache at will, Or the languor that’s cur’d without Julep or Pill? Why riots the Youth, so unhappily sleek? Why poisons the Maid the pure Blood in her Cheek? How happens it, Mortals are jumbled together Without Care in Crowds and in all kinds of Weather? Or why press the Throng at Assemblies so thick, If people had not a Delight to be sick? “What then are the Causes of human Distress? 280 Let Pedants and Preachers have Grace to confess: There’s nothing such varied Disasters can hit Like Religion and Virtue, Good Nature and Wit. “Religion, what horrid Opinions it starts, How it cramps our Ambition, and deadens our Hearts; Continually plagues us with Lectures from Heaven, And robs us the Year round of one Day in seven; Denies to the Passions the Flowers in their Road, And carps at the varying Designs of the Mode! It teaches few Fashions but such as, we find, 290 Have been hiss’d from good Company, Time out of Mind; Affords us no rule for the Cut of a Coat, Nor winks at the Science of cutting a Throat; A tenth of each Man’s Cultivation commands, And threatens us all in Return for our Lands; Still presses the More like a Dun for Neglect, And is never contented with civil Respect; Intrudes in the Dance, and grows grave in the Song, And conjures up Conscience with all her dull Throng. “And Virtue—what’s Virtue? an obstinate Cur, 300 Who clings to a Rock and refuses to stir; Whose Lectures on Life are a plague beyond bearing; So he snaps at your Heels, till you’re quite out of hearing. But hearken to him, and he’ll tell you the Fancies Which please the poor School-Boy in Tales and Romances: How he and his Friends have defeated the Crimes Of voluptuous Aspirers in horrible Times; By Patience and Prating done wonderfull Things To Women consumptive, and Death-alarm’d Kings. But tell me when Virtue got any Man Pension’d, 310 Or procur’d him a Title that’s fit to be mention’d, Or taught him to talk for the Praise of the Nation, Or dictated Themes for a publick Oration? Did it ever a Brilliant Assembly advance, Or import sound Politeness and Claret from France? Not this; but it hobbles in Gait and in speech And, laught at by all, is still aiming to teach; From the gentle ‘_in modo_’ will angrily flee, But sternly adhere to the hatefull ‘_in re_.’ “And what is a properer Object of Satire 320 Than that most ridiculous Failing, Good-nature? Do you know a Man laugh’d at by all his Acquaintance, Despis’d and disdain’d by the People he maintains; Too grave for a Wit, and too mean for a Beau; A Clown who does nothing as other Men do; An Awkwardly-generous, blundering Thing, Who stoops to a Beggar and stares on a King; A Creature who makes no Distinction at all } ’Twixt a Speech in the Vestry and one in the Hall— } Leoni who warbles, or Porters who bawl; 330} His Heart without Judgment, his Head without Rule And, merely for want of Discretion, a Fool; Whose Mind with a pitiful Tale is possess’d; Who is every one’s Friend, yet is every one’s Jest; Who blunders thro’ Life without forming a Plan, Is that poor stupid Mortal—a good-natur’d Man. “But of all the vile Things which torment or molest us Wit a thousand times worse than the worst of the rest is: The Poison [that’s] banish’d from every Table, } As far as the People of Fashion are able, 340} To the Bookworms in Schools, and the Grooms of the Stable. } A Man who has Wit is more proud than the Devil; Is never so welcome, is never so civil; With Absolute Tenets as stern as the Church’s, He lashes the failings his wealth can not purchase; Is ever awakening his Enemies’ Slumber, Lamenting his Foes, yet increasing their Number. So dirty, no Gentleman cares to go near him, And sensible Women don’t know how to bear him. His Wit is rebellious, and, as a Man’s Wife, 350 If it conquers him once, ’tis his Master for Life; And, though there are things it may chance to produce If it takes the right turn of an excellent use, Yet, ’tis plain to be seen, it extinguishes Merit And dashes the Efforts of Genius and Spirit.” But, not to perplex you with tedious Instruction, I hope this may serve for a good Introduction; And, leaving the rest of the Business to you, Beloved and Trusty, I bid you adieu!
EPISTLE II.
TO MIRA.
’Tis by Contrast we shine; without Withers and Prynne, What had Butler or Wits of that Century been? Or how, without Dunces, had Dryden or Pope The strength of their great Reputation kept up? The Pleasures we share from the Dawning of Light Are doubled by Thoughts of its following Night; And Virtue and Sweetness like yours shall repay us For poring so long over Satan’s Affairs. At your Company then do not think to repine: You the fairer appear—for by Contrast we shine. 10 What a Life, my dear Maid, do the Heavens decree For the Dreamers of Dreams, for the Learned—for me: Where pale Disappointment awakes to molest The Study-vex’d Head, and the Sorrow-torn Breast. Pity much, though you blame, the dull Spleen of your Swain, Who has Cause to deplore and, he thinks, to complain: That Fortune has soil’d the gay Dress of each Dream; That Time has o’erthrown every fairy-built Scheme; That thinking has slacken’d the Force of his Nerves, And his Study has met with——the Fate it deserves. 20 What a Plague was my Meaning to add to my own The Cares of a Kind which I need not have known! When Nature and Fortune had given their Part, ’Twas stupid to borrow Dejection from Art, And, with Trouble a pretty large Portion before, To pilfer Perplexities out of her Store. See the Fate of Ambition—contented with Rhyme, I had softened the Features of Sorrow and Time; Had play’d with the Evils I might not refuse, And soften’d their Frowns with the Tears of the Muse; 30 Had mov’d in Life’s Path with a Sigh and a Song, And laugh’d at her Rubs as I stumbled along. But, smitten with Science, I’ve laboured to lay A thousand impediments more in my way; And, because my poor Muse was too gentle a Guide To smooth the rough Way, and to sing by my Side, I’ve coveted Learning, a dangerous Thing To drag through the Road, and who never could sing. Of Substance I’ve thought, and the various Disputes On the Nature of Man, and the Notions of Brutes; 40 Of simple and complex Ideas I’ve read, How they rose into Life and spring up in my Head; That the Frolicks I love, and the Fashions I hate, Are from Causes without, and they rule not innate; I’ve studied with stupid Attention and Skill The Destiny’s Law, and the Bounds of the Will; Of Systems confuted, and Systems explain’d; Of Science disputed, and Tenets maintain’d; How Matter and Spirit dissent or unite; How vary the Natures of Fire and of Light; 50 How Bodies excentric, concentric shall be; How Authors divide where they seem to agree; How dissenting unite, by a Touch of the Quill Which bodies a Meaning, in what Form they will: These and such Speculations, on these Kind of Things, Have robb’d my poor Muse of her Plume and her Wings; Consum’d the Phlogiston you us’d to admire; The Spirit extracted, extinguished the Fire; Let out all the Aether so pure and refin’d, And left but a mere Caput-Mortuum behind. 60 Ah, Priestley! thou Foe to my Numbers, what need To shock my poor Muses? Thou dost not my Creed, With Schemes, Dissertations, and Arguments strong Which I know not how right, and I care not how wrong. Thou great Necessarian, must I suppose The Flight of my Verse is o’er rul’d by thy prose; And that Matters have been unavoidably led, That thou must have written, and I must have read? ’Tis certain—for what but a Bias of Fate Could have tied me so long to the Subjects I hate? 70 O! blest be the Time, when, my Mira, we stray’d Where the Nightingale perch’d, and the wanton winds play’d; Where these were the Secrets of Nature we knew, That her Roses were red, and her Vi’lets were blue; That soft was the Gloom of the Summer-swell’d shade, And melting the Fall of the dying Cascade. Blest, the Song shall repeat, be the Pleasures that reign In the plenty-prest Vale, on the green-vested Plain! Give Locke to the Winds, and lay Hume on the Fire; Let Metaphysicians in Darkness expire, 80 And Fatalists, Fabulists, Logicians fall by The Laws which Necessity modulates all by; Let the Slumber of Sense, and the Silence of Spleen, Lay hold upon Priestley, that learned Machine; Or, what will to us, my dear Maid, be the same, May we cease to admire each ostensible Name, And, blest with those Pleasures the Muses desire, See Learning, unenvied, to Students retire!
[FROM BELVOIR CASTLE.]
[About 1782–3.]
Oh! had I but a little hut That I might hide my head in; Where never guest might dare molest, Unwelcome or unbidden.
I’d take the jokes of other folks And mine should then succeed ’em; Nor would I chide a little pride, Or heed a little freedom.
THE LADIES OF THE LAKE.
[Normanston, 1785.]
Shall I, who oft have woo’d the Muse For gentle Ladies’ sake, So fair a theme as this refuse— The Ladies of the Lake?
Hail, happy pair! ’tis yours to share Life’s elegance and ease: The bliss of wealth without the care, The will and power to please—
To please, but not alone our eyes, Nor yet alone our mind; 10 Your taste, your goodness, charm the wise— Your manners all mankind.
The pleasant scenes that round you glow, Like caskets fraught with gold, Though beauteous in themselves, yet owe Their worth to what they hold.
Trees may be found, and lakes, as fair; Fresh lawns, and gardens green; But where again the Sister-pair Who animate the scene? 20
Where sense of that superior kind, Without man’s haughty air? And where, without the trifling mind, The softness of the fair?
Folly, with wealth, may idly raise Her hopes to shine like you, And humble flattery sound her praise, Till she believes it true;
But wealth no more can give that grace To souls of meaner kind, 30 Than summer’s fiery sun can chase Their darkness from the blind.
But drop, you’ll say, the useless pen! Reluctant, I obey; Yet let me take it once again, If not to praise, to pray:
That you, with partial grace, may deign This poor attempt to take, And I may oft behold again The Ladies of the Lake. 40
INFANCY—A FRAGMENT.
Who on the new-born light can back return, And the first efforts of the soul discern— Waked by some sweet maternal smile, no more To sleep so long or fondly as before? No! Memory cannot reach, with all her power, To that new birth, that life-awakening hour. No! all the traces of her first employ Are keen perceptions of the senses’ joy, And their distaste—what then could they impart?— That figs were luscious, and that rods had smart. 10 But, though the Memory in that dubious way Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day, And thus encounters, in the doubtful view, With imperfection and distortion too: Can she not tell us, as she looks around, Of good and evil, which the most abound? Alas! and what is earthly good? ’tis lent Evil to hide, to soften, to prevent, By scenes and shows that cheat the wandering eye, While the more pompous misery passes by— 20 Shifts and amusements that awhile succeed; And heads are turn’d, that bosoms may not bleed. For what is Pleasure, that we toil to gain? ’Tis but the slow or rapid flight of Pain. Set Pleasure by, and there would yet remain, For every nerve and sense the sting of Pain: Set Pain aside, and fear no more the sting, And whence your hopes and pleasures can ye bring? No! there is not a joy beneath the skies, That from no grief nor trouble shall arise. 30 Why does the Lover with such rapture fly To his dear mistress?—He shall show us why:— Because her absence is such cause of grief That her sweet smile alone can yield relief.— Why, then, that smile is Pleasure!—True, yet still ’Tis but the absence of the former ill: For, married, soon at will he comes and goes; } Then pleasures die, and pains become repose, } And he has none of these, and therefore none of those. } Yes! looking back as early as I can, 40} I see the griefs that seize their subject Man; } That in the weeping Child their early reign began. } Yes! though Pain softens, and is absent since, He still controls me like my lawful prince. Joys I remember, like phosphoric light Or squibs and crackers on a gala night. Joys are like oil: if thrown upon the tide Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside. Griefs are like waters on the river thrown: They mix entirely, and become its own. 50 Of all the good that grew of early date, I can but parts and incidents relate: A guest arriving, or a borrow’d day From school, or schoolboy triumph at some play: And these from Pain may be deduced; for these Removed some ill—and hence their power to please. But it was Misery stung me in the day Death of an infant sister made a prey; For then first met and moved my early fears, A father’s terrors, and a mother’s tears. 60 Though greater anguish I have since endured— Some heal’d in part, some never to be cured: Yet was there something in that first-born ill, So new, so strange, that memory feels it still! _That_ my first grief: but, oh! in after-years Were other deaths, that call’d for other tears. No! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint— } That patient sufferer, that enduring saint, } Holy and lovely—but all words are faint. } But here I dwell not—let me, while I can, 70 Go to the Child, and lose the suffering Man! Sweet was the morning’s breath, the inland tide, } And our boat gliding, where alone could glide } Small craft—and they oft touch’d on either side. } It was my first-born joy. I heard them say, “Let the child go; he will enjoy the day.” For children ever feel delighted when They take their portion, and enjoy with men. Give him the pastime that the old partake, And he will quickly top and taw forsake. 80 The linnet chirp’d upon the furze as well, To my young sense, as sings the nightingale. Without was paradise—because within Was a keen relish, without taint of sin. A town appear’d—and, where an infant went, Could they determine, on themselves intent? I lost my way, and my companions me, And all, their comforts and tranquillity. Mid-day it was, and, as the sun declined, The good, found early, I no more could find 90 The men drank much, to whet the appetite; } And, growing heavy, drank to make them light; } Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite. } Their cheerfulness did but a moment last; Something fell short, or something overpast. The lads play’d idly with the helm and oar, } And nervous women would be set on shore, } Till “civil dudgeon” grew, and peace would smile no more. } Now on the colder water faintly shone The sloping light—the cheerful day was gone; 100 Frown’d every cloud, and from the gather’d frown The thunder burst, and rain came pattering down. My torpid senses now my fears obey’d, When the fierce lightning on the eye-balls play’d. Now, all the freshness of the morning fled, My spirits burden’d, and my heart was dead; The female servants show’d a child their fear, And men, full wearied, wanted strength to cheer; And when, at length, the dreaded storm went past, And there was peace and quietness at last, 110 ’Twas not the morning’s quiet—it was not Pleasure revived, but Misery forgot; It was not Joy that now commenced her reign, But mere relief from wretchedness and Pain. So many a day, in life’s advance, I knew; So they commenced, and so they ended too. All Promise they—all Joy as they began! But Joy grew less, and vanish’d as they ran! Errors and evils came in many a form— The mind’s delusion, and the passions’ storm. 120 The promised joy, that like this morning rose, Broke on my view, then clouded at its close; E’en Love himself, that promiser of bliss, Made his best days of pleasure end like this: He mix’d his bitters in the cup of joy Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy.
THE MAGNET.
Why force the backward heart on love, That of itself the flame might feel? When you the Magnet’s power would prove, Say, would you strike it on the Steel?
From common flints you may by force Excite some transient sparks of fire; And so, in natures rude and coarse, Compulsion may provoke desire.
But when, approaching by degrees, The Magnet to the Steel draws nigh, 10 At once they feel, each other seize, And rest in mutual sympathy.
So must the Lover find his way To move the heart he hopes to win— Must not in distant forms delay— Must not in rude assaults begin.
For such attractive power has Love, We justly each extreme may fear: ’Tis lost when we too distant prove, And when we rashly press too near. 20
STORM AND CALM.
(From the Album of the Duchess of Rutland.)
At sea when threatening tempests rise, When angry winds the waves deform, The seaman lifts to Heaven his eyes, And deprecates the dreaded storm: “Ye furious powers, no more contend; Ye winds and seas, your conflict end; And on the mild subsiding deep, Let Fear repose and Terror sleep!”
At length the waves are hush’d in peace, O’er flying clouds the sun prevails; 10 The weary winds their efforts cease, And fill no more the flagging sails; Fix’d to the deep the vessel rides Obedient to the changing tides; No helm she feels, no course she keeps, But on the liquid marble sleeps.
Sick of a Calm the sailor lies, And views the still, reflecting seas; Or, whistling to the burning skies, He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze. 20 The silent noon, the solemn night, The same dull round of thoughts excite; Till, tired of the revolving train, He wishes for the Storm again.
Thus, when I felt the force of Love, When all the passion fill’d my breast— When, trembling, with the storm I strove, And pray’d, but vainly pray’d, for rest: ’Twas tempest all, a dreadful strife For ease, for joy, for more than life: 30 ’Twas every hour to groan and sigh In grief, in fear, in jealousy.
I suffer’d much, but found at length Composure in my wounded heart; The mind attain’d its former strength, And bade the lingering hopes depart; Then Beauty smiled, and I was gay, I view’d her as the cheerful day; And, if she frown’d, the clouded sky Had greater terrors for mine eye. 40
I slept, I waked, and, morn and eve, The noon, the night appear’d the same; No thought arose the soul to grieve, To me no thought of pleasure came; Doom’d the dull comforts to receive Of wearied passions still and tame.— “Alas!” I cried, when years had flown— “Must no awakening joy be known? Must never Hope’s inspiring breeze Sweep off this dull and torpid ease— 50 Must never Love’s all-cheering ray Upon the frozen fancy play— Unless they seize the passive soul, And with resistless power control? Then let me all their force sustain, And bring me back the Storm again!”
SATIRE.
I love not the satiric Muse: No man on earth would I abuse; Nor with empoison’d verses grieve The most offending son of Eve. Leave him to law, if he have done What injures any other son! It hardens man to see his name Exposed to public mirth or shame; And rouses, as it spoils his rest, The baser passions of his breast. 10
Attack a book—attack a song— You will not do essential wrong; You may their blemishes expose, And yet not be the writer’s foes. But, when the man you thus attack, And him expose with critic art, You put a creature to the rack— You wring, you agonise, his heart. No farther honest Satire can In all her enmity proceed, 20 Than, passing by the wicked Man, To execrate the wicked Deed.
If so much virtue yet remain That he would feel the sting and pain, That virtue is a reason why The Muse her sting should not apply. If no such Virtue yet survive, What is your angry Satire worth, But to arouse the sleeping hive, And send the raging Passions forth, 30 In bold, vindictive, angry flight, To sting wherever they alight?
[THE NEW SAMARITAN.]
A weary Traveller walk’d his way, With grief and want and pain opprest. His looks were sad, his locks were grey; He sought for food, he sigh’d for rest.
A wealthy grazier pass’d—“Attend,” The sufferer cried—“some aid allow!”— “Thou art not of my parish, Friend; Nor am I in mine office now.”
He dropt, and more impatient pray’d— A mild adviser heard the word: 10 “Be patient, Friend!” he kindly said, “And wait the leisure of the Lord.”
Another comes!—“Turn, stranger, turn!” “Not so!” replied a voice: “I mean “The candle of the Lord to burn With mine own flock on Save-all Green;
“To war with Satan, thrust for thrust; To gain my lamb he led astray; The Spirit drives me: on I must— Yea, woe is me, if I delay!” 20
But WOMAN came! by Heaven design’d To ease the heart that throbs with pain— She gave relief—abundant—kind— And bade him go in peace again.
BELVOIR CASTLE.
(Written at the request of the Duchess Dowager of Rutland, and inscribed in her Album, 1812.)
When native Britons British lands possess’d— Their glory freedom, and their blessing rest— A powerful chief this lofty Seat survey’d, And here his mansion’s strong foundation laid. In his own ground the massy stone he sought, From his own woods the rugged timbers brought, Rudeness and greatness in his work combined— An humble taste with an aspiring mind. His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o’erspread; Warriors and vassals at his table fed; 10 Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will, And hail’d his mansion on the mighty hill. In a new age a Saxon Lord appear’d, And on the lofty base his dwelling rear’d. Then first the grand but threatening form was known, And to the subject-vale a Castle shown, Where strength alone appear’d—the gloomy wall Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall; In chilling rooms the sudden fagot gleam’d; On the rude board the common banquet steam’d. 20 Astonish’d peasants fear’d the dreadful skill That placed such wonders on their favourite hill; The soldier praised it as he march’d around, And the dark building o’er the valley frown’d. A Norman Baron, in succeeding times, Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes, In feudal pomp appear’d. It was his praise A loftier dome with happier skill to raise; His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose; Here friends were feasted—here confined were foes. 30 In distant chambers, with her female train, Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign. Curb’d by no laws, his vassal-tribe he sway’d— The Lord commanded, and the slave obey’d. No soft’ning arts in those fierce times were found, But rival Barons spread their terrors round; Each, in the fortress of his power, secure, Of foes was fearless, and of soldiers sure; And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised, Long held the Castle that his might had raised. 40 Came gentler times—the Barons ceased to strive With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive; Impell’d by softening arts, by honour charm’d, Fair ladies studied and brave heroes arm’d. The Lord of Belvoir then his Castle view’d, Strong without form, and dignified but rude; The dark long passage, and the chambers small, Recess and secret hold, he banish’d all; Took the rude gloom and terror from the place, And bade it shine with majesty and grace. 50 Then arras first o’er rugged walls appear’d; Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheer’d; In each superior room were polish’d floors, Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors. All was improved within, and then below Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow; The silver flagon on the table stood, And to the vassal left the horn and wood. Dress’d in his liveries, of his honours vain, Came at the Baron’s call a menial train— 60 Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight; Loud in the feast, and fearless in the fight. Then every eye the stately fabric drew To every part; for all were fair to view. The powerful chief the far-famed work descried, And heard the public voice that waked his pride. Pleased he began—“About, above, below, What more can wealth command, or science show? Here taste and grandeur join with massy strength; Slow comes perfection, but it comes at length. 70 Still must I grieve: these halls and towers sublime, Like vulgar domes, must feel the force of time; And, when decay’d, can future days repair What I in these have made so strong and fair? My future heirs shall want of power deplore, When Time destroys what Time cannot restore.” Sad in his glory, serious in his pride, At once the chief exulted and he sigh’d; Dreaming he sigh’d, and still, in sleep profound, His thoughts were fix’d within the favourite bound: 80 When lo! another Castle rose in view, That in an instant all his pride o’erthrew. In that he saw what massy strength bestows, And what from grace and lighter beauty flows— Yet all harmonious; what was light and free, Robb’d not the weightier parts of dignity; Nor what was ponderous hid the work of grace, But all were just, and all in proper place. Terrace on terrace rose, and there was seen Adorn’d with flowery knolls the sloping green, 90 Bounded by balmy shrubs from climes unknown, And all the nobler trees that grace our own. Above, he saw a giant-tower ascend, That seem’d the neighbouring beauty to defend Of some light graceful dome—“And this,” he cried, “Awakes my pleasure, though it wounds my pride.” He saw apartments where appear’d to rise What seem’d as men, and fix’d on him their eyes— Pictures that spoke; and there were mirrors tall, Doubling each wonder by reflecting all. 100 He saw the genial board, the massy plate, Grace unaffected, unencumber’d state; And something reach’d him of the social arts, That soften manners, and that conquer hearts. Wrapt in amazement, as he gazed he saw A form of heav’nly kind, and bow’d in awe: The spirit view’d him with benignant grace, And styled himself the Genius of the Place. “Gaze, and be glad!” he cried, “for this, indeed, Is the fair Seat that shall to thine succeed, 110 When these famed kingdoms shall as sisters be, And one great sovereign rule the powerful three. Then yon rich Vale, far stretching to the west, Beyond thy bound, shall be by _one_ possess’d; Then shall true grace and dignity accord— With splendour, ease—the Castle with its Lord.” The Baron waked—“It was,” he cried, “a view Lively as truth, and I will think it true. Some gentle spirit to my mind has brought Forms of fair works to be hereafter wrought; 120 But yet of mine a part will then remain, Nor will that Lord its humbler worth disdain; Mix’d with his mightier pile shall mine be found, By him protected, and with his renown’d; He who its full destruction could command, } A part shall save from the destroying hand, } And say, ‘It long has stood—still honour’d let it stand!’” }
THE WORLD OF DREAMS.
I.
And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep? Thy senses, thy affections, fled? No play of fancy thine, to keep Oblivion from that grave, thy bed? Then art thou but the breathing dead; I envy, but I pity too: The bravest may _my_ terrors dread, The happiest fain _my_ joys pursue.
II.
Soon as the real World I lose, Quick Fancy takes her wonted way, 10 Or Baxter’s sprites my soul abuse— For how it is I cannot say, Nor, to what powers a passive prey, I feel such bliss, I fear such pain; But all is gloom, or all is gay, Soon as th’ ideal World I gain.
III.
Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep! Vain troubles of the world, farewell! Spirits of Ill! your distance keep— And in your own dominions dwell, 20 Ye, the sad emigrants from hell! Watch, dear seraphic beings, round, And these black Enemies repel; Safe be my soul, my slumbers sound!
IV.
In vain I pray! It is my sin That thus admits the shadowy throng. Oh! now they break tumultuous in— Angels of darkness fierce and strong! Oh! I am borne of fate along; My soul, subdued, admits the foe, 30 Perceives and yet endures the wrong, Resists, and yet prepares to go.
V.
Where am I now? and what to meet? Where I have been entrapt before: The wicked city’s vilest street— I know what I must now explore. The dark-brow’d throng, more near and more, With murderous looks are on me thrust; And lo! they ope the accursed door, And I must go—I know I must! 40
VI.
That female fiend!—Why is she there? Alas! I know her.—Oh, begone! Why is that tainted bosom bare? Why fix’d on me that eye of stone? Why have they left us thus alone? I saw the deed—why then appear? Thou art not form’d of blood and bone! Come not, dread being, come not near!
VII.
So! all is quiet, calm, serene; I walk a noble mansion round— 50 From room to room, from scene to scene, I breathless pass, in gloom profound; No human shape, no mortal sound— I feel an awe, I own a dread, And still proceed—nor stop nor bound— And all is silent, all is dead.
VIII.
Now I’m hurried, borne along, All is business! all alive! Heavens! how mighty is the throng, Voices humming like a hive! 60 Through the swelling crowd I strive, Bustling forth, my way to trace; Never fated to arrive At the still-expected place.
IX.
Ah me! how sweet the morning sun Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine! How soft those far-off rivers run— Those trees their leafy heads decline! Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine, Their health-imparting influence give: 70 Now, all that earth allows is mine— Now, now I dream not, but I live.
X.
My friend, my brother, lost in youth, I meet in doubtful, glad surprise; In conscious love, in fearless truth; What pleasures in the meeting rise! Ah! brief enjoyment!—Pleasure dies E’en in its birth, and turns to pain: He meets me with hard glazèd eyes! He quits me—spurns me—with disdain! 80
XI.
I sail the sea, I walk the land; In all the world am I alone: Silent I pace the sea-worn sand, Silent I view the princely throne; I listen heartless for the tone Of winds and waters, but in vain; Creation dies without a groan; And I without a hope remain!
XII.
Unnumber’d riches I behold; Glories untasted I survey— 90 My heart is sick, my bosom cold, Friends! neighbours! kindred! where are they, In the sad, last, long, endless day: When I can neither pray nor weep, Doom’d o’er the sleeping world to stray, And not to die, and not to sleep?
XIII.
Beside the summer sea I stand, Where the slow billows swelling shine. How beautiful this pearly sand, That waves, and winds, and years refine! 100 Be this delicious quiet mine— The joy of youth, so sweet before, When I could thus my frame recline, And watch th’ entangled weeds ashore!
XIV.
Yet, I remember not that sea, That other shore on yonder side: Between them narrow bound must be, If equal rise th’ opposing tide— Lo! lo! they rise—and I abide The peril of the meeting flood: 110 Away, away, my footsteps slide— I pant upon the clinging mud!
XV.
Oh, let me now possession take Of this—it cannot be a dream. Yes! now the soul must be awake— These pleasures are—they do not seem. And is it true? Oh joy extreme! All whom I loved, and thought them dead, Far down in Lethe’s flowing stream, And, with them, life’s best pleasures fled: 120
XVI.
Yes, many a tear for them I shed— Tears that relieve the anxious breast; And now, by heavenly favour led, We meet—and One, the fairest, best, Among them—ever-welcome guest, Within the room, that seem’d destroy’d— This room endear’d, and still possess’d, By this dear party still enjoy’d!
XVII.
Speak to me! speak! that I may know I am thus happy!—dearest, speak! 130 Those smiles that haunt fond memory show! Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak; But yet ’tis joy—And all I seek Is mine! What glorious day is this! Now let me bear with spirit meek An hour of pure and perfect bliss.
XVIII.
But do ye look indeed as friends? Is there no change? Are [ye not] cold? Oh! I do dread that Fortune lends Fictitious good!—that I behold, 140 To lose, these treasures, which of old Were all my glory, all my pride: May not these arms that form infold? Is all affection asks denied?
XIX.
Say, what is this?—How are we tried In this sad world!—I know not these— All strangers, none to me allied— Those aspects blood and spirit freeze: Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare; And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm, 150 Resume thy wonted looks and air, And break this melancholy charm!
XX.
And are they vanish’d? Is she lost? Shall never day that form restore? Oh! I am all by fears engross’d; Sad truth has broken in once more, And I the brief delight deplore. How durst they such resemblance take? Heavens! with what grace the mask they wore! Oh, from what visions I awake! 160
XXI.
Once more, once more upon the shore! Now back the rolling ocean flows: The rocky bed now far before On the receding water grows— The treasures and the wealth it owes To human misery—all in view; Fate all on me at once bestows, From thousands robb’d and murder’d too.
XXII.
But, lo! whatever I can find Grows mean and worthless as I view: 170 They promise, but they cheat the mind, As promises are born to do. How lovely every form and hue, Till seized and master’d—Then arise, For all that admiration drew, All that our senses can despise!
XXIII.
Within the basis of a tower, I saw a plant—it graced the spot; There was within nor wind nor shower, And this had life that flowers have not. 180 I drew it forth—Ah, luckless lot! It was the mandrake; and the sound Of anguish deeply smother’d shot Into my breast with pang profound.
XXIV.
“I would I were a soaring bird,” Said Folly, “and I then would fly.” Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard— “You can but fall—suppose you try! And, though you may not mount the sky, You will not grovel in the mire.” 190 Hail, words of comfort! Now can I Spurn earth, and to the air aspire.
XXV.
And this, before, might I have done If I had courage—that is all. ’Tis easier now to soar than run; Up! up!—we neither tire nor fall. Children of dust, be yours to crawl On the vile earth!—while, happier, I Must listen to an inward call, That bids me mount, that makes me fly. 200
XXVI.
I tumble from the loftiest tower, Yet evil have I never found; Supported by some favouring power, I come in safety to the ground. I rest upon the sea, the sound Of many waters in mine ear; Yet have no dread of being drown’d, But see my way, and cease to fear.
XXVII.
Awake, there is no living man Who may my fixed spirit shake; 210 But, sleeping, there is one who can, And oft does he the trial make. Against his might resolves I take, And him oppose with high disdain; But quickly all my powers forsake My mind, and I resume my chain.
XXVIII.
I know not how, but I am brought Into a large and Gothic hall, Seated with those I never sought— Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers—silent all; 220 Pale as the dead; enrobed and tall, Majestic, frozen, solemn, still; They wake my fears, my wits appal, And with both scorn and terror fill.
XXIX.
Now are they seated at a board In that cold grandeur—I am there. But what can mummied kings afford? This is their meagre ghostly fare, And proves what fleshless things they stare! Yes! I am seated with the dead: 230 How great, and yet how mean they are! Yes! I can scorn them while I dread?
XXX.
They’re gone!—and in their room I see A fairy being, form and dress Brilliant as light; nor can there be On earth that heavenly loveliness; Nor words can that sweet look express, Or tell what living gems adorn That wond’rous beauty: who can guess Where such celestial charms were born? 240
XXXI.
Yet, as I wonder and admire, The grace is gone, the glory dead; And now it is but mean attire Upon a shrivel’d beldame spread; Laid loathsome on a pauper’s bed, Where wretchedness and woe are found, And the faint putrid odour shed By all that’s foul and base around!
XXXII.
A garden this? oh, lovely breeze! Oh, flowers that with such freshness bloom!— 250 Flowers shall I call such forms as these, Or this delicious air perfume? Oh! this from better worlds must come; On earth such beauty who can meet? No! this is not the native home Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet!
XXXIII.
Where? where?—am I reduced to this— Thus sunk in poverty extreme? Can I not these vile things dismiss? No! they are things that more than seem: 260 This room with that cross-parting beam Holds yonder squalid tribe and me— But they were ever thus, nor dream Of being wealthy, favour’d, free!—
XXXIV.
Shall I a coat and badge receive, And sit among these crippled men, And not go forth without the leave Of him—and ask it humbly then— Who reigns in this infernal den— Where all beside in woe repine? 270 Yes, yes, I must: nor tongue nor pen Can paint such misery as mine!
XXXV.
Wretches! if ye were only poor, You would my sympathy engage; Or, were ye vicious, and no more, I might be fill’d with manly rage; Or had ye patience, wise and sage We might such worthy sufferers call; But ye are birds that suit your cage— Poor, vile, impatient, worthless all! 280
XXXVI.
How came I hither? Oh, that Hag! ’Tis she the enchanting spell prepares; By cruel witchcraft she can drag My struggling being in her snares: Oh, how triumphantly she glares; But yet would leave me, could I make Strong effort to subdue my cares!— ’TIS MADE!—and I to Freedom wake!
[HIS MOTHER’S WEDDING-RING.]
[About 1813–4.]
The ring so worn, as you behold, So thin, so pale, is yet of gold. The passion such it was to prove: Worn with life’s cares, love yet was love.
[PARHAM REVISITED.]
[1814.]
Yes, I behold again the place, The seat of joy, the source of pain; It brings in view the form and face That I must never see again.
The night-bird’s song that sweetly floats On this soft gloom—this balmy air, Brings to the mind her sweeter notes That I again must never hear.
Lo! yonder shines that window’s light, My guide, my token, heretofore; 10 And now again it shines as bright, When those dear eyes can shine no more.
Then hurry from this place away! It gives not now the bliss it gave; For Death has made its charm his prey, And joy is buried in her grave.
FLIRTATION.
A Dialogue.
(May, 1816.)
From her own room, in summer’s softest eve, Stept _Celia_ forth, her _Delia_ to receive— Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared: _C._ War and the waves my fav’rite Youth have spared; Faithful and fond, through many a painful year, My Charles will come——Do give me joy, my dear! _D._ I give you joy, and so may he; but still, ’Tis right to question, if ’tis sure he will; A sailor’s open honest heart we prize; But honest sailors have their ears and eyes. 10 _C._ Oh! but he surely will on me depend, Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend. _D._ Be not secure; the very best have foes, } And facts they would not to the world expose; } And these he may be told, if he converse with those. } _C._ Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincere And naked truth—and what have I to fear? _D._ I speak in friendship; and I do confess If I were you, the Truth should wear a dress: If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind, 20 Would you to him present the naked mind? If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks One’s joy to think that he may fancy specks; And now, in five long years, we scarcely know How the mind gets them, and how large they grow. Let woman be as rigid as a nun, She cannot censures and surmises shun. Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells— Your father’s rooms were not like sisters’ cells; Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars, 30 But well-dress’d captains, and approving squires. _C._ What these to me, admit th’ account be true? _D._ Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you! _C._ Well! to my friend I may the truth confess, Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess; Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote Those pretty verses, he began to dote; That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop A moment with him, at my feet would drop; Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake, 40} I to my favour often used to take— } And was, vile world! my character at stake? } If such reports my Sailor’s ear should reach, What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach; If without cause ill-judging men suspect, What may not all these harmless Truths effect? And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail, What must we fear if conscious we are frail? And well you know, my friend, nor fear t’ impart, The tender frailties of the yielding heart. 50 _D._ Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care; I not your frailties, but your suffering, share. You may my counsel, if you will, refuse; But, pray, beware how you my name accuse! _C._ Accuse you! No! there is no need of One, To do what long the public voice has done. What misses, then at school, forget the fall } Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall? } That was a first exploit, and we were witness all; } And that sad night, upon my faithful breast, 60 We wept together, till we sank to rest. You own’d your love—— _D._ A girl, a chit, a child! Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled? _C._ Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart, And say how many there have had a part! Six I remember; and, if Fame be true, The handsome Serjeant had his portion too. _D._ A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise, Do use some small discretion in such lies! A Serjeant, Celia?—— _C._ Handsome, smart, and clean. 70 Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien, That might excuse you, had you giv’n your hand— But this your father could not understand. _D._ Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown, As if you’d not a secret of your own! Yet would you tremble, should your Sailor know What I, or my small cabinet, could show: He might suspect a heart with many a wound, Shallow and deep, could never more be sound; That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled, 80} The feeling ceases, and the love is dead; } But sense exists, and passion serves instead. } _C._ Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid! Is thus my confidential faith repaid? Is this the counsel that we two have held, When duty trembled, and desire rebell’d; The sister-vows we made, through many a night, To aid each other in the arduous fight With the harsh-minded powers who never think What nature needs, nor will at weakness wink? 90 And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot, } The wish oft whisper’d, the imagined lot, } The secret Hymen, the sequester’d cot? } And will you thus our bond of friendship rend, And join the world in censure of your friend? Oh! ’tis not right! as all with scorn must see, Although the certain mischief falls on me. _D._ Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restore And make our friendship perfect as before; Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn, 100 And yet we dearly love their faults and them? So our reproofs to tender minds are shown: We treat their wanderings as we treat our own; We are each other’s conscience, and we tell Our friend her fault, because we wish her well; We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case, Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace. Creatures in prison, ere the trying day, Their answers practise, and their powers essay. By means like these they guard against surprise, 110 And all the puzzling questions that may rise. “Guilty or not?” His lawyer thus address’d A wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest.”— “Why, then, my friend, we’ve nothing here to say, But you’re in danger! prithee heed your way! _You_ know your truth, _I_ where your error lies: From your ‘_Not_ guilty’ will your danger rise.”— “Oh! but I _am_, and I have here the gain Of wicked craft”—“Then let it _here_ remain; For we must guard it by a sure defence, 120 And not professions of your innocence; For that’s the way, whatever you suppose, To slip your neck within the ready noose.” Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise, Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies; It is confess’d, that not the good and pure Are in this world of calumny secure— And therefore never let a lass rely Upon her goodness and her chastity! Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth 130 Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth; Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame, She grows discreet, and well defends her fame, And thus, offending, better makes her way— As Joseph Surface argues in the play— Than when in virtue’s strength she proudly stood, So wrongly right, and so absurdly good. Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try } His own dear damsel—questioning how and why— } Let her be ready, arm’d with prompt reply; 140} No hesitation let the man discern, But answer boldly, then accuse in turn: Some trifling points with candid speech confess’d, You gain a monstrous credit for the rest. Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown, And with your anger keep his malice down; Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heart To sue for pardon, when you come to part. But let him have it; let him go in peace, And all inquiries of themselves will cease; 150 To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast, Have a few tears _in petto_ at the last— But this with care! for ’tis a point of doubt, If you should end with weeping or without. ’Tis true you much affect him by your pain, But he may want to prove his power again; And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes— A girl is never handsome when she cries. Take it for granted, in a general way, The more you weep for men, the more you may. 160 Save your resources; for, though now you cry With good effect, you may not by and by. It is a knack; and there are those that weep Without emotion, that a man may sleep; Others disgust—’tis genius, not advice, That will avail us in a thing so nice. If you should love him, you have greater need Of all your care, and may not then succeed. For that’s our bane—we should be conquerors all With hearts untouch’d—our feelings cause our fall. 170 But your experience aids you: you can hide Your real weakness in your borrow’d pride. But to the point—should so the Charge be laid, That nought against it fairly can be said— How would you act? You would not then confess?— _C._ Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess! To mute contempt I would alone resort For the Reporters, and for their Report. If he profess’d forgiveness, I would cry— “Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I! 180 Such errors pardon! he that so would act Would, I am sure, be guilty of the fact. Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean, I would not longer in your walks be seen; Could you such woman for a moment prize? You might forgive her, but you must despise.” _D._ Bravo, my girl! ’tis then our sex command, When we can seize the weapon in their hand; When we their charge so manage, that ’tis found To save the credit it was meant to wound. 190 Those who by reasons their acquittal seek, Make the whole sex contemptible and weak; This, too, observe—that men of sense in love Dupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove; For all that knowledge lent them as a guide, Goes off entirely to the lady’s side; Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more, And gains perception that he lack’d before. His honest passion blinds the man of sense. While want of feeling is the fool’s defence; 200 Arm’d with insensibility he comes; When more repell’d, he but the more assumes, And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit; For, where we cannot conquer, we submit. But come, my love! let us examine now, } These Charges all—say, what shall we avow, } Admit, deny; and which defend, and how? } That old affair between your friend and you, When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu, May be forgotten; yet we should prepare 210 For all events—and are you guarded there? _C._ Oh! ’tis long since—I might the whole deny— “So poor, and so contemptible a lie! Charles, if ’tis pleasant to abuse your friend, Let there be something that she may defend; This is too silly—” _D._ Well you may appear With so much spirit—not a witness near; Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain, You may assume the airs of high disdain. But, for my Brother—night and morn were you 220 Together found, th’ inseparable two, Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men— In the old abbey—in the lonely glen— In the beech-wood—within the quarry made By hands long dead—within the silent glade, Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flows By the grey willows as they stand in rows— Shall I proceed? there’s not a quiet spot In all the parish where the pair were not Oft watch’d, oft seen. You must not so despise 230 This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise? _C._ “Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child! A friend’s relation! Why, the man is wild— A boy not yet at college! Come, this proves Some truth in you! This is a freak of Love’s: I must forgive it, though I know not how A thing so very simple to allow. Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy, And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy? But I remember Delia—yet, to give 240 A thought to this is folly, as I live— But I remember Delia made her prayer That I would try and give the Boy an air; Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took— A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book; And since the lad is grown to man’s estate, We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.” _D._ Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art, Our father’s will compelled you both to part. _C._ Nay, this is needless— _D._ Oh! when you are tried, 250 And taught for trial, must I feed your pride? Oh! that’s the vice of which I still complain: Men could not triumph were not women vain. But now proceed—say _boyhood_ in this case (The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace. But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove, And all your friends, that here indeed was love. For three long months you met as lovers meet, And half the town has seen him at your feet; Then, on the evil day that saw you part, 260 Your ashy looks betray’d your aching heart. With this against you—— _C._ This, my watchful friend, Confess I cannot, therefore must defend. “Shelley! dear Charles, how enter’d he your mind? Well may they say that jealousy is blind! Of all the men who talk’d with me of love, His were the offers I could least approve; My father’s choice—and, Charles, you must agree } That my good father seldom thinks with me— } Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea! } It was so odious—when that man was near, 271 My father never could himself appear; Had I received his fav’rite with a frown, Upon my word he would have knock’d me down.” _D._ Well! grant you durst not frown—but people say That you were dying when he went away. Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain; And how explain it?— _C._ Oh! I’ll soon explain. “I sicken’d, say you, when the man was gone— Could I be well, if sickness would come on? 280 Fact follows fact; but is ‘t of Nature’s laws That one of course must be the other’s cause? Just as her husband tried his fav’rite gun, My cousin brought him forth his first-born son— The birth might either flash or fright succeed, But neither, sure, were causes of the deed. That Shelley left us, it is very true— That sickness found me, I confess it too; But that the one was cause, and one effect, Is a conceit I utterly reject. 290 You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please, That disappointment will bring on disease; But, if it should, I would be glad to know If ’tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow? A heart may suffer, if a lady doat; But will she feel her anguish in the throat? I’ve heard of pangs that tender folks endure, But not that linctuses and blisters cure.”— Your thoughts, my Delia? _D._ What I think of this? Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss. 300 But there are humours; and, by them possess’d, A lover will not hearken to a jest. Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair, We know your father was indignant there: He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should press For explanation, what would you confess? You cannot there on his commands presume; Besides, you fainted in a public room; There own’d your flame, and, like heroic maid, The sovereign impulse of your will obey’d. 310 What, to your thinking, was the world’s disdain? You could retort its insolence again. Your boundless passion boldly you avow’d, And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud; Associates, servants, friends, alike can prove The world-defying force of Celia’s love. Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison her Whom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer? And then that frantic quarrel at the ball— It must be known, and he will hear it all. 320 Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time, How best to answer what he thinks a crime; For what he thinks might have but little weight, If you could answer— _C._ Then I’ll answer straight— Not without Truth; for who would vainly tell A wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well? Had I not Fever? is not that the bane Of human wisdom? was I not insane? “Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the day When it pleased Fate to take my wits away? 330 How can I answer for a thousand things That this disorder to the sufferer brings? Is it not known, the men whom you dislike Are those who now the erring fancy strike? Nor would it much surprise me, if ’twere true, That in those days of dread I slighted you. When the poor mind, illumined by no spark Of reason’s light, was wandering in the dark, You must not wonder, if the vilest train Of evil thoughts were printed on the brain; 340 Nor, if the loyal and the faithful prove False to their king, and faithless to their love.”— Your thoughts on this? _D._ With some you may succeed By such bold strokes; but they must love indeed. _C._ Doubt you his passion?— _D._ But in five long years The passion settles—then the reason clears. Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined, But by and by grows sober and refined, And peers for facts; but, if one can’t rely On truth, one takes one’s chance—you can but try. 350 Yet once again I must attention ask To a new Charge, and then resign my task. I would not hurt you; but confess at least That you were partial to that handsome Priest; Say what they will of his religious mind, He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind. Now, with his reverence you were daily seen, When it was winter and the weather keen, Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong, And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along— 360 That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal, You were too faithful or too fond to feel, Shielded from inward and from outward harm By the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm— The winter-garden you could both admire, And leave his sisters at the parlour fire; You trusted not your speech these dames among— Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue! Did not your father stop the pure delight Of this perambulating Love at night? 370 It is reported, that his craft contrived To get the Priest with expedition wived, And sent away; for fathers will suspect Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect— Patience, my dear! your Lover _will_ appear; At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer? “I hear,” says he—and he will look as grim As if he heard his lass accusing him— “I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks Kept the young Curate from his holy books. 380 Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray; } But ’tis their duty—not the better they; } ’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay— } Or, let the very best be understood, They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood. Now, they do say—but let me not offend— } You were too often with this pious friend, } And spent your time”—— } _C._ “As people ought to spend. } And, sir, if you of some divine would ask Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task. 390 But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’d By the dark meaning of a threat’ning text; You rather censure her who spends her time In search of Truth, as if it were a crime! Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel, To whom should I, in my distress, appeal? A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must, } When you will need a faithful Priest to trust, } In conscience tender, but in counsel just. } Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive, 400 And, if I could, would keep your Love alive; But there are things that our attention claim, More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!” _D._ “But why in secret?” he will ask you— _C._ “Why? Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy, Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun; What one confesses should be heard by one. Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long With such companions, that you will be wrong. We fill our minds from those with whom we live, 410 And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive; But learn your peace and my good name to prize, And fears of fancy let us both despise!” _D._ Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance— You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance. ’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just; The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust— Will he himself appear, or will he send, Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend? We need not ask—behold! his servant comes: 420 His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes. Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you space To arm your mind, and rectify your face. Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heart Feels all that his can dictate or impart. Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy tale Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale? It is his sister’s writing, but the seal Is red: he lives. What is it that you feel? _C._ Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat, 430 Or never trust him if we chance to meet— The fickle wretch! that from our presence flies To any flirt that any place supplies, And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here— “_Married at Guernsey!!!_”—Oh! the Villain, dear!
LINES IN LAURA’S ALBUM.
(These lines, were written at the desire of a young lady, who requested some verses on a cameo in her possession.)
See with what ease the child-like god Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod; How gaily, like a smiling boy, He seems his triumphs to enjoy, And looks as innocently mild As if he were indeed a child! But in that meekness who shall tell What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell? By him are tamed the fierce—the bold And haughty are by him controll’d; 10 The hero of th’ ensanguined field Finds there is neither sword nor shield Availing here. Amid his books The student thinks how Laura looks; The miser’s self, with heart of lead, With all the nobler feelings fled, Has thrown his darling treasures by, And sigh’d for something worth a sigh. Love over gentle natures reigns, A gentle master; yet his pains 20 Are felt by them, are felt by all, The bitter sweet, the honied gall, Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs, Sweet pain, and joys that agonise. Against a power like this, what arts, What virtues, can secure our hearts? In vain are both—the good, the wise, Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes; And then, to banish Virtue’s fear, Like Virtue’s self will Love appear; 30 Bid every anxious feeling cease, And all be confidence and peace. He such insidious method takes, He seems to heal the wound he makes; Till, master of the human breast, He shows himself the foe of rest, Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains, And now a very tyrant reigns. If, then, his power we cannot shun, And must endure—what can be done? 40 To whom, thus bound, can we apply?— To Prudence, as our best ally: For she, like Pallas, for the fight Can arm our eye with clearer sight; Can teach the happy art that gains A captive who will grace our chains, And, as we must the dart endure, To bear the wound we cannot cure.
LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK.
“You that in warlike stories take delight,” &c.
Hail, centre-county of our land, and known For matchless worth and valour all thine own— Warwick! renown’d for him who best could write, Shakspeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight, Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly, And giants fall—who has not heard of Guy? Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms, To gain immortal glory by his arms— Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintain’d, The prize of beauty over Venus gain’d; 10 For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot That marr’d some beauty, which our nymph had not: But, this apart—for in a fav’rite theme Poets and lovers are allow’d to dream— Still we believe the lady and her knight } Were matchless both: he in the glorious fight, } She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night. } Urged by his love, th’ adventurous Guy proceeds, And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds. Whatever prince his potent arm sustains, 20 However weak, the certain conquest gains; On every side the routed legions fly, Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy. To him the injured made their sufferings known, And he relieved all sorrows but his own; Ladies who owed their freedom to his might Were grieved to find his heart another’s right. The brood of giants, famous in those times, Fell by his arm, and perish’d for their crimes. Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought, 30 When he the crown of good Athelstan sought, Fell by the prowess of our champion brave, And his huge body found an English grave. But what to Guy were men, or great or small, Or one or many?—he despatch’d them all; A huge dun Cow, the dread of all around, A master-spirit in our hero found: ’Twas desolation all about her den— Her sport was murder, and her meals were men. At Dunmore Heath the monster he assail’d, 40 And o’er the fiercest of his foes prevail’d. Nor fear’d he lions more than lions fear Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear. A fiery dragon, whether green or red The story tells not, by his valour bled; What more I know not, but by these ’tis plain That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain. When much of life in martial deeds was spent, His sovereign lady found her heart relent, And gave her hand. Then all was joy around, 50 And valiant Guy with love and glory crown’d; Then Warwick Castle wide its gate display’d, And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made. Alas! not long—a hero knows not rest; A new sensation fill’d his anxious breast. His fancy brought before his eyes a train Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain; His dreams presented what his sword had done; He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run, And dying men, with every ghastly wound, 60 Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground. Alarm’d at this, he dared no longer stay, } But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray, } With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast and pray. } In vain his Felice sigh’d—nay, smiled in vain; } With all he loved he [dared] not long remain, } But roved he knew not where, nor said, “I come again.” } The widow’d countess pass’d her years in grief, But sought in alms and holy deeds relief; And many a pilgrim ask’d, with many a sigh, 70 To give her tidings of the wandering Guy. Perverse and cruel! could it conscience ease, A wife so lovely and so fond to tease? Or could he not with her a saint become, And, like a quiet man, repent at home? How different those who now this seat possess! No idle dreams disturb their happiness. The Lord who now presides o’er Warwick’s towers To nobler purpose dedicates his powers; No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear, 80 Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear. The lovely Felice of the present day Dreads not her lord should from her presence stray; He feels the charm that binds him to a seat Where love and honour, joy and duty, meet. But forty days could Guy his fair afford; Not forty years would weary Warwick’s lord. He better knows, how charms like hers control All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul; He better knows, that not on mortal strife, 90 Or deeds of blood, depend the bliss of life— But on the ties that first the heart enchain, And every grace that bids the charm remain. Time will, we know, to beauty work despite, And youthful bloom will take with him its flight; But Love shall still subsist, and, undecay’d, Feel not one change of all that Time has made.
ON A DRAWING OF THE ELM TREE, UNDER WHICH THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STOOD SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
Is there one heart that beats on English ground, One grateful spirit in the kingdoms round— One who had traced the progress of the foe, And does not hail the field of Waterloo; Who o’er that field, if but in thought, has gone, Without a grateful wish for Wellington? Within that field of glory rose a Tree (Which a fair hand has given us here to see), A noble tree that, pierced by many a ball, Fell not—decreed in time of peace to fall. 10 Nor shall it die unsung; for there shall be } In many a noble verse the praise of thee, } With that heroic chief—renown’d and glorious tree!— } Men shall divide thee, and thy smallest part Shall be to warm and stir the English heart; Form’d into shapes as fancy may design, In all, fair fame and honour shall be thine. The noblest ladies in the land with joy Shall own thy value in the slightest toy; Preserved through life, it shall a treasure prove, 20 And left to friends, a legacy of love. And thou, fair semblance of that tree sublime, Shalt a memorial be to distant time; Shalt wake a grateful sense in every heart, And noble thoughts to opening minds impart: Who shall hereafter learn what deeds were done, What nations freed, by Heaven and Wellington. Heroic tree we surely this may call— } Wounded it fell, and numbers mourn’d its fall; } It fell for many here, but there it stood for all. 30}
ON RECEIVING FROM A LADY A PRESENT OF A RING.
A ring to me Cecilia sends— And what to show?—that we are friends; That she with favour reads my lays, And sends a token of her praise: Such as the nun, with heart of snow, Might on her confessor bestow; Or which some favourite nymph would pay, Upon her grandsire’s natal day, And to his trembling hand impart The offering of a feeling heart. 10 And what shall I return the fair And flattering nymph?—A verse?—a prayer? For, were a Ring my present too, I see the smile that must ensue— The smile that pleases, though it stings, And says—“No more of giving rings: Remember, thirty years are gone, Old friend, since you presented one!” Well! one there is, or one shall be, To give a ring instead of me; 20 And with it sacred vows for life To love the fair—the angel-wife. In that one act may every grace, And every blessing have their place— And give to future hours the bliss, The charm of life, derived from this; And—when even love no more supplies; When weary nature sinks to rest— May brighter, steadier light arise, And make the parting moment blest! 30
TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL EXTRACTS.
Say, shall thine eye, and with the eye the mind, Dwell on a work for thee alone design’d? Traced by my hand, selected by my heart, Will it not pleasure to a friend impart, And her dear smile an ample payment prove For this light labour of aspiring love? Read, but with partial mind, the themes I choose; A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse! This shall a charm to every verse impart, And the cold line shall reach the willing heart; 10 For willing hearts the tamest song approve, All read with pleasure, when they read with love. There are no passions to the Muse unknown— Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity are her own. She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power, By varying moods to suit the varying hour; She plays with each, and veils in changing robes The grief she pities, and the love she probes. ’Tis hers for we the sullen smile to feign, } And Laughter lend to Envy’s rankling pain, 20} Soft Pity’s look to Scorn, mild Friendship’s to Disdain. } Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils, And weeps her transport, where expression fails.
TO A LADY, ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH.
Yes! I must go—it is a part That cruel Fortune has assign’d me— Must go, and leave, with aching heart, What most that heart adores, behind me.
Still I shall see thee on the sand Till o’er the space the water rises; Still shall in thought behind thee stand, And watch the look affection prizes.
But ah! what youth attends thy side, With eyes that speak his soul’s devotion— 10 To thee as constant as the tide That gives the restless wave its motion?
Still in thy train must he appear, For ever gazing, smiling, talking? Ah! would that he were sighing here, And I were there beside thee walking!
Wilt thou to him that arm resign, Who is to that dear heart a stranger, And with those matchless looks of thine The peace of this poor youth endanger? 20
Away this fear that fancy makes, When night and death’s dull image hide thee! In sleep, to thee my mind awakes; Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee.
Who could in absence bear the pain Of all this fierce and jealous feeling, But for the hope to meet again, And see those smiles all sorrow healing!
Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart, Lament that fate such friends should sever; 30 And I shall say—“We must not part;” And thou wilt answer—“Never, never!”
TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.
Of all the subjects poetry commands Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow; ’Tis like the streams in Afric’s burning sands, Exhausted now, and now they overflow. As heaping fuel on a kindling fire, So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise; For, when he would the cheerful warmth inspire, He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.
How shall I, then, the happy medium hit, And give the just proportion to my song? 10 How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit, Yet fear at once t’offend thee and to wrong? Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar, And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare: Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore— That all confess what I must not declare.
Yet on this day, in every passing year, Poets the tribute of their praise may bring; Nor should thy virtues then be so severe, As to forbid us of thy worth to sing. 20 Still I forbear; for why should I portray Those looks that seize—that mind that wins the heart— Since all the world, on this propitious day, Will tell how lovely and how good thou art?
TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING.
Oh! do not ask the Muse to show Or how we met, or how we part: The bliss, the pain, too well I know, That seize in turn this faithful heart. That meeting—it was tumult all— The eye was pleased, the soul was glad; But thus to memory I recall, And feel the parting doubly sad.
Yes, it was pleasant so to meet For us, who fear’d to meet no more, 10 When every passing hour was sweet— Sweeter, we thought, than all before. When eye from eye new meanings steal, When hearts approach, and thoughts unite— Then is, indeed, the time to feel, But, Laura! not a time to write.
And when at length compell’d to part, When fear is strong, and fancy weak; When in some distant good the heart For present ease is forced to seek; 20 When hurried spirits fall and rise, As on the changing views we dwell— How vainly then the sufferer tries In studied verse his pains to tell!
Time brings, indeed, his slow relief, In whom the passions live and die; He gives the bright’ning smile to grief, And his the soft consoling sigh. Till then, we vainly wish the power To paint the grief, or use the pen; 30 But distant far that quiet hour— And I must feel and grieve till then.
THE FRIEND IN LOVE.
[About 1816.]
Unhappy is the wretch who feels The trembling lover’s ardent flame, And yet the treacherous hope conceals By using Friendship’s colder name.
He must the lover’s pangs endure, And still the outward sign suppress; Nor may expect the smiles that cure The wounded heart’s conceal’d distress.
When her soft looks on others bend, By him discern’d, to him denied, 10 He must be then the silent friend, And all his jealous torments hide.
When she shall one blest youth select, His bleeding heart must still approve; Must every angry thought correct, And strive to like, where she can love.
Yet must he all his Pains conceal From her whom his fond Thoughts adore, In Fear of these which he must feel, If she that soothed them smiled no more. 20
Heaven from my heart such pangs remove, And let these feverish sufferings cease— These pains without the hope of love, These cares of friendship, not its peace!
[DISILLUSIONED.]
And wilt thou never smile again, Thy cruel purpose never shaken? Hast thou no feeling for my pain, Refused, disdain’d, despised, forsaken?
Thy uncle crafty, careful, cold, His wealth upon my mind imprinted; His fields described, and praised his fold, And jested, boasted, promised, hinted.
Thy aunt—I scorn’d the omen—spoke Of lovers by thy scorn rejected; 10 But I the warning never took, When chosen, cheer’d, received, rejected.
Thy brother, too—but all was plann’d To murder peace, all freely granted; And then I lived in fairy land, Transported, bless’d, enrapt, enchanted.
Oh, what a dream of happy love, From which the wise in time awaken; While I must all its anguish prove, Deceived, despised, abused, forsaken! 20
[LINES] FROM A DISCARDED POEM, ENCLOSED, AT MRS LEADBEATER’S REQUEST, FOR THOMAS WILKINSON’S COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS.
One calm, cold evening, when the moon was high, And rode sublime within the cloudy sky, She sat within her hut, nor seem’d to feel Or cold, or want, but turn’d her idle wheel; And with sad song its melancholy tone Mix’d—all unconscious that she dwelt alone.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY.
(Hampstead, November 6, 1818.)
* * * * *
“Thus had I written—so a friend advised, Whom as the first of counsellors I prized; The best of guides to my assuming pen, The best of fathers, husbands, judges, men. ‘This will he read,’ I said, ‘and I shall hear } Opinion wise, instructive, mild, sincere; } For I that mind respect, for I the man revere.’ } “I had no boding fear, but thought to see Those who were thine, who look’d for all to thee; And thou wert all! there was, when thou wert by, 10 Diffused around the rare felicity That wisdom, worth, and kindness can impart, To form the mind and gratify the heart. “Yes! I was proud to speak of thee as one Who had approved the little I had done, And taught me what I should do!—Thou wouldst raise My doubting spirit by a smile of praise And words of comfort! great was thy delight } Fear to expel, and ardour to excite, } To wrest th’ oppressor’s arm, and do the injured right. 20} “Thou hadst the tear for pity, and thy breast Felt for the sad, the weary, the oppress’d! And now, afflicting change! all join with me, And feel, lamented ROMILLY, for thee.”
LINES.
(Edinburgh, August 15, 1822.)
Of old, when a Monarch of England appear’d In Scotland, he came as a foe; There was war in the land, and around it were heard Lamentation, and mourning and woe.
In the bordering land, which the Muses love best, Was one whom they favour’d of old; With a view of the future his mind they impressed, And gave him the power to unfold.
“Come, strike me the harp, and my spirit sustain, That these visions of glory annoy; 10 While I to the Chieftains of Scotland explain What their Sons shall hereafter enjoy!
“I see, but from far—I behold, but not near— When war on the Border shall cease, New cities will rise, and the triumphs appear Of Riches, and Science, and Peace.
“O give me to breathe, while this scene I describe: A Monarch in Scotland I see, When she pours from her Highlands and Lowlands each tribe, Who are loyal, and happy, and free. 20
“The Islands at rest in their Sovereign rejoice; Lo, the power and the wealth they display! And there comes from the lands and the waters a voice, From the Shannon, the Thames, and the Tay.
“‘All hail to our King!’ is the shout of the crowd; I see them, a shadowy throng; They are loyally free, are respectfully proud, And Joy to their King is their song.
“Yet bear up, my soul, ’tis a theme of delight, That thousands hereafter shall sing; 30 How Scotland, and England, and Ireland unite In their Glory, their Might, and their King.
“Aloud strike the harp, for my bosom is cold And the sound has a charm on my fears— A City new-clothed as a Bride I behold, And her King as her Bridegroom appears.
“’Tis he whom they love, and who loves them again, Who partakes of the joy he imparts; Who over three nations shall happily reign, And establish his throne in their hearts.” 40
[LINES.]
(Aldborough, October, 1823.)
Thus once again, my native place, I come Thee to salute—my earliest, latest home. Much are we alter’d both, but I behold In thee a youth renew’d—whilst I am old. The works of man from dying we may save; But man himself moves onward to the grave.
LINES, ADDRESSED TO THE DOWAGER DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.
When she—I will not tell her name— Was in her early beauty laid, Reposing—Time in person came. And looked delighted at the maid.
Such charms, unmov’d, he could not pass, They were to him unusual things, He gazed till he had dropp’d his glass, And, sighing, closed his mighty wings.
“Awake!” in tender tone he cried, “Nor be of my stern look afraid; 10 For never yet has Time espied Three graces in one form display’d.”
The nymph awoke; and, when she saw Old Time was falling fast in love, She thought she might advantage draw From one who friend or foe must prove.—
“And dost thou love me, Time,” she cried, “With passion ardent, temper true?” “Let me,” he cried, “by test be tried, And tell to Time what he shall do!” 20
“Old Time,” said she, “thy hand is hard, And thou on beauty lov’st to prey: Do, prithee, Time show some regard, And touch me gently in thy way!”
“Then smile upon me, lady, so— That look again, oh! where are such! I must not pass thee as I go, But I will softly, gently touch.
“So gently by thee will I steal That none the steps of Time shall see; 30 This withering scythe thou shalt not feel, Nor injured by its stroke shalt be.—
“But still I must my prowess prove, Be not displeased—indeed I must; Or men will say that Time, in love, Is blinded, partial, and unjust.—
“Yet fear not thou: that form, that face Shall still from me forbearance find; But all the love of Time shall trace, And see his progress in thy mind.” 40
FRAGMENTS OF TALES
AND
MISCELLANEOUS VERSES NOT PREVIOUSLY PRINTED, ARRANGED (SO FAR AS POSSIBLE) IN CHRONOLOGICAL SEQUENCE
TRACY.
(1 Jan. 1813.)
The House of Tracy was of all belov’d: A generous, gentle, valiant, virtuous Race, Admir’d for Courage and for Arts approv’d, They shun’d Dishonour and they spurn’d Disgrace. The Village Mansion was a noble Place, Whose strong Foundations down a Vale were laid; Pride of its Lords and of the Country Grace, Its Towers were o’er the western hill display’d, And on an Eastern Stream broad cast their Evening Shade.
Twice twenty Steps of Stone, now mossy all, 10 Led wandering Strangers to the central Door Of a vast Room, by name the marble Hall, Whose squares discolour’d form’d the polish’d floor. Broad were the Stairs and black that rose before And led to Chambers fair and Galleries wide; Here Tracys stood, Men fam’d in days of yore; These Pictures rare, by Taste and Wealth, supply’d The Pride of Tracy these, and worthy praise the pride.
Th’ Improver’s Hand was seen in all the place; But Mercy still was a Companion found, 20 And spar’d the Statues fair, the Wood to grace, And Waters clear that fell with murmuring sound From the green Terrace on the higher Ground, With Flowers in Knolls on many a sunny Bank, Where the white flocks o’er velvet Pasture bound; Where Gold-fish long possess’d their marble Tank, And steeds with silky Sides the living Water drank.
It was a lovely and a rich domain, Vex’d by no Debt, no Mortgage, no Decrease; No Tenant came with unredress’d Complaint 30 Of Churlish Steward or of rigorous Lease; In the fair Village dwelt perpetual Peace, Far as a Patron could his power extend, Hail’d at his birth and mourn’d at his discease; Where all, where each, was pleas’d his help to lend To each, where all might seeking find a friend.
Two furlongs distant from that seat, its Pride, Was the fair Village plac’d upon a Green, By wood surrounded save the Eastern Side, Where the broad, silent, silvery flood was seen. 40 There stood the peasants’ cots, a view serene On either side a small and central Lake, That long the scene of rustic Sports had been. Unenvied People! may ye still partake Life’s honest Joys and pure, and late may ye forsake!
The whiten’d Church and Vicar’s low Abode Are near each other and these Dwellings near; But, far from Town and from the public Road, Few Travellers stray, few Strangers travel here; Where yet an Inn, “The Tracy’s Arms,” appear, 50 The Mill, the Shop, and Trades that Peasants need, But Farmers all; the Soil to all so dear Gives to the Peasant’s Cow a space to feed; Such was the Tracys’ will, and Heav’n approves the Deed.
A numerous Race were these, and Sons were lent To England’s Honour and were great in Arms; But now the generous Blood seems nearly spent. One Son one only Son had raised Alarms For Generations three! nor female Charms As heretofore had done their Parents Grace; 60 These Lords had dwelt amid their flocks and farms, A mild benevolent and virtuous Race, Whose Lives accorded well with this their favourite Place.
Sir Edward Tracy was a valiant Man, Who served in Flanders under Good Queen Anne; Was wounded there, and in his pleasant seat Found a fair Dame that made Retirement sweet. There he enjoy’d a life of social Ease, And died before its vital Spirits freeze. He left a pensive, mild, domestic heir, 70 Pleas’d to improve his Mansion and repair; The small Improvements in his farms to make, And rustic bliss to foster and partake. He was a man who never in his Life, For Joy or Business, left his charming wife; To all her failings, if she had them, blind, He saw her faultless, and he felt her kind. With undirected, unaspiring Views, He scorn’d Oppression, but he took his Dues; For rural Works he shew’d some trifling Skill, 80} And little prone to either Good or ill. } His Heart was kind, but cool; his Passions right, but still. } He, with a feeble spark of Glory warm’d, Wish’d his sole Boy to be with Study charm’d; Wish’d him that Honour he had fail’d to gain, And hail’d the Labour that was not in vain. He liv’d, the Honour of his spotless Line, Fram’d in the Senate and the Bar to shine; But, unambitious at an early Age, He buried all the Patriot in the Sage; 90 And with his Lady, by her worth endear’d, Read what was spoken when he, once, was heard. She, form’d in Courts to shine, was pleas’d to shun A thousand Lovers, to be blest with one; And bade adieu without a single Sigh To Passion’s Language and to Flattery’s Eye. He, like his Fathers, left an only Boy, Ere dawning Reason spurn’d the childish Toy; Pleas’d to reflect [the] Mother’s years were few, Her Temper perfect, and her Judgment true; 100 That she would train him, good herself and wise, All that was base and wicked to despise; The Strength of Rebell Passions to defeat, } Life’s Cares and Sorrows with firm Soul to meet, } And from the Flatterer’s Voice indignant to retreat. } She train’d him thus, and early was he known To seek her pleasure and disguise his own; Yet, if her fondness could a failing spy, His youthful Spirits were too strong and high. She found, or fear’d, intemperate Love of Joy 110 And would correct what else might Time destroy. Yet hard the Task, to Mothers doubly hard, O’er the light Heart to keep incessant Guard; Still she against his buoyant Spirit strove, Who smil’d at Duty, but bow’d down to Love. This is our Hero, a fond Widow’s Son, Rich, of high spirits, and just twenty-one; Yet [most] for Learning fam’d, and, tho’ untried, His native Courage not a Soul denied. For, tho’ the Tracys were so well belov’d, 120 Their real Courage was but seldom prov’d; Yet never Tracy was by Honour call’d Who fled the Summons or who look’d appall’d. The timid parent, when the Son would cry “To breathe is Joy, to live is Extacy; To feel this pleasure ever strong and new, And wish that every being felt it too”— “Beware, my Tracy! let these Spirits sleep And for the days of certain sorrow keep! Kind [are] thy wishes, but are all in vain: 130 There will be Griefs, Sighs, Sufferings and pain! Waste not the strength that [a] Kind Heaven affords In a vain flourish of Exulting Words; But train thyself for the uncertain task— I ask it fondly and ’tis all I ask!”— “Friend of my Soul,” replied the youth, “suppress These fearful Precepts and their fond Distress! If Time indeed must all my Joys expell, Oh, let me feel them when at ease and well! I war with Care; it is my wish to go 140 Where he resides and treat him as a foe. When in the Cot the ugly fiend I trace, I ask his business in that favour’d place; A Golden Shield I cast before his Eyes And never leave him till away he flies. Tho’ stubborn oft, his utmost Wrath I dare And sing exulting, Now begone, old Care! This Villain Care had pinch’d a modest Cheek, And so opprest her that she fear’d to speak. Her Lover’s father, of her Charms afraid, 150 Forc’d [her] fond Lover from the pining Maid. Poor Ellen’s Mother shar’d her Daughter’s Pain, And her best offer met the Earl’s disdain. Grief held them all, when like an Hero true I freed the Captives and the Giant slew; Held a fair Prospect in the father’s Eye And saw resistance in an instant die. Oh, take my Horses, and my Hounds dismiss, But [give] Thy Tracy such delight as this! * * * * War 160 With grief and wish him from thy bosom far! I for this cause * * * strive, And am content to seem but half alive; Yet can I never from myself conceal That giving Pleasure is the way to feel. “Can I be sad, when I behold her mine, A beauteous maiden with a Soul divine? Did ever beauty meet the wond’ring Eye, Perfect as that which shines in Emely? Does not her Father to our Love consent? 170 Then what [can] damp our joys, or what prevent? And is she not belov’d, esteem’d of thee? Oh I am happy,—happy let me be! “Want I a kindred mind, my Julian? Shame Be to the Man who gave th’ Apostate’s Name To one whose Virtues all who know must Prize, And who from Truth will ne’er apostatize! Guide of my Life, Companion of my Youth, Thy modest Manners and thy love of Truth Cheer, aid and sooth me in my earthly race; 180 And Want of Joy would [thus] be Want of Grace.”— “All, all are thine,” the gentle Lady cried; “Wealth, Health and Friends has bounteous Heaven supply’d; The happiest Spirits and the loveliest Maid That ever smil’d; and yet am I afraid. For Friends have fallen off, and Love grown cold, And failing Health sigh’d over useless Gold; While the strong Spirits, once to Error led, Have flam’d to Madness or in Anguish fled. Nay, look not thus; against myself I plead; 190 Bid thee be grave, and yet would not succeed. No, let me think my Tracy, when away— For thou must go—still innocent and Gay. Short is the Time; yet for a Month to part Shakes the faint Courage of a Mother’s Heart; But to her aid thy Emely will come And think thee happy while she prays thee home. Our distant friends this Sacrifice demand, E’er the lov’d Maid bestows her promis’d Hand. Court the good Dean! nor be with Ease denied, 200 To come and bless thee with thy matchless Bride! Invite each friend to view thy happy Choice, Nor doubt the favouring Eye, th’approving Voice; For not an Ear will hear, and not an Eye Will see a Charmer like our Emely! But tak’st thou Julian?” “Can I leave behind The only Comfort I can hope to find. Friends thou wilt see; yet them I may mistake, And I am certain of the Friend I take.” “Yet this, my Son, and I will cease to plead: 210 ’Tis not in Youth the secret Soul to read; ’Tis not in Age! for who can hope to scan Man’s latent Thoughts, oft hidden from the Man? ’Tis surely dangerous for the best below A Brother’s Secrets like his own to know; Thy failings, follies, weakness, all to learn And half form’d wishes in their birth discern. [Loves] not thy friend—ah! let me judge him wrong— O’er Wine to sit—nay why that look?—too long? Have I not seen the bright’ning Eye, the Cheek 220 With pleasure fever’d, paint the Judgment weak; And hast not thou, all joyful as thou art, Yet pour’d new spirit on the [bounding] Heart; And art thou, Tracy—I will add no more— Alone, in thought, as happy as before? Is all within so pure, so gay, so bright In thine own feelings and thy Maker’s Sight, As I have known thee? is my Tracy sure?”
* * * * *
As Water pour’d on Spirits pure and bright Will a faint Heat and turbid Look excite, 230 But, both in Quiet suffer’d to remain, The Heat will fly, and all be pure again: So the cool Speech [in] Tracy’s ardent Mind Rais’d sudden Heat, with turbid thought combin’d. But this not long the filial duty prest On the warm Heart, and gave the Spirit rest. Yet the good Lady in the friend beheld A flaw she fear’d, and had the thought repell’d. So forth they go, with Spirits light and gay, } Friends to invite and favours to convey 240} Against the Gladness of a nuptial day; } To see the Elders of their wealthy race, And all the kindred Tracy to embrace;
* * * * *
He had been [climbing] all his life, and now Stopt to behold what Life would still allow; But all he then could from his Height explore Prov’d to his Heart he should have stopt before. Long at his College he was much approv’d; The more admir’d were not so well belov’d: Theirs deeper learning—his the mild address; 250 Theirs loftier Honour—and his sure success. While yet a Fellow, for an office high Two, far superior, were resolv’d to try; And the kind Vincent wish’d with all his heart He could the office to them both impart. Not so [his] Brethren: they had all the Zeal That rival voters for their favourites feel. For Dr A. his Friends in varying Style Were pleas’d by turns to flatter and revile: Famous for all that Newton’s self had known, 260 All that by Signs and Symbols can be shewn; A man whose fame to distant times would live, And tenfold pay the little boon they give— And what his Rival? stealing all his days Poor Scraps of Learning from dull Grecian Plays; Restoring Meanings where, when all is done, One is not found or a contested one; From elder Critics pilfering half they write, } Who from reflectors steal reflected Light } An helper’s help, Assistant’s Satellite. 270} The friends of Dr B., with Wrath inflam’d, Aloud the Learning of their Friend proclaim’d; Nor in their rage retorting Scorn forbore: That Dr A. had but a useless Store; ’Twas false that he could dare with Newton’s vie; Let him not dare, ’twas foolishness to try; And, if he reach’d not what was done before, What was the profit? he should try no more. Such was their war, each Combination room Lost its old peace and its harmonious Gloom. 280 Whist was no more, or, if again they play’d Their want of Skill th’ingrossing thoughts betray’d. While this was passing, a Report was spread— But those who rais’d were secret as the dead— That, as the contest caus’d such dire Debate, To no small scandall of the learned State, Unlike to end; for losers by their heat Would keep Resentment to console Defeat— Then was it best to set them both aside And choose a friend to either part allied. 290 Then who but Vincent had a chance remote, For all to him would give a second Vote; Then for their Peace they would their first resign, And give the Station to the good Divine. From Ear to Ear it went, from Tongue to Tongue, These Sons of Science and of Peace among; Both rivals cry’d aloud, they’d rather see Such Man elected than that A. or B. None ask’d who first the peaceful thought began But made it theirs and chose the modest Man. 300 Thrice in his Life, by Merit and by ways That please the powers who merit love to raise, Rose the mild Doctor, and was now a Dean, With grateful Spirit and a Conscience clean. Some who behold him in his Weakness now, By Pain and Time despoil’d of smile and bow, When Observation finds his shrewd good sense But prattling Love and tame benevolence, Presum’d to wonder at Success so strange, Thoughtless how Time had wrought the mighty Change. 310
* * * * *
The Good Man promis’d, so would Heaven afford, To join the favourite Pair and bless the nuptial Board.
As forth they rode, the Heir address’d his friend: “Now to an antient Maid our course we bend; Suppress thy smile, nor by a Glance deride The Virgin’s Spirit or the Tracy’s Pride!”
* * * * *
[_Here follow some forty lines, partly illegible, relating a dream of Emely during the absence of Tracy, and concluding:_]
Bound and yet free, they hasten’d to the Shore, And found their Tent, and all they wish’d to find; Much was of Bliss without, within was more— Food for each Sense; amusement for the Mind; 320 Pictures of pleasant, Books of lively, kind; And Notes and Instruments, for Music meet; For one Delight another they resign’d. Were ever pair transfer’d to happier Seat; Was ever Youth so blest, was ever Maid so sweet?
Yet, but a moment—and the bliss was lost; Tents, Treasures, Tracy, and Companions gone; In black, vile boat, on dreadfull billow tost On salt-sea Lake, sat Emely alone. On the dark waters melancholy shone 330 The clouded Regent of the wintry Sky; The muddy Shore no feet might rest upon; Beyond, with haggard Looks and threat’ning Eye, Walk’d Man she fear’d to see, yet fear’d, unseen, to die.
And, while she fear’d to die and, living, fear’d, A peril worse than Death she now espied. On the wild Waves the ruffian men appear’d, And now approach’d, and now were at her Side; Her tears they see not and her Cries deride. Seaz’d in rude Arm, the trembling maid they take; 340 “Mercy!” her Cry; and, as aloud she cried, Some unseen form in pitying accents spake: “Choose first or last thy bliss! now wake, fond maid, awake!”
She woke and wonder’d; then again she slept And was with Tracy in the meanest Cot, Wherever Poverty and Terror crept. Such now appear’d their lamentable Lot; Dread was on both, as some accursed Plot Had Cecil for Contriver! and now fled To the detested and deserted Spot. 350 With his sad wife! and now in constant dread And wanting Hope and Health, and needing Peace and Bread.
She wept and, weeping, wonder’d at her Tears; For every woe and care was put to flight. Lord of his Land her Cecil now appears, And She the Lady dearest in his Sight. Her Views are pleasant and her prospect bright; And then again the warning Spirit spake: “Grief follow[s] Joy, succeeds to Woe Delight— Both thine; which first, fair Dreamer, wilt thou take? 360 Choose either, but take both! now, Emely awake!”
* * * * *
“So ends the Vision and the Sens[e]!” she cry’d. The Matron smil’d, was thoughtful, and reply’d: “Thy previous fears to these suggestions led; Ah, tell me all that Emely can dread! Suspect’st thou Tracy’s Virtue, Love or Truth? What is thy Trouble?”—“Inexperienc’d Youth. Scarcely is Cecil from his Tutor free, } And my poor Nurse emancipated me, } When Love our Union plans, and all with Love agree. 370} But a few days, and thou wilt see thy Son Lord of his land, an Heir at twenty-one! And, agèd just nineteen, with purchas’d Aid Of special guides, I stand—a wond’rous Maid. To grace my Person some their arts combin’d, With varied Learning some to cram the Mind; But all I know of Letters, Form and Life Seems ill to fit me for your Tracy’s Wife. What are these girlish works, these quivering Notes, With which we pain our fingers and our throats, 380 What graceful Manners, and an Air of Ease, } A power of pleasing, a Desire to please, } A Temper mildly sweet, and gay good things like these? } Let them be seen, and they engage the while The approving Eye and the assenting Smile— Nay, join’d with Beauty and display’d with art, To one directed, they have gain’d the Heart— But will not Tracy ask substantial things; Will he be happy with a bride who sings; Who, when her Husband would her Virtue trace, 390 Will entertain him with each Girlish Grace? Will he the partner of his thoughts admire For Arts and forms her teachers can inspire, And give to her the Secrets of his Heart, Whose own has nought but trifles to impart? I, too, with him upon the Lake could be, Sing in the Tent and dance upon the Lea; I in the House of Harmony might raise Th’approving Look in him who loves to praise. But on that Sea—and now, methinks, I sip 400 The salt Sea-brine that dash’d upon my Lip In that old Boat, so shocking to each Sense, And all the Horror I espied from thence; And, more than these, in that vile hovel, den Of need and Guilt, that was so dreadful then! In Scenes like these, or what these Scenes portend, } How could I cheer my Partner, how defend, } Or be th’ Adviser, Comforter or friend? } Should I not then—but let me not appear A Vision’s Victim, Misery’s Volunteer— 410 But should I not—at least, till I attain Maturer years—in maiden State remain?” “Appeal to Cecil,” said the Matron; “say, ‘Thou hadst my promise for th’ important Day; The Mother’s Wishes, and the full Consent Of all were thine, nor yet do I repent; But a dark dream of mingled good and ill Affects my Bosom and contracts my Will; And these, it tells me, as I cannot shun, I fly to Sorrow, to make sure of one.’ 420 Child of my Heart! these boding fears suppress; They often make, they ever point, Distress. Tho’ young, yet Heav’n has to [thy] charge confin’d [The] noble Treasure of a powerful Mind. These lighter Graces seek not to condemn; } ’Tis they were made for thee, not [thou] for them; } They are the polished Cut, and thy fair Soul the Gem. } Say, should my Tracy be unvex’d with Care, Why not his Pleasures as their Mistress share? And, in Distress and Sorrow should he pine, 430 Unview’d and absent, would they not be thine? Then, to thy Promise and thy Cecil true, } The Path direct that Reason points pursue; } Love chooses well his Way, when Reason enters too.” }
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Near to this Mansion was an antient Hall } Of Veres; still standing, but inclined to fall. } Grey frown’d the massy towers, green shook the ivy’d Wall. } These were, it seemed, a Race from first to last, A strange, unsocial, mark’d, peculiar Cast[e]. They lov’d all common Manners to defy 440 And chose a wayward Singularity. In times of trouble they oppos’d the State— Of Peace, the Church—and gloried in Debate. It was their Humour and their boast to be From all the shackles of the Vulgar free; All common rules they doubted or denied; } Each for himself determined to decide, } And to himself be Law, rule, Governor and Guide. } Old as it was, its Lords were much afraid T’inspect the Mansion in the part decay’d, 450 For twofold Reasons: first, that from the part Contiguous Ruin into View would start; And next, they found, so many a Call had shar’d The Current Cash, that nothing could be spar’d. In the huge Hall, high hung in gilded frames, Heroic Shreeves and venerable Dames, With forms majestic and commanding Look, And smoak-dried all with equalizing smoak; Yet Kneller’s Wigs still curl’d, a comely Sight, And Lely’s Bosoms, tho’ in clouded White; 460 These, with the taper Hand and naked Arms, In Time’s dark veil hid once obtrusive Charms. The last Esquire, who liv’d himself to please, Felt through his Life this family disease; Foe to his Church, it pleas’d him to the heart, When he could Anger to her friends impart; And by his own, or by a borrow’d, Jest See the sad Vicar troubled and distress’d— The modest Vicar, who with meek good Sense Fear’d the vain laugh of heartless Insolence. 470 No Student he; yet, what our Squire had read Cool’d his Affections and disturb’d his head; Made him his Neighbours and his friends dispise, And class himself among the learnt and wise. To his Dependents he was pleas’d to say: } “Go where you will to hearken or to pray; } Choose your own Guide, or Guideless take your Way! } I rest in Church, ’tis decent, what the State In Life requires from every Magistrate; While you, my friends, unheeded as you pass, 480 May sleep at Church, at Meeting, or at Mass; Or, placed at Ease beneath the Summer Sky, In his own Temple serve the Deity.” None comprehend, but all are pleas’d to find That each may act as he is most inclin’d; That, as so little it concerns us where We pray, of what Importance is our Prayer? Maxims like these, that lead to free Discourse, The Master furnish’d and the Grooms enforce. He wed a Cousin, to the worthy End 490 That none should spoil a breed that none could mend; For his Opinions she had not a Care, Nor meant his fancies or his faith to share; Him she would wed, but was not so refin’d Or so romantic as to wed his Mind. She had been told, that her admiring Swain Had impious notions she could not restrain, And that he spoke with Insult and Delight What only sin and Satan could indite. To this she answer’d, that her husband’s Soul 500 Was not design’d to be at her Controul; That, if he kept the Vow between them made, She should no Secrets of [his] Heart invade; These points concern’d not a reflecting Wife, Whose Contract ended with the present Life; She could no Evil in such points discern, And, if [’twere] there, it was his own Concern. She in their Bargain took especial Care, With prudent forsight of the Widow’s Share; Nor was she in her wedded State so fond 510 As not to look upon the State beyond. So Swimmers, plunging in the river’s tide, Look to the Landing on the farther Side; And some on purpose, doubtless, to command An easy Station where again they land. This Man and Wife had nature well allied; For both were positive, and both had pride; And all the Love that in the bosom glow’d Was on the person tenderly bestow’d; As weeds, cut down and burn’d upon the field, 520 To their own place their little value yield. Both lov’d a Life expensive, but they still A something found to counteract the Will: He was by press of Indolence restrain’d, And she from knowledge of the Cost refrain’d. They were not wealthy, and they needed Care To keep Affairs as buoyant as they were. In this good Lady it was strange to see How ignorant a knowing Wife can be. Learning she held, if not a very Crime, 530 A needless burden and a Loss of Time. Of all the world above and this below She knew as much as she desir’d to know; And that is more, with all their Search and Care, Than Locke and Newton fairly could declare. That the Moon shone on the Assembly night, Was all she thought or car’d about her Light. The Seasons came, and she explain’d with Ease What was in Season both on Land and Seas; She play’d at Whist with such surprising Skill, 540 That many censur’d her for playing ill; But this was error; she disdain’d to cheat, When she could lawfully and fairly beat; Beside, she felt a Scruple to the Deed, Except in Times of the extremest Need. Rebells she scorn’d, and wish’d, with all her Soul, That Ropes might choak whom Laws could not controul, And a Staunch Patriot was to her a word For factious wretches, impious and absurd. Yet to the Cause she lov’d with so much Zeal 550 She could no more than Approbation deal, And had her Schemes to lessen or evade The fairest Tax that could on Man be laid; Thinking that one so loyal should requite Her Self for shewing what was just and right. She kept her Church, and often would exclaim To her unwilling Partner, “What a Shame! Is it so much, a quiet hour to pass And give Example to the lower Class!” She heard of Battles, where ten thousand fell, 560 And beg’d that none would on the Subject dwell: “Such Wounds and Carnage, fire, blood, and Smoke! Good God! it poison’d every Meal she took!” Active and able to contend, she still } Found in her Lord a Stubbornness of Will; } A dull resisting Strength, that baffled all her Skill; } A _Vis inertiæ_—and, in fact, no stone Could be more stubborn to be wrought upon— A Mind at rest, that she could neither please } By any Effort, nor by any teize; 570} A Soul envelop’d deep in intellectual Ease— } But this not always; favourite points to gain, He would a Warfare valiantly maintain; And then her Prudence taught the Dame to yield, That she with double strength might take the field; And, when victorious in some grand affair, She [yielded] others as beneath her Care. The first-born Child had every dawning Grace And promis’d Beauty in her form and face. “We’ll call her Julie, if you please, my dear,” 580 The Mother cry’d, “I doat on Julie Vere.”— “What! no Remembrance of her Aunt! for shame! You doat indeed! be Barbara her name!”— “Oh! never, never”—and a storm began That quite o’erpower’d the Spirit of the Man. The Babe was Julie, nor a Word was heard That spoke his Wishes to have interfer’d. Succeeding Daughters came with feeble Cry Who caus’d few Cares, and only liv’d to die; But ten years past, when, to the Father’s Joy 590 And Mother’s Glory, she produc’d a Boy. Now said the Lady, “If you would consent To call him Frederick, I should be content.” “Be [sure],” he answer’d with a Sneer, “my Love, I’ll give the Boy a Name you must approve: He shall be Julian!” “An heroic Name Of some old fool!” said the indignant Dame. “Fool!” said the Husband; “nay, a glorious Prince; Nor have Mankind beheld his equal since. He the whole World from Superstition free’d, 600 A[nd] left the Bigots neither Cross nor Creed.” “Well,” said the Wife, with infinite Disdain, “Could not the Bigots get a Creed again? And ’tis your Maxim that all Crimes are bred By Men with new Opinions in their Head; Was it not foolish in your Prince to force These quiet Bigots from their antient Course?”— “Nay, you mistake; he wanted to restore Things as they had been in the Times of yore.” “What!” quoth the Lady; “both a foe and friend 610 To Superstition! this can you defend? I knew him not; but I suppose, if known, He wish’d his people’s folly like his own; He whom he could of his Religion made, And punish’d those whom he could not persuade.— But let your favourite Prince his name afford; I will not quarrel with you for a Word.” The Name she thought would not ungraceful be, And nothing knew of the Apostacy. The Priest objected, but the Squire maintain’d 620 The Point with Vigor, and his purpose gain’d. Thus liv’d the Couple, daily to contend, And never wish’d their Quarrels at an End. They felt no fondness, and no more of hate Than gave an Edge and pleasure to debate. Contentions sprang from themes of every kind And wak’d from Sloth to Energy the Mind; Quarrels they took, like Bitters, to excite And give Exertion to the Appetite. For twice ten years the sprightly Course they try’d; 630 When the Strife ended, and the Husband died. But first he thought that she who had been long A Plague to him would lead his Julian wrong; Nor would she fail to soothe and to decoy To her own Will th’affection of the boy. Therefore a Friend and Neighbour he besought That no such Evil on the Child be wrought; And, tho’ the friend was Christian, all was well. This rather pleas’d the dying Infidel; For he confess’d he had among them seen, 640 As spake their Actions, some with Conscience clean; And not Philosophers themselves were found Above all seeming and within all sound. Julian was thus in purest knowledge train’d, In all the Father slighted or disdain’d: Honour to value at the noblest price; To hold no parly with a pleading Vice; And true Religion to defend in Times When Truth and faith were heresies and Crimes. The Man whom Vere judg’d fittest to protect 650 His Boy, when young, and into Life direct Was one who made of Talents no display: } A mild good Man, of whom his friends could say } That Foes in vain might blame the Lord of Etheringay— } The “virtuous Boyle,” a Name that he sustain’d, And well preserv’d the fame that others gain’d. He with a widow’d Father past his Time In aiding Merit and suppressing Crime; Nor till his fortieth year had found the fair For whom he sigh’d, and sigh’d not in Despair. 660 Happy with her he seem’d as Man could be— Still happier with the Infant Emely. In her fifth year, she saw with childish Joy, Then in his tenth, her Sire’s adopted boy. Tall, handsome, unabash’d, in Spirit gay She found a friend in study and in play. But brief the happy Season; Summons stern Call’d Julian hence in other place to learn, For other Studies of severer kind, And by harsh Contest form the manly Mind. 670 But, in the time when youthful bosoms beat Twice in each year for the paternal Seat, A few Dull Days he with his Mother past, But gave to Emely the best and last. Young as he was, he found himself too old This youthful beauty coolly to behold. Domestics idly talk’d of future Tyes, And Julian’s Mother of her new Allies. She pleas’d her boy by praises of his choice, Before he chose, and gave, unask’d, her voice; 680 Bade him by Care assiduous to retain The Influence that his Sex and age must gain; He was no Child, and, if he were, ’twas just For him to look to what he had to trust. His Father left him with involv’d Affairs, Who had no Mercy on his Wife and Heirs; He must take heed to what he was about, Nor fill a Parent’s mind with foolish Doubt. His Person, Mind, Connection, and Degree Might win a wealthier Maid than Emely; 690 But still, as providence had seem’d to knit The destin’d knot, she deem’d it right and fit, And charged him, on her blessing, well to play His Cards, and never throw his Luck away! Young as he was, the Boy was not at ease. He now had Motives [and] designs to please; They hurt his feelings, and he seem’d to trace Something unpleasant in his Guardian’s face. He now had thoughts that he could not express, And fear’d that Guardian more and lov’d him less. 700 But still, to please his Emely, he strove With all the eager Haste of boyish Love. She, pure and thoughtless, of all meaning void, Their walks, their Sports, their Liberty enjoy’d, But was at times offended by the Care And strange politeness she disdain’d to share. When with his Mother Tracy chanc’d to come, Who had no Care, no Manhood, to assume, The happy Damsel join’d the laughing boy, And all was careless Ecstacy and Joy. 710 He had no Love, no Hate, nor Fear nor Hope, But gave [his] Humour and his passions Scope; And oft, when Julian warn’d the nymph to shun The Rain and Cold, the Shadow and the Sun, Her favourite Cecil to the roughest Play Would call, and quarrel if she dar’d delay. Yet she perversely from the Kindness fled, And follow’d Cecil wheresoe’er he led; Nor had the Garden or the Lawn a spot Where they could venture and they ventur’d not. 720 Now from domestic Joy and Youthful Love To woes domestic we awhile remove. [Ere] the Good Man his fiftieth year had seen, With those he number’d who had living been. Slight was the Warning, and as slight the Need, When the pure Soul was from the Body freed; When the griev’d Wife and antient Parent shed Their Tears of envying Anguish o’er the Dead. They saw before them but a length of Woes, And long’d for Death, and languish’d for repose. 730 But the fair Child, their pity and their pride, Their sad affections to the World allied, And on their natures’ Tenderness she wrought; } Till they some transient fits of Pleasure caught } And, first forbidding, next received them sought. } Seldom the Boys their fairy Mistress met; The Mother sigh’d and lov’d retirement yet; Nor could she part with the consoling Aid, But purchas’d Help to teach the willing Maid. Joy of her House, the Child sustained her part, 740 And won from woe severe the wounded Heart. The good old Man, to Heav’n’s will resign’d, With Faith and Hope sustain’d his modest Mind. Time and Reflection had their sure Success, And soft’ned Sorrow rose from deep distress. To this Religion added thoughts that force The keenest Anguish from its wasteful Course. Oft would the Widow, oft the Sire, relate Their lofty Hopes of an eternal State; Of Souls that meet in regions where they dwell 750 In bliss untold and indescribable. Then, when unceasing Love had brought in View A Form so graceful and an Heart so true, And every Action painted to the Life For the fond father and deserted wife, Hope stronger still before the Image cast A veil oblivious, to conceal the past; Then on the future threw so bright a ray That Sorrow smil’d in Tears and softly died away. So, when the heavy Rain[s] more gentle grow 760} O’er the soft Shower bright gleams the colour’d bow, } That never shines abroad till first the Waters flow; } But on the Eye no cheerful Colours fall, When not a Cloud appears, or when ’tis cloudy all. Now for the World their Emely they train’d, Who in that World their only good remain’d; For her they read, and, to enlarge her Views, } Gave Books t’ instruct her, to inform, amuse, } And [chose] the best of each; and well they knew to choose. } Some were forbid, and these they laid aside 770 Nor [raised] a Wish that was not gratified; Nor were these Parents so extremely nice That their fair Charge must not be told of Vice. They better knew the texture of the Mind; Nor kept a lively Lass, and curious, blind; But of the useful and the good supplied A copious Store, and she was satisfied. The kind old Student, to oblige the Maid, The Tricks of Science with its pride display’d: The Captive Mouse, half-dead for want of Air, 780 Had Freedom granted at the Virgin’s prayer, Who had no pleasure in th’ exhausted House To view the panting of the captive Mouse. [For her] Electric fire illum’d the Gloom, And mimic Lightning flash’d along the room; Maidens and men, the nymph to entertain, With rueful Wonder felt the numbing pain; Amaz’d to think what Creature could bestow Strokes without force and pain without a blow. All on a Stool, high raised on feet of Glass, 790 She saw the fiery Sparks her fingers pass; All who approached the pungent Spark sustain’d; They felt alike who gave it and who gain’d; No Arrows Cupid sent from Heart to Heart Were so alike or gave such equal Smart. A Pleasant Sight it was the Sire to view, In loose, long gown, that brush’d the morning Dew, With feeble Call the lively Girl delay, And his light Learning mid her flowers display; Then show the Species, Genus, Order, Class 800 To the half-wond’ring and half-laughing Lass. With Care parental he the learned Swede From all his folly and Allusion freed; And, when they spake of Stamina and threads, } Nor Wives nor Husbands floated in their Heads; } And flowers were flowers alone, and were not bridal beds. } Polygamy in all its various kind Was never suffer’d to disturb the Mind; Nor could she in a simple Daisy see (Ah, Crime!) superfluous polygamy; 810 In a bright Sunflower she had not the pain To find this same polygamy again; Nor could a Marigold the more approve To find it there was necessary Love. As up the hill and o’er the heath they stray’d, A curious form beside the hawthorn laid. A silvery white its outer surface shone; Its bottom ended in a pointed Cone, One inch in length; and in the broader Space Was the faint picture of an human face— 820 Dead to the Eye, but in the hand a Strife Of waking Nature shew’d the latent Life. “Now tell me, Maiden, from that silver shape, What prison’d Beauty shall from hence escape? Shall a slow Moth the silvery Prison leave, That, when a Worm, she left her food to weave, And slowly flutter in the dying day— The Schoolboy’s Pleasure and the Swallow’s prey? Or shall, with broader Wing and brighter dyes, A soaring Creature from her Coffin rise, 830 Spread to the Morning Sun her glowing Hue Hang o’er the honey’d flower and drink the nectar dew?” Young Emely the pencil’d figure view’d, } And knew the Image that would soon [protrude], } That she with rapture o’er the Hills pursu’d. } “I know her well,” the infant Beauty cried: “The Woodland Glory and the Garden’s pride; I see the Colours o’er her form bespread, The softned brown, faint green and dusky red, And [glowing] eye of [a] bright azure blue 840 On either [angle] of the Wings I view. Beneath, her shading puts all art to Shame; Queen of her race she reigns, and Io is her Name.” Sometimes the Rock within the Quarry gave The Shell that roll’d beneath the Ocean’s wave— Shell now no more: a gradual Change came on, And the thin Shell became the Solid Stone. Yet Shape and Size and Hue and Hinge remain’d, And a Stone-fish the rocky Valves contain’d. This led to Questions from the curious Mind; 850 But who shall Answers to these Questions find? “Such Wonders are,” replied the Sire; “no more I know, my Child; be silent and adore!” Oft would the Lass with either Parent go And hear the wonted Tales of village woe. She saw their bounteous Hand the bliss impart, And they the Gladness of her feeling Heart; Yet Prudence here the various Tale explain’d, The Signs of Grief sincere and Sorrow feign’d. Yet here they own’d how much our rules deceive, 860 And, e’en when wrong, ’tis Kindness to believe. By Preachers guided, by her Parents train’d The favour’d Beauty Grace and Knowledge gain’d; A happy Temper and a Soul sincere, A lively Spirit and a Conscience clear, A Taste that seem’d instinctively to fly The base and mean, were found in Emely. Hers was a Beauty every Eye approv’d, Hers the meek sweetness that all tempers mov’d. The Grave esteem’d her, and the gay and light 870 Affected Prudence in the Virgin’s sight. Thus Good and happy, of her Friends the pride, No Wishes hidden and no Wants denied, She liv’d serenely, honour’d and belov’d, Meek tho’ indulged, and modest tho’ approv’d, The Sick, the Poor, the suffering and oppress’d Could all the Grandsire’s liberal Soul attest; While the more griev’d, disturb[‘d] and doubtful sought The Widow’s Aid, a Mind with Wisdom fraught, And from the Sister-Spirit found relief 880 In all the various pangs of mental Grief. All this the Virgin saw, and she became Kind as the father, prudent as the dame; Pleas’d with the Life she liv’d, the Joy she felt, The Love she shar’d, and the Delight she dealt. Such were the three by liberal fortune plac’d Mid all the Good of Life they wish’d to taste; And, guarded well by Griefs correcting touch, They tasted not too often or too much.
His Guardian lost, young Julian and his friend 890 Their rural Sports for graver tasks forsook, Pleas’d the same Years in the same place to spend, In the same Seat the Students of one book. Their tastes alike, like Pleasures they partook; For some Events had Julian’s studies stay’d And of his younger friend an Equal made.
There was no bitter Rivalship at heart, No Emulation that like Envy burns; But what they gain’d they hasten’d to impart, The Pupil and the Teacher each in turns; 900 And each a Wish for selfish Pleasure spurns. A bond so strong the youthful friendship tied That all but Death to break it they defied.
When ceas’d the gentle bondage of the Schools, To the same College the Companions went; Theirs was no Friendship that Experience cools; But still together was the Season spent; Whether on Study or on Sports intent, Each on the other happy to attend, He found an Home where’er he found his friend. 910
Cecil was happy in a taste refin’d, Julian in points abstruse his knowledge sought; Cecil to classic beauty most inclin’d, The Mind of Julian was with Science fraught; But each so much from his Companion caught That none could here a want of taste detect, Nor there of points abstruse appear’d Neglect.
[SUSAN AND HER LOVERS.]
The Miller’s Son, a foolish Boy who ran From his dull home, returned a favourite Man; And not a Daughter of the Village view’d The Handsome Youth, but Wishes would intrude. His person all that charms a vacant Eye; His Air what vacant Minds are fetter’d by; His Song enchanting, and his manners free; A dangerous youth in Village Wakes was he! To all that Nature gave in form or face He added all that Heroes gain of Grace— 10 Not all that Grace for Stanhope’s self had done, But what suffic’d to raise the Miller’s Son; To make him first, where many a Youth was seen, Th’ accomplish’d Chesterfield of Stanton Green. The good old Father blest his lucky Lot And all his Darling’s early Sins forgot; These “youthful Follies” he was pleas’d to call, And fondly prais’d the feasted prodigal. He ask’d no Questions: where the youth had gain’d } What pleas’d so many and what some had pain’d; 20} He saw not—thought not—if the Soul were stain’d; } Vice was not written on the front, nor where Those Locks appeared so carelessly with Care. He saw him sprightly, active, ardent, brave, Nor found in one so free his passions’ Slave; Knew not the daring Wishes he obey’d, The Friend deluded and the ruin’d Maid; Knew not the Sums the absent Hero spent, What means acquir’d them, or for what they went; None saw in him, so form’d [midst men] to shine, 30 The Wretch whom Sin compell’d to herd with Swine. Yet in that Person there were some who found The hidden Scars of many a former Wound— Not gain’d by Valour’s Chance in noble Wars, But vulgar Signs and ignominious Scars. And there were some, whose hint of grosser kind, Or true or false, betray’d the Envious Mind. It could not be but Youth so gay and vain Should strive the loveliest of her Sex to gain; And sure it added Spur to the pursuit, 40 When the fair prize was called forbidden fruit. There are who feel a triumph with the Joy, When their Success another’s peace destroy; When they Contrition with Desire impart And break a Contract, while they win a heart. The greatest pleasures that the Vicious know From a large mixture of Injustice flow; Before the jaded Sinner drinks it up, There must be fire and poison in the Cup. A mutual pleasure lulls the Wretch to sleep; 50 He loves th’ Enjoyment, where his Victims weep; Who, fond yet wretched, with indignant Eyes Spell Rage with Love, and when they bless, despise; Who both their Weakness and their Virtue prove, And scorn the Lover, while they yield to Love. Our Hero in the Army learn’d some Skill, Where he had past a kind of twofold Drill: First, in the Field, where he for War was train’d, And in the Tent, where he Assurance gain’d; Knowledge of Life, and Life’s superior Bliss, 60 And Soldiers’ Comforts in a World like this. When first the Youth address’d the Village Maid, He but the Impulse of his pride obey’d; But when he knew her an affianc’d Bride, A rival’s Grief increas’d th’ heroic Pride.
[_Susan’s first lover Joseph expostulates._]
* * * * *
“Then, dear my Susan, let me now advise, } Upon this handsome Soldier shut your eyes! } Nay, shed no more these tears, nay, now suppress these Sighs! } Think not a Tyrant in your Joseph lives; More than his Life in giving you he gives, 70 And yet will give; but oh! let me enquire; If he deserve you, he must needs admire.” Susan agree’d, but not without a fear; And his report was prudent and sincere. He could assure her that he would not lie To gain the Hand for which he dar’d to die; And he was sorry to report the Truth, For that was not in Favour of the Youth. First, that he drank and lov’d to sit and prate At the new Inn upon his Chair of State, 80 Making the Clowns about him in Surprise Stare at improbable and boasting Lies. He no Religion in the World profest, But made the parson and the Church his jest. He talk’d of Women with unworthy Mind, As if they all were wickedly inclin’d; Spinster or married, he declar’d, not one Could his Addresses and Advances shun, And all the difference he could ever trace Between the Girls in Credit and Disgrace 90 Was, that the former were demure and tried, What their free Sisters never fear’d, to hide. “Such are his Manners; such I fear his Life— And can he merit Virtue for a Wife?” Poor Susan sigh’d; she cried; she did not think That Mr Frank was so dispos’d to drink; He was intic’d, and that she knew full well, By them that lov’d the Stories he could tell— Things strange to us indeed upon the Green; But they that travel have such wonders seen! 100 ’Twas very wicked, that must be confest, To make Religion and the Church a Jest; But wicked Masters, she had heard, discours’d Before their Servants and such things enforc’d. Young, and in Camp, and looking up to them, He might be pardon’d—tho’ she must condemn. ’Tis true his vile Opinion of her Sex Vex’d her at Heart, but was not [meant] to vex; There were such Women, that was true enough, And that provok’d the Men to talk such Stuff; 110 Still, there is too much Licence in his Tongue And in his Conduct—but he now is young.
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[_A long passage follows, only very partially legible, ending with the following lines:_]
’Tis hard to say what fears and troubles rose In Susan’s breast, each other to oppose! Absent the Father, Lover, Friend, she fear’d For each in turn, and all were more endear’d; And much she griev’d, that Men she lov’d so well Could not in Comfort with each other dwell. Poor Susan then forth hurried, with a Dread Of Unknown Evil pending o’er her Head! 120 ’Twas in a luckless Hour, when Joseph’s Mind Was full of Care, he anything but kind; When he look’d back upon the Days serene That he and Susan had together seen, [Ere] this free Soldier his fair Maid address’d And broke with Dreams of Bliss the [wonted] rest. Yet had he past the Sign, nor turn’d again For Speech insulting nor for threat’ning vain, Had not the Youth, contemptuous, from the Inn Reach’d him, resolv’d a Quarrel to begin: 130 “Come, stay, my Hero, and determine now To whom fair Susan shall engage her Vow! Win her and wear her; fight for or decline; Begin the battle, or the Bride is mine!” “Coxcomb!” said Joseph; and by force he free’d His captive Arm and hasten’d to proceed. “‘Coxcomb!’” said Francis; “you shall quickly know The force and Value of a ‘Coxcomb’s’ blow!” “A Ring! a Ring!” for now a gathering Crowd Had vulgar and tumultuous Joy avow’d. 140 “If the Great Cesar had presum’d to Call, Him and his Mirmidons—I’d face them all! But first I will wipe off this foul Disgrace, And bring the Blush of shame upon thy face.” And [on] the Instant, as he ceas’d to speak, He struck th’ insulted Joseph on the Cheek. For Frank was one who Lectures never mist On all the glorious Science of the fist, Nor wanted Courage for the noble Strife, And would have fought for Glory or a Wife. 150 Here too he saw a Foe who could not boast Of more than Courage and plain strength at most; “And this,” said he, “the Maiden’s Heart must gain: Success and Courage never plead in vain.” With open palm he struck, and hasten’d then To the warm Conflict of experienc’d Men; For he was train’d in both the useful Arts Of breaking Heroes’ Ribs and Women’s Hearts. Joseph tho’ patient, [now] the blow was dealt [Both] coming Shame and rising Vengeance felt. 160 “Scoundrel!” he cried, and yet for patience strove, By Nature form’d for Harmony and Love; But, urg’d by Insult of the grossest kind, He gave to Vengeance and to War his Mind. He knew his Rival’s Strength, his boasted art, And saw the soulless Crowd upon his part; He wanted Skill, he car’d not for Applause; But he had Courage and the better Cause. There was one friend of Joseph, one indeed Almost unknown and now a friend in need, 170 With whom nor Time nor Cash he deign’d to spend— The Landlord of the Bell was Joseph’s friend. But why this Love? for Francis was in Truth, His Father witness’d, [an] expensive Youth; And all he spent, as all the Green could tell, Save short Excursions, all was at the Bell. But, when the Landlord would at Night repair To the fair Wife and to the favourite Chair, He found the Chair wherein he sang and drank Still near[er] plac’d, and fill’d by Mr Frank; 180 And from such Trifle—strange as it appears— Harry was harried by an Husband’s fears. He wish’d that Joseph by some lucky blow Might lay the Hero of the people low; It would have pleas’d him to have told his Wife How the poor youth had struggled for his life. For Harry’s Malice was of fatal kind; He had no milky Softness in his Mind; His Love and Favour from his Hatred rose; His Friend was help’d, his Rival to oppose. 190 Muse of my Choice and Mistress of my Time, Who leav’st the gay, the grand, and the sublime— These who without an Atmosphere are known, And paintest Creatures just as they are shown: Say, can’st thou ken the Science of the Fist And know the Language of the Pugilist? Not so, alas! What Glory had we found, Could’st thou have sweetly sung of every Round? Well! but we saw, and briefly can declare, The Blows’ Effect, if not what Blows they were. 200 First, strong in Ale and Anger Frank appear’d, Already Conqueror by the Rabble cheer’d; Who, when the weaker Man is driv’n about And Soul and Body hurt, insulting shout; When the elated Victor stares around, His Ears are tickled with th’ applauding sound; [While] the poor Wretch who sobs upon the Earth Hears the unfeeling Rabble’s mad’ning Mirth. But Joseph, patient and with patience strong, Felt not the Insult, nor perceiv’d it long. 210 Warm’d in the war, the clamour he disdain’d, And half the Victory by his Temper gain’d. He saw the rage of youth; he saw the pride, And felt that both would lessen or subside; His Tendons stiff grew pliant by the use That relaxation in the young produce; And, when he grew more eager for the fight, It did not yield his Rival such delight. When he could bravely in the Action mix, He backward drew with scientific Tricks, 220 And watched and waited, till in Harry’s face He saw a Smile betok’ning his Disgrace. And now had Victory crown’d the juster Cause, And patient Virtue gain’d the fond Applause— For even Virtue when it meets Success Will Crowds Applaud, altho’ they love it less. A Round was over, and our Soldier found No Inclination for another Round; But Shame compell’d and Hatred, and he flew To end his work, and was successful too. 230 By one dread blow on his unguarded Side Poor Joseph fell, and, “he is gone,” they cry’d. “Foul and dishonest!” said the Friends of Truth; “Lawful and fair!” th’ Abettors of the Youth. Or fair or foul, the now unhappy Man Was lost, and the victorious Champion ran, He knew not where, the army in his Sight, And Susan fond companion of his flight. Just to his Wish and in his Way, the Maid Was with her friend dejected and afraid; 240 Sad her Conjectures, and she hasten’d on Till Strength and Life and Thought and Hope were gone. A fallen Tree receiv’d her, and she wept, Till Nature fainted and Sensation slept.— “Arise, my Charmer, Mistress of my Heart; Share in my Joy, and never will we part! Thine old pretender has presum’d to try Our right in Battle—we awhile must fly. Come then, my Beauty; and to-morrow’s Sun, That shews thee lovely, shall behold us one.” 250 Affrighted Susan heard th’ imperfect boast; “And Joseph dead?”—“Disabled, love, at most. But, tho’ no Laws could my fair Deeds condemn, Their Laws have agents, and I fly from them. The Man will live, but he demands his Bed, And thy kind Father will support his Head; [Meanwhile], sweet Susan, shall thy Charms repose In Arms destructive only to our foes.” “Injur’d and dying!” said the Maid, “and I Th’ accursed Cause! Go, Man of Terror, fly! 260 I dream’d of one like thee, but he was kind And did no Murder! Go, thy Safety find! Where is my Father?” and, of Soul bereft, She rose and sought the Cottage she had left. In vain the Youth intreated—vainly tried Alarm; his Words rejected or despised. Yet still he follow’d, but at Distance saw The Father’s Cot that forc’d him to withdraw. Borne to his Bed, th’ unhappy Joseph found The wounded Mind inflam’d his Body’s wound; 270 Deeply he griev’d to think a Youth so vile And so deprav’d must win his Susan’s smile; [That] this vindictive Stroke should Victory gain And all his Hope and Courage be in vain! “And is it then a World where none can trust On Truth and Virtue—’tis a World unjust!” Sorely he griev’d, till Sleep a short suspense Gave to his Sorrow and overcame the Sense. E’en in his Dream he saw his Rival blest With the false Maid, and anguish broke his rest— 280 Anguish no more, for watchful at his bed He saw the Maid, by genuine pity led.
* * * * *
’Twas fond Esteem! and that immoral boy She now despis’d and his accursed Joy. [Ere] yet the wicked Vengeance she was told, The vile Avenger she could ill behold, And, as he urg’d his prayer, indignant grew, And all her fondness [and her faith] withdrew. Joseph she saw, his Virtues and his Worth, And Love from grateful Sorrow took his Birth. 290 He had her pity, her Esteem, before, When he was glad—he suffer’d, and had more; Nor Groan escap’d him, but it touch’d the Maid, Who, as he did not, would herself upbraid. Advis’d, the Father, when he saw her Care, Forbore to urge her and agreed to spare; And the sick-room was made a mild retreat For rising Hope and opening Love to meet. Then Joseph told her he could yet forgive, Would Frank reform, and they in joy might live; 300 While he—“Oh! speak not!” [quickly] she replied, “Thine will I be, and that will be my pride! It was a foolish Thought, a Fancy fled, A Dream dissolv’d—the very wish is dead. I thought that all things yielded to my Youth, And follow’d Fancy till she fled from Truth; Now I behold thee virtuous, as thou art, Nor yield Esteem more freely than my Heart, And him the worthless being he appears, Taught to create our Terrors and our tears.” 310
CAPTAIN GODFREY.
Musing, he said—“So rich, and so addressed, What can I hope? be, foolish heart, at rest! Here fate has brought me—now, suppose I write, If but my Name, and leave it for her sight?” That instant sank the moon, and Godfrey cried: “So perish all my Views!” and deeply sighed; Then, with heroic Motion striding far And Voice of Valour—“Let us to the War!” But, as he sighed, he heard approaching feet Behind those trees so shady and so sweet; 10 Then, dimly seen, came on with Motion slow That pair whose Hearts he most desired to know. The Lady’s Accent he remembered well; The Lover’s Name his Rival’s fears could spell. He shrank, disordered, to his hiding place; To be detected was for life disgrace. The best, the wisest, method he could take Was, undisguised, a safe retreat to make; But some mix’d Motives, not defin’d with Ease, Led [him] behind the Phalanx of the trees.— 20 But who will pardon to an act extend So full of Fear, so doubtful in the End?— Cautious he stood, this Hand upon the Sword That on his Heart, and listened to each Word. Yes, you are good, and have in this complied; Be kinder yet, and now my Fate decide! Thought I, that months, nay years, attending still Could soften that dear Heart or lead that will, Thro’ many an arduous Month and many a year I would attend, adore, and persevere; 30 But thou, tho’ gentlest of the gentle Kind, Hast with the frankest heart the firmest Mind; Tho’ with that firmness true Compassion lives, And thy Heart murmurs at the Grief it gives. Then, when I view thee so unmov’d tho’ mild, Gentle yet just, my Judgment is beguil’d. Oh! could I see thee angry and, when teiz’d, Mov’d to resent—now sooth’d, and now displeas’d— I should have hope; for, as thy Anger rose, The Grief it caused thy Pity would compose. 40 Could I a weakness in thy Heart discern, Love there might enter and enjoy his turn; But, tho’ I seek thee early, leave thee late, } And all day long upon thy pleasure wait, } I find thee firm as Truth and fixed as Fate. } Yet, what forbids? my years beyond thy own } Are few, nor these in peevish Manners shewn; } My Title, fortune, friends and family are known. } These are not much; but I have more than these; Sure, love like mine and faithfulness might please. 50 Our Thoughts in all their Views appear to strike On the same Chords, and we have tastes alike— And shall we here alone the difference prove, And there be no Similitude in Love? “Would’st thou thy Sister call to Life, O take My Heart instead and what shall please thee make! If Time, Entreaty and thy friends, incline That Heart to love, I could insure thee mine; But, if that Heart have purpose fix’d and sure, And I must Coldness tho’ not scorn endure; 60 If something tell thee, ‘Heed not Fancy’s tale Nor let her Visions o’er my Truth prevail’; If that dread something, call it what you will, Oppose me strongly and oppose me still: Be like thyself, be candid, and impart Thyself the Tidings to a doubtful Heart; If Bliss await him, make thy Lover blest; If not, oh, give these doubts and Terrors rest!” “It grieves me much,” replied the gentle Maid, While Godfrey listened, of each Word afraid, 70 That I am urged those Motives to explain Which safe Experience bids the Sex retain. What would my Friend? hast thou a Right to see The Heart’s fond folly, scarcely known to me? Say, is it friendly, is it kind to trace } The tender failings of an erring race, } In whom the faintest Speck is held Disgrace? } ’Tis true I cannot with thy wish comply; But is it right that I should tell thee why, And to thy harder Sex make failings known 80 That I conceal with Caution from my own? “Then [hear]—and know I own thee for a friend; And my Confession thy Suspense shall end. Know then, I cannot from my breast expel A strong Impression fated there to dwell; Time but confirms it, and the pain it brings Proves that it lives, for it has life that stings. Ere yet my Father knew this Load of Wealth, And my lov’d Sisters shar’d my Views in Health, A Youth addressed me—I prefer’d him then; 90 But I was warn’d of the Designs of Men. His Views in Life were humble, he confest; But this * * *, nor could it be suppress’d. In him ’twas policy to win the Truth; And then I fear’d the fickle Soul of Youth. Yet, [though] rejected, he was ever near, And uninvited—let me own it, dear! My parents doubted; I was urged to prove The Heart I valued, [ere] I own’d the love. My Sister only was his friend; she knew— 100 So love persuades—that one so brave was true; For he was brave and had in battle shown That War and Danger had familiar grown. An Hero’s favourite Nymph the poet sings, But Heroes’ Widows are neglected Things.— Thus, while Affection shone with Fear, an Hour Arrived to prove his patience and my power. For an offence so trifling, that one day Had swept the memory of the Crime away, In spleen, in spite, in folly I reprov’d 110 And banish’d from my Sight the Man I lov’d! [His] purpos’d visit in the morn I knew, And bore in mind my purpos’d pardon too. ‘’Tis a last trial,’ to my Heart I said; ‘When [he returns], thy Will shall be obey’d.’ Ah! my kind Friend, remember, in thy Woes, No Self-reproach forbids thy Soul repose! But I detain thee; would I had detain’d The Man my Folly, but not solely, pain’d! Ere that return a sudden order bore 120 My Godfrey hence, and he return’d no more. Dear Suffering Youth, forgive me; I lament } A Man to Misery by my Humour sent; } Doomed to rude War, sore Wounds, and long Imprisonment! } How has he curs’d the fickle Mind! how long Brooded in Anguish o’er the causeless Wrong! * * *—or now perhaps a foreign Grave Holds one so dear, so tender and so brave! Nay, give thy Pardon; did’st thou not implore The frank Confession? I will add no more. 130 Choose thou a virgin Heart, nor now behold This face of Calmness with a bosom cold— Cold to new Love and, while my Life shall last, Hopeless of Joy and dwelling in the past! Tho’ he returns not, justice bids me fly Thy prayer; thy Hand ’tis Honour to deny; And oh! if yet I might my Visions trust, And he returns, Love, tell me to be just!”
THE AMOURS OF G[EORGE].
“Brother, what tho’ thy mind is strong, And thou art classed the wise among, Yet in thy earlier Life did’st thou To Love’s imperious Godhead bow, And [worshipp’dst] ardently in Truth The Idol of thy giddy youth.” _G._ “I read Romances, Joseph, then, And wrote with a poetic Pen; I chose in lonely walks to tread, And held my Converse with the Dead. 10 I built me Castles rich and fair, And shut in Wealth and Virtue there, With Bliss that nowhere else will grow, And Fame not realized below, And power that none should dare contest, And Beauty none beside possess’d; With all that Fancy ever gave To Man who would his Miseries brave. My Form was slender; I was tall, And awkward were my Motions all; 20 Nor was a Form indebted less To Fashion, Manner, Grace or Dress. This Form was not for Love designed, But he intirely ruled the Mind; And, as I felt that I should prove A most obedient Slave to Love, So did I judge that he should be A most propitious God to me: To give to me the gentlest Heart That ever felt his keenest Dart, 30 Or that inspired the sweetest Look, Or kindly in the features spoke. “Possessed of Fancies vain and proud I spurned the male and female Crowd, And hoped in some auspicious Hour In some May Morn, in some green Bower, Where I should soothe my dream of Grief, To meet the Lady of the Leaf; Her Love and Favour to implore And be her Knight for evermore. 40 But let me raise my Style, and tell What in my Vision me befell. “One day I mus’d beside a Wood, As I had often done before, And [seemed] so rich and brave and good As never Man was made before. A green Inclosure was beside, And, not far distant on the Hill, A noble Seat, our County’s Pride, Built with abundant Care and Skill; 50 And thence had issued Ladies fair And walked within the Place below, But the green Wood conceal’d the pair From me, who walking felt the Glow Of all the Vanity and pride That push’d the intruding World aside. And now, while thus enwrap’d and fed With thoughts that self indulgence bred, I heard a Shriek so long and loud That prov’d the Shriekers were not proud, 60 But would accept the meanest Aid That ever succour’d folk afraid. “For so it was: that pair divine Were met by some rebellious Kine, Who, in their stubborn Pride and Scorn, With surly Hoof and threat’ning Horn Usurp’d the Path, and, as the Maids Drew near, and [would have] sought its Shades, [Ere] they could reach the guarding Wood, Some surly Beast their Way withstood. 70 And hence the dismal Shriek that drew My Eyes, and asked my Action too; As Justness prompted, forth I ran Resolv’d to show myself a Man; And, plucking forth an oaken Bough, I ran like Guy to fight the Cow, And, like a valiant Champion, fixed Myself the Maids and Cows betwixt. And, tho’ I had not breath to say, ‘Run, Ladies, for the Stile away!’ 80 Yet doubtless, with a warlike Grace, My hand was pointed to the Place. “The Ladies took me at my Word, And each flew lightly like a Bird. I now had time my thoughts t’ arrange And should have liked my place to change; For now the Creatures seemed disposed For Battle, and in Order closed; And, tho’ they halted, yet I found My feet upon precarious Ground; 90 And yet, to turn me and retreat Was not alone to own Defeat, But to invite th’ encouraged Foe To fell pursuit and overthrow. “The Ladies, who had pass’d the Stile, Looked on impatiently the while; And were amazed, for so they said, To see the horrid Cows afraid, And kept in coward fear by one Who had for them such Service done. 100 “Which had the Victory, Man or Cow, Can never be determined now. For lo! some amazons appear’d, Resolv’d to milk the stubborn Herd; Who, as they now obedient grew, Left me my purpose to pursue— A purpose that I could not well Distinguish, nor can fairly tell. “The [quicker] Nymph with gracious Smile Received me safe beyond the Stile; 110 Where I had time to feast my Eyes On paradise and prodigies— Charms, such as Nature once creates, Then breaks the Mould (the Lover states). But this, dear Joseph, was a Face I could not from my fancy chase, Was more than I had dreamed, was more } Than Fancy drew for me before, } And bade me my own Work adore. } But let me not on Beauty dwell: 120 The trace became indelible.”
[FRAGMENTS OF TALES OF THE HALL.]
“Are there not some things, B[rother], that will seem Like very Truth and yet like very dream; That we are ever at a Loss to find, Are they of fact or are they of the mind?”
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“Again a walk, dear R[ichard,] and so long? Would not M[atilda] tell you, it is wrong, That she so little of the Man behold, The Slave rebellious or the Lover cold? Where hast thou wandered?”— “I describe but ill. When past the Park, I made for Depford Mill. 10 Stopt by the Brook, I turned and slowly went One Mile, I think, upon a smooth Ascent. There, on that Hill, where clumps of Fir and pine So bound the Land that they may pass for thine, As Thy Plantations on the other Side Give to the Neighbours something of their Pride— There, as I stood and viewed the empty Hall And the small Church, remarked as very small, A sound, not ringing, but from bells a pair, Hanged between Turrets in the open Air, 20 Called my Attention to the House; and then I saw there passing and thence coming Men.
* * * * *
“Then first that Village wore a cheerful Air, Not like the noisy Concourse of its Fair; But I distinguished plainly, with my Glass, Another people thro’ the Gardens pass. In fact, there seemed a joy diffused around, As if some long-lost blessing had been found; And I could judge by both their dress and air There went some pains to form that gentle pair. 30 You will have Neighbours; nay, perhaps you know To whom that—Blessing, shall I say?—you owe.—
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“Nay, B[rother], I must leave } The Place I love; but, going, I must grieve.”— } “True, my dear R[ichard]—but I ask reprieve; } Speak gentle words, and you shall hear a Tale Of the new pair who came to Ashford Dale.”
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Small was their Garden, and they wished to grow All that a Gardening Swain could set or sow; And in that Soil the produce grew so tall 40 About the Path and Porch, the Door and Wall; The Children crept the stately plants between, And only Mary’s snow-white Cap was seen— When the low door was opened, and the Dame From her small Parlor to her Garden came, To see if John was coming from the Farm; } To hear the Village Scholars’ glad Alarm, } And to behold the Bees, if clustering for the Swarm. } Such were the daily Cares in Mary’s life, The easiest Mother and the happiest Wife. 50
TRAGIC TALES, WHY?
“I have observed,” said Richard, “when I ask Of those around us, and your memory task For their Adventures and their Lives, what fate, How tragic most the Stories you relate. Is it that most are wretched, or have we The evil fate to live with Misery?”— “Not so perhaps, but Men of common Lives, Who live contented with themselves and Wives, Afford no Subject for the Muse than Mirth.
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“Their [lowly] comforts, or a day’s delight, 10 Do not afford [us] matter when we write; [Though] all the strange prodigious things they do Are such as move them and are tragic too. Amusements, pleasures, comforts, days of Joy, May a Man’s Mind, but not his Muse, employ; Marriage and Births of Heirs are pleasant things, But seldom help a poet when he sings. A Day of Hunting, fishing, shooting, these— Music and Dancing, Cards and fiddles—please; And wealth acquired or wealth bequeathed impart, 20 More than they ought, rejoicing to the Heart. But these, though Man might for his Comforts choose, Can give no Inspiration to his Muse. But, my dear Richard, when this transient Joy Some sudden Ills and dire Events destroy; When the fond wife [or] faithful husband [dies]— Fate unforseen!—when Wealth takes wings and [flies]; When by Deceit a Maiden’s peace is lost; When tender Love by cruel fate is crost; When groaning Poverty and fell Disease 30 Upon the happy and the wealthy seize, And when on Man’s soft Heart these Evils press: The awakened Poet paints the due Distress; Tells how it came, and presses on the Mind That we are Men, and of the suffering Kind. We own the grieving and opprest as Friends; } The Mind enlarges as its Grief extends; } And Grief that’s painted true improves the Heart it rends.” }
* * * * *
[ROBERT AND CATHARINE.]
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Time and mild Laws to Robert freedom gave; And now the Man resolv’d his Cash to save, If Cash were his; and Catharine felt delight To see her Cousin in a decent plight; And now, contracted, they resolved for Life To join their Fortune to be Man and Wife. With more than wonted Courage Catharine sought For Robert’s Pardon, and at length she brought. Henceforth a mighty Change in him began: He was [a] sober, saving, serious Man; 10 He lived to save, and had a friend to prove What pains he took to win his Uncle’s Love; Till the old Man for Fact the Tales received, And all that once opposed Belief believed. The Nephew now increased his humble Store, And saved as fondly as he spent before; Yet would he purchase [savoury] things and sweet That his dear Uncle would vouchsafe to eat. “Some seaman gave them”—that was what he told, And not that some confectioner had sold. 20 No doubt the fact had caused his Uncle pain, And he perhaps had sold the Sweets again. But he was grateful, and began to speak Of Women harshly: they were vain and weak, Not skill’d to manage in the great Concern Of saving Cash, and not disposed to learn. This Catharine heard not or, if aught she heard, Of Man’s superior Mind she nothing feared; But to her Uncle paid the Service due, Nor thought of Giving, but was kind and true. 30 She now conceived their wish they might declare, But Robert dared not, begg’d her not to dare! She saw their dear good Kinsman every day } Wasting in Flesh, and soon must waste away; } And then would all be Well! well paid for their Delay! } She, gentle Girl, though loth, yet acquiesc’d; It pleased her Cousin, and it might be best. Yet, as he often came and talk’d at Ease, She judged it right; but, “Cousin, as you please!” And now between them and their Wishes rose 40 The old Man’s Life—that only—to oppose The purposed Union; and that Bar between } Was now removed, as we remove a Screen } From what we would not see, or would should not be seen. } Death was announced; and buried was the Dead, Relations summon’d, and the Will was read— Brief but yet clear—Some trifles to some few; To the dear Niece—in fact, a Trifle too.
* * * * *
Look at that Cottage and its only door: ’Tis poor without, within exceeding poor. 50 Now cast your Eye to yonder splendid scene; Contrasted see the Prospects proud and mean! In that proud Seat dwells Robert; in yon Cot Catharine sits, knitting.—Such the Cousins’ lot.
DAVID JONES.
Shall I not bid to David Jones adieu— He who had sail’d with [Anson’s] hardy Crew; He who had been about the world and found, On his [protested] word, it was not round! “’Tis all like England, every earthly Spot; The Days are short and long, and cold and hot. So they are here! Of all that I could trace Are, just like us, a little darker race; But striving all, by measures foul and fair, To get our Nails, for Nails are many there. 10 They tipple grog; they love their dance and feasts, And are taboo’d and terrified by priests. Civil enough, when nothing thwarts their Will, But very Devils when you use them ill; Vain like ourselves and very fond of praise, Proud of their lands, and [their peculiar ways]. They have no money, but they change their Hams And the whole Pig for * * * and yams; There are some honest, as I may believe; But all I saw have a delight to thieve. 20 So should we feel—at least ’tis my Belief— If we had not our Law to hang a Thief. They go to War like us, their Queens and Kings— And, just like us, for mighty trivial things. There is a difference in our Ways[, ’tis true]; But Men are Men and Women Women too. As far as I could see into their Hearts, They act, as we do, well and ill their parts; And we must think, the more of [man] we see, That he is not the thing he ought to be; 30 But, go where’er you will, you’ll ever find Man is a selfish and a sinful kind.”
So David thought, when he was stout and stern And had his Pittance by his toil to earn. On my return a pensioned man I found, For a [lost leg] and many a grievous Wound. Grateful he was and good, and loved to sing, “Rule, Rule Brittania!” and “God save the King!”
* * * * *
THE DESERTED FAMILY.
It is the Evening of the brightest Day The Year can boast; it is the last of May. On my right Hand the Ocean fills the Eye, Far on the East there, till it meets the Sky; Westward, a Range of lofty Hills is seen; A Farm’s large Lands and Mansion lie between— A lonely Mansion. From the nearest Town The Evening Bell comes faintly floating down; While the vast Ocean rolls its Waves so near, The fallen Billow strikes the listless Ear. 10 Before the Mansion, and extended wide, A level Green appears on either Side; Which, though so lovely it must seem to all, Some would a Lawn and some a Meadow call: On that same Green and gazing at the tide A Lady stands, her Children at her Side; Save yon light Boy, who tries with restless Zeal } His Mother’s Spirit of its Wounds to heal, } And make her love that life which ’tis his Joy to feel; } When the sad Lady some poor Effort makes, 20 And a faint Smile repays the Pains he takes. To these comes One, and see! he comes with speed And cries, “No further on your Way proceed! No further, dear Matilda, must you go, To muse in secret and indulge your Woe. Pride of my Life, but Grief as well as Pride, Why will you thus in Wretchedness abide? Why in these Scenes of Solitude delight? It may be soothing, but cannot be right.” Thus spake the Squire; for he was vext to find 30 His Sister sad; for all he meant was kind. Yet this he added—“I will not believe In thy Religion, if I see thee grieve. Of that Religion hast thou not enough To baffle Grief and make thee Sorrow-Proof? Hast thou not said, that all Mankind endure Finds in their Faith a Comfort or a Cure? I know thy Prayers are offered day by day, And yet thy Griefs will obstinately stay, To war with Grace—Come, take a chearful View 40 Of Life, and think its Pleasures are thy due! “Why mourn an Husband, were he good, so long? But One like thine! ’Tis desperately wrong! One who deceived thee, whom we should despise A Wretch, all Falsehood, Treachery and Disguise! “Nay, my Matilda, let me not offend: Would’st have thy Brother be a Villain’s Friend? A vile, false, flattering Scoundrel—nay, but how Can you thus grieve? I’m speaking kindly now— A base deceiver, studied to betray; 50 But, come! he’s gone, and I’ve no more to say.” Pensive and silent, passive in her Woe, She went with him, though indisposed to go; And to the loud Reproof and threat’ning tone She school’d her Heart, and said, “I’ll grieve alone.” When near their Home, again the Brother cried: “Come let thy Griefs be still, thine Eyes be dried! Here Captain Gale, the May’r too from the Town, And both their Wives and Children, are come down; Do let them see, an English Woman’s heart 60 Forbears to take a foreign Scoundrel’s Part!” Patient and firm, the gentle Dame obey’d. “He was not foreign,” that alone she said, And that he heard not.—Then the hours were spent In small discourse and petty merriment— Such as the Men with little Minds admire; Such as became the May’r and pleased the Squire; Such as the Mayor’s and the Captain’s Wife Could best display and picture to the Life— All the small Scandal of a Place so small 70 That we might wonder whence arose it all; With Borough-Business of such high Concern, That poor Matilda was compell’d to learn What Honours fell upon their Heads, and how The worthy Burgess took the Member’s Bow, And how returned, and what a joyous Look His face discover’d, when their hands they shook. The Brother, grieving for the patient Grief Of the fair Mourner, strove for her Relief; And, finding Wrath disturbed her gentle Breast, 80 In gentler Tone his Love and Care exprest. “’Tis now five Years, and this about the day, Since the Bellair was wreckt in Liddel-Bay; When Fredrick came a Sufferer to our Home, As for our Sins destroying Angels come. He came alone, in Misery, to our Care; Then fled the Home and left the Misery there. “Nay, Sister, be not thus to Anguish wrought; I only try to think—what can be thought. “All seemed so fair: he no Pretences made, 90 Was poor, and owned it—that could not persuade; His Temper gay, his Mind without a Cloud, } Of Honour and his Country justly proud. } No Fear, no Mask—this all must be allow’d; } And yet, he left us.—Sister, I must go, To seek this Angel-Dæmon, Friend and Foe.” The gentle Mourner for a while appeared Absorbed in thought; her Brother’s Words she feared, His Love she owned; she thanked him from her Soul, But begged he would these angry thoughts controul. 100 “You must not meet,” she said, with deep-drawn Sigh And flowing Tears—“you must not, nor must I.” There was a Pause; but Richard could not hide The rising Anger or the wounded Pride. “Ask me not, Sister, while Your Wrong is mine, To bear a Blow and like a Dog to whine! But, if I could my Sense of Wrong subdue, I must revenge an Insult offered you. Let him for all account, for all repent, For all atone; and then I may relent. 110 Him I must seek; for never Man of Sense Can live in all this horrible Suspense. Him must I seek.”— “Nay Richard, Brother, Friend! Grieve not thy Sister, whom thou wouldst defend! War not with Death or Sorrow; what I crave Is Peace on Earth. O war not with the Grave! Let all that Death can touch untroubled lie, And who would strive with that which cannot die!”— “Is he no more?”— “’Tis painful to reply. To us he is; and let the Subject die! 120 For, if he lives, he suffers, and he feels The Pangs that Death concludes—at least conceals.” “I know not this; or, grant repentance true, I still am wronged[, and] Vengeance is my due. You may forgive your Husband, if you can; But I must wreak my Vengeance on the Man. You had refused him; but for my Request That thought disturbs me. Hence I cannot rest. True, he was handsome; all that Women love In Air and Manner, all that Men approve 130 In Sense and Courage; yet, before he fled, The better Spirit of the Man was dead. You saw he grieved and moped alone about; The Date of Virtue, Love and Peace was out; He for a Man of Worth awhile was known, And then the Devil came to claim his own.”— “No more, my Brother! I must now prepare The one sad Secret of my Soul to share; To make my mystic Fortune understood, And keep thee free from peril and from blood.— 140 But I must bind thee, Richard; thou must keep The Peace, and let thy strong Resentment sleep!” He gave Assent. “To know my present State, I must a Portion of the past relate. Remember you, before my Fred’rick’s flight, How anxious grew that Spirit once so light? You laught at this—” “’Tis true; for I supposed The Man was hypped, and Wine and Mirth proposed; For I had some Misgiving, and could trace The Marks that Mystics term the Signs of Grace. 150 Then, was it so? Alas! ere yet he fled, I saw that something in his Mind had bred. But yet I spoke not, thinking every Day Life’s common Cares would wear the gloom away; Indeed, I jested; for your Husband’s Style And his sad look would often cause a smile. But now proceed!”— “You recollect the Praise You gave that Spirit in our early Days. From a light Heart we said those Spirits rise; ’Tis Virtue sparkles in those brilliant Eyes; 160 That Mirth arises from the Soul’s Content, And all is Gay, for all is innocent. But oh, my Brother! I had Cause to fear } That all within that Heart did not appear; } Frank as he ever seemed, he was not now sincere. } His Sleep was troubled; in the solemn Night He woke in Terror and demanded Light. He then some Guilt with fearful Haste Avow’d, And bade his Silent Wife not speak so loud. Yet was he cautious, and his Words were weighed 170} With fretful Care, like One who seems afraid } By his own speech his Crime should be betrayed. } Temperate before, he now would often fly } To Wine for Aid, that treacherous Ally } That undermines the Strength it should supply; } That, like to Money borrowed in Distress, Seems to increase our Power, but makes it less.— All this I saw, not hopeless; I believed A Man, awakened, for his Error grieved; His seemed to me the Salutary Storm 180 That shakes the Soul it will at Length reform. “I spoke in Love and Pity, ‘Let us Pray!’ Wherefore he cried, and turned Alarmed away. This I had known: the new Awaken’d hide Their Fears from Man—it is false Nature’s Pride— But Hope still whispered, ‘Ease will follow Pain; The broken Heart will soon be healed again.’ Nor knew I yet there was the Part unsound; Untouched, unseen, the ever rankling Wound! “Yet more distressed he grew; and then I cried, 190 ‘Go to the Priest and take him for thy Guide!’ But Frederick’s Grief was not the transient Rage Of Clouds that Winds collect and Rains asswage; But still more Dark the mental Prospect grew, And weary Hope could not her smile renew. “Alas! I erred; I knew not that the Sin Of my poor Frederick rankled yet within, Nor granted Rest; but all his Crime had gained, What Sin had purchased, that with him remained. I saw his Self-reproach, and I could View 200 Through all his Care his Self-denial too. He wants, I said, some meek religious Guide, And is forbid to seek him by his Pride. In fact, my Husband had ere this address’d } A meek good priest; he had in part confest } His bosom’s wound, but had in part supprest. } “I urged my Love.—‘Thy Love shall I requite With endless Suffering?’ I maintain’d my Right To what he said—the Right that Martyrs have To lingering Torture and an early Grave. 210 “‘Would I had yet,’ he said, ‘myself restrained, And not this knowledge with this Evil gained! Go to the Priest, thou said’st; and I receive My Sight of Sin; I tremble and believe. Why should I go to hear that warning Voice? Let them attend who hearing can rejoice; Let them exult who feel that all is well! Why talk of Heavens to a Child of Hell? Thy tender Sins are nipt and gently die Without a Pang, like Girls in Infancy; 220 My Crimes are strong, and ’tis a dreadful Part At once to tear them from the wounded heart. Nor that the worst! I know the mighty Cost Of my dear Sin: or that or Heav’n is lost— And Heav’n is lost. That Sin, if Sin it be, } Clings to the Soul, that never can be free; } I cannot lose thee, Love, and thou art Sin to me.’” } “Oh, my poor Sister,” Richard said, in Haste; “What a strange Fancy has the Man embraced! He wished to please thee and thy Way to take, 230 And lost his Reason for Matilda’s sake. Puzzled and vext, he heard, he pray’d, he read, Love in his Heart and Frenzy in his Head; Led, as I doubt not Mystics always lead, Their Flocks; no Wonder Frenzy should succeed! But, when so sound a Mind is wrecked, we feel Pity and Wrath and Curse the mad’ning Zeal. Strange that a Man, from all Delusion free And all Conceit, should not the Folly see!”— “No, my dear Richard; Facts I now must state 240 A different Cause assign and different Fate Describe: ’tis true that he was sore afraid And, pierced by Sorrows, to his Maker prayed; True that, by Guilt as well as Grief oppressed, He asked for Mercy as he longed for Rest; But his true Reason was an inward Sense And a deep feeling of his own Offence. “See, my dear Brother, when his restless Mind Urged him to leave us, what he left behind. Thus wrote th’ unhappy Man before he fled; 250 Read thou, and judge my feelings as I read! Then will you learn why thus, from day to day, Hopeless I grieve and weep my Hours away. My Boy afflicts me, when he dares not ask, Where is he gone, and sees I wear a Mask. He reads my Looks; he saddens at my Sigh, And fears alike my Silence and Reply. My Girl, yet younger, wonders at my Woes And seems to question whence the Grief arose. The very Infant takes a solemn tone 260 Of silent woe [nor] lets me grieve alone. But why is Sorrow wordy? Now receive What he relates, nor wonder that I grieve.”—
“Bear Witness, Heav’n and all the Powers above, Ye who in boundless, endless Glory dwell: It is with breaking Heart I speak of Love, For I must bid to Love and Hope farewell.
“I came to thee, when thou wert all content, Loving and loved, a Creature half-divine; I came, a Robber for thy Misery sent, 270 Whilst thou wert anxious in removing mine.
“On a Sick-bed, attended, soothed, caressed, Healed of my Wounds, but smitten in my heart— ‘And must we part?’ were Words my Love exprest; Some listening Daemon eccho’d: ‘Must you part?
“‘Art thou not dead to all the World beside, Save these, the kind Preservers of thy Life? Can’st thou not ask that Angel for thy Bride, And quit the Woman who is now thy Wife?
“‘’Tis a sad Truth; but Truth may be denied. 280 Who would not Strive this matchless Maid to Win? Is it a Sin to be to Truth allied; Or, if it be, who could escape the sin?’
“Wretch that I am, to wear a vile disguise With Virtue, Truth and Piety in View! My Words, my Thoughts, my very looks were Lyes; My Vow alone and my fond Love were true.
“Why hast thou shown me that I went astray; Why tell What Sin the World’s Redeemer Cost? I heard and trembled, forced myself to pray, 290 Pray’d for Conviction, was convinced—and lost.
“Chearful and Gay my Years of Unbelief; They fled, and now a sad Reverse I see: Like Judas I, or like the dying Thief, But not the One who said, ‘Remember Me!’
“I go, Matilda, for my Peace is gone; Nor would thy Heart a Lawless Love allow. I dare not die; but must a Wretch live on, And Life once blest must be my Torment now.
“Oh! when convinced that Jesus died for man, 300 For Sinners Suffered on th’ accursed Tree, A dreadful Choice to shake my Soul began— Loss of the Soul’s best Hope or loss of thee.
“I said, as Cain when Banished said before: ’Tis more than I can bear, for what can I? From thee ’tis Death to part, from Heav’n is more; ’Tis worse than Death to that which cannot die.
“A vain, weak Boy, I took the offered Hand Of One who with it her poor Pittance gave; Then fled to Sea, and wrecked upon your Land, 310 To live their Bane who snatch’d me from the Grave.
“And yet, to leave thee! leave that rosy Boy, A Life of Toil and Penury to share! To quit all worldly Good, all earthly Joy— It is too hard, and more than I can bear.
“For none beside thee will I ever live— For thee I must not, though so fond and true; But must to Heav’ns high Will my Being Give, And pray for Strength to bid the World adieu.”
The Brother read; it grieved him at his heart, 320 And Pity softly questioned, “Must they part?” “They must,” more calm in reasoning, he replied, “And I remain her sole Support and Guide. I loved to hear him, nay I loved to speak Of Men religious as the Crazed and Weak; And weak they were, but foolish Men will bring When Sinners judge, Disgrace on everything. Religion’s Self our Rashness dar’d condemn, Because like Folly it appeared in them. But, if an Actor plays the King amiss, 330 Shall I the Monarch in the Mimic hiss? The thing itself is holy just and good, When duly sought and justly understood; But, when such weak and vain Expounders try To force my Faith, the more resisting I. And many a Laugh had we, not all confined To those Expounders, though for them designed; Cool and contemptuous we the Man survey’d, And smil’d at Prayer, because a Bigot prayed. I see it now—and he, unhappy! saw 340 The Aweful Truth, and he abides in Awe!— Me too this Lesson shall to thought restore; I may offend, but will deride no more. Yet hope, Matilda! thy pure Bosom feels No Pains but those which thy Devotion heals; Time and thy Duties will their Balm afford, The Works of God His Wonders and His Word. If thou thy Peace, and I my Pardon, gain, Then shall this Suffering not be lent in vain.”
Years pass’d; the School-days of the Boy were come, 350 And now the happier Girls are schooled at Home. The Widowed Mother her sad Part sustained; } She still a Widow in her Heart remained; } Nor in her State repined nor of her State complain’d. } Sometimes her pensive Spirit took the Way To the lone Beach, where best she loved to stray. There was a chosen Place that she would seek— A rare Indulgence not of ev’ry Week; But, at some Seasons, she, with Heart oppressed, Prayed Grief away and then returned at rest. 360 This Place she loved, where, far as Eye could reach, There seemed a boundless Length of peb’ly beach. She loved the deep green hollow Lane, where grow The Ferns that flourish o’er the Rill below; In the small Course the limpid Waters run And feed the Herbs that never feel the Sun. She loved the still broad Lake, that in the Night Of the full Moon reflected glorious light; And every brilliant Star appeared to glow With softened Lustre in the Lake below. 370 Nor less she loved the deep and solemn Shade, By Antient Oaks of mighty Stature made; Yet in their Strength and Glory that had Cast Their welcome Shade on Generations past, And to the aged and to the Young shall prove The Ease of Labour and the Walk of Love. Such Scenes had Beauty; but, when none appeared Some accidental Good the Place endeared. There Love had led them in some chearful Day, That past in Ease and blameless Mirth away; 380 When, as their Children gambol’d in their View, Some happy Presage from their Sport they drew. Still to these Scenes, by fond Remembrance led, She turn’d, and there her softest Tears were shed. There heavenly Hope her cheering Visit paid, And there with Faith and fervent Zeal she prayed. Thus, Summer past, Autumnal Scenes came on, And Winter’s Frost; and so the Year was gone. Then other Seasons came, and other Years Brought the same Comforts, Tenderness and Tears. 390 Year after year thus stole in Quiet by, Sure, but unmarked, as Cranes and Swallows fly; And now was One that with its Record fled: No News of Frederick; but the Wife was dead! A Crimson flush then marked Matilda’s Cheek, This spoke; this only she allowed to speak. Within the neighbouring Town were some whose Cares Were kindly given to their Friends’ Affairs; “And why,” they said, “should Richard Vernon live Without a Wife, when we have Girls to give?” 400 But Richard had it not in Mind to wed; He had the daily Cares that served instead— His land, his Books, and the Attention shown To Children now become by Choice his own; And, if he thought of Marriage, ’twas as one Who dreams of something that cannot be done! Speak of the Sex, he prais’d them o’er and o’er; Speak of the Woman, and he said no more; And Women therefore, on their Part, began To speak less kindly of so cool a Man. 410 But, when his Sister sighed, or when she wore A look of Suffering, he was cool no more. Then would he say, “My Sister, you are ill, And need th’ Assistance of a Man of Skill. Your Walk fatigues you, and the Cool Sea Breeze, To Health so grateful, but augments Disease. Do look, Matilda, in your Mother’s face; Is she not paler? ’Tis a serious Case.”— All this was Kindness; but the time was near When Fear was just, when there was cause for Fear. 420 To her who panted, in her Breath opprest, Food gave not Strength, Sleep brought uncertain Rest. The troubled Children, as at Something strange, Looked their distress and trembled at the Change. Who goes in Search of Health may be supplied In Every Way he travels with a Guide. One of these Guides, long taught the way to please And put a doubtful Traveller at his Ease, Advised a Warmer Sun and clearer Sky: } “It may be useful, and you can but try; 430} Here you can scarsely live, and there you can but die.” } This was not said, but something not so rude— And this was meant, and this was understood. Against Advice the placid Mother strove; She fought with Learning, but complied with Love. The Coast of France appear’d new Strength to give And Hope, exulting, told that she would live. “But she must move; must ever be employed; See what is seen; enjoy what is enjoyed, And through the Coast must at her Pleasure ride, 440 And never think!” for so advised the Guide. “Now where, Matilda, shall we go to-day?” So Richard said, as he was wont to say; “Where bend our Steps?” He took his Glass in Hand: “Here comes a Boat; suppose we see it land?” They saw it land—“And, Boatmen, who are these?”— “A Priest they say, and from beyond the Seas. But he who leans upon the Friend beside Is going fast; we judged he must have died— Coming for Health; and, if he means to stay 450 Till it arrives, he’ll never go away.” So spake the Seamen; when, approaching nigh, Matilda stopt and, with an heavy sigh, Dropt on the Shore. Her Brother, frightened, flew To give her Aid—she breathed, and, “Is it true?” She said; “I saw him—I my Frederick see; Brother, forgive! he comes to die with me. What Heaven decrees is done.”—And now began The same strong feeling in the fainting Man. What past so near him his Attention drew; 460 The Voice alarmed him, and the Wife he knew.
* * * * *
Here then they dwelt; the dying Man and Wife Together past this Fragment of their Life. Daily they bade to earthly things Adieu, Their Moments numbered and the Number few. The softened Brother let his Anger sleep, With the fond Pair to sympathise and weep. Then Frederick told, how on that dreadful Night, When urged by Conscience he resolved on Flight, To lose all Comfort in this World and live 470 Without one Joy that Life or Love can give; To meet no more the Forms he loved, no more The playful Smiles of Fondness to explore; But to bid all, and Hope with all, farewell— What to such Evil can a Soul compell? He told, how then he went from place to place In fact a Beggar, more than Beggary base; How, grieved at length and humbled in the Dust, } He then began the Sacred Word to trust; } To feel that God was Love, but yet with Love was just; 480} A Saviour’s Sufferings to his Heart he laid, And felt the Balm of Mercy as he prayed. How then he dared his past offences view, And the first dawn of Hope’s soft Comfort knew; But never more must Home’s soft Comfort see, But a lone Wanderer in the World must be. Filled with such thoughts, he join’d a serious few } Who showed the Way that he must then pursue, } The Aid he was to yield, the Work he was to do. } He told what Hovels then he sought, and where 490 He heard the Tale of Woe and taught the Prayer. He sought the Mine, and in that World below Had seen the Tears of strong Contrition flow; Now near the Pole, and now beneath the Line, To Suffering Man he bore the Word divine; Where’er the Brethren bade him go he went— So the first Years of Penitence were spent. Dispute with them was none, was no delay; To give Command was theirs, and his t’ obey. What, if the Climate should your frame offend— 500 Can Health be wasted to a better end? What, if Death meets you on a foreign Shore— He met the Martyrs at the Work before; And what is all we fear or all we feel } But Proofs of Favour and Rewards of Zeal; } Acceptance of your Love and Suffering is the seal. } He spoke of Years that fled, while thus employed, Of Dangers conquered and of Health destroyed; “And then,” he said, “I felt my Heart incline To its loved Scenes, to [feel] for thee and thine.” 510
* * * * *
Thus they communed, and holy thoughts and Prayers Of Souls devoted to their God were theirs. Yet would they sometimes Earthly Comfort seek, And of Enjoyments, nay Amusements, speak. The deep green Lane, the golden-sanded Lake That would a thousand soft Emotions wake; The bare old Oaks who with their dismal tone Seemed at the Music of the Grove to groan— These and the Scenes of many a pleasant Thought Were from that Distance to their fancy brought; 520 And they would smile at many an idle thing Or chearful Fact that to the Mind would cling; And the fond Pair, although oppress’d and pained, Their mutual Fate with brightest Hope sustained.
* * * * *
Life ebbed apace; the Brother’s Hope and Fear Led him to speak of—yet another Year; And then of Season: “’tis the Chill of Spring, But Summer’s Breath will balmy Influence bring.” As Billows beat upon the peb’ly Shore, Nor reach the Place which Others past before; 530 Yet in short Time the bolder Waves press on, And the faint marks of humbler kind are gone; Till at the highest Mark the Waves ascend And there their Prowess and the Progress end— So in departing Life our days appear: One, fiercely threatening speaks, the Period near; A fairer Kind succeed, so soft and mild That Love is soothed and Hope again beguil’d; Then comes the last—that must our Fate decide, And there’s no Turning in this mortal Tide! 540 It’s come, is gone; nor is there much of strife— Consenting nature yields the weary life. Placed on his pillowed Chair Matilda by, The Husband saw the dim and speechless Eye; Felt the cold Hand, and said, “’Tis now a last; This One dear Look and all will then be past; She will precede me.”—Yet he wrongly guess’d: Ev’n as he spake, he sank himself to rest. She knew th’ Event, but knew not long; her sight, Her Hearing fails; ’twas Dimness, and ’twas Night! 550 They sleep together, and our Record ends; But first a Priest his Application lends.
* * * * *
Pains, Troubles, Sorrows, Life’s more grievous cares, All from our ill, or for our Good arise; For all correction thank the Hand that spares, For all Affliction bless the Power that tries!
THE FUNERAL OF THE SQUIRE.
I left my Friend, and at the Closing day Took to the Church-Yard walk my evening way. ’Twas there, invited by th’unusual Sound, The Good old Sexton in the Church I found; He from a Vault had thrown the Earth aside— Proof that some Person of Respect had died; And now was coming to that vaulted Home To which—but not in Churches—we must come. There the old Sexton, on the Heap he made, Looked at his Work and leaned upon his Spade; 10 As if with some Complacency he dwelt Upon his Task and its Importance felt. “Stranger,” said Good-man Sexton—I was strange To my old Neighbour—“here’s an awful change!” This provoked Question; Question to such Man Provoked Reply; and thus his Tale began. “In yonder Place—for so our People call That large new House; the other is the Hall; ’Tis the more Antient—yet, for many a Year, The Squire and his Forefathers flourished here. 20 Long had the last with his good Lady kept Their Wedding-vow, together walked and slept, And were a loving, grave, Church-going Pair; Howbeit, Heaven vouchsafed them not an Heir. “But Oh! the sad Events of Mortal Life! The Squire in ripe old age forgot his Wife; Forgot the Sayings of the Law divine, And took an Harlot for his Concubine. From thence, O stranger! we may date his Fall; In fact it was the Ruin of them all. 30 For my good Lady grieved to think how Sin His Heart, by Prayer unguarded, entered in; For, though the Squire observed the Sabbath Day, It was forsooth to shew the Poor the Way. ’Twas not to have his Conscience clean and swept; For, though he listened for a while, he slept.— But, not to tarry in the tale I tell, He sought not Grace to stand; and so he fell. “Some two Years since, he walked his Fields to see; } Saw them at Distance, and his Mind was free; 40} Approaching near, a bounden slave was he. } Like the rich Boaz, he his People saw In his own Land, and where his Word was Law; And he, poor Mortal, was rejoicing then Among his laughing Maids and labouring Men. “So the great King of Babylon was glad In his proud Heart, and in a Moment mad. “For there the Squire beheld a dangerous Face, Alluring, lovely, but with Lack of Grace, And not of Craft; for then the Squire, betray’d 50 By lawless Love, his wild Behests obeyed. The artful Damsel could her Way discern, And had not much of this bad World to learn Or its Deceits, but made her Will her Way; } Could look as pure as on her Wedding-day } The Maiden-Bride, and be in Heart as gay. } “Then, as a simple Child, whene’er he spoke, She laughed, delighted at his Honour’s Joke; And thus the Frailty in his Heart began— Frailty the same that bound the wisest man; 60 And far into that foul Reproach was gone, Although our Squire was not a Solomon. I knew the Damsel; she was not a Ruth, And had been wild and wanton all her Youth. She from her Bible no Instruction took, But studied like a Dalilah to look; Till Grace forsook her, left to the Controul Of Evil Things that War against the Soul.— “But I am wandering. When a Man is old, His Words come slowly, for his Blood is cold; 70 And, the less time he has his Tale to tell, The longer he on every part will dwell. Alas! I’m like an old and crippled Steed, Slow but not sure—yet now I will proceed. “The tempted Man was Mad and deaf and blind, And sold his Peace to make an Harlot kind. He bought what he called Virtue at a Price She dared not ask, and then he found it Vice. Her purchased Smiles were as the changeful Ray Of April Suns—a Glimmer, and away! 80 “He who loved Gold, and all that Gold could win, Gave all a Costly Sacrifice to Sin; Wife, Friends and his good Name were but as Dust In his Mind’s Ballance, that was now unjust. His Lady wept, but was no longer dear; His Friends admonished, Friends he would not hear; His Preacher threaten’d, he despised the Threat; Told of his Sin, he grew more sinful yet. Warnings were sent, at first the slight and slow, Then more Awakening; and then came the Blow. 90 Fever and Pain confined him to his Bed, And Hope smiled faintly; but she quickly fled. Lost and bewildered, he repeats the Name That none can hear without Disgust or Shame. ‘Bring her,’ he cried, ‘and place her on a Throne; For she is worthy, and shall reign alone!’ Alas! his Queen was, like himself, attacked By that same Fever and with Terror racked; And now a Message to the Vicar sent, [Told that] his dying Honour would repent. 100 “The Vicar came [at once, with] Christian speed; The Doctor bade him, if he dared, proceed; For he was watching how his drugs would back The struggling Nature in this strong Attack: Such Thoughts at best would Nature’s force impair And stop his Progress; ’twas not fighting fair. ‘If I succeed, there’s nothing more to do; And, if I fail, you’ll have a Day or two; When Hope is over, and a Man prepares Body and Soul to settle his Affairs.’ 110 The Doctor fought, no doubt, with all his Might, But Nature yielded in the Doctor’s Spite; And the good Vicar had his leave to try All he could offer; for the Man must die. But there was no repose; the troubled Brain Could little bear and nothing could retain. “In the same Night his troubled Spirit past That object of his Frailty breathed her last. Her we have buried in an earlier Day, And laid her where our parish poor we lay; 120 It took not long that Business to adjust— When common Folk are carried Dust to Dust. A few kind Neighbours, by the setting Sun, Bear the light Burden when their Work is done, And there’s an End.—But, when the Wealthy sleep, We keep the Body long as we can keep, And seek for help of those who will contrive To make things seem as all were yet alive. He lies in state, his Visits duly paid, And is—or he appears to be—obeyed. 130 An intermediate State, when stopt the Breath, We make a kind of Compromise with Death: His is the Body, that he needs must have; But all is Life on this side of the Grave— As if alive, with Care we tend his Bed And bear him off, as if he felt us tread. With sad slow Pomp the Crowd behold him come } And laid discreetly in his vaulted Home, } O’er which, his Worth inscribed, shall rise the stately Tomb. } Thus, when a Town has yielded, ’tis agreed— 140 So have I heard—some Favour shall succeed; For, though the conquered Army must obey The Conqueror’s Will and sadly walk away, Yet ’tis allowed to valiant Men and stout With War’s proud Honours to march proudly out.”
JOSEPH AND CHARLES.
To an old Friend with friendly Spirit came A brave old Seaman, Fletcher was his Name; Late from Madras, and eager to behold The Place he knew, the Scenes he loved of old. Two days had past, since he that friend had seen, And heard and told of what had acted been, Or what befallen, in that favourite Town Which the sea washed, in fact had half-washed down. When all pertaining to themselves had End, The Captain spake of what concerned a Friend— 10 A wealthy Man, whom he had left behind, And hoped again an healthy Man to find. “Well, my dear Jonas, you have heard of all That you or I concern of Ours can call; Now for my Friend! ’Tis thirty years at least Since he began adventuring in the East; And, after labouring much with much Success, He now is worth—but think a bit and guess! He married early, but his Wife was weak; And his Boys died before they learn’d to speak. 20 Still he went on, though free from all the Itch Of living grandly or of dying rich. Parting, he said—for our Concerns in Trade Had us fast Friend of slight Acquaintance made— ‘Fletcher, there are, not distant from the Place Which you will visit, Remnants of our Race. I left an elder Brother, only one Of all our Kin, and he an only Son. Ben had small sense, but yet had, [as] they tell— For I have made Enquiry—acted well; 30 Married a Dame with Money, and began, As Burgess told, to be a noted Man. But the Wife died, who was his Stay and Prop; Then Fortune varied, and he made a stop. She left one Boy—and never Boy betrayed Less Wit than Ben; who married with his Maid, A close young Shrew—yet, do her right, she kept Together closely all that could be swept From his half-wasted Substance. Children more Than I can name she to the Blockhead bore, 40 To share his Pittance with the former Son; And he survived not long, when this was done. Years pass’d with them, I need not tell you how, For they are gone and are forgotten now; But [how] the Children, Men and Women, they, Were placed, how fed, is more than I can say. Yet near the Place I may suppose they dwell, And some the state in which they live may tell; When your Report shall be to me a Guide How I my little scraping may divide.’” 50
* * * * *
[CONTENTMENT.]
* * * * *
Not so our Manor[‘s] Lord; no part hath he Within our Borough, therefore may be free; In his own Mansion he resides, with all, That Man requires attending on his Call. He loves his Ease, but yet has ofttimes proved That, Minds assenting, Bodies may be moved. He loves his own good Lady, and her Word Is Law to all—except her own good Lord. He takes Life’s Comforts for a general Good, But does not take her Cordials for his Food. 10 Nor thinks, because the Vine grew [juice] for Man, That he may take what Quantity he can— So that our worthy Squire is one who tries To be as merry as becomes the Wise; And, tho’ for Wisdom he was not renowned, He answered Questions puzzling or profound.
He loved his Daughters, but did not believe They were the fairest ever sprung from Eve.
* * * * *
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND.
(Belvoir, August, 1784.)
From your own Belvoir, ‘mid your flow’ring Lymes And loftier Oaks, accept these feeble rhymes— Feeble, and far unlike this beauteous scene Of Woods and Turrets grey and vallies green!—
To Rutland Health! Where’er his way he takes— By Ireland’s frowning Hills or simple Lakes; By Shannon’s spacious current, spreading wide His aged Banks, or Allo’s tumbling Tide; By Barrow’s Deeps, where Silver Salmon play; Or where stout Nore winds on his waters grey; 10 By sedgy Lee, and Bandon’s Woods among, Or Spenser’s Mulla, where he wept and sung— Health to the Muses’ Judge, the Muses’ friend, The last and meanest of her vot’ries send.
Health to her Grace; both ours and Dublin’s pride— Yet chiefly ours, nor we the boast divide! Tho’ like the Sun she quits her favourite Line And deigns awhile in colder climes to shine: Let not the children of the pole aver Theirs is that sun, nor Ireland boast of her! 20 Ye nymphs of Leicester, famed for Maidens fair! When now your poets paint the fairest there, No luckless Lucy yields the favourite theme, But Rutland, bright as Liffey’s limpid stream— Liffey, that rolls with prouder current on And bear[s] our sighs, who mourn, now she is gone!—
Health to the future glories of that race, In whom the likeness of the past we trace; Who live to add new honours to their name, Their Uncle’s blooming praise and their brave grandsire’s fame! 30 And that sweet pair, whose milder prowess lies Not in their conquering arms, but in their eyes— Health to that pair, these sister charms that show To whom the world their varying beauties owe; Varying but as the sun’s bright rays that shine With separate hues, which in their source combine!—
So glow my wishes; and, my Lord, you know They flow sincere, howe’er my numbers flow; These are the tribute I can better pay, Who have forgot to write, but not to pray.— 40
Think you, my Lord; your Belvoir heights infuse Vigor, like old Parnassus, to the Muse? Not so; Parnassus was a dismal scene, And hunger made the wretched Tenants keen; Still the same kinds of Inspiration last: A London garret and a long day’s fast.—
I—and I thank your Grace—have ceased to strive In niggard rhymes to keep us just alive, And little can, if now it pleased the State To tax your poets as they tax your plate. 50 Exempt from both, my useless life I’d close, Use humbler ware, and correspond in prose.—
Yet, if it pleased your Grace, I’d now and then Employ a grateful, but a lazy, pen, To paint these laughing scenes that round me shine— Scenes worthy thee, and then to call them thine; Nor vainly then the Village Squire should charm, The buried Cottage [or] the busy Farm; Nor then unpaid the blooming banks should die, Nor Wood-shop’s little rill run vainly by.— 60
Then, Granby, humble village of the Vale How should thy name inspire the glorious tale! Like Beth’lem thou, the least of all thy race; Yet the Redeemer chose that humble place To give Him birth, and thou hast lent a name To Him who pays thee with eternal fame.—
[Bottesford] should then the rising song bring on, And the great dead, to their last Mansion gone; Where, like the Hero’s and the Statesman’s Dust, Crown’d with the fretted scroll, and sleeping bust, 70 And guiltless trappings, which poor wits deride With little spite and moralising pride, The grateful tribute[’s] paid the glorious dead— The wise who governed and the brave who bled.
Long, long, ye sacred dead, in peace remain, Ere yet your hallowed home resounds again, With groans resound[s] and the loud sighs which tell, Another Rutland bids the sun farewell; Ere yet the mourning crowd’s slow steps attend The friend to merit and the poor man’s friend, 80 Or read with weeping eyes the finished sum Of all his days—blest days, and yet to come!
Belvoir should then the closing stanzas fill, } This sacred dome that crowns the lordly Hill, } Rever’d through rolling times and venerable still: } She that looks down o’er the rich Vale and sees Trees at her feet and hills adorned with Trees; She that contains within her stately towers The works of ages past and the delight of ours!—
Here might the poet chuse the noblest themes, 90 Indulge his vein and dream enchanting dreams; Might trace the relics of the days of old, When Kings’ [Impeachment] warned our Barons bold, Whose arms the love of Sovereign Pride withstood, And veiled the freedom of their sons with blood.
Here doubtless, long before the Romans came, Dwelt Glorious Lords in now forgotten fame, Who met the world’s proud victors on the shore, And drove them back who drove the world before. The Saxon then a [subject] race appear, 100 What time bold William reigned the Sovereign here. Let Leland tell how their fair damsels stood, Like beauty’s Goddess, as she left the wood; When one to wife an amorous Monarch chose; For these are tales that suit with solemn prose. The giddy Muses must forbear to touch On themes, when poets always tell too much. Too much has West—but let his beauties die, For there are those who Time and Death defy; Guido and rich Salvator’s offspring wild, 110 And meek Murillo, holy, modest, mild; Rubens, whose matchless tints as sunbeams strike; Claud[e]’s woodland glories and the strong Vandyke; Painstaking Flemings here display their art And charm the eye, although they miss the heart; Numbers beside, the rich, the grave, the free— Names known to glory but unknown to me: These in their turns all tastes and Judgments please, And Reynolds last, not least, nor less than these.
Pardon, my Lord, these idle fits of rhyme 120 That flow from too much ease and too much time! You bade th’ inspiring Days of Gloom depart And spoiled the poet when you eas’d his heart: Take then such feeble thanks as he can pay, } Who feels more grateful as his powers decay, } And finds the will to sing, but cannot find the way! }
[THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.]
This is my Place of pilgrimage: a Vale Where piety oft slumbers, while Desire, Like one new waken’d, snatches up in haste, With Grasp insane, Light Joys, fantastic Hopes, Remnants of Motley Bliss, confus’dly join’d To woes alternate, sure of something ill, Where the Good lies beneath——
[SORROW.]
O Sacred Sorrow, by whom Souls are tried, Sent not to punish Mortals, but to guide: If Thou art mine (and who shall proudly dare To tell his Maker, he has had his share?)— Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent, And be my Guide, and not my punishment!
[A FRAGMENT.]
What, though the Horse I hired, the villain Hack, Meek as I [am], would throw me on my Back; Tho’ musing much—in slow and solemn pace, The Urchin Crew would laugh me to my face! I woo’d the Muses, meditating Song,
* * * * *
Some Sideway ditch would woo my feet, half Mud, Half Ink, and plunge me in the sombre flood.
* * * * *
[POVERTY AND LOVE.]
* * * * *
These little Evils, and a thousand such, } Which the proud poor will ever feel too much, } Touch not the heart, or transient is the Touch. } Fly Reason’s Voice; but, oh! the pain to prove That dreadful Union, Poverty and Love; To dream of mutual Joy and raise the Mind To all things noble, generous and refin’d; Above the low-born Cares of Life to dwell; To be more blest than human tongue can tell; With golden Hope, that soothes all Care the while, 10 And construes every Look and every Smile— And all at once the golden Vision fled, To find cold Truth and feel the want of Bread!
[THE CURATE’S PROGRESS.]
Near forty years with all my Care and Skill, Dear Flock, I fed you, as I feed you still. Tho’ mine at first was but the Curate’s fare— Half full the Belly, and the Back half bare— Yet, freed from College Rules and classic Song, The light Heart laugh’d and the young hope rose strong, And (wrapt in visions of preferment) found No Grief in Want and from Contempt no wound. In pride and pity when the Farmer gave A Sunday’s Dinner to the Vicar’s slave, 10 And more than hinted from my languid Looks, I fed the Six remaining Days on Books: Patient I [star’d], and saw thro’ rolling years His tith’d Sheaf humble thro’ its golden Ears; Saw the proud Man of Land his Joke resign, And labour for a Laugh to flatter mine.
[THE TASK.]
(Jan. 20) [1813?]
The Task is dull; but I was taught Myself, and ’tis a debt I owe To those who [seek the] truths I sought, The Knowledge I have gain’d to shew.
In many a dull and drowsy lad I strove to wake the slumbering Soul, And raise what faculties he had By patient Care and mild Controul.
And, when there came a sprightly boy, As ardent was the Task; for still 10 He relished not the grave Employ, Nor to his duty bent his Will.
* * * * *
[CONSCIOUS GUILTINESS.]
(Jan. 23, 1813.)
The Good are happy—in the joyful hour No inward fears the present peace o’erpower, And in the Evil time the pleasant force Of conscious Virtue checks it in its Course. Men all Abandon’d, Desperation all, Feel not their Guilt nor tremble at their fall; Vice for herself has found the desperate Cure And banished thoughts no bosom could endure. But the most wretched of the Guilty train Are they who Virtue love and prize in vain; 10 Griev’d by the Life they yet resolve to lead, Bound by the Ill, yet panting to be freed— To them the Ways of Sacred Truth are known, Yet they proceed and suffer in their Own. Onward they go, still sighing to retrieve Their Steps, and longing for the Good they leave.
[BELIEF AND UNBELIEF.]
(March 7) [1813?]
“Dost thou believe,” the Saviour said; The trembling parent look’d around; A thousand Wonders he survey’d, And Hope and kindling faith he found. The Sick, the blind, the Deaf, and Lame, All whole and sound and light became; He knew such power could not deceive And answer’d, joyful, “I believe.”
But, when he look’d his Heart within, And saw the Darkness, felt the Shame, 10 The fear, the Dread, the Doubt, the Sin— How cold and humble he became! The former Joy was now suppress’d, And grieving, guilty, and distress’d, He added, in despairing Grief: “Help thou, O Lord, mine Unbelief!”
VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE DUKE OF RUTLAND’S BIRTHDAY.
(January 4, 1814.)
When Poets kindle at some noble View, The Muse is said t’ inspire the ardent Mind; The Muse is feign’d, the Inspiration true; Poets their Ardours in their Subjects find. Yet he to whom the Noblest is assign’d Must feel what much alarms him, yet delights: His Views indeed are of a glorious Kind; But there is danger in those lofty Flights, And Hope and Fear at once each bold attempt excites.
Be honour freely paid, where justly due; 10 And where is Honour due if here denied? What happy Place can yield a nobler View? In what fair Seat can nobler Race abide, And o’er what happier Act can Man preside? Place! Persons! Action! All engage the Mind, And all the Heart with glad Emotions fill; Where shall I Language for my Subject find; Where glowing Thoughts, apt Words and curious Skill? Oh[, that] the humble Verse could match th’ inspiring Will! Great Lady! Fair as great, and good as fair, 20 Receive a People’s Praise, their Love, their Prayer; Blest Parent to thy Granby, born to Shine An Honour to thy Rutland’s House and thine! Accept the Homage grateful Numbers pay, Exulting all in this triumphant Day; When all in one event rejoice, And mine is as the public Voice— An Echo to the general Joy That thanks thee for the noble Boy! All join in Wishes for the generous Race, 30 That through revolving Ages it may run— Blest each lov’d Daughter with the Mother’s Grace And with the Father’s Virtue every Son; Whilst [you, the] happy Parents, look around, With love rewarded and with Honour crown’d.
Who has not heard of [Howard’s] noble Blood: Which, tho’ it cannot, as the Poet tells, Ennoble Sots and Cowards, is a Flood That Vice and Folly from the Soul repels; And that which cannot the Disease endure 40 Is nobler still than if it wrought the Cure.
Howards were seen in Times of civil strife In Honor’s Cause to hazard all and bleed; May Peace in England spare thy Granby’s Life, Since the same Cause would prompt the kindred Deed! The Virtue still will in his Breast abide; But Heaven forefend it be so harshly tried!
Great Prince, the Ruler of a People free, While bound in Duty and in love to Thee; Supreme in Britain’s happy Days; 50 Endued with Princely Grace and Power, To win by Worth the Meed of Praise, To share with Ease the festive Hour! The Infant Granby thy Attention sees, And smiles, the Tokens of his feeling shows, As conscious of thy boundless Power to please, And happy in the pleasing Debt he owes.
Soon shall his opening Mind for Knowledge seek, When Time his Prince’s Favours shall reveal; And, what the infant Tongue wants Power to speak, 60 The grateful Man will never cease to feel. The Royal Brother too appears And to the Scene new Pleasure gives, Past in One Day, but in successive Years To be recorded long as Memory lives. Belvoir! This Day shall be thy Boast and Pride, While o’er the Subject Vale thy lofty Towers preside!
And thou, the Father of a Noble Race, In whom we now thy Form and Features trace, But in succeeding years whose Worth shall shine 70 A just and fair Epitome of thine: Behold thy Granby! His a Name Already in the Rolls of Fame, Not Plac’d amid a dubious Class— Names heard but for the fleeting Day, Who then to dark Oblivion pass. This will no Time nor Accident decay, Nor Envy blot, nor Malice tear away. Such are the Men to whom, when troubles rise, A prudent People turn their anxious Eyes; 80 Who love their Prince, and whom their Princes love; The Wise and Virtuous ever but approve— They who are stedfast in their Country’s Cause, The Sovereign’s Power respect, nor less the Guarding Laws.
Fresh as the Showers of Eden and as fair, Thy lovely Daughters wake a Father’s Pride. Great were such gifts; and, if thou wish’d an Heir, It was with Hope that still on Heaven relied— Thankful if blest, and patient if denied. Vast the Reward; for thee thy Granby lives, 90 And noble Promise of the future gives; Strength, Health and Beauty in his Form combine, And all the Grace that grows with ripening years; The best Affections in his features shine, And all that love could ask for he appears.
Be this blest Day in future Years renown’d, Mark’d as the chosen, the auspicious One; In this thy Birth the fondest Wishes crown’d— And thou wert hail’d with joy th’ expected Son; Thou too wert Granby; but thy Fate 100 Soon gave thee Title to a greater Name. Not so thy Granby—may his Change be late, Differing in this, in all beside the same! Let the same Honours on the Name attend; As Life advances, may its Joys increase; Upon its Progress may no cloud descend, But, ris’n in glory, may it set in Peace; And still another and another Race Preserve the Honours of the Name and Place!
See a third Parent Granby at thy Side, 110} Thy present Pleasure and thy future Pride, } Thy never failing Friend, thine ever watchful Guide! } The same her Title—Rutland’s Princely Name, That Sons of Kings alone with Manners claim. Smile, Granby, now; thus only can’st thou prove For her unwearied care awakening Love! But, when succeeding Years impart Strength to thy Form and Feeling to thy Heart, Then shall her Value to the View arise, That thou shalt dearly love and richly prize. 120 Nor shalt thou need a Verse to show The Truths admiring Numbers know; For, when the willing Muse is weak, Then shall a thousand Voices speak. Go, ask where Virtue, Beauty, Merit, dwell— All that Mankind approve, applaud, revere— And hear what Numbers shall delighted tell Their Pride, Their Glory in a Name so dear!
Heir to thy noble House, this Day to thee Shall be, while Memory lives, a joyful Date; 130 Thou wilt look backward on the time, and see The First, the Greatest, in the Church and State. All take an Interest in their Granby’s Fate: What happy Infant in the World is found, Whom so much Grace and Dignity surround? What favour’d Being through his Life shall say: “I had like Honours and as great a Day?”
Smile, Son of Rutland, in a Day of Bliss; While Praise and grateful Thanks to Heaven arise, And happy Nations for a Time like this 140 Make public Joy and private [sympathies]. As thou art nam’d, and each glad Voice repeats, “Granby, the Heir of his Forefather’s Fame!” ’Tis then the troubler of the World retreats From his lost Kingdoms, fill’d with Rage and Shame; Foil’d and disgrac’d, he to his People goes, To veil his Loss and aggravate their Woes.
What Happy Language shall describe the Times, When British Virtue bade the World be free, Mark’d with a Tyrant’s Fall, his Flight, his Crimes, 150 And with our Hope, Heaven-favour’d Boy, in thee? Thus all Things happy in the Date agree, When Charms that grace the Land, and Powers that sway, Give Triumph to the Deed and Pleasure to the Day.
MISS WALDRON’S BIRTHDAY.
(Dec. 18, 1815.)
How, my Marie, on this Day Shall I my best good wishes pay?— By asking of the Power above All happiness for her I love. The best of earthly Things would be The Things that are denied to me: Established Health and Spirits pure, That in each worldly Change endure; The Competence that not on Friends, But on a certainty, depends; 10 The Love for one in whom thy Choice But ratifies the general Voice; One who[se] Esteem will grow and last, When passion’s warmer Day is past— And you have past more years than he Who prays for all this good to thee— He who will then have ceas’d to share The common Lot of Grief and Care; Whose Love will then be such as thou Wilt not refuse—nor need’st thou now; 20 Though not perhaps to that dear Mind Alone devoted and confined; For, while this fleshly veil endure, The best are but the least impure. Yet, tho’ not free from earthly Stain[s], From Daily Jealousies and pains, Still, before all itself approves, Thy Happiness it seeks and loves. It prays [for thee]: may every Day, That takes some part of Life away, 30 To that immortal part supply Some Virtue that will never die!
TO THE HON. MRS SPENCER.
(Written July 12, 1817, after a Visit to Petersham.)
That new-made Honour doth forget Men’s Names, Engrossed and happy in itself—is true; But still my Want of Memory Pardon claims; For mine is Honour great as well as new— Honour to know, and to be known by, you. Wonder not, then, that I should cast away The common Stores that in the Memory grew; That, GEORGE appearing, I should RICHARD say Or tell the Moon’s pale Light, “lo! thine the glorious Day!”
But her best Treasures Memory still retains; 10 The Power of Beauty I remember yet; Thy Smile for ever in the Soul remains, And, though the Sun upon that Joy hath set, Remembrance lives—it is my Pride, we met. Oh! could I give that Day its proper Fame, Not distant Ages should those Hours forget, When I thy Friend—allow the Word—became; And Honours new or old shall not efface that Name.
AN INSCRIPTION AT GUY’S CLIFF.
(October 11, 1824.)
Ye who come with hallowed Feet To this grave, Time-honoured Seat, Sit [ye] down in Passion’s Rest: ’Tis Peace who bids You here be bless’d! Here is Silence and a Grove That the pensive pleasures love: Here are Meads and limpid Springs, Where sportive Fancy strays and sings. In living Rock the mossy Cave, Silver Avon’s sleeping Wave, 10 Solitude and Conscience clear, And Quiet and the Muse, are here. Then sit ye down, and know my Rest: ’Tis Peace who bids you here be bless’d! (By——)
ADDITION TO THE FOREGOING VERSES.
Gentle Peace, Commands like thine Every feeling Heart incline To sit and to enjoy the Good Of thy delicious Solitude; Within thy favourite Scene to dwell Thy Poet has described so well; 20 And feel how sweet it is to dream By silver Avon’s sober Stream, While yet with silent Pace it moves And prompts the Flight that Fancy loves.
Here we survey each lovely Place; The Rock, the Stream, the Mead admire; Dwell on each unobtrusive Grace; Then to the mossy Cave retire; And sit us down at thy Request, O gentle Power, and feel us blest. 30 But No! we own there is a Debt We ought to pay and rest not yet; Before thy Call can be obeyed, That sacred Debt must first be paid; For can we all these Blessings share And not enquire—how came they there? [Ere] Peace upon the Bosom steals, It would express the Joy it feels; Although the Eye delights to rove In Scenes that all the Muses love. 40 Though much of Good these Views impart, ’Tis other Good that fills the Heart: ’Tis inbred Worth and feelings Kind, } With Manners that bespeak the Mind } Enriched, informed, replete, refined; } And Hospitality, that lives Delighted with the Joy it gives; And native Ease, and pure good Sense, And unalloyed Benevolence. To him, to her, who kindly press 50 Each Friend to share what they possess, To them be all the Good each Heart Desires so largely to impart; And ever to their Hearts may flow The Tide of Blessings they bestow! With them may Peace, who loves to dwell In mossy Cave and lonely Cell— The Peace of Nature, she who loves The quiet Streams and shady Groves— May she within her Entrance find, 60 And there be lasting Peace of Mind!
[ON A VIEW OF] BARFORD.
(October 11, 1824.)
When we the pictured Forms survey Of Moated Hall or Castle grey, Where ruined Walls and Towers declare What once their noble Masters were— Barons and Earls who, far from Court, Prepared to meet their Country’s Foes, Her lawful Sovereigns to support, And lawless Tyrants to oppose—
Or when, presented to the Eye, The antient Abbey we discry, 10 Whose sacred walls with awe profound Possessed th’ admiring people round: There Fancy holy Men perceive[s], Who slowly pace the Choir alone, Or there the pensive Spirit leave, To chaunt the Grace and dine at Noon.
So this fair Artist, who has plan’d This lovely Place with skilful Hand, Has given us, by this outward Shew, The sterling Worth within to know, 20 Here Memory dwells with vast Delight On many an hospitable Deed; While grateful Minds with Joy recite From whom the bounteous Acts proceed.
A View, with so much Skill designed, Shall through the Eye inform the Mind: That BARFORD is the happy Seat To which the Virtues all retreat, And there, to every Grace allied, With Peace and Elegance abide. 30
BROMPTON PARK COTTAGE.
(1824.)
Fair Cottage—if indeed that Name To so much Beauty may belong— Would I could give thee lasting Fame And pay thee with a grateful Song!
Here Health, the Grace of Life, abides; In every Walk and View is found; O’er every Tree and Shrub presides, And Breathes her Animation round.
Languid I came, as One who feels Oppressed by long and slow Disease, 10 Which neither Time nor Medicine heals, When Hope and Fancy fail to please.
“When shall these clouded Spirits rise, And all their Native Force impart? When shall gay Objects greet the Eyes, And a light Spirit fill the Heart?”
I said, and heard or seemed to hear In gentle Sounds a soft Reply: “To Brompton Park,” it said, “repair; And We shall meet, for there am I. 20
“The Lord of that fair Scene for Thee Shall with delight the Way prepare, All at thy sole Command to be, Till I be thy Attendant there.
“For all in that pure Air is mine. Go then, and there my Blessing seek! My Spirit in Thine Eye shall shine, My Roses blossom on Thy Cheek.”
Thus Health on slumbering Fancy wrought; Thus promised We should quickly meet; 30 I came, as She required, and sought And found Her in Her Favourite Seat.
This Scene Sophia’s Pencil drew, Not for its many Charms Alone; But much She felt, and well She knew, What good this favourite Spot had done.
Say Ye, who see Her gently move, Who know Her many Powers to please, Who hear the general Voice approve: What need of adding Arts like These? 40
Yet these She has, and adds to these Much that can win the Heart and bind; Much that has power t’ attract and please, To charm the Sense and rule the Mind.
Graceful in all she does, as they Who round the Queen of Beauty move; And, cautious, those should keep away Who know and fear the Power of Love;
Who cannot in that Form and Face, Where all is graceful, all is fair, 50 The noble Stem of Granby trace, And see the Worth of Manners there!
’Tis her fair hand these forms bestow, These flowing Lines to Nature true; But who in equal Verse can shew The Wonders that her Eyes can do?
[MOMENTARY GRIEF.]
(Aldborough, 1825.)
Creator, Father, Lord, it is Thy Will, It is Thy Act; and Thou canst do [no ill;] The time may come when [things] that [grievous seem] Will be the Trouble of a feverish Dream; And that which now such Grief and Sorrow brings Shall be the Solace of the Heart it wrings. We our Impressions from the Moment take, And know not why we grieve, till we Awake.
LA FEMME JALOUSE (TENIERS).
(Nov. 1826.)
Who shall describe what Pains they share, Whom Doubts and jealous Terrors prove; Who in their every Look declare How much they feel, how much they love!
Thy Pencil here, fair Artist, shews One Form the Tyrant-Passion wears; But sure thy happier Bosom knows No jealous Pangs, no trying Fears!
But, [though] thy Work demands our Praise, Yet why thine own the Subject make? 10 Thou may’st indeed the Spirit raise, But not thyself th’ Infection take.
Those Looks so pure, so bright, so clear, Those ruby Lips and Eyes of Light, Will many an anxious Hope and Fear And many a jealous Pang excite.
Those Pangs which none can long conceal, Disguise in Smiles or rule by Laws— Some cause Them, but They cannot feel; 20 Some feel Them, but they cannot cause.
Thou from such cruel Pains art free, By which the Heart of Man is tried; For that which may be won by thee [With] thee will, while it beats, abide.
[THE FLOWERS OF THE SPRING.]
The Crocus, new expanded, mourns Her Fate, and many a tear is shed; Lest, when Maria home returns, Her transient Sweets should all be [sped].
The Vi’let yet remains unclos’d, Nor gives her fragrance to the Gale; But soon, to every Eye expos’d, She must her balmy breath exhale.
Then come, ere yet the wandering Bee, Has all her hoarded wealth possess’d; 10 While yet she holds her Sweets for thee Enfolded in her Azure Vest!
For, tho’ we cannot yet describe The Bloom that warmer Scenes unfold, We now can boast a lovely Tribe That bare their bosoms to the Cold.
These Children of the early Year Must soon their rip’ning Charm[s] disclose; Then, while they live, do thou appear; In mercy, wait not for the rose! 20
[LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.]
* * * * *
And prophecied of years to come, Whence hapless youth would date their Doom: Is this her praise, is this her Due, “Whom all admire, esteem, approve? And, if you say the Charge is true, “Is it her Crime, if Men will love? If they will gaze where Bullets fly, No wonder they are struck and die.”
Not so the Muse the Murd’ress reads; Alas! she glories in her Deeds. 10 Observe her Looks, remark her Air: Lo! all is wicked Triumph there.
Could I but think, on this same day, She would with some Contrition pray, That never she again would take A Captive Heart or Conquest make; But would with penitential Sighs Veil that fair face, hide those bright Eyes; Command that Wit, and try her best To let poor gazing Mortals rest— 20 Then would I all these Charges blot, And all the past should be forgot!
Alas! I see no Signs of Grace: Still there is Triumph in her face; And on this very Day we find The same her Form, the same her Mind!
Then, since the Fair affects her Reign, ’Tis bootless that her Slaves complain. At once, then, let them own her power, And hail the Day and bless the Hour, 30 That to the World a Sovereign gave, Who, though she will mankind enslave, Yet rules she with so sweet a Sway, ’Tis Pride, ’tis pleasure to obey!—
[HOPELESS LOVE.]
Why wilt thou thus our Hopes defeat, My too impatient, pleading heart? Why shew in us such Joy to meet, Yet fear in her ’tis Joy to part?
For what has our Impatience gain’d, But more to fear the fate to come; While, half-respected, half-disdain’d, We trembling wait the dreaded Doom?
Can’st thou support that grievous State That Hearts like thee too often prove, 10 The darkest, the severest Fate— An endless, joyless, hopeless Love?—
She may indeed with pitying Smile The pain she causes kindly meet; May sweetly soothe our Woes awhile, And hold us fast in Bondage sweet.
May yield the Hand, may drop the Tear, And with Reproof Compassion blend— Then, with harsh Looks and Words severe, May drop into the distant Friend. 20
For then some happier Man may wake The slumbering Wish, the new Desire; When she the offer’d Hand may take And give the Heart his prayers require.
And then what Pangs wilt thou endure, When all the Friendship she can spare Will grieve the Wound it cannot cure, And mock the Love it will not share;
While his triumphant Looks convey The proud Delight that fills his breast, 30 And those dear Eyes themselves betray The Thoughts not yet by Words confest.
O Jealousy, severest Ill That suffering Man is doom’d to know, That so the Root of Joy can kill The fruit again can never Grow!
Yet still there is a Way to heal [All that] I suffer, dread, deplore; Since, what is worse than Death to feel, In Death will soon be felt no more. 40
[UNION.]
Say, when I leave thee, Love, wilt thou Some moments to my Love allow, And his in this fond Absence be Who lives and who would die for thee? And, when thy Friends adjure thee, “Come, And leave thy pensive thoughts at home”— Wilt thou reply, in that sweet tone: “The Man who loves me thinks alone, And thinks of me with many a sigh; In all his Visions there am I; 10 For me one constant wish he forms, To shield me from Life’s Cares and Storms; Still Watchful at my Side to stand And still present the guarding Hand. For I can feel no Grief nor Care But he would heal or he would share; And never Joy could touch an Heart That he would not to mine impart. Then say, tho’ I confess not Love, If this should not my Bosom move? 20 Shall I not his one Instant be, Who lives and who would die for me?”
[REVIVAL.]
(Sept. 29–30.)
Say, can there be a second Spring Thus fair and frail, so gay and brief; Will Time the autumnal Blossom bring To glow beside the withering Leaf? No, no! the Voice of Nature cries: “The Flower that’s dead for ever dies.”
Say, can a second Youth be felt Again its freshness to impart; To bid Life’s freezing Current melt; To thrill with Joy the languid Heart? 10 No, no! Youth’s Warmth and rosy Hue Shall Time no more in Life renew.
Yet Love shall have another Spring And, more than Nature’s, fair and gay; A second Hope of Blessing bring That seemed with Youth to fly away: It is the Mind that makes the Truth, And feels again the Spring of Youth!
Love can awaken all the Fires That dormant in the Bosom lie; 20 Love every sleeping Sense inspires To feel new Charms when Nature’s die; He all around his Magic throws And all that he [can give] bestows.
[METAMORPHOSIS.]
When Damon woo’d the growing Charms Of lovely Celi[a] to his Arms, He lived in Dread the While; He trembled at a Rival’s Name And felt Distress, if any came To catch a transient Smile.
The gentle Maid at Length complied; And “why is Damon hurt?” she cry’d, “That I his Rivals see?” “Because I dread,” [said he, “my Dear,] 10 [Thy Person] should to them appear “As it appears to me.”—
They married, and their Love decay’d; For then the Slattern Wife repaid The Husband’s Scorn and Slight; While he to other Scenes retir’d, And kept her whom he once admir’d From every Stranger’s Sight.
But “why,” the Wife indignant cry’d, “Am I insulted and denied 20 Our Friends or Foes to see?”— “Because I feel a prudent fear [Thy] Person should to all appear As it appears to me.”
JANE ADAIR.
Wert thou, my Love, some Vagrant Maid Who beg’d from Door to Door, And wert thou then of Vice afraid, And good as well as poor: I still would true and faithful prove And Fortune’s Wrongs repair; I’d lead thee to the Altar, Love, And wed with Jane Adair.
Wert thou a Lady of the Land, Thy Charm should be my theme; 10 Still would I ask that lovely Hand, Still woo thy fond Esteem; Thro’ Rivals I would win my Way To one so good and fair; And do the Deeds I dare not say, To wed with Jane Adair.
The Treasures that in Mountains hide Adventurous Men explore; Or deep in cavern’d Mines abide, And dig the glittering ore; 20 And shall the Wretch who toils for gain More persevering be Than I, who labour to obtain Love, Happiness, and thee?
[HORATIO.]
Might I from all Mankind select The Friend, I would Horatio take. What gentler Mind could I expect? What nobler Conquest could I make?
Was he not One who, suffering all Yet kept his rising Anger down; Nor felt his Spirits rise or fall, As Fortune pleas’d to smile or frown?
He was no Pipe on which she play’d, As her capricious Hand inclin’d; 10 But that sweet Music that he made Rose from his own harmonious Mind.
Aspiring, yet he never gave Himself to watch a Patron’s Will; Tender, but yet no Beauty’s Slave, Nor Victim to coquettish Skill.
Humble, and with high Talents born; Prepar’d alternate Fates to try; A Roman holding Death in Scorn; A Chieftain learning how to die. 20
“Something too much of this!” Yet, then How shall I thoughts like mine explain? How inexpert a Maiden’s pen, Since more than this I write in vain!
“But can the Friend of Denmark’s Prince Such fond and strange Emotions give; Whose Death or happen’d Ages since, Or who was never known to live?”
Yes, Souls alike in Times appear Far distant, minds of mould divine: 30 The Friend whom Hamlet priz’d so dear, [Horatio—is a friend of mine.]
[JACOB AND RACHEL.]
When Jacob with his Rachel fed The flock from year to year, To him how sweet the Seasons fled; And so it seem’d to her.
But wretched was the Shepherd’s fate, And sorely was he tried, When he beheld, in sober state, That Leah was his Bride.
But Leah, who to Jacob seem’d A Wife he could not prize, 10 Had yet the Virtues that redeem’d The weakness of her Eyes.
But Jacob’s love, and Laban’s flock, And Labours for their Sake, Took all the Terror from the Shock That Care and Time could take.
It was poor Rachel’s harder part Her Love, her Lord to [lose], And in an Instant rob her Heart Of Life’s delicious Views. 20
She ofttimes up the mountain went, With bitter thoughts opprest, And weeping saw the Shepherd’s Tent Her Sister now possess’d.
Leah, she knew, would faithful prove, And Jacob would give Truth applause; And, when he once had vow’d to love, He for his vow would find a Cause.—
Thou too art wed to Duty stern, And to thy Vow wilt prove sincere; 30 And I, like Rachel, doom’d to [yearn], Victim to Virtues I revere.
But she had Hope the Time would come, And Jacob would for her be free; Mine is an ever-during Doom, And not a Hope remains for me.
[DAVID AND SAUL.]
When David fled from Saul oppress’d, Who should have held the Shepherd dear, He carried Patience in his breast, And Conscience light, a heavenly Guest; He fear’d not, nor had Cause of fear.
But, when he fled the holy Place In horror from his rebel Son, He carried Terror and Disgrace; Nor could a gleam of Comfort trace In all the battles he had won. 10
But, as upon his Throne he shook, With present Love and Glory crown’d, The one stern word the Prophet spoke At once into his Bosom broke To fright, alarm him, and confound.
Thus injur’d, I my Peace retain And feel from Guilt and Terror free; But, should I injure Man again, I should in fear and Dread remain, Tho’ cheer’d with wealth and blest by thee. 20
ENIGMA.
(_Sovereign._)
I was known in old Time; and yet, strange to [relate], ’Tis a very few years from my very first [state]. When I travel—’tis seldom—my Way you may trace; Yet I’m constantly secretly changing my Place; I’m weak, and I’m wise; I have Praise and have Blame; Yet at all times my Value and Worth is the same. I Nobles create; and yet any of these May consume and abuse me as much as they please. Though I Millions command, yet the Poorest may gain And possess me awhile, though they seldom retain. 10 Tho’ I’ve Equals ten thousand, all over the Land, Yet One Crown I possess and have four at Command. One part of my Character All Men may read, } And that only from such Contradictions is freed: } Who counterfeits me, stakes his Life on the Deed. }
CHARADE.
(_Modesty._)
My first, a fashion; next, a place That fashion never came to grace; But few who dwell in Houses fair Thrive like the well-fed Beings there. My whole, a Virtue and a Grace Adorns the Mind, [adorns] the face.
[MATILDA.]
I tell you chearful Tales, with all my Heart— Tales meet for Feasts, with idle Mirth and Glee; But Woes come in, and they will claim a part— A woeful part—with my sad muse and me.
Matilda was sitting at Brandon-Hall, And gazed on a River that rolled in its pride, Like an Arm of the Sea—if aloud you would call, You could not be heard to the farthermost side. She there saw the Ships in their Majesty glide, And Boats born along by the Sail and the Oar; 10 And her Colin was there, and the boy she denied; But he said, “Let him come—on my Life, I restore.
“Do give me the Boy, and no longer reprove; And, if I return him not safe to your Arms, The Blame shall be mine; and the penalty, love, For giving that Bosom such painful Alarms, Shall be to be banished and torn from your Charms; Nor think of [the] Danger, or aught that affright; But, assured that my Love shall protect him from Harms, Give place for the Day—we’ll be happy at Night.” 20
She again took her Glass; and the Boat she could trace, For the Gunwale was painted in white and in blue; She distinguished the pair whom she longed to embrace, And the Features of Colin were full in her View. Then awhile from the Pleasure she sadly withdrew, And forc’d her Attention on trifles that past; “Oh, harder it blows!” she exclaim’d—it was true, And Clouds roll’d on Clouds by the Strength of the Blast.
She gazes intensely; “[’Tis] danger,” she cried; And a Youth who had been a whole Summer at sea 30 Repeats the word “Danger!” in wonderful Pride, And asks her what manner of “Danger” could be. She knew not, but doubted; the Shore on the Lea Was lost in her troubles—she wished them on shore: There in Cold they would rest, but in safety would be, And the Tide would her Treasures in safety restore.
I dwell on the Confines of Anguish, but still Must plunge in the Midst; for the wife has again The Tube in her Hand! ’Tis her Dread, but her Will, To fix on the Object that gives her such pain. 40 She finds to relinquish the Sight is in vain, And this moment she gazes; but, what to behold, It pierces her Soul, it unsettles her Brain— The Boat is o’erset!—and her Story is told.
She saw both the Husband and Child in the boat; She saw the effect of the Blast as it blew; And she sees in her Sorrow their Bodies [afloat], And she draws in her Madness the Boat and its Crew. ’Tis a Grief to behold her so calmly pursue Her Tale that she tells, and is eager to tell; 50 And she says, when she tells it—“Indeed, it is true— And I wonder I bear it so calmly and well!”
THE PRODIGAL GOING.
What! live for ever buried thus, Thus all the Hope of Youth destroy— Here the poor Business to discuss Of a poor Farm! a Slave’s Employ! For ever to be held a Boy And leave to live of Man implore— No! let me Life’s delights enjoy, And be a Man, or be no more A Wretch to wail in Woe! My Spirit prompts, my Heart desires, 10 My Will consents, my Youth requires And I will go—
Will go where happy beings dwell, Unchain’d, unawed, and uncontrolled; Where no harsh, rigid Minds repell, With Tempers stern and Bosoms cold, The Light, the Gay, the Warm, the Bold, But Love meets Love, Desire Success; Where none are frigid Maxims told; Th’ aspiring Spirit to depress 20 By Prudence, Pleasure’s Foe; And Mary too, capricious Maid, With Smiles alone invites my stay; But Timid, cautious, cold, afraid, For more than Smiles I vainly pray. Fond, Teizing, trilling Love, away! No longer will I sigh and whine; No longer doat from day to day; Henceforth the genuine Love be mine, That spurns and dreads Delay! 30 ’Tis Nature’s strong, prevailing Call That pleads within, that pleads with all, That I obey!
So thought the Youth who from his home retired, } Because it gave not all his Soul required; } For strong his Passions were, and quickly were they fired. } Affection reasoned; but the Youth replied To reasoning Love, “I will not be denied!”
ON A DRAWING OF CADLANDS.
Oft as the Eye on this fair View Shall gaze, on every part intent, Shall Memory, to Affection true, Her Object to the Mind present.
These Lights and Shades, with Skill combin’d, Aid us to see the real Place; And, pleased with her Employ, the Mind That Scene of Joy delights to trace.
Daughter of Rutland, ’twas thy Hand Gave us this lovely Place to see; 10 But who shall Grace and Skill command To give as just a View of thee?
To paint thee fair is not enough, With every pleasing Grace endued; But he must give of Genius proof, And shew thee gracious, kind and good.
I saw thee in thy Infant Days, When every Charm a promise made, That thou wouldst merit lasting Praise— And lo! the Promise more than paid. 20
I saw thee in thy youthful Bloom With much delight, but no Surprise; It was another Rutland come To cheer our hearts and charm our Eyes.
Fairest among the Fair was she; And ardent is my Hope that thou In thy maternal years [may’st] be What she, her Sex’s Pride, is now.
[ON] A DRAWING, BY THE HON. MRS SMITH (ELIZA FORRESTER).
When we behold a Landscape well designed, Our praise at once we on the Work bestow; We see the image of so just a Mind, And ’tis the Merit, not the Man, we know.
But when we learn from where our Pleasure springs, And whose the Skill that here the Proof has placed: This to our Mind a double Pleasure brings, For ’tis Affection looks as well as Taste.
They who have Wealth may hire an Artist’s Hand. And may the Gallery and the Hall supply; 10 But Love alone can Views like this command: Affection gives what Wealth can never buy.
Pictures and Prints the Wealthy may obtain And, as their Pleasure dictates, may remove; But these fair Views for ever shall remain, The rich Memorials of Taste and Love.
These flowing lines confess Eliza’s Hand; She formed the Wood, the Water, and the Sky; For she can all the pleasing arts command That soothe the Fancy and that charm the Eye. 20
All the fair Arts that give a Grace to Life Are hers: she sings, she speaks, she moves with Grace; Nor charms she less, the Mother and the Wife, And still maintains the Virtues of her Race.
Happy the fair Possessor of that Skill— When Life’s Endowment, but not Life’s Employ; When used for Pleasure and resigned at Will, The aid of Home-felt and domestic Joy!
FOR THE DRAWING OF THE LADY IN THE GREEN MANTLE.
(_See_ Sir Walter Scott’s _Redgauntlet_.)
A lady who concealed her Name, Nor let her Face be fully seen, To her admiring [Counsel] came, Veil’d in an Hood and Mantle green.
All that he saw, the Youth approved; But much there was he could not trace: He wished the Envious Veil removed That hid the Beauties of that Face.
All that Sir Walter’s page has told— The Air, the lovely Form—are here; But still we covet to behold Those Features that do not appear.
To that fair form belongs a face, Could we behold it, just as fair; But how shall we those Features trace, Conceal’d from View with so much Care?
How shall we match that Air and Grace, And just the lovely features find: That all shall say, that beauteous Face To just that Form should be assigned?
Yes! I can certain Means devise, To make the face and form agree; A Mirror place before thine Eyes, And draw the face that looks on thee.
Be there those Locks of waving Gold; Be there those Eyes so clear and bright; That Smile which all with joy behold, Those Cheerful Looks that all delight—
Then, though the Form and Air were such As would our highest Praise exceed, We should admire the Face as much, [And] say how well the whole agreed.
JOSEPH’S DREAM.
When Joseph, by his Brethren sold, Was with his Masters on their Way, Prest by sad thoughts and dreading to behold The rising Light of each succeeding Day: A Night there came when, burdened with his Woes, His Fears and Wrongs, he felt inclined to rest; When Sleeping Visions on his Fancy rose, And Wonders on his troubled Spirit prest.
At first his Thoughts were all confused: A fair young Slave was in his dream, 10 Who like himself did seem, But whom he saw, now trusted, then accused— One often tried and ever faithful found; But still in Prison bound. Anon, a City to his View arose; Then a fair Dame, and then a Clank of Chains; Alternate Smiles and Frowns of Friends and Foes; Temptations, Trials, Favours, Perils, Pains; But in each shifting Scene Was he, that self-same Youth, still virtuous, still serene. 20
All else past off like Summer Clouds; And that fair Youth, a Slave no more, Was now attended by applauding Crowds, And Robes of royal State he wore; And ever, as this Youth the Dreamer viewed, He seemed his very Self to [see]; Save that this other Self was new indued With Power that his must never be; For how could one be great, who felt he was not free!
He saw that other self beside a Throne, 30 Ennobled and admired of noble Men; He saw him too, retired, alone, Virtuous, and still more happy, then. He seemed as fitted for his State, And not by Love of Greatness led; But as a Man advanced by Fate To be a mighty People’s Head; For, though so high, so near a Throne, He served his God aright and worshipped Him alone.
Then he again beheld that Youth 40 With Wonder and increased delight! For the young Dreamer saw the inward Truth, And saw that all he did was just and right, Acting as ever in his Mother’s sight; And much he loved, but knew not why, As Hearts are drawn by secret Chain; When soon he heard a Voice that said, “Draw nigh, And see what Truth and Piety obtain!”
While yet the Voice was heard, behold, there came A Princess fair, or one in princely Guise; 50 The sleeping Shepherd feels a sudden flame, And in his Slumber sighs. Yet, when he saw that noble Youth address The royal Maiden in a lover’s Style, He felt no jealous Pangs his Heart oppress, But joyful saw the soft, assenting Smile.
Scenes change.—The Pair are wedded and are blest; He ruled the Land, but sterile was the Earth— Dry as the parchèd Rock, yet not distress’d— An unseen Plenty came upon the Dearth, 60 Like a full Stream; and lo! as Merchants came A mingled race, to buy their Households food, All praise his foresight; all revere his Name— The Great, the Wise, the Bountiful and Good! Then by that noble Youth, behold, there stood— Strange Fate!—his Brothers, trembling at their Lot. The Lordly Man them question’d; they replied: “Our Father lives; One Brother, and beside That one”—they looked abashed—“one more, my Lord, is not.”
He then beheld his Father and his Race, 70 Who found Protection from that bounteous hand. Jacob had Honour, and his Brethren Grace, And Joseph saw them in that Presence stand. Strange joy he felt; for in his Dream He as that princely Youth did seem; And felt that Glory new of all the Scene. But, as the Tidings of that Glory rose, The gorgeous Scene appeared about to close; For all the People shout, and all the Host Of Egypt join’d, along the Red-Sea Coast, 80 In one loud peal of Praise; and was it joy? Oh, no! it was the call his Masters gave, That from his Vision drew the Hebrew Boy To know himself a Slave! While on his Ear that Shout of Triumph broke, Joseph unwilling to the Call awoke; He saw far off the Egyptian Turrets gleam, And wept his cruel Fate, and longed again to dream.
[REST IN THE LORD!]
Ye blessed of your gracious Lord, Felt you not, in that glorious Day, By Force of that all-powerful Word Your Nature’s Evil die away? Ye must your Saviour’s Mercy feel, Who came the World’s Disease to heal.
Felt ye not, at the powerful word, The Innocence of Man restored; Was it not to your Souls revealed, The fountain of your Sin was healed? 10
Did ye not feel the Saviour’s Love, With such peculiar Favour graced; Lifted the World of Sin above; In Mercy’s Ark securely placed; From all that vexes, wounds and harms, Protected in your Saviour’s Arms?
Felt you, as Life advanced, the Sin That to our better Nature cleaves; Or was there not the Guard within, His Strength who in his Lord believes; 20 Did not that healing Touch controul The Evil that assaults the Soul?
Knew ye not, as your Race ye ran, And felt the Passions’ strong alarms, That He who came and died for Man Had blest and held you in His Arms?
Ye were a favour’d few; but all By Frailty griev’d, by Sin opprest, Who hear and who obey the Call— “Come unto me”—shall find their Rest. 30
But Sinners who that Mercy seek As little Children must appear; Their Misery must their Wishes speak— Repentant, humble, meek, sincere. Let such appear with faithful Hearts And feel the Hope that Faith imparts, And they shall find that holy Rest In their Redeemer’s mercy blest.
AND HE SAID UNTO HER “THY SINS ARE FORGIVEN.”
_St Luke_, vii. [48.]
Man may the Body’s Pains remove; May soothe the Mind’s inferior Pain; May the sad Spirit’s sighs reprove, And bid the wretched smile again: But, who the Soul of Sin would free, Must be commissioned, Lord, from Thee!
Kings of the Earth have touched the Frame Of Men diseased, and they have thought By calling on Thy gracious Name That they the Body’s Cure have wrought: 10 But ’tis Thy Word alone that brings Health to the Soul, O King of Kings!
“Let there be Light!” th’ Almighty said, And o’er the World came flashing Light. “Let there be Light!” the Saviour [said], And straight the Blind received his Sight. At Jesus’ Word the Darkness fled
* * * * *
ERRATA.
VOL. III.
[_The lines cited are those of the several poems, not of the pages, except where a page contains more than one poem._]
PAGE 18 l. 622 for _Chronicles_ read _Chronicle_.
p. 31 l. 150 for _know_ read _knew_.
p. 75 l. 21 for _if_ read _‘If_.
_ib._ and 76 ll. 22–4 in double inverted commas only.
p. 86 l. 428 for _your_ read _‘Your_.
_ib._ l. 429 _They will your absence_ not in inverted commas.
p. 87 ll. 465–7 not in inverted commas.
p. 88 l. 504 for _believe_ read _‘Believe._
_ib._ l. 505 not in inverted commas.
_ib._ l. 506 for _it_ read _‘It_.
_ib._ l. 507 not in treble inverted commas.
p. 95 l. 794 for _admit_ read _admits_.
p. 96 l. 828 for _the_ read _will_.
p. 98 l. 910 no inverted commas.
_ib._ l. 922 for _follow_ read _follow’d_.
p. 118 ll. 84–7 no single inverted comma before and after _fair fragile thing_; before _wilt thou expand_; before _or wilt_; before and after _for will it not_; before and after _melt away_.
p. 121 l. 217 no single inverted comma before and after _I love_ and _Adieu!_
p. 126 l. 4 for _Visit William_ read _Visit to William_.
p. 129 l. 68 for _Dodderidge_ read _Doddridge_.
_ib._ l. 76 for _friends_ read _friends’_.
p. 134 l. 280 no inverted commas before and after _and shall we her neglect?_
p. 142 l. 579 no inverted commas before and after _How_ and before _such wo_.
_ib._ ll. 580–8 no inverted commas before lines and at end of l. 588.
p. 145 l. 702 no inverted commas after _Frances_.
p. 155 l. 281 an inverted comma after _side_.
_ib._ ll. 282–3 no third inverted comma at beginning and end of this couplet.
p. 166 l. 187 for _reduced_ read _seduced_.
p. 167 l. 225 no inverted commas before and after _He knew full well_; before _to what_.
_ib._ l. 226 no inverted commas at beginning and end of line.
p. 170 l. 373 no third inverted comma before _James_.
_ib._ l. 374 no inverted commas at beginning or end of line.
_ib._ ll. 376–7 inverted commas after _the heart_ and before _I tarry_.
p. 171 l. 383 for _O_ read _Oh_.
_ib._ l. 412 no inverted commas before and after _Can I depend on James_.
p. 172 ll. 433–4 no inverted commas before each of these lines and at the end of l. 434.
_ib._ l. 447 for _slaves_ read _slave’s_.
p. 173 l. 478 inverted commas at end of line.
_ib._ l. 479 no inverted commas before and after _In such a night_.
p. 174 ll. 500–2 no inverted commas before each of these lines and at the end of l. 502.
p. 179 l. 7 for _he_ read _be_.
p. 182 l. 132 no inverted commas before and after _And where is Bloomer_.
p. 190 ll. 430–44 no third inverted commas at the beginning of each of these lines and at the end of l. 444.
p. 198 l. 169 for _obscure sublime_ read _obscure-sublime_.
p. 201 ll. 289–91 no inverted commas at the beginnings of these lines and at the end of l. 291.
p. 215 l. 83 no inverted commas at the end of this line.
p. 216 l. 146 for _we are_ read _we’re_.
p. 221 l. 347 for _seed_ read _seeds_.
p. 232 l. 759 no inverted commas at end of line.
p. 249 l. 314 a foot wanting here.
p. 273 l. 157 for _girls_ read _girl_.
p. 336 l. 24 for _hoy’s_ read _hoys’_.
p. 342 l. 270 for _ousy_ read _oozy_.
p. 353 l. 74 for _How_ read _How’s_.
p. 356 l. 192 for _He_ read _he_.
p. 372 l. 167 for _Made_ read _Make_.
p. 382 l. 157 for _becomes_ read _become_.
p. 408 l. 138 for _not ye_ read _ye not_.
p. 429 l. 66 for _dare_ read _dared_.
VARIANTS.
TALES OF THE HALL. Variants in edition of 1819 (first edition).
‘Original MS.’ readings given as footnotes in Life and Poems (1834). These are distinguished as ‘O.M.’