TALES. (continued 2)

It were all one, That I should love a bright [particular] star, And think to wed it; [he] is so much above me: In [his] bright radiance and collateral heat Must I be comforted, not in [his] sphere. All’s Well that Ends Well, Act I. Scene 1.

Poor wretches, that depend On greatness’ favours, dream as I have done,— Wake, and find nothing. Cymbeline, Act V. Scene 4.

And since... Th’ affliction of my mind amends, with which I fear a madness held me. [The] Tempest, Act V.

A borough-bailiff, who to law was train’d, A wife and sons in decent state maintain’d; He had his way in life’s rough ocean steer’d, And many a rock and coast of danger clear’d; He saw where others fail’d, and care had he Others in him should not such failings see; His sons in various busy states were placed, And all began the sweets of gain to taste, Save John, the younger; who, of sprightly parts, Felt not a love for money-making arts. 10 In childhood feeble, he, for country air, Had long resided with a rustic pair; All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs, Of lovers’ sufferings and of ladies’ wrongs; Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight, For breach of promise guilty men to fright; Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with these, All that on idle, ardent spirits seize; Robbers at land and pirates on the main, Enchanters foil’d, spells broken, giants slain; 20 Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers, } Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice flowers, } And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.} From village-children kept apart by pride, With such enjoyments, and without a guide, Inspired by feelings all such works infused, John snatch’d a pen, and wrote as he perused: With the like fancy he could make his knight Slay half an host and put the rest to flight; With the like knowledge, he could make him ride 30 From isle to isle at Parthenissa’s side; And with a heart yet free, no busy brain} Form’d wilder notions of delight and pain,} The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain. } Such were the fruits of John’s poetic toil— Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil. He nothing purposed but with vast delight, Let Fancy loose, and wonder’d at her flight; His notions of poetic worth were high, And of his own still-hoarded poetry.— 40 These to his father’s house he bore with pride, A miser’s treasure, in his room to hide; Till, spurr’d by glory, to a reading friend He kindly show’d the sonnets he had penn’d. With erring judgment, though with heart sincere, That friend exclaim’d, “These beauties must appear.” In Magazines they claim’d their share of fame, Though undistinguish’d by their author’s name; And with delight the young enthusiast found The muse of ‘Marcus’ with applauses crown’d. 50 This heard the father, and with some alarm; “The boy,” said he, “will neither trade nor farm; He for both law and physic is unfit; Wit he may have, but cannot live on wit: Let him his talents then to learning give, Where verse is honour’d, and where poets live.” John kept his terms at college unreproved, Took his degree, and left the life he loved; Not yet ordain’d, his leisure he employ’d In the light labours he so much enjoy’d; 60 His favourite notions and his daring views Were cherish’d still, and he adored the Muse. “A little time, and he should burst to light, And admiration of the world excite; And every friend, now cool and apt to blame His fond pursuit, would wonder at his fame.” When led by fancy, and from view retired, He call’d before him all his heart desired; “Fame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess, And beauty next an ardent lover bless; 70 For me the maid shall leave her nobler state, Happy to raise and share her poet’s fate.” He saw each day his father’s frugal board With simple fare by cautious prudence stored; Where each indulgence was foreweigh’d with care, And the grand maxims were to save and spare. Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed, All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled; And bounteous Fancy for his glowing mind Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind; 80 Slaves of the ring and lamp! what need of you, When Fancy’s self such magic deeds can do? Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind, To common subjects stoop’d our poet’s mind; And oft, when wearied with more ardent flight, He felt a spur satiric song to write; A rival burgess his bold muse attack’d, And whipp’d severely for a well-known fact; For, while he seem’d to all demure and shy, Our poet gazed at what was passing by; 90 And ev’n his father smiled when playful wit, From his young bard, some haughty object hit. From ancient times the borough where they dwelt Had mighty contest at elections felt. Sir Godfrey Ball, ’tis true, had held in pay Electors many for the trying day; But in such golden chains to bind them all Required too much for e’en Sir Godfrey Ball. A member died, and, to supply his place, Two heroes enter’d for th’ important race; 100 Sir Godfrey’s friend and Earl Fitzdonnel’s son, Lord Frederick Damer, both prepared to run; And partial numbers saw with vast delight Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight. Our poet’s father, at a first request, Gave the young lord his vote and interest, And, what he could, our poet; for he stung The foe by verse satiric, said and sung. Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal, And felt as lords upon a canvass feel; 110 He read the satire, and he saw the use } That such cool insult, and such keen abuse,} Might on the wavering minds of voting men produce; } Then, too, his praises were in contrast seen, “A lord as noble as the knight was mean.” “I much rejoice,” he cried, “such worth to find; To this the world must be no longer blind; His glory will descend from sire to son, The Burns of English race, the happier Chatterton.” Our poet’s mind, now hurried and elate, 120 Alarm’d the anxious parent for his fate; Who saw with sorrow, should their friend succeed, That much discretion would the poet need. Their friend succeeded, and repaid the zeal The poet felt, and made opposers feel, By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet!) And invitation to his noble seat. The father ponder’d, doubtful if the brain Of his proud boy such honour could sustain; Pleased with the favours offer’d to a son, 130 But seeing dangers few so ardent shun. Thus, when they parted, to the youthful breast The father’s fears were by his love impress’d: “There you will find, my son, the courteous ease That must subdue the soul it means to please; That soft attention which ev’n beauty pays To wake our passions, or provoke our praise; There all the eye beholds will give delight, Where every sense is flatter’d like the sight. This is your peril; can you from such scene 140 Of splendour part, and feel your mind serene, And in the father’s humble state resume The frugal diet and the narrow room?” To this the youth with cheerful heart replied, Pleased with the trial, but as yet untried; And while professing patience, should he fail, He suffer’d hope o’er reason to prevail. Impatient, by the morning mail convey’d, The happy guest his promised visit paid; And now, arriving at the hall, he tried 150 For air composed, serene and satisfied; As he had practised in his room alone, And there acquired a free and easy tone. There he had said, “Whatever the degree A man obtains, what more than man is he?” And when arrived—“This room is but a room; Can aught we see the steady soul o’ercome? Let me in all a manly firmness show, Upheld by talents, and their value know.” This reason urged; but it surpass’d his skill 160 To be in act as manly as in will: When he his lordship and the lady saw, Brave as he was, he felt oppress’d with awe; And spite of verse, that so much praise had won, The poet found he was the bailiff’s son. But dinner came, and the succeeding hours Fix’d his weak nerves, and raised his failing powers; Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice On some remark, and bravely broke the ice; So that at night, reflecting on his words, 170 He found in time, he might converse with lords. Now was the sister of his patron seen— A lovely creature, with majestic mien; Who, softly smiling while she look’d so fair, Praised the young poet with such friendly air; Such winning frankness in her looks express’d, And such attention to her brother’s guest, That so much beauty, join’d with speech so kind, Raised strong emotions in the poet’s mind; Till reason fail’d his bosom to defend 180 From the sweet power of this enchanting friend.— Rash boy! what hope thy frantic mind invades? What love confuses, and what pride persuades? Awake to truth! shouldst thou deluded feed On hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed. What say’st thou, wise-one? “that all-powerful love Can fortune’s strong impediments remove; Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth, The pride of genius with the pride of birth.” While thou art dreaming thus, the beauty spies 190 Love in thy tremor, passion in thine eyes; And, with th’ amusement pleased, of conquest vain, She seeks her pleasure, careless of thy pain; She gives thee praise to humble and confound, Smiles to ensnare, and flatters thee to wound. Why has she said that in the lowest state The noble mind insures a noble fate? And why thy daring mind to glory call? That thou may’st dare and suffer, soar and fall. Beauties are tyrants, and if they can reign, 200 They have no feeling for their subject’s pain; Their victim’s anguish gives their charms applause, And their chief glory is the woe they cause. Something of this was felt, in spite of love, Which hope, in spite of reason, would remove. Thus lived our youth, with conversation, books, And Lady Emma’s soul-subduing looks; Lost in delight, astonish’d at his lot, } All prudence banish’d, all advice forgot— } Hopes, fears, and every thought, were fix’d upon the spot. }210 ’Twas autumn yet, and many a day must frown On Brandon-Hall, ere went my lord to town; Meantime the father, who had heard his boy Lived in a round of luxury and joy, And, justly thinking that the youth was one Who, meeting danger, was unskill’d to shun; Knowing his temper, virtue, spirit, zeal, How prone to hope and trust, believe and feel: These on the parent’s soul their weight impress’d, And thus he wrote the counsels of his breast. 220 “John, thou’rt a genius; thou hast some pretence, I think, to wit, but hast thou sterling sense? That which, like gold, may through the world go forth, And always pass for what ’tis truly worth? Whereas this genius, like a bill, must take Only the value our opinions make. “Men famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain, Treat those of common parts with proud disdain; The powers that wisdom would, improving, hide, They blaze abroad with inconsid’rate pride; 230 While yet but mere probationers for fame, They seize the honour they should then disclaim: Honour so hurried to the light must fade; The lasting laurels flourish in the shade. “Genius is jealous; I have heard of some Who, if unnoticed, grew perversely dumb; Nay, different talents would their envy raise; Poets have sicken’d at a dancer’s praise; And one, the happiest writer of his time, Grew pale at hearing Reynolds was sublime; 240 That Rutland’s duchess wore a heavenly smile— And I, said he, neglected all the while! “A waspish tribe are these, on gilded wings, Humming their lays, and brandishing their stings; And thus they move their friends and foes among, Prepared for soothing or satiric song. “Hear me, my boy; thou hast a virtuous mind— But be thy virtues of the sober kind; Be not a Quixote, ever up in arms To give the guilty and the great alarms: 250 If never heeded, thy attack is vain; And if they heed thee, they’ll attack again; Then, too, in striking at that heedless rate, Thou in an instant may’st decide thy fate. “Leave admonition—let the vicar give Rules how the nobles of his flock should live; Nor take that simple fancy to thy brain, That thou canst cure the wicked and the vain. “Our Pope, they say, once entertain’d the whim, Who fear’d not God should be afraid of him; 260 But grant they fear’d him, was it further said, That he reform’d the hearts he made afraid? Did Chartres mend? Ward, Waters, and a score Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore? Was Cibber silenced? No; with vigour bless’d, And brazen front, half earnest, half in jest, He dared the bard to battle, and was seen In all his glory match’d with Pope and spleen; Himself he stripp’d, the harder blow to hit, Then boldly match’d his ribaldry with wit; 270 The poet’s conquest Truth and Time proclaim, But yet the battle hurt his peace and fame. “Strive not too much for favour; seem at ease, And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please: Upon thy lord with decent care attend, But not too near; thou canst not be a friend; And favourite be not, ’tis a dangerous post— Is gain’d by labour, and by fortune lost. Talents like thine may make a man approved, But other talents trusted and beloved. 280 Look round, my son, and thou wilt early see The kind of man thou art not form’d to be. “The real favourites of the great are they Who to their views and wants attention pay, And pay it ever; who, with all their skill, Dive to the heart, and learn the secret will; If that be vicious, soon can they provide The favourite ill, and o’er the soul preside; For vice is weakness, and the artful know Their power increases as the passions grow; 290 If indolent the pupil, hard their task; Such minds will ever for amusement ask; And great the labour for a man to choose Objects for one whom nothing can amuse! For ere those objects can the soul delight, They must to joy the soul herself excite; Therefore it is, this patient, watchful kind With gentle friction stir the drowsy mind; Fix’d on their end, with caution they proceed, And sometimes give, and sometimes take the lead; 300 Will now a hint convey, and then retire, And let the spark awake the lingering fire; Or seek new joys and livelier pleasures bring, To give the jaded sense a quick’ning spring. “These arts, indeed, my son must not pursue; Nor must he quarrel with the tribe that do: It is not safe another’s crimes to know, Nor is it wise our proper worth to show.— ‘My lord,’ you say, ‘engaged me for that worth;’— True, and preserve it ready to come forth: 310 If question’d, fairly answer—and, that done, Shrink back, be silent, and thy father’s son; For they who doubt thy talents scorn thy boast, But they who grant them will dislike thee most. Observe the prudent; they in silence sit, Display no learning, and affect no wit; They hazard nothing, nothing they assume, But know the useful art of acting dumb. Yet to their eyes each varying look appears, And every word finds entrance at their ears. 320 “Thou art religion’s advocate—take heed, Hurt not the cause thy pleasure ’tis to plead; With wine before thee, and with wits beside, Do not in strength of reas’ning powers confide; What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain, They will deny, and dare thee to maintain; And thus will triumph o’er thy eager youth, While thou wilt grieve for so disgracing truth. “With pain I’ve seen, these wrangling wits among, Faith’s weak defenders, passionate and young; 330 Weak thou art not, yet not enough on guard, Where wit and humour keep their watch and ward: Men gay and noisy will o’erwhelm thy sense, Then loudly laugh at Truth’s and thy expense; While the kind ladies will do all they can To check their mirth, and cry, ‘The good young man!’ “Prudence, my boy, forbids thee to commend The cause or party of thy noble friend; What are his praises worth, who must be known To take a patron’s maxims for his own? 340 When ladies sing, or in thy presence play, Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away; ’Tis not thy part, there will be list’ners round, To cry ‘divine!’ and dote upon the sound; Remember too, that though the poor have ears, They take not in the music of the spheres; They must not feel the warble and the thrill, Or be dissolved in ecstacy at will; Beside, ’tis freedom in a youth like thee To drop his awe, and deal in ecstacy! 350 “In silent ease, at least in silence, dine, Nor one opinion start of food or wine: Thou know’st that all the science thou canst boast Is of thy father’s simple boil’d and roast; Nor always these; he sometimes saved his cash, By interlinear days of frugal hash. Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou be so vain As to decide on claret or champagne? Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime, Who order port the dozen at a time; 360 When (every glass held precious in our eyes) We judged the value by the bottle’s size? Then, never merit for thy praise assume, Its worth well knows each servant in the room. “Hard, boy, thy task, to steer thy way among That servile, supple, shrewd, insidious throng; Who look upon thee as of doubtful race, An interloper, one who wants a place: Freedom with these let thy free soul condemn, Nor with thy heart’s concerns associate them. 370 “Of all be cautious—but be most afraid Of the pale charms that grace my lady’s maid; Of those sweet dimples, of that fraudful eye,} The frequent glance, design’d for thee to spy;} The soft bewitching look, the fond bewailing sigh. } Let others frown and envy; she the while (Insidious syren!) will demurely smile; And, for her gentle purpose, every day Inquire thy wants, and meet thee in thy way; She has her blandishments, and, though so weak, 380 Her person pleases, and her actions speak. At first her folly may her aim defeat; But kindness shown at length will kindness meet. Have some offended? them will she disdain, And, for thy sake, contempt and pity feign; She hates the vulgar, she admires to look On woods and groves, and dotes upon a book; Let her once see thee on her features dwell, And hear one sigh—then, liberty, farewell. “But, John, remember, we cannot maintain 390 A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain. “Doubt much of friendship: shouldst thou find a friend Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend; Should he the praises he has heard report, And confidence (in thee confiding) court; Much of neglectful patrons should he say, And then exclaim—‘How long must merit stay;’ Then show how high thy modest hopes may stretch, And point to stations far beyond thy reach: Let such designer, by thy conduct, see 400 (Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee; And he will quit thee, as a man too wise For him to ruin first, and then despise. “Such are thy dangers;—yet, if thou canst steer Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear, Then may’st thou profit; but if storms prevail, If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail— No more of winds or waters be the sport, But in thy father’s mansion find a port.” Our poet read.—“It is, in truth,” said he, 410 “Correct in part, but what is this to me? I love a foolish Abigail! in base And sordid office! fear not such disgrace: Am I so blind?”—“Or thou wouldst surely see That lady’s fall, if she should stoop to thee.”— “The cases differ.”—“True! for what surprise Could from thy marriage with the maid arise? But through the island would the shame be spread, Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed.” John saw not this; and many a week had pass’d, 420 While the vain beauty held her victim fast; The noble friend still condescension show’d, And, as before, with praises overflow’d; But his grave lady took a silent view Of all that pass’d, and, smiling, pitied too. Cold grew the foggy morn; the day was brief; Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf; The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods Roar’d with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods; All green was vanish’d, save of pine and yew, 430 That still display’d their melancholy hue; Save the green holly with its berries red, And the green moss that o’er the gravel spread. To public views my lord must soon attend; And soon the ladies—would they leave their friend? The time was fix’d—approach’d—was near—was come, The trying time that fill’d his soul with gloom. Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose, And cried, “One hour my fortune will disclose; Terrific hour! from thee have I to date 440 Life’s loftier views, or my degraded state; For now to be what I have been before Is so to fall, that I can rise no more.” The morning meal was past, and all around The mansion rang with each discordant sound; Haste was in every foot, and every look The trav’ller’s joy for London-journey spoke. Not so our youth; whose feelings, at the noise Of preparation, had no touch of joys; He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn, 450 With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn. The ladies came; and John in terror threw One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew; Not with such speed, but he in other eyes With anguish read—“I pity but despise— Unhappy boy! presumptuous scribbler!—you To dream such dreams!—be sober, and adieu!” Then came the noble friend—“And will my lord Vouchsafe no comfort? drop no soothing word? Yes, he must speak:” he speaks, “My good young friend,— You know my views; upon my care depend; 461 My hearty thanks to your good father pay, And be a student.—Harry, drive away.” Stillness reign’d all around; of late so full, The busy scene deserted now and dull. Stern is his nature who forbears to feel Gloom o’er his spirits on such trials steal; Most keenly felt our poet as he went From room to room without a fix’d intent; “And here,” he thought, “I was caress’d; admired 470 Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired: The change how grievous!” As he mused, a dame Busy and peevish to her duties came; Aside the tables and the chairs she drew, And sang and mutter’d in the poet’s view:— “This was her fortune; here they leave the poor; Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more; I had a promise—” here his pride and shame Urged him to fly from this familiar dame; He gave one farewell look, and by a coach 480 Reach’d his own mansion at the night’s approach. His father met him with an anxious air, Heard his sad tale, and check’d what seem’d despair; Hope was in him corrected, but alive; My lord would something for a friend contrive; His word was pledged; our hero’s feverish mind Admitted this, and half his grief resign’d. But when three months had fled, and every day Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away, The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull; 490 He utter’d nothing, though his heart was full. Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks, And all forgetful of his muse and books, Awake he mourn’d, but in his sleep perceived A lovely vision that his pain relieved; His soul transported, hail’d the happy seat, Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet; Where joys departed came in blissful view, Till reason wak’d, and not a joy he knew. Questions now vex’d his spirit, most from those 500 Who are called friends, because they are not foes. “John!” they would say; he, starting, turn’d around; “John!” there was something shocking in the sound; Ill brook’d he then the pert familiar phrase, The untaught freedom, and th’ inquiring gaze; Much was his temper touch’d, his spleen provoked, When ask’d how ladies talk’d, or walk’d, or look’d? What said my lord of politics? how spent He there his time? and was he glad he went?” At length a letter came, both cool and brief, 510 But still it gave the burthen’d heart relief: Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the youth Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick’s truth; Summon’d to town, he thought the visit one Where something fair and friendly would be done; Although he judged not, as before his fall, When all was love and promise at the hall. Arrived in town, he early sought to know The fate such dubious friendship would bestow; At a tall building, trembling, he appear’d, 520 And his low rap was indistinctly heard; A well-known servant came—“A while,” said he, “Be pleased to wait; my lord has company.” Alone our hero sate; the news in hand, Which, though he read, he could not understand. Cold was the day; in days so cold as these There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze; The vast and echoing room, the polish’d grate, The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate; The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest, 530 He then had thought it freedom to have press’d; The shining tables, curiously inlaid, Were all in comfortless proud style display’d; And to the troubled feelings terror gave, That made the once-dear friend the sick’ning slave. “Was he forgotten?” Thrice upon his ear Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near; Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke; Oft as a servant chanced the way to come, 540 “Brings he a message?” no! he pass’d the room. At length ’tis certain; “Sir you will attend At twelve on Thursday!” Thus the day had end. Vex’d by these tedious hours of needless pain, John left the noble mansion with disdain; For there was something in that still, cold place, That seem’d to threaten and portend disgrace. Punctual again the modest rap declared The youth attended; then was all prepared: For the same servant, by his lord’s command, 550 A paper offer’d to his trembling hand. “No more!” he cried; “disdains he to afford One kind expression, one consoling word?” With troubled spirit he began to read That “In the church my lord could not succeed;” Who had “to peers of either kind applied, And was with dignity and grace denied; While his own livings were by men possess’d, Not likely in their chancels yet to rest; And therefore, all things weigh’d (as he, my lord, 560 Had done maturely, and he pledged his word), Wisdom it seem’d for John to turn his view To busier scenes, and bid the church adieu!” Here grieved the youth; he felt his father’s pride Must with his own be shock’d and mortified; But when he found his future comforts placed Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced— In some appointment on the London quays, He bade farewell to honour and to ease; His spirit fell; and, from that hour assured 570 How vain his dreams, he suffer’d and was cured. Our poet hurried on, with wish to fly From all mankind, to be conceal’d, and die. Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views } Did that one visit to the soul infuse, } Which cherish’d with such love, ’twas worse than death to lose! } Still he would strive, though painful was the strife, To walk in this appointed road of life; On these low duties duteous he would wait, And patient bear the anguish of his fate. 580 Thanks to the patron, but of coldest kind, Express’d the sadness of the poet’s mind; Whose heavy hours were pass’d with busy men, In the dull practice of th’ official pen; Who to superiors must in time impart (The custom this) his progress in their art. But so had grief on his perception wrought, That all unheeded were the duties taught; No answers gave he when his trial came, Silent he stood, but suffering without shame; 590 And they observed that words severe or kind Made no impression on his wounded mind; For all perceived from whence his failure rose— Some grief whose cause he deign’d not to disclose. A soul averse from scenes and works so new; Fear, ever shrinking from the vulgar crew; Distaste for each mechanic law and rule, Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool; A grieving parent, and a feeling mind, Timid and ardent, tender and refined: 600 These all with mighty force the youth assail’d, Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail’d. When this was known, and some debate arose How they who saw it should the fact disclose, He found their purpose, and in terror fled From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread. Meantime the parent was distress’d to find His son no longer for a priest design’d; But still he gain’d some comfort by the news Of John’s promotion, though with humbler views; 610 For he conceived that in no distant time The boy would learn to scramble and to climb. He little thought a son, his hope and pride, His favour’d boy, was now a home denied: Yes! while the parent was intent to trace How men in office climb from place to place, By day, by night, o’er moor and heath and hill, } Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will, } Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill.} Thus as he sate, absorb’d in all the care 620 And all the hope that anxious fathers share, A friend abruptly to his presence brought, With trembling hand, the subject of his thought, Whom he had found afflicted and subdued By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude. Silent he enter’d the forgotten room As ghostly forms may be conceived to come; With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright, He look’d dismay, neglect, despair, affright; But, dead to comfort, and on misery thrown, 630 His parent’s loss he felt not, nor his own. The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud, And drew around him an astonish’d crowd; The sons and servants to the father ran, To share the feelings of the grieved old man. “Our brother, speak!” they all exclaim’d; “explain Thy grief, thy suffering;”—but they ask’d in vain: The friend told all he knew; and all was known, Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown. But, if obscure the cause, they all agreed 640 From rest and kindness must the cure proceed: And he was cured; for quiet, love, and care, Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair. Yet slow their progress; and, as vapours move Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove; All is confusion till the morning light Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight; More and yet more defined the trunks appear, Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear— So the dark mind of our young poet grew 650 Clear and sedate; the dreadful mist withdrew; And he resembled that bleak wintry scene, Sad, though unclouded; dismal, though serene. At times he utter’d, “What a dream was mine! And what a prospect! glorious and divine! Oh! in that room, and on that night, to see These looks, that sweetness beaming all on me; That syren-flattery—and to send me then, Hope-raised and soften’d, to those heartless men; That dark-brow’d stern director, pleased to show 660 Knowledge of subjects I disdain’d to know; Cold and controlling—but ’tis gone, ’tis past; I had my trial, and have peace at last.” Now grew the youth resign’d; he bade adieu To all that hope, to all that fancy drew; His frame was languid, and the hectic heat Flush’d on his pallid face, and countless beat The quick’ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore The slender form that soon would breathe no more. Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain’d, 670 And not a lingering thought of earth remain’d; Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at love, And the wild sallies of his youth reprove; Then could he dwell upon the tempting days, The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise; Victorious now, his worldly views were closed, And on the bed of death the youth reposed. The father grieved—but, as the poet’s heart Was all unfitted for his earthly part; As, he conceived, some other haughty fair 680 Would, had he lived, have led him to despair; As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt; While the strong faith the pious youth possess’d, His hope enlivening, gave his sorrows rest: Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy For his aspiring and devoted boy. Meantime the news through various channels spread: The youth, once favour’d with such praise, was dead. “Emma,” the lady cried, “my words attend, 690 Your syren-smiles have kill’d your humble friend; The hope you raised can now delude no more, Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore.” Faint was the flush of anger and of shame, That o’er the cheek of conscious beauty came. “You censure not,” said she, “the sun’s bright rays, When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze; And, should a stripling look till he were blind, You would not justly call the light unkind.— But is he dead? and am I to suppose 700 The power of poison in such looks as those?” She spoke, and, pointing to the mirror, cast A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass’d. My lord, to whom the poet’s fate was told, Was much affected, for a man so cold. “Dead!” said his lordship, “run distracted, mad! Upon my soul I’m sorry for the lad; And now, no doubt, th’ obliging world will say That my harsh usage help’d him on his way. What! I suppose, I should have nursed his muse, 710 And with champagne have brighten’d up his views: Then had he made me famed my whole life long, And stunn’d my ears with gratitude and song. Still, should the father hear that I regret Our joint misfortune—Yes! I’ll not forget.”— Thus they.—The father to his grave convey’d The son he loved, and his last duties paid. “There lies my boy,” he cried, “of care bereft, And, Heav’n be praised, I’ve not a genius left: No one among ye, sons! is doom’d to live 720 On high-raised hopes of what the great may give; None, with exalted views and fortunes mean, To die in anguish, or to live in spleen. Your pious brother soon escaped the strife Of such contention, but it cost his life; You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend, And in your own exertions find the friend.”

Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, “Father, as it please you;” but [yet] for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, “Father, as it pleases me.” Much Ado about Nothing, Act II. Scene 1.

He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain—he must speak truth. King Lear, Act II. Scene 2.

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another; you jig, you amble, [and you lisp, and] nick-name God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Hamlet, Act III. Scene 1.

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? [Stand I condemn’d] for pride and scorn so much? Much Ado about Nothing, Act III. Scene 1.

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred’s sire, Was six feet high, and look’d six inches higher; Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow, Who knew the man, could never cease to know; His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by, Had a firm presence and a steady eye; But with her husband dropp’d her look and tone, And Jonas ruled unquestion’d and alone. He read, and oft would quote the sacred words, How pious husbands of their wives were lords; 10 Sarah called Abraham lord! and who could be, So Jonas thought, a greater man than he? Himself he view’d with undisguised respect, And never pardon’d freedom or neglect. They had one daughter, and this favourite child Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled; Soothed by attention from her early years, She gain’d all wishes by her smiles or tears: But Sybil then was in that playful time, When contradiction is not held a crime; 20 When parents yield their children idle praise For faults corrected in their after days. Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt, Where each his duty and his station felt: Yet not that peace some favour’d mortals find, In equal views and harmony of mind; Not the soft peace that blesses those who love, Where all with one consent in union move; But it was that which one superior will Commands, by making all inferiors still; 30 Who bids all murmurs, all objections cease, And with imperious voice announces—Peace! They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew, Who, as their foes maintain, their sovereign slew: An independent race, precise, correct, Who ever married in the kindred sect. No son or daughter of their order wed A friend to England’s king who lost his head; Cromwell was still their saint, and, when they met, They mourn’d that saints[4] were not our rulers yet. 40 Fix’d were their habits; they arose betimes, Then pray’d their hour, and sang their party-rhymes: Their meals were plenteous, regular, and plain; The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain; Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn— And, like his father, he was merchant born. Neat was their house; each table, chair, and stool, Stood in its place, or moving moved by rule; No lively print or picture graced the room; A plain brown paper lent its decent gloom; 50 But here the eye, in glancing round, survey’d A small recess that seem’d for china made; Such pleasing pictures seem’d this pencill’d ware, That few would search for nobler objects there— Yet, turn’d by chosen friends, and there appear’d His stern, strong features, whom they all revered; For there in lofty air was seen to stand The bold protector of the conquer’d land; Drawn in that look with which he wept and swore, Turn’d out the members, and made fast the door, 60 Ridding the house of every knave and drone; Forced, though it grieved his soul, to rule alone. The stern, still smile each friend, approving, gave; Then turn’d the view, and all again were grave. There stood a clock, though small the owner’s need— For habit told when all things should proceed. Few their amusements, but, when friends appear’d, They with the world’s distress their spirits cheer’d; The nation’s guilt, that would not long endure The reign of men so modest and so pure. 70 Their town was large, and seldom pass’d a day But some had fail’d, and others gone astray; Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls flown To Gretna-Green, or sons rebellious grown; Quarrels and fires arose;—and it was plain The times were bad; the saints had ceased to reign! A few yet lived to languish and to mourn For good old manners, never to return. Jonas had sisters, and of these was one Who lost a husband and an only son: 80 Twelve months her sables she in sorrow wore, And mourn’d so long that she could mourn no more. Distant from Jonas, and from all her race, She now resided in a lively place; There, by the sect unseen, at whist she play’d, Nor was of churchmen or their church afraid. If much of this the graver brother heard, He something censured, but he little fear’d; He knew her rich and frugal; for the rest, He felt no care, or, if he felt, suppress’d; 90 Nor, for companion when she ask’d her niece, Had he suspicions that disturbed his peace; Frugal and rich, these virtues as a charm Preserved the thoughtful man from all alarm; An infant yet, she soon would home return, Nor stay the manners of the world to learn; Meantime his boys would all his care engross, And be his comforts if he felt the loss. The sprightly Sybil, pleased and unconfined, Felt the pure pleasure of the op’ning mind: 100 All here was gay and cheerful—all at home Unvaried quiet and unruffled gloom. There were no changes, and amusements few; Here, all was varied, wonderful, and new; There were plain meals, plain dresses, and grave looks— Here, gay companions and amusing books; And the young beauty soon began to taste The light vocations of the scene she graced. A man of business feels it as a crime On calls domestic to consume his time; 110 Yet this grave man had not so cold a heart, But with his daughter he was grieved to part; And he demanded that in every year The aunt and niece should at his house appear. “Yes! we must go, my child, and by our dress A grave conformity of mind express; Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain, The more t’ enjoy when we return again.” Thus spake the aunt, and the discerning child Was pleased to learn how fathers are beguiled. 120 Her artful part the young dissembler took, And from the matron caught th’ approving look. When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent For more delay, and Jonas was content; Till a tall maiden by her sire was seen, In all the bloom and beauty of sixteen; He gazed admiring;—she, with visage prim, Glanced an arch look of gravity on him; For she was gay at heart, but wore disguise, And stood a vestal in her father’s eyes— 130 Pure, pensive, simple, sad; the damsel’s heart, When Jonas praised, reproved her for the part; For Sybil, fond of pleasure, gay and light, Had still a secret bias to the right; Vain as she was—and flattery made her vain— Her simulation gave her bosom pain. Again return’d, the matron and the niece Found the late quiet gave their joy increase; The aunt, infirm, no more her visits paid, But still with her sojourn’d the favourite maid. 140 Letters were sent when franks could be procured; And, when they could not, silence was endured. All were in health, and, if they older grew, It seem’d a fact that none among them knew; The aunt and niece still led a pleasant life, And quiet days had Jonas and his wife. Near him a widow dwelt of worthy fame: Like his her manners, and her creed the same. The wealth her husband left her care retain’d For one tall youth, and widow she remained; 150 His love respectful all her care repaid, Her wishes watch’d, and her commands obey’d. Sober he was and grave from early youth, Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth; In a light drab he uniformly dress’d, And look serene th’ unruffled mind express’d; A hat with ample verge his brows o’erspread, And his brown locks curl’d graceful on his head; Yet might observers in his speaking eye} Some observation, some acuteness spy; }160 The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous deem’d it sly. } Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect; His actions all were, like his speech, correct; And they who jested on a mind so sound, Upon his virtues must their laughter found: ‘Chaste, sober, solemn,’ and ‘devout’ they named Him who was thus, and not of this ashamed. Such were the virtues Jonas found in one In whom he warmly wish’d to find a son. Three years had pass’d since he had Sybil seen; 170 But she was doubtless what she once had been— Lovely and mild, obedient and discreet: The pair must love whenever they should meet; Then, ere the widow or her son should choose Some happier maid, he would explain his views. Now she, like him, was politic and shrewd, With strong desire of lawful gain embued; To all he said, she bow’d with much respect, Pleased to comply, yet seeming to reject; Cool, and yet eager, each admired the strength 180 Of the opponent, and agreed at length. As a drawn battle shows to each a force, Powerful as his, he honours it of course: So in these neighbours, each the power discern’d, And gave the praise that was to each return’d. Jonas now ask’d his daughter; and the aunt, Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant.— But would not Sybil to the matron cling, And fear to leave the shelter of her wing? No! in the young there lives a love of change, 190 And to the easy they prefer the strange! Then too the joys she once pursued with zeal, From whist and visits sprung, she ceased to feel; When with the matrons Sybil first sat down, To cut for partners and to stake her crown, This to the youthful maid preferment seem’d, Who thought [that] woman she was then esteem’d; But in few years, when she perceived, indeed, The real woman to the girl succeed, No longer tricks and honours fill’d her mind, 200 But other feelings, not so well defined. She then reluctant grew, and thought it hard, To sit and ponder o’er an ugly card; Rather the nut-tree shade the nymph preferr’d, Pleased with the pensive gloom and evening bird; Thither, from company retired, she took The silent walk, or read the fav’rite book. The father’s letter, sudden, short, and kind, Awaked her wonder, and disturb’d her mind; She found new dreams upon her fancy seize, 210 Wild roving thoughts and endless reveries. The parting came;—and, when the aunt perceived The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved, To love for her that tender grief she laid, That various, soft, contending passions made. When Sybil rested in her father’s arms, His pride exulted in a daughter’s charms; A maid accomplish’d he was pleased to find, Nor seem’d the form more lovely than the mind. But when the fit of pride and fondness fled, 220 He saw his judgment by his hopes misled; High were the lady’s spirits, far more free Her mode of speaking than a maid’s should be; Too much, as Jonas thought, she seem’d to know, And all her knowledge was disposed to show: “Too gay her dress, like theirs who idly dote On a young coxcomb, or a coxcomb’s coat; In foolish spirits when our friends appear, And vainly grave when not a man is near.” Thus Jonas, adding to his sorrow blame, 230 And terms disdainful to his sister’s name:— “The sinful wretch has by her arts defiled The ductile spirit of my darling child.” “The maid is virtuous,” said the dame.—Quoth he, “Let her give proof, by acting virtuously: Is it in gaping when the elders pray? In reading nonsense half a summer’s day? In those mock forms that she delights to trace, Or her loud laughs in Hezekiah’s face? She—O Susannah!—to the world belongs;}240 She loves the follies of its idle throngs,} And reads soft tales of love, and sings love’s soft’ning songs. } But, as our friend is yet delay’d in town, We must prepare her till the youth comes down; You shall advise the maiden; I will threat; Her fears and hopes may yield us comfort yet.” Now the grave father took the lass aside, Demanding sternly, “Wilt thou be a bride?” She answer’d, calling up an air sedate, “I have not vow’d against the holy state.” 250 “No folly, Sybil,” said the parent; “know What to their parents virtuous maidens owe: A worthy, wealthy youth, whom I approve, Must thou prepare to honour and to love. Formal to thee his air and dress may seem, But the good youth is worthy of esteem; Shouldst thou with rudeness treat him, of disdain Should he with justice or of slight complain, Or of one taunting speech give certain proof: Girl! I reject thee from my sober roof.” 260 “My aunt,” said Sybil, “will with pride protect One whom a father can for this reject; Nor shall a formal, rigid, soul-less boy My manners alter, or my views destroy!” Jonas [then] lifted up his hands on high,} And, utt’ring something ’twixt a groan and sigh,} Left the determined maid her doubtful mother by. } “Hear me,” she said; “incline thy heart, my child, And fix thy fancy on a man so mild; Thy father, Sybil, never could be moved 270 By one who loved him, or by one he loved. Union like ours is but a bargain made By slave and tyrant—he will be obey’d, Then calls the quiet comfort;—but thy youth Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth.” “But will he love?” said Sybil; “I am told That these mild creatures are by nature cold.” “Alas!” the matron answer’d, “much I dread That dangerous love by which the young are led! That love is earthy; you the creature prize, 280 And trust your feelings and believe your eyes: Can eyes and feelings inward worth descry? No! my fair daughter, on our choice rely! Your love, like that display’d upon the stage, Indulged is folly, and opposed is rage;— More prudent love our sober couples show, All that to mortal beings mortals owe. All flesh is grass—before you give a heart, Remember, Sybil, that in death you part; And, should your husband die before your love, 290 What needless anguish must a widow prove! No! my fair child, let all such visions cease; Yield but esteem, and only try for peace.” “I must be loved,” said Sybil; “I must see The man in terrors who aspires to me; At my forbidding frown his heart must ache, His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake; And, if I grant him at my feet to kneel, What trembling, fearful pleasure must he feel; Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire, 300 That reason’s self must for a time retire.” “Alas! for good Josiah,” said the dame, “These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame. He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust! He cannot, child.”—The child replied, “He must.” They ceased; the matron left her with a frown; So Jonas met her when the youth came down. “Behold,” said he, “thy future spouse attends; Receive him, daughter, as the best of friends; Observe, respect him—humble be each word, 310 That welcomes home thy husband and thy lord.” Forewarn’d, thought Sybil, with a bitter smile, I shall prepare my manner and my style. Ere yet Josiah enter’d on his task, The father met him:—“Deign to wear a mask A few dull days, Josiah—but a few— It is our duty, and the sex’s due; I wore it once, and every grateful wife Repays it with obedience through her life: Have no regard to Sybil’s dress, have none}320 To her pert language, to her flippant tone:} Henceforward thou shalt rule unquestion’d and alone; } And she thy pleasure in thy looks shall seek— How she shall dress, and whether she may speak.” A sober smile return’d the youth, and said, “Can I cause fear, who am myself afraid?” Sybil, meantime, sat thoughtful in her room, And often wonder’d—“Will the creature come? Nothing shall tempt, shall force me to bestow My hand upon him—yet I wish to know.” 330 The door unclosed, and she beheld her sire Lead in the youth, then hasten to retire. “Daughter, my friend—my daughter, friend,” he cried, And gave a meaning look, and stepp’d aside; That look contain’d a mingled threat and prayer, “Do take him, child—offend him, if you dare.” The couple gazed—were silent; and the maid Look’d in his face, to make the man afraid; The man, unmoved, upon the maiden cast A steady view—so salutation pass’d; 340 But in this instant Sybil’s eye had seen The tall fair person, and the still staid mien; The glow that temp’rance o’er the cheek had spread, Where the soft down half veil’d the purest red; And the serene deportment that proclaim’d A heart unspotted, and a life unblamed. But then with these she saw attire too plain, The pale brown coat, though worn without a stain; The formal air, and something of the pride That indicates the wealth it seems to hide; 350 And looks that were not, she conceived, exempt From a proud pity, or a sly contempt. Josiah’s eyes had their employment too, Engaged and soften’d by so bright a view: A fair and meaning face, an eye of fire, That check’d the bold, and made the free retire. But then with these he mark’d the studied dress And lofty air, that scorn or pride express; With that insidious look, that seem’d to hide In an affected smile the scorn and pride; 360 And if his mind the virgin’s meaning caught, } He saw a foe with treacherous purpose fraught—} Captive the heart to take, and to reject it caught. } Silent they sate—thought Sybil, that he seeks Something, no doubt; I wonder if he speaks. Scarcely she wonder’d, when these accents fell Slow in her ear—“Fair maiden, art thou well?”— “Art thou physician?” she replied; “my hand, My pulse, at least, shall be at thy command.” She said—and saw, surprised, Josiah kneel, 370 And gave his lips the offer’d pulse to feel; The rosy colour rising in her cheek Seem’d that surprise, unmix’d with wrath, to speak; Then sternness she assumed, and—“Doctor, tell, Thy words cannot alarm me—am I well?” “Thou art,” said he; “and yet thy dress so light, I do conceive, some danger must excite.” “In whom?” said Sybil, with a look demure; “In more,” said he, “than I expect to cure. I, in thy light luxuriant robe, behold} Want and excess, abounding and yet cold:} Here needed, there display’d, in many a wanton fold; } Both health and beauty, learned authors show, From a just medium in our clothing flow.” “Proceed, good doctor; if so great my need, What is thy fee? Good doctor! pray proceed.” “Large is my fee, fair lady, but I take None till some progress in my cure I make. Thou hast disease, fair maiden; thou art vain; Within that face sit insult and disdain; 390 Thou art enamour’d of thyself; my art Can see the naughty malice of thy heart; With a strong pleasure would thy bosom move, Were I to own thy power, and ask thy love; And such thy beauty, damsel, that I might,} But for thy pride, feel danger in thy sight,} And lose my present peace in dreams of vain delight.” } “And can thy patients,” said the nymph, “endure Physic like this? and will it work a cure?” “Such is my hope, fair damsel; thou, I find, 400 Hast the true tokens of a noble mind; But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys; Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around, That in thine own pure bosom should be found. Did all that world admire thee, praise and love, Could it the least of nature’s pains remove? Could it for errors, follies, sins atone, Or give thee comfort, thoughtful and alone? It has, believe me, maid, no power to charm 410 Thy soul from sorrow, or thy flesh from harm: Turn then, fair creature, from a world of sin, And seek the jewel happiness within.” “Speak’st thou at meeting?” said the nymph; “thy speech Is that of mortal very prone to teach; But wouldst thou, doctor, from the patient learn Thine own disease?—The cure is thy concern.” “Yea, with good will.”—“Then know, ’tis thy complaint, That, for a sinner, thou’rt too much a saint; Hast too much show of the sedate and pure, 420 And without cause art formal and demure: This makes a man unsocial, unpolite; Odious when wrong, and insolent if right. Thou may’st be good, but why should goodness be Wrapt in a garb of such formality? Thy person well might please a damsel’s eye, In decent habit with a scarlet dye; But, jest apart—what virtue canst thou trace In that broad brim that hides thy sober face? Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice 430 And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? Then for thine accent—what in sound can be So void of grace as dull monotony? Love has a thousand varied notes to move The human heart—thou may’st not speak of love Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside, And those becoming youth and nature tried; Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease, Prove it thy study and delight to please; Not till these follies meet thy just disdain, 440 While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain.” “This is severe!—Oh! maiden, wilt not thou Something for habits, manners, modes, allow?”— “Yes! but allowing much, I much require, In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire!” “True, lovely Sybil; and, this point agreed, Let me to those of greater weight proceed: Thy father”—“Nay,” she quickly interposed, “Good doctor, here our conference is closed!” Then left the youth, who, lost in his retreat, 450 Pass’d the good matron on her garden-seat; His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild And calm, was hurried:—“My audacious child!” Exclaim’d the dame, “I read what she has done In thy displeasure—Ah! the thoughtless one; But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man Speak of the maid as mildly as you can. Can you not seem to woo a little while The daughter’s will, the father to beguile, So that his wrath in time may wear away? 460 Will you preserve our peace, Josiah? say!” “Yes! my good neighbour,” said the gentle youth, “Rely securely on my care and truth; And, should thy comfort with my efforts cease, And only then—perpetual is thy peace.” The dame had doubts: she well his virtues knew, His deeds were friendly, and his words were true; “But to address this vixen is a task He is ashamed to take, and I to ask.” Soon as the father from Josiah learn’d 470 What pass’d with Sybil, he the truth discern’d. “He loves,” the man exclaim’d, “he loves, ’tis plain, The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain? She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried, Born as she is of wilfulness and pride.” With anger fraught, but willing to persuade, The wrathful father met the smiling maid. “Sybil,” said he, “I long, and yet I dread To know thy conduct—hath Josiah fled, And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air, 480 For his lost peace betaken him to prayer? Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress,} By vile remarks upon his speech, address,} Attire, and voice?”—“All this I must confess.”— } “Unhappy child! what labour will it cost To win him back!”—“I do not think him lost.” “Courts he then, trifler, insult and disdain?”— “No: but from these he courts me to refrain.”— “Then hear me, Sybil: should Josiah leave Thy father’s house?”—“My father’s child would grieve.”— “That is of grace; and if he come again 491 To speak of love?”—“I might from grief refrain.”— “Then wilt thou, daughter, our design embrace?”— “Can I resist it, if it be of grace?”— “Dear child! in three plain words thy mind express— Wilt thou have this good youth?”—“Dear father! yes.”

Ah me! for aught that I could ever read, [Could] ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth; But, either it was different in blood, [...] Or else misgrafted in respect of years, [...] Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, [...] Or if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act I. Scene 1.

Oh! thou didst then ne’er love so heartily, If thou rememberest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into ... As You Like It, Act II. Scene 4.

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer. As You Like It, Act III. Scene 5.

To farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down His only daughter, from her school in town; A tender, timid maid! who knew not how To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow: Smiling she came, with petty talents graced, A fair complexion, and a slender waist. Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure, Her father’s kitchen she could ill endure; Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat, And laid at once a pound upon his plate; 10 Hot from the field, her eager brother seized An equal part, and hunger’s rage appeased; The air, surcharged with moisture, flagg’d around, And the offended damsel sigh’d and frown’d; The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid, And fancy’s sickness seized the loathing maid. But, when the men beside their station took, The maidens with them, and with these the cook; When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, Fill’d with huge balls of farinaceous food; 20 With bacon, mass saline, where never lean Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen; When from a single horn the party drew Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new; When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain, Soil’d by rude hinds who cut and came again— She could not breathe; but, with a heavy sigh, Rein’d the fair neck, and shut th’ offended eye; She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine, And wonder’d much to see the creatures dine: 30 When she resolved her father’s heart to move, If hearts of farmers were alive to love. She now entreated by herself to sit In the small parlour, if papa thought fit, And there to dine, to read, to work alone.— “No!” said the farmer, in an angry tone; “These are your school-taught airs; your mother’s pride Would send you there; but I am now your guide.— Arise betimes, our early meal prepare, And, this despatch’d, let business be your care; 40 Look to the lasses, let there not be one Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done; In every household work your portion take, And what you make not, see that others make. At leisure times attend the wheel, and see The whit’ning web be sprinkled on the [lea]; When thus employ’d, should our young neighbour view An useful lass, you may have more to do.” Dreadful were these commands; but worse than these The parting hint—a farmer could not please: 50 ’Tis true she had without abhorrence seen Young Harry Carr, when he was smart and clean; But to be married—be a farmer’s wife— A slave! a drudge!—she could not, for her life. With swimming eyes the fretful nymph withdrew, And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew; There on her knees, to Heav’n she grieving pray’d For change of prospect to a tortured maid. Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire Had left him all industrious men require, 60 Saw the pale beauty—and her shape and air Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear: “For my small farm what can the damsel do?” He said—then stopp’d to take another view: “Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn Of household cares—for what can beauty earn By those small arts which they at school attain, That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?” This luckless damsel look’d the village round, To find a friend, and one was quickly found; 70 A pensive widow—whose mild air and dress} Pleased the sad nymph, who wish’d her soul’s distress } To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess.— } “What lady that?” the anxious lass inquired, Who then beheld the one she most admired. “Here,” said the brother, “are no ladies seen— That is a widow dwelling on the green; A dainty dame, who can but barely live On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give; She happier days has known, but seems at ease, 80 And you may call her lady, if you please. But if you wish, good sister, to improve, You shall see twenty better worth your love.” These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught, This useless widow was the one she sought. The father growl’d; but said he knew no harm In such connexion that could give alarm; “And if we thwart the trifler in her course, ’Tis odds against us she will take a worse.” Then met the friends; the widow heard the sigh 90 That ask’d at once compassion and reply:— “Would you, my child, converse with one so poor, Yours were the kindness—yonder is my door; And, save the time that we in public pray, From that poor cottage I but rarely stray.” There went the nymph, and made her strong complaints, Painting her wo as injured feeling paints. “Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel, Shock’d all day long, and sicken’d every meal; Could you behold our kitchen (and to you 100 A scene so shocking must indeed be new), A mind like yours, with true refinement graced, Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste; And yet, in truth, from such a polish’d mind All base ideas must resistance find, And sordid pictures from the fancy pass, As the breath startles from the polish’d glass. “Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene, Without so pleasant, and within so clean; These twining jess’mines, what delicious gloom 110 And soothing fragrance yield they to the room! What lovely garden! there you oft retire, And tales of wo and tenderness admire: In that neat case, your books, in order placed, Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultured taste; And thus, while all about you wears a charm, How must you scorn the farmer and the farm!” The widow smiled, and “Know you not,” said she, } “How much these farmers scorn or pity me; } Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see? }120 True, their opinion alters not my fate, By falsely judging of an humble state: This garden, you with such delight behold, Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold; These plants, which please so well your livelier sense, To mine but little of their sweets dispense; Books soon are painful to my failing sight, And oftener read from duty than delight; (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find Both joy and duty in the act combined;) 130 But view me rightly, you will see no more Than a poor female, willing to be poor; Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers, Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours, Of never-tasted joys—such visions shun, My youthful friend, nor scorn the farmer’s son.” “Nay,” said the damsel, nothing pleased to see A friend’s advice could like a father’s be; “Bless’d in your cottage, you must surely smile At those who live in our detested style. 140 To my Lucinda’s sympathizing heart Could I my prospects and my griefs impart, She would console me; but I dare not show Ills that would wound her tender soul to know: And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell The secrets of the prison where I dwell; For that dear maiden would be shock’d to feel The secrets I should shudder to reveal; When told her friend was by a parent ask’d, ‘Fed you the swine?’—Good heav’n! how I am task’d! 150 What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief That woos your pity and demands relief.” “Trifles, my love; you take a false alarm; Think, I beseech you, better of the farm: Duties in every state demand your care, And light are those that will require it there: Fix on the youth a favouring eye, and these, To him pertaining, or as his, will please.” “What words,” the lass replied, “offend my ear! Try you my patience? Can you be sincere? 160 And am I told a willing hand to give To a rude farmer, and with rustic live? Far other fate was yours—some gentle youth Admired your beauty, and avow’d his truth; The power of love prevail’d, and freely both Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding oath; And then the rivals’ plot, the parent’s power, And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour: Ah! let not memory lose the blissful view, But fairly show what love has done for you.” 170 “Agreed, my daughter; what my heart has known Of love’s strange power shall be with frankness shown: But let me warn you, that experience finds Few of the scenes that lively hope designs.”— “Mysterious all,” said Nancy; “you, I know, Have suffer’d much; now deign the grief to show— I am your friend, and so prepare my heart In all your sorrows to receive a part.” The widow answer’d: “I had once, like you, Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue. 180 You judge it fated and decreed to dwell} In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel, } A passion doom’d to reign, and irresistible.} The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain Rejects the fury or defies the pain; The strongest reason fails the flame t’ allay, And resolution droops and faints away: Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they prove At once the force of this all-powerful love; Each from that period feels the mutual smart, 190 Nor seeks to cure it—heart is changed for heart; Nor is there peace till they delighted stand, And, at the altar, hand is join’d to hand. “Alas! my child, there are who, dreaming so, Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the wo; There is no spirit sent the heart to move With such prevailing and alarming love; Passion to reason will submit—or why Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny? Or how could classes and degrees create 200 The slightest bar to such resistless fate? Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix; No beggars’ eyes the heart of kings transfix; And who but am’rous peers or nobles sigh When titled beauties pass triumphant by? For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove; You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love: All would be safe, did we at first inquire— ‘Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?’ But, quitting precept, let example show 210 What joys from love uncheck’d by prudence flow. “A youth my father in his office placed, Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste; But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks; He studied much, and pored upon his books: Confused he was when seen, and, when he saw Me or my sisters, would in haste withdraw; And had this youth departed with the year, His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear. “But with my father still the youth remain’d, 220 And more reward and kinder notice gain’d: He often, reading, to the garden stray’d, Where I by books or musing was delay’d; This to discourse in summer evenings led, Of these same evenings, or of what we read. On such occasions we were much alone; But, save the look, the manner, and the tone, (These might have meaning,) all that we discuss’d We could with pleasure to a parent trust. “At length ’twas friendship—and my friend and I 230 Said we were happy, and began to sigh; My sisters first, and then my father, found That we were wandering o’er enchanted ground; But he had troubles in his own affairs, And would not bear addition to his cares. With pity moved, yet angry, ‘Child,’ said he, ‘Will you embrace contempt and beggary? Can you endure to see each other cursed By want, of every human wo the worst? Warring for ever with distress, in dread 240 Either of begging or of wanting bread; While poverty, with unrelenting force, Will your own offspring from your love divorce; They, through your folly, must be doom’d to pine, And you deplore your passion, or resign; For, if it die, what good will then remain? And if it live, it doubles every pain.’”— “But you were true,” exclaim’d the lass, “and fled } The tyrant’s power who fill’d your soul with dread?”—} “But,” said the smiling friend, “he fill’d my mouth with bread; }250 And in what other place that bread to gain We long consider’d, and we sought in vain. This was my twentieth year—at thirty-five Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive; So many years in anxious doubt had pass’d.”— “Then,” said the damsel, “you were bless’d at last?” A smile again adorn’d the widow’s face, But soon a starting tear usurp’d its place.— “Slow pass’d the heavy years, and each had more Pains and vexations than the years before. 260 My father fail’d; his family was rent, And to new states his grieving daughters sent; Each to more thriving kindred found a way, Guests without welcome—servants without pay; Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel The sad, sweet converse at our final meal: Our father then reveal’d his former fears, Cause of his sternness, and then join’d our tears; Kindly he strove our feelings to repress, But died, and left us heirs to his distress. 270 The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose; I with a wealthy widow sought repose; Who with a chilling frown her friend received, Bade me rejoice, and wonder’d that I grieved: In vain my anxious lover tried his skill To rise in life, he was dependent still; We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years: Our dying hopes and stronger fears between, We felt no season peaceful or serene; 280 Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night, Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light; And then domestic sorrows, till the mind, Worn with distresses, to despair inclined; Add too the ill that from the passion flows, When its contemptuous frown the world bestows— The peevish spirit caused by long delay, When being gloomy we contemn the gay, When, being wretched, we incline to hate And censure others in a happier state; 290 Yet loving still, and still compell’d to move In the sad labyrinth of ling’ring love: While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm, May wed—oh! take the farmer and the farm.” “Nay,” said the nymph, “joy smiled on you at last!” “Smiled for a moment,” she replied, “and pass’d: My lover still the same dull means pursued, Assistant call’d, but kept in servitude; His spirits wearied in the prime of life, By fears and wishes in eternal strife; 300 At length he urged impatient—‘Now consent; With thee united, fortune may relent.’ I paused, consenting; but a friend arose, Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose; From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream; By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired, And sail’d—was wounded—reach’d us—and expired! You shall behold his grave, and, when I die, There—but ’tis folly—I request to lie.” 310 “Thus,” said the lass, “to joy you bade adieu! But how a widow?—that cannot be true; Or was it force, in some unhappy hour, That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant’s power?” “Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled, Is what a woman seldom has to dread; She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls, And seldom comes a lover, though she calls. Yet moved by fancy, one approved my face, Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace. 320 “The man I married was sedate and meek, And spoke of love as men in earnest speak; Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought, for years, A heart in sorrow and a face in tears; That heart I gave not; and ’twas long before I gave attention, and then nothing more; But in my breast some grateful feeling rose For one whose love so sad a subject chose; Till long delaying, fearing to repent, But grateful still, I gave a cold assent. 330 “Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find, And he but one; my heart could not be kind: Alas! of every early hope bereft, There was no fondness in my bosom left; So had I told him, but had told in vain, He lived but to indulge me and complain. His was this cottage, he inclosed this ground, And planted all these blooming shrubs around; He to my room these curious trifles brought, And with assiduous love my pleasure sought; 340 He lived to please me, and I oft-times strove Smiling, to thank his unrequited love; ‘Teach me,’ he cried, ‘that pensive mind to ease, For all my pleasure is the hope to please.’ “Serene, though heavy, were the days we spent, Yet kind each word, and gen’rous each intent; But his dejection lessen’d every day, And to a placid kindness died away. In tranquil ease we pass’d our latter years, By griefs untroubl’d, unassail’d by fears. 350 “Let not romantic views your bosom sway, Yield to your duties, and their call obey: Fly not a youth, frank, honest, and sincere; Observe his merits, and his passion hear! ’Tis true, no hero, but a farmer sues— Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views; With him you cannot that affliction prove, That rends the bosom of the poor in love; Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days, Your friends’ approval, and your father’s praise, 360 Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late.” The damsel heard; at first th’ advice was strange, Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change. “I have no care,” she said, when next they met, “But one may wonder he is silent yet; He looks around him with his usual stare, And utters nothing—not that I shall care.” This pettish humour pleased th’ experienced friend— None need despair, whose silence can offend; 370 “Should I,” resumed the thoughtful lass, “consent To hear the man, the man may now repent. Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough, Or give one hint, that ‘You may woo me now?’” “Persist, my love,” replied the friend, “and gain A parent’s praise, that cannot be in vain.” The father saw the change, but not the cause, And gave the alter’d maid his fond applause. The coarser manners she in part removed, In part endured, improving and improved; 380 She spoke of household works, she rose betimes, And said neglect and indolence were crimes; The various duties of their life she weigh’d, And strict attention to her dairy paid; The names of servants now familiar grew, And fair Lucinda’s from her mind withdrew. As prudent travellers for their ease assume Their modes and language to whose lands they come: So to the farmer this fair lass inclined, Gave to the business of the farm her mind; 390 To useful arts she turn’d her hand and eye; And by her manners told him—“You may try.” Th’ observing lover more attention paid, With growing pleasure, to the alter’d maid; He fear’d to lose her, and began to see That a slim beauty might a helpmate be; ’Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address’d, And in his Sunday robe his love express’d. She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy, Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; 400 But still she lent an unreluctant ear To all the rural business of the year; Till love’s strong hopes endured no more delay, And Harry ask’d, and Nancy named the day. “A happy change! my boy,” the father cried: “How lost your sister all her school-day pride?” The youth replied, “It is the widow’s deed: The cure is perfect, and was wrought with speed.”— “And comes there, boy, this benefit of books, Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks? 410 We must be kind—some offerings from the farm To the white cot will speak our feelings warm; Will show that people, when they know the fact, Where they have judged severely, can retract. Oft have I smil’d, when I beheld her pass With cautious step, as if she hurt the grass; Where if a snail’s retreat she chanced to storm, She look’d as begging pardon of the worm; And what, said I, still laughing at the view, Have these weak creatures in the world to do? 420 But some are made for action, some to speak;} And, while she looks so pitiful and meek,} Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.” } Soon told the village-bells the rite was done, That join’d the school-bred miss and farmer’s son; Her former habits some slight scandal raised, But real worth was soon perceived and praised; She, her neat taste imparted to the farm, And he, th’ improving skill and vigorous arm.

What though you have beauty, Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? As You Like It, Act III. Scene 5.

I would not marry her, though she were endow’d with all that Adam had left him before he transgress’d. Much Ado about Nothing, Act II. Scene 1.

Wilt thou love such a woman? What! to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee!—Not to be endured. As You Like It, Act IV. Scene 3.

Your son, As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know Her estimation [home]. All’s Well that Ends Well, Act V, Scene 3.

He [lost] a wife ...whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfection, hearts that scorn’d to serve Humbly call’d mistress.... Be this sweet Helen’s knell. All’s Well that Ends Well, Act V. Scene 3.

There was a worthy, but a simple pair, Who nursed a daughter, fairest of the fair. Sons they had lost, and she alone remain’d, Heir to the kindness they had all obtain’d; Heir to the fortune they design’d for all, Nor had th’ allotted portion then been small; But now, by fate enrich’d with beauty rare, They watch’d their treasure with peculiar care. The fairest features they could early trace,} And, blind with love, saw merit in her face— }10 Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace; } And Dorothea, from her infant years, Gain’d all her wishes from their pride or fears; She wrote a billet, and a novel read, And with her fame her vanity was fed; Each word, each look, each action was a cause For flattering wonder, and for fond applause; She rode or danced, and ever glanced around, Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found. The yielding pair to her petitions gave 20 An humble friend to be a civil slave; Who for a poor support herself resign’d To the base toil of a dependent mind. By nature cold, our heiress stoop’d to art, To gain the credit of a tender heart; Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand, To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand. And now, her education all complete, She talk’d of virtuous love and union sweet; She was indeed by no soft passion moved, 30 But wish’d, with all her soul, to be beloved. Here on the favour’d beauty fortune smiled; Her chosen husband was a man so mild, So humbly temper’d, so intent to please,} It quite distress’d her to remain at ease,} Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease. } She tried his patience in a thousand modes, And tired it not upon the roughest roads. Pleasure she sought, and, disappointed, sigh’d For joys, she said, “to her alone denied;” 40 And she was “sure her parents, if alive, Would many comforts for their child contrive.” The gentle husband bade her name him one;— “No—that,” she answer’d, “should for her be done; How could she say what pleasures were around? But she was certain many might be found.”— “Would she some sea-port, Weymouth, Scarborough, grace?”— “He knew she hated every watering-place.”— “The town?”—“What! now ’twas empty, joyless, dull?” —“In winter?”—“No; she liked it worse when full.” 50 She talk’d of building—“Would she plan a room?”— “No! she could live, as he desired, in gloom.”— “Call then our friends and neighbours?”—“He might call, } And they might come and fill his ugly hall;} A noisy vulgar set, he knew she scorn’d them all.”—} “Then, might their two dear girls the time employ, And their improvement yield a solid joy?”— “Solid indeed! and heavy—oh! the bliss Of teaching letters to a lisping Miss!”— “My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say, 60 Can I oblige you?”—“You may go away.” Twelve heavy years this patient soul sustain’d} This wasp’s attacks, and then her praise obtain’d, } Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace remain’d. } Two daughters wept their loss: the one a child With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild, Who keenly felt the mother’s angry taunt, “Thou art the image of thy pious aunt.” Long time had Lucy wept her slighted face, And then began to smile at her disgrace. 70 Her father’s sister, who the world had seen Near sixty years when Lucy saw sixteen, Begg’d the plain girl: the gracious mother smiled, And freely gave her grieved but passive child; And with her elder-born, the [beauty-bless’d,] This parent rested, if such minds can rest. No miss her waxen babe could so admire, Nurse with such care, or with such pride attire; They were companions meet, with equal mind, Bless’d with one love, and to one point inclined: 80 Beauty to keep, adorn, increase, and guard, Was their sole care, and had its full reward. In rising splendor with the one it reign’d,} And in the other was by care sustain’d, } The daughter’s charms increased, the parent’s yet remain’d.— } Leave we these ladies to their daily care, To see how meekness and discretion fare. A village maid, unvex’d by want or love, Could not with more delight than Lucy move; The village-lark, high mounted in the spring, 90 Could not with purer joy than Lucy sing; Her cares all light, her pleasures all sincere, Her duty joy, and her companion dear; In tender friendship and in true respect Lived aunt and niece, no flattery, no neglect— They read, walk’d, visited—together pray’d, Together slept the matron and the maid. There was such goodness, such pure nature seen In Lucy’s looks, a manner so serene; Such harmony in motion, speech, and air, 100 That without fairness she was more than fair; Had more than beauty in each speaking grace, That lent their cloudless glory to the face; Where mild good sense in placid looks were shown, And felt in every bosom but her own. The one presiding feature in her mind, Was the pure meekness of a will resign’d; A tender spirit, freed from all pretence Of wit, and pleased in mild benevolence; Bless’d in protecting fondness she reposed, 110 With every wish indulged though undisclosed; But love, like zephyr on the limpid lake, } Was now the bosom of the maid to shake, } And in that gentle mind a gentle strife to make. } Among their chosen friends, a favour’d few, The aunt and niece a youthful rector knew; Who, though a younger brother, might address A younger sister, fearless of success. His friends, a lofty race, their native pride At first display’d, and their assent denied; 120 But, pleased such virtues and such love to trace, They own’d she would adorn the loftiest race. The aunt, a mother’s caution to supply, Had watch’d the youthful priest with jealous eye; And, anxious for her charge, had view’d unseen The cautious life that keeps the conscience clean. In all she found him all she wish’d to find, With slight exception of a lofty mind: A certain manner that express’d desire, To be received as brother to the ’squire. 130 Lucy’s meek eye had beam’d with many a tear, Lucy’s soft heart had beat with many a fear, Before he told (although his looks, she thought, Had oft confess’d) that he her favour sought; But when he kneel’d, (she wish’d him not to kneel,) And spoke the fears and hopes that lovers feel; When too the prudent aunt herself confess’d, Her wishes on the gentle youth would rest; The maiden’s eye with tender passion beam’d, She dwelt with fondness on the life she schemed— 140 The household cares, the soft and lasting ties Of love, with all his binding charities; Their village taught, consoled, assisted, fed, Till the young zealot tears of pleasure shed. But would her mother? Ah! she fear’d it wrong To have indulged these forward hopes so long; Her mother loved, but was not used to grant Favours so freely as her gentle aunt.— Her gentle aunt, with smiles that angels wear, Dispell’d her Lucy’s apprehensive tear: 150 Her prudent foresight the request had made To one whom none could govern, few persuade; She doubted much if one in earnest woo’d A girl with not a single charm endued; The sister’s nobler views she then declared, And what small sum for Lucy could be spared; “If more than this the foolish priest requires, Tell him,” she wrote, “to check his vain desires.” At length, with many a cold expression mix’d, With many a sneer on girls so fondly fix’d, 160 There came a promise—should they not repent,} But take with grateful minds the portion meant,} And wait the sister’s day—the mother might consent. } And here, might pitying hope o’er truth prevail, Or love o’er fortune, we would end our tale: For who more bless’d than youthful pair removed From fear of want—by mutual friends approved— Short time to wait, and in that time to live With all the pleasures hope and fancy give; Their equal passion raised on just esteem, 170 When reason sanctions all that love can dream? Yes! reason sanctions what stern fate denies: The early prospect in the glory dies, As the soft smiles on dying infants play In their mild features, and then pass away. The beauty died, ere she could yield her hand In the high marriage by the mother plann’d: Who grieved indeed, but found a vast relief In a cold heart, that ever warr’d with grief. Lucy was present when her sister died, 180 Heiress to duties that she ill supplied: There were no mutual feelings, sister arts, No kindred taste, nor intercourse of hearts; When in the mirror play’d the matron’s smile, The maiden’s thoughts were travelling all the while; And, when desired to speak, she sigh’d to find Her pause offended:—“Envy made her blind; Tasteless she was, nor had a claim in life Above the station of a rector’s wife; Yet as an heiress, she must shun disgrace, 190 Although no heiress to her mother’s face: It is your duty,” said th’ imperious dame,} “(Advanced your fortune) to advance your name, } And with superior rank, superior offers claim.} Your sister’s lover, when his sorrows die, May look upon you, and for favour sigh; Nor can you offer a reluctant hand; His birth is noble, and his seat is grand.” Alarm’d was Lucy, was in tears—“A fool! Was she a child in love?—a miss at school? 200 Doubts any mortal, if a change of state Dissolves all claims and ties of earlier date?” The rector doubted, for he came to mourn A sister dead, and with a wife return. Lucy with heart unchanged received the youth, True in herself, confiding in his truth; But own’d her mother’s change: the haughty dame Pour’d strong contempt upon the youthful flame; She firmly vow’d her purpose to pursue, Judged her own cause, and bade the youth adieu! 210 The lover begg’d, insisted, urged his pain; His brother wrote to threaten and complain; Her sister, reasoning, proved the promise made, Lucy, appealing to a parent, pray’d; But all opposed th’ event that she design’d, And all in vain—she never changed her mind; But coldly answer’d in her wonted way, That she “would rule, and Lucy must obey.” With peevish fear, she saw her health decline, And cried, “Oh! monstrous, for a man to pine; 220 But if your foolish heart must yield to love, Let him possess it whom I now approve; This is my pleasure.”—Still the rector came With larger offers and with bolder claim; But the stern lady would attend no more— She frown’d, and rudely pointed to the door; Whate’er he wrote, he saw unread return’d, And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn’d; Nay, fix’d suspicion where he might confide, And sacrificed his passion to his pride. 230 Lucy, meantime, though threaten’d and distress’d, Against her marriage made a strong protest. All was domestic war: the aunt rebell’d Against the sovereign will, and was expell’d; And every power was tried and every art, To bend to falsehood one determined heart; Assail’d, in patience it received the shock, Soft as the wave, unshaken as the rock; But while th’ unconquer’d soul endures the storm Of angry fate, it preys upon the form. 240 With conscious virtue she resisted still, And conscious love gave vigour to her will; But Lucy’s trial was at hand; with joy The mother cried—“Behold your constant boy— Thursday—was married—take the paper, sweet, And read the conduct of your reverend cheat; See with what pomp of coaches, in what crowd The creature married—of his falsehood proud! False, did I say?—at least no whining fool; And thus will hopeless passions ever cool: 250 But shall his bride your single state reproach? No! give him crowd for crowd, and coach for coach. Oh! you retire; reflect then, gentle miss, And gain some spirit in a cause like this.” Some spirit Lucy gain’d; a steady soul, Defying all persuasion, all control: In vain reproach, derision, threats were tried;} The constant mind all outward force defied,} By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail’d by pride. } Fix’d in her purpose, perfect in her part, 260 She felt the courage of a wounded heart; The world receded from her rising view, When Heaven approach’d as earthly things withdrew; Not strange before, for in the days of love, Joy, hope, and pleasure, she had thoughts above; Pious when most of worldly prospects fond, When they best pleased her she could look beyond; Had the young priest a faithful lover died, Something had been her bosom to divide; Now Heaven had all, for in her holiest views 270 She saw the matron whom she fear’d to lose; While from her parent the dejected maid Forced the unpleasant thought, or thinking pray’d. Surprised, the mother saw the languid frame, And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame. Once with a frown she cried, “And do you mean To die of love—the folly of fifteen?” But as her anger met with no reply, She let the gentle girl in quiet die; And to her sister wrote, impell’d by pain, 280 “Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain.” Lucy meantime profess’d with joy sincere, That nothing held, employ’d, engaged her here.— “I am an humble actor, doom’d to play A part obscure, and then to glide away; Incurious how the great or happy shine, Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine; In its best prospect I but wish’d, for life, To be th’ assiduous, gentle, useful wife; That lost, with wearied mind, and spirit poor, 290 I drop my efforts, and can act no more; With growing joy I feel my spirits tend To that last scene where all my duties end.” Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying gave, Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave; She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm, And said, she left but little for the worm. As toll’d the bell, “There’s one,” she said, “hath press’d Awhile before me to the bed of rest;” And she beside her with attention spread 300 The decorations of the maiden dead. While quickly thus the mortal part declined, The happiest visions fill’d the active mind; A soft, religious melancholy gain’d Entire possession, and for ever reign’d; On holy writ her mind reposing dwelt, She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt; Till in a bless’d and glorious reverie,} She seem’d the Saviour as on earth to see,} And, fill’d with love divine, th’ attending friend to be; }310 Or she, who trembling, yet confiding, stole Near to the garment, touch’d it, and was whole; When, such th’ intenseness of the working thought, On her it seem’d the very deed was wrought; She the glad patient’s fear and rapture found, The holy transport, and the healing wound; This was so fix’d, so grafted in the heart, That she adopted, nay became, the part. But one chief scene was present to her sight: Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night; 320 Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind Was to that scene, that hallow’d cave, confined— Where in the shade of death the body laid, There watch’d the spirit of the wandering maid; Her looks were fix’d, entranced, illumed, serene, In the still glory of the midnight scene; There at her Saviour’s feet, in visions bless’d, Th’ enraptured maid a sacred joy possess’d; In patience waiting for the first-born ray Of that all-glorious and triumphant day. 330 To this idea all her soul she gave, Her mind reposing by the sacred grave; Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close, And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose. Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers, Again restored illumed the dying hours; But reason dwelt where fancy stray’d before, And the mind wander’d from its views no more; Till death approach’d, when every look express’d A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest. 340 The mother lives, and has enough to buy Th’ attentive ear and the submissive eye Of abject natures—these are daily told, How triumph’d beauty in the days of old; How, by her window seated, crowds have cast Admiring glances, wondering as they pass’d; How from her carriage as she stepp’d to pray, Divided ranks would humbly make her way; And how each voice in the astonish’d throng Pronounced her peerless as she moved along. 350 Her picture then the greedy dame displays; Touch’d by no shame, she now demands its praise; In her tall mirror then she shows a face, Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace; These she compares: “It has the form,” she cries, “But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes; This, as a likeness, is correct and true, But there alone the living grace we view.” This said, th’ applauding voice the dame required, And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired. 360