Part 5

From that moment the Monarch grew sober and good, (And nestled with Birds of a different brood,) For he found that the pathway which wisdom pursu’d Was pleasant, safe, quiet, and even! That by Temperance, Virtue and liberal deeds, By nursing the flowrets, and crushing the weeds, The loftiest Traveller always succeeds— For his journey will lead him to HEAV’N.

_The DESERTED COTTAGE._

Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot, Why is it thus forsaken? It seems, by all the world forgot, Above its path the high grass grows, And through its thatch the northwind blows —Its thatch, by tempests shaken.

And yet, it tops a verdant hill By Summer gales surrounded: Beneath its door a shallow rill Runs brawling to the vale below, And near it sweetest flowrets grow By banks of willow bounded.

Then why is ev’ry casement dark? Why looks the Cot so chearless? Ah! why does ruin seem to mark The calm retreat where LOVE should dwell, And FRIENDSHIP teach the heart to swell With rapture, pure and fearless?

There, far above the busy croud, Man may repose in quiet; There, smile, that he has left the proud, And blest with liberty, enjoy More than Ambition’s gilded toy, Or Folly’s sick’ning riot.

For there, the ever tranquil mind, On calm Religion resting, May in each lonely labyrinth find The DEITY, whose boundless pow’r Directs the blast, or tints the flow’r— No mortal foe molesting.

Stranger, yon spot was once the scene Where peace and joy resided: And oft the merry time has been When Love and Friendship warm’d the breast, And Freedom, making wealth a jest, The pride of Pomp derided.

Old JACOB was the Cottage Lord, His wide domain, surrounding, By Nature’s treasure amply stor’d; He from his casement could behold The breezy mountain, ting’d with gold, The varied landscape bounding!

The coming morn, with lustre gay, Breath’d sweetly on his dwelling; The twilight veil of parting day Stole softly o’er his quiet shed, Hiding the mountain’s misty head, Where the night-breeze was swelling.

One lovely Girl, Old JACOB rear’d And she was fair, and blooming; She, like the morning Star, appear’d, Swift gliding o’er the mountain’s crest, While her blue eyes her soul confess’d, No borrow’d rays assuming.

’Twas her’s, the vagrant lamb to lead, To watch the wild goat playing: To join the Shepherd’s tuneful reed, And, when the sultry Sun rose high, To tend the Herds, deep-lowing nigh, Where the swift brook was straying.

One sturdy Boy, a younker bold, Ere they were doom’d to sever, Maintain’d poor JACOB, sick and old; But now, where yon tall poplars wave, Pale primroses adorn the grave— Where JACOB sleeps, for Ever!

Young, in the wars, the brave Boy fell! His Sister died of sadness! But _one_ remain’d their fate to tell, For JACOB now was left alone, And he, alas! was helpless grown, And pin’d in moody madness.

At night, by moonshine would he stray, Along the upland dreary; And, talking wildly all the way, Would fancy, ’till the Sun uprose, That Heav’n, in pity, mark’d the woes— Of which his soul was weary.

One morn, upon the dewy grass Poor JACOB’s sorrows ended, The woodland’s narrow winding pass Was his last scene of lonely care, For, gentle Stranger, lifeless there— Was JACOB’s form extended!

He lies beneath yon Poplar tree That tops the church-yard, sighing! For sighing oft it seems to be, And as its waving leaves, around, With morning’s tears begem the ground The Zephyr trembles, flying!

And now behold yon little Cot All dreary and forsaken! And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot, To fall, like JACOB and his race, And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace, Which way thy course is taken.

Yet, if for Truth and feeling known, Thou still shalt be lamented! For when thy parting sigh has flown, Fond MEM’RY on thy grave shall give _A tear_—to bid thy VIRTUES live! Then—Smile, AND BE CONTENTED!

_The FORTUNE-TELLER_, _A GYPSY TALE_.

LUBIN and KATE, as gossips tell, Were Lovers many a day; LUBIN the damsel lov’d so well, That folks pretend to say The silly, simple, doting Lad, Was little less than loving mad: A malady not known of late— Among the little-loving Great!

KATE liked the youth; but woman-kind Are sometimes giv’n to range. And oft, the giddy Sex, we find, (They know not why) When most they promise, soonest change, And still for conquest sigh: So ’twas with KATE; she, ever roving Was never fix’d, though always loving!

STEPHEN was LUBIN’s rival; he A rustic libertine was known; And many a blushing simple She, The rogue had left,—to sigh alone! KATE cared but little for the rover, Yet she resolv’d to have her way, For STEPHEN was the village Lover, And women pant for Sov’reign sway. And he, who has been known to ruin,— Is always sought, and always wooing.

STEPHEN had long in secret sigh’d; And STEPHEN never was deny’d: Now, LUBIN was a modest swain, And therefore, treated with disdain: For, it is said, in _Love_ and _War_,— The boldest, most successful are!

Vows, were to him but fairy things Borne on capricious Fancy’s wings; And promises, the Phantom’s Airy Which falsehood form’d to cheat th’ unwary; For still deception was his trade, And though his traffic well was known, Still, every trophy was his own Which the proud Victor, Love, display’d. In short, this STEPHEN was the bane Of ev’ry maid,—and ev’ry swain!

KATE had too often play’d the fool, And now, at length, was caught; For she, who had been pleas’d to rule, Was now, poor Maiden, taught! And STEPHEN rul’d with boundless sway, The rustic tyrant of his day.

LUBIN had giv’n inconstant KATE, _Ten pounds_, to buy her wedding geer: And now, ’tis said, tho’ somewhat late, He thought his bargain rather dear. For, Lo! The day before the pair Had fix’d, the marriage chain to wear, A GYPSY gang, a wand’ring set, In a lone wood young LUBIN met. All round him press with canting tale, And, in a jargon, well design’d To cheat the unsuspecting mind, His list’ning ears assail.

Some promis’d riches; others swore He should, by women, be ador’d; And never sad, and never poor— Live like a Squire, or Lord;— Do what he pleas’d, and ne’er be brought To shame,—for what he did, or thought; Seduce men’s wives and daughters fair, Spend wealth, while others toil’d in vain, And scoff at honesty, and swear,— _And scoff, and trick, and swear again!_

ONE roguish Girl, with sparkling eyes, To win the handsome LUBIN tries; She smil’d, and by her speaking glance, Enthrall’d him in a wond’ring trance; He thought her lovelier far than KATE, And wish’d that she had been his mate; For when the FANCY is on wing, VARIETY’s a dangerous thing: And PASSIONS, when they learn to stray Will seldom seldom keep the beaten way. The gypsy girl, with speaking eyes, Observ’d her pupil’s fond surprize, She begg’d that he her hand would cross, With Sixpence; and that He should know His future scene of gain and loss, His weal and woe.—

LUBIN complies. And straight he hears That he had many long, long years; That he a maid inconstant, loves, Who, to another slyly roves. That a dark man his bane will be— “And poison his domestic hours; “While a fair woman, treach’rously— “Will dress his brow—with thorns and flow’rs!” It happen’d, to confirm his care— STEPHEN was _dark_,—and KATE was _fair_! Nay more that “home his bride would bring “A little, alien, prattling thing “In just six moons!” Poor LUBIN hears All that confirms his jealous fears; Perplex’d and frantic, what to do The cheated Lover scarcely knew. He flies to KATE, and straight he tells The wonder that in magic dwells! Speaks of the Fortune-telling crew, And how all things the Vagrants knew; KATE hears: and soon determines, she Will know _her_ future destiny.

Swift to the wood she hies, tho’ late To read the tablet of her Fate. The Moon its crystal beam scarce shew’d Upon the darkly shadow’d road; The hedge-row was the feasting-place Where, round a little blazing wood, The wand’ring, dingy, gabbling race, Crowded in merry mood.

And now she loiter’d near the scene. Now peep’d the hazle copse between; Fearful that LUBIN might be near The story of _her_ Fate to hear.— She saw the feasting circle gay By the stol’n faggot’s yellow light; She heard them, as in sportive play, They chear’d the sullen gloom of night. Nor was sly KATE by all unseen Peeping, the hazle copse between.

And now across the thicket side A tatter’d, skulking youth she spied; He beckon’d her along, and soon, Hid safely from the prying moon, His hand with silver, thrice she crosses— “Tell me,” said she, “my gains and losses?”

“You gain a _fool_,” the youth replies, “You lose a lover too.” The false one blushes deep, and sighs, For well the truth she knew! “You gave to STEPHEN, vows; nay more “You gave him favors rare: “And LUBIN is condemn’d to share “What many others shar’d before! “A false, capricious, guilty heart, “Made up of folly, vice, and art, “Which only takes a wedded mate “To brand with shame, an husband’s fate.”

“Hush! hush!” cried KATE, for Heav’n’s sake be “As secret as the grave— “For LUBIN means to marry me— “And if you will not me betray, “I for your silence well will pay; “_Five pounds_ this moment you shall have.”— “I will have TEN!” the gypsy cries— The fearful, trembling girl complies.

But, what was her dismay, to find That LUBIN was the gypsy bold; The cunning, fortune-telling hind Who had the artful story told— Who thus, was cur’d of jealous pain,— “_And got his_ TEN POUNDS _back again_!

Thus, Fortune pays the LOVER bold! But, gentle Maids, should Fate Have any _secret_ yet untold,— Remember, _simple_ KATE!

_POOR MARGUERITE_.

Swift, o’er the wild and dreary waste A NUT-BROWN GIRL was seen to haste; Wide waving was her unbound hair, And sun-scorch’d was her bosom bare; For Summer’s noon had shed its beams While she lay wrapp’d in fev’rish dreams; While, on the wither’d hedge-row’s side, By turns she slept, by turns she cried, “Ah! where lies hid the balsam sweet, “To heal the wounds of MARGUERITE?”

Dark was her large and sunken eye Which wildly gaz’d upon the sky; And swiftly down her freckled face The chilling dews began to pace: For she was lorn, and many a day, Had, all alone, been doom’d to stray, And, many a night, her bosom warm, Had throbb’d, beneath the pelting storm, And still she cried, “the rain falls sweet, “It bathes the wounds of MARGUERITE.”

Her garments were by briars torn, And on them hung full many a thorn; A thistle crown, she mutt’ring twin’d, Now darted on,—now look’d behind— And here, and there, her arm was seen Bleeding the tatter’d folds between; Yet, on her breast she oft display’d A faded branch, that breast to shade: For though her senses were astray, She felt the burning beams of day: She felt the wintry blast of night, And smil’d to see the morning light, For then she cried, “I soon shall meet “The plighted love of MARGUERITE.”

Across the waste of printless snow, All day the NUT-BROWN GIRL would go; And when the winter moon had shed Its pale beams on the mountain’s head, She on a broomy pillow lay Singing the lonely hours away; While the cold breath of dawnlight flew Across the fields of glitt’ring dew:— Swift o’er the frozen lake she past Unmindful of the driving blast, And then she cried “the air is sweet— “It fans the breast of MARGUERITE.”

The weedy lane she lov’d to tread When stars their twinkling lustre shed; While from the lone and silent Cot The watchful Cur assail’d her not, Though at the beggar he would fly, And fright the Trav’ller passing by: But she, so kind and gentle seem’d, Such sorrow in her dark eyes beam’d, That savage fierceness could not greet With less than love,—POOR MARGUERITE!

Oft, by the splashy brook she stood And sung her Song to the waving wood; The waving wood, in murmurs low, Fill’d up the pause of weary woe; Oft, to the Forest tripp’d along And inly humm’d her frantic Song; Oft danc’d mid shadows Ev’ning spread Along the whisp’ring willow-bed. And wild was her groan, When she climb’d, alone— The rough rock’s side, While the foaming tide, Dash’d rudely against the sandy shore, And the lightning flash’d mid the thunder’s roar.

And many a time she chac’d the fly, And mock’d the Beetle, humming by; And then, with loud fantastic tone She sang her wild strain, sad—alone. And if a stranger wander’d near Or paus’d the frantic Song to hear, The burthen she would soft repeat, “Who comes to soothe POOR MARGUERITE?”

And why did she with sun-burnt breast, So wander, and so scorn to rest? Why did the NUT-BROWN MAIDEN go O’er burning plains and wastes of snow? What bade her fev’rish bosom sigh, And dimm’d her large and hazle eye? What taught her o’er the hills to stray Fearless by night, and wild by day? What stole the hour of slumber sweet— From the scorch’d brain of MARGUERITE.

Soon shalt thou know; for see how lorn She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn— Now on the jutting cliff she stands, And clasps her cold,—but snow-white hands. And now aloud she chaunts her strain While fiercely roars the troublous main. Now the white breakers curling shew The dread abyss that yawns below, And still she sighs, “the sound is sweet, “It seems to say, POOR MARGUERITE!”

“Here will I build a rocky shed, “And here I’ll make my sea-weed bed; “Here gather, with unwearied hands— “The orient shells that deck the sands. “And here will I skim o’er the billows so high, “And laugh at the moon and the dark frowning sky. “And the Sea-birds, that hover across the wide main, “Shall sweep with their pinions, the white bounding plain.— “And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest meet, “Like the storm, in the bosom of POOR MARGUERITE!

“The setting Sun, with golden ray, “Shall warm my breast, and make me gay. “The clamours of the roaring Sea “My midnight serenade shall be! “The Cliff that like a Tyrant stands “Exulting o’er the wave lash’d sands, “With its weedy crown, and its flinty crest, “Shall, on its hard bosom, rock _me_ to rest; “And I’ll watch for the Eagle’s unfledg’d brood, “And I’ll scatter their nest, and I’ll drink their blood; “And under the crag I will kneel and pray “And silver my robe, with the moony ray: “And who shall scorn the lone retreat “Which Heaven has chose, for MARGUERITE?

“Here, did the exil’d HENRY stray “Forc’d from his native land, away; “Here, here upon a foreign shore, “His parents, lost, awhile deplore; “Here find, that pity’s holy tear “Could not an _alien wand’rer_ chear; “And now, in fancy, he would view, “Shouting aloud, the rabble crew— “The rabble crew, whose impious hands “Tore asunder nature’s bands!— “I see him still,—He waves me on! “And now to the dark abyss he’s gone— “He calls—I hear his voice, so sweet,— “It seems to say—POOR MARGUERITE!”

Thus, wild she sung! when on the sand She saw her long lost HENRY, stand: Pale was his cheek, and on his breast His icy hand he, silent, prest; And now the Twilight shadows spread Around the tall cliff’s weedy head; Far o’er the main the moon shone bright, She mark’d the quiv’ring stream of light— It danc’d upon the murm’ring wave It danc’d upon—her HENRY’s Grave! It mark’d his visage, deathly pale,— His white shroud floating in the gale; His speaking eyes—his smile so sweet That won the love—of MARGUERITE!

And now he beckon’d her along The curling moonlight waves among; No footsteps mark’d the slanting sand Where she had seen her HENRY stand! She saw him o’er the billows go— She heard the rising breezes blow; She shriek’d aloud! The echoing steep Frown’d darkness on the troubled deep; The moon in cloudy veil was seen, And louder howl’d the night blast keen!— And when the morn, in splendour dress’d, Blush’d radiance on the Eagle’s nest, That radiant blush was doom’d to greet— _The lifeless form_—of MARGUERITE!

_The CONFESSOR_, _A SANCTIFIED TALE_.

When SUPERSTITION rul’d the land And Priestcraft shackled Reason, At GODSTOW dwelt a goodly band, Grey monks they were, and but to say They were not always giv’n to pray, Would have been construed Treason. Yet some _did_ scoff, and some believ’d That sinners were themselves deceiv’d; And taking Monks for more than men They prov’d themselves, nine out of ten, Mere dupes of these Old Fathers hoary; But read—and mark the story.

Near, in a little Farm, there liv’d A buxom Dame of twenty three; And by the neighbours ’twas believ’d A very Saint was She! Yet, ev’ry week, for some transgression, She went to sigh devout confession. For ev’ry trifle seem’d to make Her self-reproving Conscience ache; And Conscience, waken’d, ’tis well known, Will never let the Soul alone.

At GODSTOW, ’mid the holy band, Old FATHER PETER held command. And lusty was the pious man, As any of his crafty clan: And rosy was his cheek, and sly The wand’rings of his keen grey eye; Yet all the Farmers wives confest The wond’rous pow’r this Monk possess’d; Pow’r to rub out the score of sin, Which SATAN chalk’d upon his Tally; To give fresh licence to begin,— And for new scenes of frolic, rally. For abstinence was not his way— He lov’d to _live_—as well as _pray_; To prove his gratitude to Heav’n By taking freely all its favors,— And keeping his account still even, Still mark’d his best endeavours: That is to say, He took pure Ore For benedictions,—and was known, While Reason op’d her golden store,— Not to unlock his own.— And often to his cell went he With the gay Dame of twenty three: His Cell was sacred, and the fair Well knew, that none could enter there, Who, (such was PETER’s sage decree,) To Paradise ne’er _bought_ a key.

It happen’d that this Farmer’s wife (Call MISTRESS TWYFORD—alias BRIDGET,) Led her poor spouse a weary life— Keeping him, in an endless fidget! Yet ev’ry week she sought the cell Where Holy FATHER PETER stay’d, And there did ev’ry secret tell,— And there, at Sun-rise, knelt and pray’d. For near, there liv’d a civil friend, Than FARMER TWYFORD somewhat stouter, And he would oft his counsel lend, And pass the wintry hours away In harmless play; But MISTRESS BRIDGET was so chaste, So much with pious manners grac’d, That none could doubt her!

One night, or rather morn, ’tis said The wily neighbour chose to roam, And (FARMER TWYFORD far from home) He thought he might supply his place; And, void of ev’ry spark of grace, Upon HIS pillow, rest his head. The night was cold, and FATHER PETER, Sent his young neighbour to entreat her, That she would make confession free— To Him,—his saintly deputy. Now, so it happen’d, to annoy The merry pair, a little boy The only Son of lovely Bridget, And, like his _daddy_, giv’n to fidget, Enquir’d who this same neighbour was That took the place his father left— A most unworthy, shameless theft,— A sacrilege on marriage laws!