George Crabbe: Poems, Volume 3 (of 3)

by George Crabbe

POSTHUMOUS TALES.

TALE I.
SILFORD HALL; OR, THE HAPPY DAY.

Within a village, many a mile from town,

A place of small resort and no renown—

Save that it form’d a way, and gave a name

To Silford Hall, it made no claim to fame—

It was the gain of some, the pride of all,

That travellers stopt to ask for Silford Hall.

Small as it was, the place could boast a School,

In which Nathaniel Perkin bore the rule.

Not mark’d for learning deep, or talents rare,

But for his varying tasks and ceaseless care, 10

Some forty boys, the sons of thrifty men,

He taught to read, and part to use the pen;

While, by more studious care, a favourite few }

Increased his pride—for, if the Scholar knew }

Enough for praise, say what the Teacher’s due?— }

These to his presence, slates in hand, moved on,

And a grim smile their feats in figures won.

This Man of Letters woo’d in early life

The Vicar’s maiden, whom he made his wife.

She too can read, as by her song she proves— 20

The song Nathaniel made about their loves.

Five rosy girls, and one fair boy, increased

The Father’s care, whose labours seldom ceased.

No day of rest was his. If, now and then,

His boys for play laid by the book and pen,

For Lawyer Slow there was some deed to write,

Or some young farmer’s letter to indite,

Or land to measure, or, with legal skill,

To frame some yeoman’s widow’s peevish will;

And on the Sabbath—when his neighbours drest 30

To hear their duties, and to take their rest—

Then, when the Vicar’s periods ceased to flow,

Was heard Nathaniel, in his seat below.

Such were his labours; but the time is come

When his son Peter clears the hours of gloom,

And brings him aid: though yet a boy, he shares

In staid Nathaniel’s multifarious cares.

A king his father, he, a prince, has rule—

The first of subjects, viceroy of the school;

But, though a prince within that realm he reigns, 40

Hard is the part his duteous soul sustains.

He, with his Father, o’er the furrow’d land, }

Draws the long chain in his uneasy hand, }

And neatly forms at home, what there they rudely plann’d; }

Content, for all his labour if he gains

Some words of praise, and sixpence for his pains.

Thus many a hungry day the Boy has fared,

And would have ask’d a dinner, had he dared.

When boys are playing, he for hours of school

Has sums to set, and copy-books to rule; 50

When all are met, for some sad dunce afraid,

He, by allowance, lends his timely aid—

Taught at the student’s failings to connive,

Yet keep his Father’s dignity alive;

For ev’n Nathaniel fears, and might offend,

If too severe, the farmer, now his friend;

Or her, that farmer’s lady, who well knows

Her boy is bright, and needs nor threats nor blows.

This seem’d to Peter hard; and he was loth,

T’ obey and rule, and have the cares of both— 60

To miss the master’s dignity, and yet,

No portion of the school-boy’s play to get.

To him the Fiend, as once to Launcelot, cried,

“Run from thy wrongs!”—“Run where?” his fear replied.

“Run!”—said the Tempter; “if but hard thy fare,

Hard is it now—it may be mended there.”

But still, though tempted, he refused to part,

And felt the Mother clinging at his heart.

Nor this alone—he, in that weight of care,

Had help, and bore it as a man should bear. 70

A drop of comfort in his cup was thrown;

It was his treasure, and it was his own.

His Father’s shelves contained a motley store

Of letter’d wealth; and this he might explore.

A part his mother in her youth had gain’d, }

A part Nathaniel from his club obtain’d, }

And part—a well-worn kind—from sire to son remain’d. }

He sought his Mother’s hoard, and there he found

Romance in sheets, and poetry unbound;

Soft Tales of Love, which never damsel read, 80

But tears of pity stain’d her virgin bed.

There were Jane Shore and Rosamond the Fair,

And humbler heroines frail as these were there;

There was a tale of one forsaken Maid,

Who till her death the work of vengeance stay’d;

Her Lover, then at sea, while round him stood

A dauntless crew, the angry ghost pursued;

In a small boat, without an oar or sail,

She came to call him, nor would force avail,

Nor prayer; but, conscience-stricken, down he leapt, 90

And o’er his corse the closing billows slept;

All vanish’d then! but of the crew were some

Wondering whose ghost would on the morrow come.

A learned Book was there, and in it schemes

How to cast Fortunes and interpret Dreams;

Ballads were there of Lover’s bliss or bale,

The Kitchen Story, and the Nursery Tale.

His hungry mind disdain’d not humble food,

And read with relish keen of Robin Hood;

Of him, all-powerful made by magic gift 100

And Giants slain—of mighty Hickerthrift;

Through Crusoe’s Isle delighted had he stray’d; }

Nocturnal visits had to witches paid, }

Gliding through haunted scenes, enraptured and afraid. }

A loftier shelf with real books was graced,

Bound, or part bound, and ranged in comely taste:

Books of high mark, the mind’s more solid food,

Which some might think the owner understood;

But Fluxions, Sections, Algebraic lore,

Our Peter left for others to explore, 110

And, quickly turning to a favourite kind,

Found what rejoiced him at his heart to find.

Sir Walter wrote not then, or He by whom

Such gain and glory to Sir Walter come—

That Fairy-Helper, by whose secret aid

Such views of life are to the world convey’d—

As inspiration known in after-times,

The sole assistant in his prose or rhymes.

But there were fictions wild that please the boy,

Which men, too, read, condemn, reject, enjoy— 120

Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales were there,

One volume each, and both the worse for wear;

There by Quarles’ Emblems Esop’s Fables stood,

The coats in tatters, and the cuts in wood.

There, too, “The English History,” by the pen

Of Doctor Cooke, and other learned men,

In numbers, sixpence each; by these was seen,

And highly prized, the Monthly Magazine—

Not such as now will men of taste engage,

But the cold gleanings of a former age, 130

Scraps cut from sermons, scenes removed from plays,

With heads of heroes famed in Tyburn’s palmy days.

The rest we pass—though Peter pass’d them not,

But here his cares and labours all forgot.

Stain’d, torn, and blotted every noble page,

Stood the chief poets of a former age—

And of the present; not their works complete, }

But in such portions as on bulks we meet, }

The refuse of the shops, thrown down upon the street. }

There Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton found a place, 140

With some a nameless, some a shameless, race,

Which many a weary walker resting reads,

And, pondering o’er the short relief, proceeds,

While others, lingering, pay the written sum,

Half loth, but longing for delight to come.

Of the Youth’s morals we would something speak,

Taught by his Mother what to shun or seek.

She show’d the heavenly way, and in his youth,

Press’d on his yielding mind the Gospel truth,

How weak is man, how much to ill inclined, 150

And where his help is placed, and how to find.

These words of weight sank deeply in his breast,

And awful Fear and holy Hope imprest.

He shrank from vice, and at the startling view,

As from an adder in his path, withdrew.

All else was cheerful. Peter’s easy mind

To the gay scenes of village-life inclined.

The lark that soaring sings his notes of joy,

Was not more lively than th’ awaken’d boy.

Yet oft with this a softening sadness dwelt, 160

While, feeling thus, he marvell’d why he felt.

“I am not sorry,” said the Boy, “but still,

The tear will drop—I wonder why it will!”

His books, his walks, his musing, morn and eve,

Gave such impressions as such minds receive;

And with his moral and religious views

Wove the wild fancies of an Infant-Muse,

Inspiring thoughts that he could not express,

[Obscure-sublime]! his secret happiness.

Oft would he strive for words, and oft begin 170

To frame in verse the views he had within;

But ever fail’d: for how can words explain

The unform’d ideas of a teeming brain?

Such was my Hero, whom I would portray

In one exploit—the Hero of a Day.

At six miles’ distance from his native town

Stood Silford Hall, a seat of much renown—

Computed miles such weary travellers ride,

When they in chance wayfaring men confide.

Beauty and grandeur were within; around, 180}

Lawn, wood, and water; the delicious ground }

Had parks where deer disport, had fields where game abound. }

Fruits of all tastes in spacious gardens grew;

And flowers of every scent and every hue,

That native in more favour’d climes arise,

Are here protected from th’ inclement skies.

To this fair place, with mingled pride and shame

This lad of learning without knowledge came—

Shame for his conscious ignorance, and pride

To this fair seat in this gay style to ride. 190

The cause that brought him was a small account,

His father’s due, and he must take the amount,

And sign a stamp’d receipt! this done, he might

Look all around him, and enjoy the sight.

So far to walk was, in his mother’s view,

More than her darling Peter ought to do;

Peter indeed knew more, but he would hide

His better knowledge, for he wish’d to ride;

So had his father’s nag, a beast so small,

That if he fell, he had not far to fall. 200

His fond and anxious mother in his best

Her darling child for the occasion drest;

All in his coat of green she clothed her boy,

And stood admiring with a mother’s joy;

Large was it made and long, as meant to do }

For Sunday-service, when he older grew— }

Not brought in daily use in one year’s wear or two. }

White was his waistcoat, and what else he wore

Had clothed the lamb or parent ewe before;

In all the mother show’d her care or skill; 210

A riband black she tied beneath his frill;

Gave him his stockings, white as driven snow,

And bad him heed the miry way below;

On the black varnish of the comely shoe

Shone the large buckle of a silvery hue;

Boots he had worn, had he such things possest—

But bootless grief!—he was full proudly drest,

Full proudly look’d, and light he was of heart.

When thus for Silford Hall prepared to start.

Nathaniel’s self with joy the stripling eyed, 220

And gave a shilling with a father’s pride;

Rules of politeness too with pomp he gave,

And show’d the lad how scholars should behave.

Ere yet he left her home, the Mother told—

For she had seen—what things he should behold.

There, she related, her young eyes had view’d

Stone figures shaped like naked flesh and blood,

Which, in the hall and up the gallery placed,

Were proofs, they told her, of a noble taste;

Nor she denied—but, in a public hall, 230

Her judgment taken, she had clothed them all.

There, too, were station’d, each upon its seat,

Half forms of men, without their hands and feet;

These and what more within that hall might be

She saw, and oh! how long’d her son to see!

Yet could he hope to view that noble place,

Who dared not look the porter in the face?

Forth went the pony, and the rider’s knees

Cleaved to her sides—he did not ride with ease;

One hand a whip, and one a bridle, held, 240

In case the pony falter’d or rebell’d.

The village boys beheld him as he pass’d,

And looks of envy on the hero cast;

But he was meek, nor let his pride appear;

Nay, truth to speak, he felt a sense of fear,

Lest the rude beast, unmindful of the rein,

Should take a fancy to turn back again.

He found, and wonder ’tis he found, his way,

The orders many that he must obey:

“Now to the right, then left, and now again 250

Directly onward, through the winding lane;

Then, half way o’er the common, by the mill,

Turn from the cottage and ascend the hill;

Then—spare the pony, boy!—as you ascend,

You see the Hall, and that’s your journey’s end.”

Yes, he succeeded, not remembering aught

Of this advice, but by his pony taught.

Soon as he doubted he the bridle threw

On the steed’s neck, and said—“Remember you!”

For oft the creature had his father borne, 260

Sound on his way, and safe on his return.

So he succeeded, and the modest youth

Gave praise, where praise had been assign’d by truth.

His business done—for fortune led his way

To him whose office was such debts to pay,

The farmer-bailiff; but he saw no more }

Than a small room, with bare and oaken floor, }

A desk with books thereon—he’d seen such things before; }

“Good day!” he said, but linger’d as he spoke

“Good day,” and gazed about with serious look; 270

Then slowly moved, and then delay’d awhile,

In dumb dismay which raised a lordly smile

In those who eyed him—then again moved on,

As all might see, unwilling to be gone.

While puzzled thus, and puzzling all about,

Involved, absorb’d, in some bewildering doubt,

A lady enter’d, Madam Johnson call’d,

Within whose presence stood the lad appall’d.

A learned Lady this, who knew the names

Of all the pictures in the golden frames; 280

Could every subject, every painter, tell,

And on their merits and their failures dwell;

And if perchance there was a slight mistake—

These the most knowing on such matters make.

“And what dost mean, my pretty lad?” she cried, }

“Dost stay or go?”—He first for courage tried, }

Then for fit words—then boldly he replied, }

That he “would give a hundred pounds, if so

He had them, all about that house to go;

For he had heard that it contain’d such things 290

As never house could boast, except the king’s.”

The ruling Lady, smiling, said, “In truth

Thou shalt behold them all, my pretty youth.

Tom! first the creature to the stable lead,

Let it be fed; and you, my child, must feed;

For three good hours must pass e’er dinner come”—

“Supper,” thought he, “she means, our time at home.”

First was he feasted to his heart’s content;

Then, all in rapture, with the Lady went;

Through rooms immense, and galleries wide and tall, 300

He walk’d entranced—he breathed in Silford Hall.

Now could he look on that delightful place,

The glorious dwelling of a princely race;

His vast delight was mixed with equal awe,

There was such magic in the things he saw;

Oft standing still, with open mouth and eyes }

Turn’d here and there, alarm’d as one who tries }

T’ escape from something strange that would before him rise. }

The wall would part, and beings without name

Would come—for such to his adventures came; 310

Hence undefined and solemn terror press’d

Upon his mind, and all his powers possess’d.

All he had read of magic, every charm,

Were he alone, might come and do him harm;

But his gaze rested on his friendly guide—

“I’m safe,” he thought, “so long as you abide.”

In one large room was found a bed of state—

“And can they soundly sleep beneath such weight,

Where they may figures in the night explore,

Form’d by the dim light dancing on the floor 320

From the far window; mirrors broad and high

Doubling each terror to the anxious eye?—

’Tis strange,” thought Peter, “that such things produce

No fear in her; but there is much in use.”

On that reflecting brightness, passing by,

The Boy one instant fix’d his restless eye—

And saw himself: he had before descried

His face in one his mother’s store supplied;

But here he could his whole dimensions view,

From the pale forehead to the jet-black shoe. 330

Passing, he look’d and, looking, grieved to pass

From the fair figure smiling in the glass.

’Twas so Narcissus saw the boy advance

In the dear fount, and met th’ admiring glance

So loved—But no! our happier boy admired,

Not the slim form, but what the form attired—

The riband, shirt, and frill, all pure and clean,

The white ribb’d stockings, and the coat of green.

The Lady now appear’d to move away—

And this was threat’ning; for he dared not stay, 340

Lost and alone; but earnestly he pray’d—

“Oh! do not leave me—I am not afraid,

But ’tis so lonesome; I shall never find

My way alone, no better than the blind.”

The Matron kindly to the Boy replied,

“Trust in my promise, I will be thy guide.”

Then to the Chapel moved the friendly pair,

And well for Peter that his guide was there!

Dim, silent, solemn was the scene—he felt

The cedar’s power, that so unearthly smelt; 350

And then the stain’d, dark, narrow windows threw

Strange, partial beams on pulpit, desk, and pew:

Upon the altar, glorious to behold,

Stood a vast pair of candlesticks in gold!

With candles tall, and large, and firm, and white.

Such as the halls of giant-kings would light.

There was an organ, too, but now unseen;

A long black curtain served it for a screen;

Not so the clock that, both by night and day,

Click’d the short moments as they pass’d away. 360

“Is this a church? and does the parson read”—

Said Peter—“here?—I mean, a church indeed?”—

“Indeed it is, or as a church is used,”

Was the reply—and Peter deeply mused,

Not without awe. His sadness to dispel,

They sought the gallery; and then all was well.

Yet, enter’d there, although so clear his mind

From every fear substantial and defined,

Yet there remain’d some touch of native fear— }

Of something awful to the eye and ear— 370}

A ghostly voice might sound—a ghost itself appear. }

There noble Pictures fill’d his mind with joy—

He gazed and thought, and was no more the boy;

And Madam heard him speak, with some surprise,

Of heroes known to him from histories;

He knew the actors in the deeds of old—

He could the Roman marvels all unfold.

He to his guide a theme for wonder grew,

At once so little and so much he knew—

Little of what was passing every day, 380

And much of that which long had pass’d away;—

So like a man, and yet so like a child,

That his good friend stood wond’ring as she smiled.

The Scripture Pieces caused a serious awe,

And he with reverence look’d on all he saw;

His pious wonder he express’d aloud,

And at the Saviour Form devoutly bow’d.

Portraits he pass’d, admiring; but with pain

Turn’d from some objects, nor would look again.

He seem’d to think that something wrong was done, 390

When crimes were shown he blush’d to look upon.

Not so his guide—“What youth is that?” she cried,

“That handsome stripling at the lady’s side;

Can you inform me how the youth is named?”

He answer’d, “Joseph”; but he look’d ashamed.

“Well, and what then? Had you been Joseph, boy!

Would you have been so peevish and so coy?”

Our hero answer’d, with a glowing face,

“His mother told him he should pray for grace.”

A transient cloud o’ercast the matron’s brow; 400

She seem’d disposed to laugh——but knew not how;

Silent awhile, then placid she appear’d—

“’Tis but a child,” she thought, and all was clear’d.

No—laugh she could not; still, the more she sought

To hide her thoughts, the more of his she caught.

A hundred times she had these pictures named,

And never felt perplex’d, disturb’d, ashamed;

Yet now the feelings of a lad so young

Call’d home her thoughts and paralysed her tongue.

She pass’d the offensive pictures silent by, 410

With one reflecting, self-reproving sigh;

Reasoning, how habit will the mind entice

To approach and gaze upon the bounds of vice,

As men, by custom, from some cliff’s vast height,

Look pleased, and make their danger their delight.

“Come, let us on!—see there a Flemish view,

A Country Fair, and all as Nature true.

See there the merry creatures, great and small,

Engaged in drinking, gaming, dancing all,

Fiddling or fighting—all in drunken joy!”— 420

“But is this Nature?” said the wondering Boy.

“Be sure it is! and those Banditti there— }

Observe the faces, forms, the eyes, the air; }

See rage, revenge, remorse, disdain, despair!” }

“And is that Nature, too?” the stripling cried.—

“Corrupted Nature,” said the serious guide.

She then displayed her knowledge.—“That, my dear,

Is call’d a Titian, this a Guido here,

And yon a Claude—you see that lovely light,

So soft and solemn, neither day nor night.” 430

“Yes!” quoth the Boy, “and there is just the breeze,

That curls the water, and that fans the trees;

The ships that anchor in that pleasant bay

All look so safe and quiet—Claude, you say?”

On a small picture Peter gazed and stood

In admiration—“’twas so dearly good.”

“For how much money think you, then, my Lad,

Is such a ‘dear good picture’ to be had?

’Tis a famed master’s work—a Gerard Dow,

At least the seller told the buyer so.” 440

“I tell the price!” quoth Peter—“I as soon

Could tell the price of pictures in the moon;

But I have heard, when the great race was done,

How much was offer’d for the horse that won.”—

“A thousand pounds: but, look the country round,

And, may be, ten such horses might be found;

While, ride or run where’er you choose to go,

You’ll nowhere find so fine a Gerard Dow.”

“If this be true,” says Peter, “then, of course,

You’d rate the picture higher than the horse.” 450

“Why, thou’rt a reasoner, Boy!” the lady cried;

“But see that Infant on the other side;

’Tis by Sir Joshua. Did you ever see

A Babe so charming?”—“No, indeed,” said he;

“I wonder how he could that look invent,

That seems so sly, and yet so innocent.”

In this long room were various Statues seen,

And Peter gazed thereon with awe-struck mien.

“Why look so earnest, Boy?”—“Because they bring

To me a story of an awful thing.”— 460

“Tell then thy story.”——He, who never stay’d

For words or matter, instantly obey’d.—

“A holy pilgrim to a city sail’d,

Where every sin o’er sinful men prevail’d;

Who, when he landed, look’d in every street,

As he was wont, a busy crowd to meet;

But now of living beings found he none;

Death had been there, and turn’d them all to stone.

All in an instant, as they were employ’d,

Was life in every living man destroy’d— 470

The rich, the poor, the timid, and the bold,

Made in a moment such as we behold.”

“Come, my good lad, you’ve yet a room to see.

Are you awake?”—“I am amazed,” said he;

I know they’re figures form’d by human skill,

But ’tis so awful, and this place so still!

“And what is this?” said Peter, who had seen

A long wide table, with its cloth of green,

Its net-work pockets, and its studs of gold—

For such they seem’d, and precious to behold. 480

There too were ivory balls, and one was red,

Laid with long sticks upon the soft green bed,

And printed tables on the wall beside—

“Oh! what are these?” the wondering Peter cried.

“This, my good lad, is call’d the Billiard-room,”

Answer’d his guide; “and here the gentry come,

And with these maces and these cues they play,

At their spare time, or in a rainy day.”

“And what this chequer’d box?—for play, I guess?”—

“You judge it right; ’tis for the game of Chess. 490

There! take your time, examine what you will,

There’s King, Queen, Knight—it is a game of skill:

And these are Bishops; you the difference see.”—

“What! do they make a game of them?” quoth he.—

“Bishops, like Kings,” she said, “are here but names;

Not that I answer for their Honours’ games.”

All round the house did Peter go, and found

Food for his wonder all the house around.

There guns of various bore, and rods, and lines,

And all that man for deed of death designs, 500

In beast, or bird, or fish, or worm, or fly— }

Life in these last must means of death supply; }

The living bait is gorged, and both the victims die. }

“God gives man leave his creatures to destroy.”—

“What! for his sport?” replied the pitying Boy.—

“Nay,” said the Lady, “why the sport condemn?

As die they must, ’tis much the same to them.”

Peter had doubts; but with so kind a friend

He would not on a dubious point contend.

Much had he seen, and every thing he saw 510

Excited pleasure not unmix’d with awe.

Leaving each room, he turn’d as if once more

To enjoy the pleasure that he felt before—

“What then must their possessors feel? how grand

And happy they who can such joys command!

For they may pleasures all their lives pursue,

The winter pleasures, and the summer’s too—

Pleasures for every hour in every day—

Oh! how their time must pass in joy away!”

So Peter said.—Replied the courteous Dame: 520

“What you call pleasure scarcely owns the name.

The very changes of amusement prove

There’s nothing that deserves a lasting love.

They hunt, they course, they shoot, they fish, they game;

The objects vary, though the end the same—

A search for that which flies them; no, my Boy!

’Tis not enjoyment, ’tis pursuit of joy.”

Peter was thoughtful—thinking, What! not these,

Who can command, or purchase, what they please—

Whom many serve, who only speak the word, 530

And they have all that earth or seas afford—

All that can charm the mind and please the eye—

And they not happy!—but I’ll ask her why.

So Peter ask’d.—“’Tis not,” she said, “for us,

Their Honours’ inward feelings to discuss;

But, if they’re happy, they would still confess

’Tis not these things that make their happiness.

“Look from this window! at his work behold

Yon gardener’s helper—he is poor and old,

He not one thing of all you see can call 540

His own; but, haply, he o’erlooks them all.

Hear him! he whistles through his work, or stops

But to admire his labours and his crops.

To-day as every former day he fares,

And for the morrow has nor doubts nor cares;

Pious and cheerful, proud when he can please—

Judge if Joe Tompkin wants such things as these.

“Come, let us forward!” and she walk’d in haste

To a large room, itself a work of taste,

But chiefly valued for the works that drew 550

The eyes of Peter—this indeed was new,

Was most imposing—Books of every kind

Were there disposed, the food for every mind.

With joy perplex’d, round cast he wondering eyes,

Still in his joy, and dumb in his surprise.

Above, beneath, around, on every side,

Of every form and size were Books descried;

Like Bishop Hatto, when the rats drew near,

And war’s new dangers waked his guilty fear,

When thousands came beside, behind, before, 560

And up and down came on ten thousand more,

A tail’d and whisker’d army, each with claws

As sharp as needles, and with teeth like saws—

So fill’d with awe, and wonder in his looks,

Stood Peter ‘midst this multitude of Books;

But guiltless he and fearless; yet he sigh’d

To think what treasures were to him denied.

But wonder ceases on continued view;

And the Boy sharp for close inspection grew.

Prints on the table he at first survey’d, 570

Then to the Books his full attention paid.

At first, from tome to tome, as fancy led,

He view’d the binding, and the titles read;

Lost in delight, and with his freedom pleased,

Then three huge folios from their shelf he seized;

Fixing on one, with prints of every race,

Of beast and bird most rare in every place—

Serpents, the giants of their tribe, whose prey

Are giants too—a wild ox once a day;

Here the fierce tiger, and the desert’s kings, 580

And all that move on feet, or fins, or wings—

Most rare and strange; a second volume told

Of battles dire, and dreadful to behold,

On sea or land, and fleets dispersed in storms;

A third has all creative fancy forms—

Hydra and dire chimera, deserts rude,

And ruins grand, enriching solitude:

Whatever was, or was supposed to be,

Saw Peter here, and still desired to see.

Again he look’d, but happier had he been, 590

That Book of Wonders he had never seen;

For there were tales of men of wicked mind,

And how the Foe of Man deludes mankind.

Magic and murder every leaf bespread— }

Enchanted halls, and chambers of the dead, }

And ghosts that haunt the scenes where once the victims bled. }

Just at this time, when Peter’s heart began

To admit the fear that shames the valiant man,

He paused—but why? “Here’s one my guard to be; }

When thus protected, none can trouble me.”— 600}

Then rising look’d he round, and lo! alone was he. }

Three ponderous doors, with locks of shining brass,

Seem’d to invite the trembling Boy to pass;

But fear forbad, till fear itself supplied

The place of courage, and at length he tried.

He grasp’d the key—Alas! though great his need,

The key turn’d not, the bolt would not recede.

Try then again; for what will not distress?

Again he tried, and with the same success.

Yet one remains, remains untried one door— 610

A failing hope, for two had fail’d before;

But a bold prince, with fifty doors in sight,

Tried forty-nine before he found the right;

Before he mounted on the brazen horse,

And o’er the walls pursued his airy course.

So his cold hand on this last key he laid:

“Now turn,” said he; the treacherous bolt obey’d—

The door receded—bringing full in view

The dim, dull chapel, pulpit, desk, and pew.

It was not right—it would have vex’d a saint; 620

And Peter’s anger rose above restraint.

“Was this her love,” he cried, “to bring me here,

Among the dead, to die myself with fear!”—

For Peter judged, with monuments around,

The dead must surely in the place be found:—

“With cold to shiver, and with hunger pine!

‘We’ll see the rooms,’ she said, ‘before we dine;’

And spake so kind! That window gives no light: }

Here is enough the boldest man to fright; }

It hardly now is day, and soon it will be night.” 630}

Deeply he sigh’d, nor from his heart could chase

The dread of dying in that dismal place;

Anger and sorrow in his bosom strove,

And banish’d all that yet remain’d of love;

When soon despair had seized the trembling Boy—

But hark, a voice! the sound of peace and joy.

“Where art thou, lad?”—“Oh! here am I, in doubt,

And sorely frighten’d—can you let me out?”—

“Oh! yes, my child; it was indeed a sin,

Forgetful as I was, to bolt you in. 640

I left you reading, and from habit lock’d

The door behind me, but in truth am shock’d

To serve you thus; but we will make amends

For such mistake. Come, cheerly, we are friends.”

“Oh! yes,” said Peter, quite alive to be

So kindly used, and have so much to see,

And having so much seen; his way he spied,

Forgot his peril, and rejoin’d his guide.

Now all beheld, his admiration raised,

The lady thank’d, her condescension praised, 650

And fix’d the hour for dinner, forth the Boy

Went in a tumult of o’erpowering joy,

To view the gardens, and what more was found

In the wide circuit of that spacious ground;

Till, with his thoughts bewilder’d, and oppress’d

With too much feeling, he inclined to rest.

Then in the park he sought its deepest shade,

By trees more aged than the mansion made,

That ages stood; and there unseen a brook

Ran not unheard, and thus our traveller spoke— 660

“I am so happy, and have such delight,

I cannot bear to see another sight;

It wearies one like work;” and so, with deep

Unconscious sigh—he laid him down to sleep.

Thus he reclining slept, and, oh! the joy

That in his dreams possess’d the happy Boy—

Composed of all he knew, and all he read,

Heard, or conceived, the living and the dead.

The Caliph Haroun, walking forth by night

To see young David and Goliath fight, 670

Rose on his passive fancy—then appear’d

The fleshless forms of beings scorn’d or fear’d

By just or evil men—the baneful race

Of spirits restless, borne from place to place;

Rivers of blood from conquer’d armies ran;

The flying steed was by, the marble man;

Then danced the fairies round their pygmy queen,

And their feet twinkled on the dewy green,

All in the moon-beams’ glory. As they fled,

The mountain loadstone rear’d its fatal head, 680

And drew the iron-bolted ships on shore, }

Where he distinctly heard the billows roar, }

Mix’d with a living voice of—“Youngster, sleep no more, }

But haste to dinner.” Starting from the ground,

The waking boy obey’d that welcome sound.

He went and sat, with equal shame and pride,

A welcome guest at Madam Johnson’s side;

At his right hand was Mistress Kitty placed,

And Lucy, maiden sly, the stripling faced.

Then each the proper seat at table took— 690

Groom, butler, footman, laundress, coachman, cook;

For all their station and their office knew,

Nor sat as rustics or the rabble do.

The Youth to each the due attention paid,

And hob-or-nob’d with Lady Charlotte’s maid;

With much respect each other they address’d,

And all encouraged their enchanted guest.

Wine, fruit, and sweetmeats closed repast so long,

And Mistress Flora sang an opera song.

Such was the Day the happy Boy had spent, 700

And forth delighted from the Hall he went.

Bowing his thanks, he mounted on his steed,

More largely fed than he was wont to feed;

And well for Peter that his pony knew

From whence he came, the road he should pursue;

For the young rider had his mind estranged

From all around, disturb’d and disarranged,

In pleasing tumult, in a dream of bliss,

Enjoy’d but seldom in a world like this.

But though the pleasures of the Day were past— 710

For lively pleasures are not form’d to last—

And though less vivid they became, less strong,

Through life they lived, and were enjoy’d as long.

So deep the impression of that happy Day,

Not time nor cares could wear it all away;

Ev’n to the last, in his declining years,

He told of all his glories, all his fears:

How blithely forward in that morn he went,

How blest the hours in that fair palace spent,

How vast that Mansion, sure for monarch plann’d, 720

The rooms so many, and yet each so grand—

Millions of books in one large hall were found,

And glorious pictures every room around;

Beside that strangest of the wonders there,

That house itself contain’d a house of prayer.

He told of park and wood, of sun and shade,

And how the lake below the lawn was made;

He spake of feasting such as never boy,

Taught in his school, was fated to enjoy—

Of ladies’ maids as ladies’ selves who dress’d, 730}

And her, his friend, distinguish’d from the rest, }

By grandeur in her look, and state that she possess’d. }

He pass’d not one; his grateful mind o’erflow’d

With sense of all he felt, and they bestow’d.

He spake of every office, great or small, }

Within, without, and spake with praise of all— }

So pass’d the happy Boy that Day at Silford Hall. }

TALE II.
THE FAMILY OF LOVE.

In a large town, a wealthy, thriving place,

Where hopes of gain excite an anxious race;

Which dark, dense wreaths of cloudy volumes cloak,

And mark, for leagues around, the place of smoke;

Where fire to water lends its powerful aid,

And steam produces—strong ally to trade—

Arrived a Stranger, whom no merchant knew,

Nor could conjecture what he came to do.

He came not there his fortune to amend;

He came not there a fortune made to spend; 10

His age not that which men in trade employ;

The place not that where men their wealth enjoy;

Yet there was something in his air that told

Of competency gain’d, before the man was old.

He brought no servants with him; those he sought

Were soon his habits and his manners taught—

His manners easy, civil, kind, and free;

His habits such as aged men’s will be,

To self indulgent; wealthy men like him

Plead for these failings—’tis their way, their whim. 20

His frank good-humour, his untroubled air,

His free address, and language bold but fair,

Soon made him friends—such friends as all may make,

Who take the way that he was pleased to take.

He gave his dinners in a handsome style,

And met his neighbours with a social smile;

The wealthy all their easy friend approved,

Whom the more liberal for his bounty loved;

And ev’n the cautious and reserved began

To speak with kindness of the frank old man, 30

Who, though associate with the rich and grave,

Laugh’d with the gay, and to the needy gave

What need requires. At church a seat was shown,

That he was kindly ask’d to think his own.

Thither he went, and neither cold nor heat,

Pains or pretences, kept him from his seat.

This to his credit in the town was told,

And ladies said, “’Tis pity he is old;

Yet, for his years, the Stranger moves like one

Who, of his race, has no small part to run.” 40

No envy he by ostentation raised,

And all his hospitable table praised.

His quiet life censorious talk suppress’d,

And numbers hail’d him as their welcome guest.

’Twas thought a man so mild, and bounteous too,

A world of good within the town might do;

To vote him honours, therefore, they inclined;

But these he sought not, and with thanks resign’d;

His days of business, he declared, were past,

And he would wait in quiet for the last; 50

But for a dinner and a day of mirth

He was the readiest being upon earth.

Men call’d him Captain, and they found the name

By him accepted without pride or shame.

Not in the Navy—that did not appear:

Not in the Army—that at least was clear—

“But as he speaks of sea-affairs, he made,

No doubt, his fortune in the way of trade;

He might, perhaps, an India-ship command—

We’ll call him Captain now he comes to land.” 60

The Stranger much of various life had seen,

Been poor, been rich, and in the state between;

Had much of kindness met, and much deceit,

And all that man who deals with men must meet.

Not much he read; but from his youth had thought,

And been by care and observation taught:

’Tis thus a man his own opinions makes;

He holds that fast, which he with trouble takes;

While one whose notions all from books arise, }

Upon his authors, not himself, relies— 70}

A borrow’d wisdom this, that does not make us wise. }

Inured to scenes, where wealth and place command

Th’ observant eye, and the obedient hand,

A Tory-spírit his—he ever paid

Obedience due, and look’d to be obey’d.

“Man upon man depends, and, break the chain,

He soon returns to savage life again;

As of fair virgins dancing in a round

Each binds another, and herself is bound,

On either hand a social tribe he sees, 80

By those assisted, and assisting these;

While to the general welfare all belong,

The high in power, the low in number strong.”

Such was the Stranger’s creed—if not profound,

He judg’d it useful, and proclaimed it sound;

And many liked it; invitations went

To Captain Elliot, and from him were sent—

These last so often, that his friends confess’d,

The Captain’s cook had not a place of rest.

Still were they something at a loss to guess 90

What his profession was from his address;

For much he knew, and too correct was he

For a man train’d and nurtured on the sea;

Yet well he knew the seaman’s words and ways—

Seaman’s his look, and nautical his phrase:

In fact, all ended, just where they began,

With many a doubt of this amphibious man.

Though kind to all, he look’d with special grace }

On a few members of an ancient race, }

Long known, and well respected in the place— 100}

Dyson their name; but how regard for these

Rose in his mind, or why they seem’d to please,

Or by what ways, what virtues—not a cause

Can we assign, for Fancy has no laws;

But, as the Captain show’d them such respect,

We will not treat the Dysons with neglect.

Their Father died, while yet engaged by trade

To make a fortune that was never made,

But to his children taught; for he would say

“I place them—all I can—in Fortune’s way.” 110

James was his first-born; when his father died,

He, in their large domain, the place supplied,

And found, as to the Dysons all appear’d,

Affairs less gloomy than their sire had fear’d;

But then, if rich or poor, all now agree,

Frugal and careful James must wealthy be:

And, wealth in wedlock sought, he married soon,

And ruled his Lady from the honey-moon.

Nor shall we wonder; for, his house beside, }

He had a sturdy multitude to guide, 120}

Who now his spirit vex’d, and now his temper tried: }

Men who by labours live, and, day by day,

Work, weave, and spin their active lives away;

Like bees industrious, they for others strive,

With, now and then, some murmuring in the hive.

James was a churchman—’twas his pride and boast;

Loyal his heart, and “Church and King” his toast;

He for Religion might not warmly feel,

But for the Church he had abounding zeal.

Yet no dissenting sect would he condemn, 130

“They’re nought to us,” said he, “nor we to them;

’Tis innovation of our own I hate,

Whims and inventions of a modern date.

“Why send you Bibles all the world about,

That men may read amiss, and learn to doubt?

Why teach the children of the poor to read,

That a new race of doubters may succeed?

Now can you scarcely rule the stubborn crew,

And what if they should know as much as you?

Will a man labour when to learning bred, 140

Or use his hands who can employ his head?

Will he a clerk or master’s self obey,

Who thinks himself as well-inform’d as they?”

These were his favourite subjects—these he chose,

And where he ruled no creature durst oppose.

“[We’re] rich,” quoth James; “but if we thus proceed,

And give to all, we shall be poor indeed:

In war we subsidise the world—in peace

We christianise—our bounties never cease;

We learn each stranger’s tongue, that they with ease 150

May read translated Scriptures, if they please;

We buy them presses, print them books, and then

Pay and export poor learned, pious men;

Vainly we strive a fortune now to get,

So tax’d by private claims, and public debt.”

Still he proceeds—“You make your prisons light,

Airy and clean, your robbers to invite;

And in such ways your pity show to vice,

That you the rogues encourage, and entice.”

For lenient measures James had no regard— 160

“Hardship,” he said, “must work upon the hard;

Labour and chains such desperate men require;

To soften iron you must use the fire.”

Active himself, he labour’d to express,

In his strong words, his scorn of idleness;

From him in vain the beggar sought relief—

“Who will not labour is an idle thief,

Stealing from those who will;” he knew not how

For the untaught and ill-taught to allow,

Children of want and vice, inured to ill, 170

Unchain’d the passions, and uncurb’d the will.

Alas! he look’d but to his own affairs,

Or to the rivals in his trade, and theirs;

Knew not the thousands who must all be fed,

Yet ne’er were taught to earn their daily bread;

Whom crimes, misfortunes, errors only teach

To seek their food where’er within their reach;

Who for their parents’ sins, or for their own,

Are now as vagrants, wanderers, beggars known,

Hunted and hunting through the world, to share 180

Alms and contempt, and shame and scorn to bear;

Whom Law condemns, and Justice, with a sigh,

Pursuing, shakes her sword and passes by.—

If to the prison we should these commit,

They for the gallows will be render’d fit.

But James had virtues—was esteem’d as one

Whom men look’d up to, and relied upon.

Kind to his equals, social when they met—

If out of spirits, always out of debt;

True to his promise, he a lie disdain’d, 190

And e’en when tempted in his trade, refrain’d;

Frugal he was, and loved the cash to spare,

Gain’d by much skill, and nursed by constant care;

Yet liked the social board, and when he spoke,

Some hail’d his wisdom, some enjoy’d his joke.

To him a Brother look’d as one to whom,

If fortune frown’d, he might in trouble come;

His Sisters view’d the important man with awe,

As if a parent in his place they saw:

All lived in Love; none sought their private ends: 200

The Dysons were a Family of Friends.

His brother David was a studious boy,

Yet could his sports as well as books enjoy.

E’en when a boy, he was not quickly read,

If by the heart you judged him, or the head.

His father thought he was decreed to shine,

And be in time an eminent Divine;

But if he ever to the Church inclined,

It is too certain that he changed his mind.

He spoke of scruples; but who knew him best 210

Affirm’d, no scruples broke on David’s rest.

Physic and Law were each in turn proposed,

He weigh’d them nicely, and with Physic closed.

He had a serious air, a smooth address,

And a firm spirit that ensured success.

He watched his brethren of the time, how they

Rose into fame, that he might choose his way.

Some, he observed, a kind of roughness used,

And now their patients banter’d, now abused:

The awe-struck people were at once dismay’d, 220

As if they begg’d the advice for which they paid.

There are who hold that no disease is slight,

Who magnify the foe with whom they fight.

The sick was told that his was that disease

But rarely known on mortal frame to seize;

Which only skill profound, and full command

Of all the powers in nature could withstand.

Then, if he lived, what fame the conquest gave!

And if he died—“No human power could save!”

Mere fortune sometimes, and a lucky case, 230

Will make a man the idol of a place—

Who last, advice to some fair duchess gave,

Or snatch’d a widow’s darling from the grave,

Him first she honours of the lucky tribe,

Fills him with praise, and woos him to prescribe.

In his own chariot soon he rattles on,

And half believes the lies that built him one.

But not of these was David: care and pain,

And studious toil prepar’d his way to gain.

At first observed, then trusted, he became 240

At length respected, and acquired a name.

Keen, close, attentive, he could read mankind,

The feeble body, and the failing mind;

And if his heart remain’d untouch’d, his eyes,

His air, and tone, with all could sympathise.

This brought him fees, and not a man was he

In weak compassion to refuse a fee.

Yet though the Doctor’s purse was well supplied,

Though patients came, and fees were multiplied,

Some secret drain, that none presumed to know, 250

And few e’en guess’d, for ever kept it low.

Some of a patient spake, a tender fair,

Of whom the doctor took peculiar care,

But not a fee; he, rather, largely gave,

Nor spared himself, ’twas said, this gentle friend to save.

Her case consumptive, with perpetual need

Still to be fed, and still desire to feed;

An eager craving, seldom known to cease,

And gold alone brought temporary peace.—

So, rich he was not; James some fear express’d, 260

Dear Doctor David would be yet distress’d;

For if now poor, when so repaid his skill,

What fate were his, if he himself were ill!

In his religion, Doctor Dyson sought

To teach himself—“A man should not be taught,

Should not, by forms or creeds, his mind debase,

That keep in awe an unreflecting race.”

He heeded not what Clarke and Paley say,

But thought himself as good a judge as they;

Yet to the Church profess’d himself a friend, 270}

And would the rector for his hour attend; }

Nay, praise the learn’d discourse, and learnedly defend. }

For, since the common herd of men are blind,

He judged it right that guides should be assign’d;

And that the few who could themselves direct

Should treat those guides with honour and respect.

He was from all contracted notions freed,

But gave his Brother credit for his creed;

And, if in smaller matters he indulged,

’Twas well, so long as they were not divulged. 280

Oft was the spirit of the Doctor tried,

When his grave Sister wish’d to be his guide.

She told him, “all his real friends were grieved

To hear it said, how little he believed:

Of all who bore the name she never knew

One to his pastor or his church untrue;

All have the truth with mutual zeal profess’d,

And why, dear Doctor, differ from the rest?”

“’Tis my hard fate,” with serious looks replied

The man of doubt, “to err with such a guide.”— 290

“Then why not turn from such a painful state?”—

The doubting man replied, “It is my fate.”

Strong in her zeal, by texts and reasons back’d,

In his grave mood the Doctor she attack’d;

Cull’d words from Scripture to announce his doom,

And bade him “think of dreadful things to come.”

“If such,” he answer’d, “be that state untried,

In peace, dear Martha, let me here abide;

Forbear to insult a man whose fate is known,

And leave to Heaven a matter all its own.” 300

In the same cause the Merchant, too, would strive;

He ask’d, “Did ever unbeliever thrive?

Had he respect? could he a fortune make?

And why not then such impious men forsake?”

“Thanks, my dear James, and be assured I feel,

If not your reason, yet at least your zeal;

And when those wicked thoughts, that keep me poor,

And bar respect, assail me as before

With force combin’d, you’ll drive the fiend away;

For you shall reason, James, and Martha pray.” 310

But though the Doctor could reply with ease

To all such trivial arguments as these—

Though he could reason, or at least deride,

There was a power that would not be defied;

A closer reasoner, whom he could not shun,

Could not refute, from whom he could not run:

For Conscience lived within; she slept, ’tis true,

But when she waked, her pangs awaken’d too.

She bade him think; and, as he thought, a sigh

Of deep remorse precluded all reply. 320

No soft insulting smile, no bitter jest, }

Could this commanding power of strength divest, }

But with reluctant fear her terrors he confess’d. }

His weak advisers he could scorn or slight, }

But not their cause; for, in their folly’s spite, }

They took the wiser part, and chose their way aright. }

Such was the Doctor, upon whom for aid

Had some good ladies call’d, but were afraid—

Afraid of one who, if report were just,

The arm of flesh, and that alone, would trust. 330

But these were few—the many took no care

Of what they judged to be his own affair;

And if he them from their diseases freed,

They neither cared nor thought about his creed;

They said his merits would for much atone,

And only wonder’d that he lived alone.

The widow’d Sister near the Merchant dwelt,

And her late loss with lingering sorrow felt.

Small was her jointure, and o’er this she sigh’d, }

That to her heart its bounteous wish denied, 340}

Which yet all common wants, but not her all, supplied. }

Sorrows like showers descend, and as the heart

For them prepares, they good or ill impart;

Some on the mind, as on the ocean rain,

Fall and disturb, but soon are lost again;

Some, as to fertile lands, a boon bestow,

And [seeds], that else had perish’d, live and grow;

Some fall on barren soil, and thence proceed

The idle blossom, and the useless weed.

But how her griefs the Widow’s heart impress’d 350

Must from the tenor of her life be guess’d.

Rigid she was, persisting in her grief,

Fond of complaint, and adverse to relief.

In her religion she was all severe,

And as she was, was anxious to appear.

When sorrow died restraint usurp’d the place,

And sate in solemn state upon her face.

Reading she loved not, nor would deign to waste

Her precious time on trifling works of taste;

Though what she did with all that precious time 360

We know not, but to waste it was a crime—

As oft she said, when with a serious friend

She spent the hours as duty bids us spend;

To read a novel was a kind of sin—

Albeit once Clarissa took her in;

And now of late, she heard with much surprise,

Novels there were that made a compromise

Betwixt amusement and religion: these

Might charm the worldly, whom the stories please,

And please the serious, whom the sense would charm, 370

And thus, indulging, be secured from harm—

A happy thought, when from the foe we take

His arms, and use them for religion’s sake.

Her Bible she perused by day, by night;

It was her task—she said ’twas her delight;

Found in her room, her chamber, and her pew,

For ever studied, yet for ever new—

All must be new that we cannot retain,

And new we find it when we read again.

The hardest texts she could with ease expound, 380

And meaning for the most mysterious found,

Knew which of dubious senses to prefer.

The want of Greek was not a want in her;—

Instinctive light no aid from Hebrew needs—

But full conviction without study breeds;

O’er mortal powers by inborn strength prevails,

Where Reason trembles, and where Learning fails.

To the church strictly from her childhood bred,

She now her zeal with party-spirit fed:

For brother James she lively hopes express’d, 390

But for the Doctor’s safety felt distress’d;

And her light Sister, poor, and deaf, and blind,

Fill’d her with fears of most tremendous kind.

But David mocked her for the pains she took,

And Fanny gave resentment for rebuke;

While James approved the zeal, and praised the call,

“That brought,” he said, “a blessing on them all:

Goodness like this to all the House extends,

For were they not a Family of Friends?”

Their sister Frances, though her prime was past, 400

Had beauty still—nay, beauty form’d to last;

’Twas not the lily and the rose combined,

Nor must we say the beauty of the mind;

But feature, form, and that engaging air,

That lives when ladies are no longer fair.

Lovers she had, as she remember’d yet,

For who the glories of their reign forget?

Some she rejected in her maiden pride }

And some in maiden hesitation tried— }

Unwilling to renounce, unable to decide. 410}

One lost, another would her grace implore,

Till all were lost, and lovers came no more.

Nor had she that, in beauty’s failing state,

Which will recall a lover, or create;

Hers was the slender portion, that supplied

Her real wants, but all beyond denied.

When Fanny Dyson reach’d her fortieth year,

She would no more of love or lovers hear;

But one dear Friend she chose, her guide, her stay

And to each other all the world were they; 420

For all the world had grown to them unkind,

One sex censorious, and the other blind.

The Friend of Frances longer time had known

The world’s deceits, and from its follies flown.

With her dear Friend life’s sober joys to share

Was all that now became her wish and care.

They walk’d together, they conversed and read,

And tender tears for well-feign’d sorrows shed:

And were so happy in their quiet lives,

They pitied sighing maids, and weeping wives. 430

But Fortune to our state such change imparts,

That Pity stays not long in human hearts;

When sad for others’ woes our hearts are grown,

This soon gives place to sorrows of our own.

There was among our guardian Volunteers

A Major Bright—he reckoned fifty years:

A reading man of peace, but call’d to take

His sword and musket for his country’s sake;

Not to go forth and fight, but here to stay,

Invaders, should they come, to chase or slay. 440

Him had the elder Lady long admired,

As one from vain and trivial things retired;

With him conversed; but to a Friend so dear

Gave not that pleasure—Why? is not so clear.

But chance effected this; the Major now

Gave both the time his duties would allow;

In walks, in visits, when abroad, at home,

The friendly Major would to either come.

He never spoke—for he was not a boy—

Of ladies’ charms, or lovers’ grief and joy. 450

All his discourses were of serious kind,

The heart they touch’d not, but they fill’d the mind.

Yet—oh, the pity! from this grave good man

The cause of coolness in the Friends began.

The sage Sophronia—that the chosen name—

Now more polite, and more estranged became.

She could but feel that she had longer known

This valued friend—he was indeed her own;

But Frances Dyson, to confess the truth,

Had more of softness—yes, and more of youth; 460

And, though he said such things had ceased to please,

The worthy Major was not blind to these:

So without thought, without intent, he paid

More frequent visits to the younger Maid.

Such the offence; and, though the Major tried

To tie again the knot he thus untied,

His utmost efforts no kind looks repaid—

He moved no more the inexorable maid.

The Friends too parted, and the elder told

Tales of false hearts, and friendships waxing cold; 470

And wonder’d what a man of sense could see

In the light airs of wither’d vanity.

’Tis said that Frances now the world reviews,

Unwilling all the little left to lose;

She and the Major on the walks are seen,

And all the world is wondering what they mean.

Such were the four whom Captain Elliot drew

To his own board, as the selected few.

For why? they seem’d each other to approve,

And called themselves a Family of Love. 480

These were not all: there was a Youth beside,

Left to his uncles when his parents died;

A Girl, their sister, by a Boy was led }

To Scotland, where a boy and girl may wed— }

And they return’d to seek for pardon, pence, and bread. }

Five years they lived to labour, weep, and pray,

When Death, in mercy, took them both away.

Uncles and aunts received this lively child,

Grieved at his fate, and at his follies smiled;

But, when the child to boy’s estate grew on, 490

The smile was vanish’d, and the pity gone.

Slight was the burden, but in time increased,

Until at length both love and pity ceased.

Then Tom was idle; he would find his way

To his aunt’s stores, and make her sweets his prey;

By uncle Doctor on a message sent,

He stopp’d to play, and lost it as he went.

His grave aunt Martha, with a frown austere

And a rough hand, produced a transient fear;

But Tom, to whom his rude companions taught 500

Language as rude, vindictive measures sought;

He used such words that, when she wish’d to speak

Of his offence, she had her words to seek.

The little wretch had call’d her—’twas a shame

To think such thought, and more to name such name.

Thus fed and beaten, Tom was taught to pray

For his true friends; “but who,” said he, “are they?”

By nature kind, when kindly used, the Boy

Hail’d the strange good with tears of love and joy;

But, roughly used, he felt his bosom burn 510

With wrath he dared not on his uncles turn;

So with indignant spirit, still and strong,

He nursed the vengeance, and endured the wrong.

To a cheap school, far north, the boy was sent:

Without a tear of love or grief he went;

Where, doom’d to fast and study, fight and play,

He staid five years, and wish’d five more to stay.

He loved o’er plains to run, up hills to climb,

Without a thought of kindred, home, or time;

Till from the cabin of a coasting hoy, 520

Landed at last the thin and freckled boy,

With sharp keen eye, but pale and hollow cheek,

All made more sad from sickness of a week.

His aunts and uncles felt—nor strove to hide

From the poor boy, their pity and their pride;

He had been taught that he had not a friend

Save these on earth, on whom he might depend;

And such dependence upon these he had

As made him sometimes desperate, always sad.

“Awkward and weak, where can the lad be placed, 530

And we not troubled, censured, or disgraced?

Do, Brother James, th’ unhappy boy enrol

Among your set; you only can control.”

James sigh’d, and Thomas to the Factory went,

Who there his days in sundry duties spent.

He ran, he wrought, he wrote—to read or play

He had no time, nor much to feed or pray.

What pass’d without he heard not—or he heard

Without concern, what he nor wish’d nor fear’d;

Told of the Captain and his wealth, he sigh’d, 540

And said, “how well his table is supplied!”

But with the sigh it caused the sorrow fled; }

He was not feasted, but he must be fed; }

And he could sleep full sound, though not full soft his bed. }

But still, ambitious thoughts his mind possess’d,

And dreams of joy broke in upon his rest.

Improved in person, and enlarged in mind,

The good he found not he could hope to find;

Though now enslaved, he hail’d the approaching day,

When he should break his chains and flee away. 550

Such were the Dysons: they were first of those

Whom Captain Elliot as companions chose;

Them he invited, and the more approved,

As it appear’d that each the other loved.

Proud of their brothers were the sister pair;

And, if not proud, yet kind the brothers were.

This pleased the Captain, who had never known,

Or he had loved, such kindred of his own;

Them he invited, save the Orphan lad,

Whose name was not the one his Uncles had; 560

No Dyson he, nor with the party came—

The worthy Captain never heard his name;

Uncles and Aunts forbore to name the boy,

For then, of course, must follow his employ.

Though all were silent, as with one consent,

None told another what his silence meant,

What hers; but each suppress’d the useless truth,

And not a word was mentioned of the youth.

Familiar grown, the Dysons saw their host,

With none beside them; it became their boast, 570

Their pride, their pleasure; but to some it seem’d

Beyond the worth their talents were esteem’d.

This wrought no change within the Captain’s mind;

To all men courteous, he to them was kind.

One day with these he sat, and only these,

In a light humour, talking at his ease.

Familiar grown, he was disposed to tell

Of times long past, and what in them befell—

Not of his life their wonder to attract,

But the choice tale, or insulated fact. 580

Then, as it seem’d, he had acquired a right

To hear what they could from their stores recite.

Their lives, they said, were all of common kind;

He could no pleasure in such trifles find.

They had an Uncle—’tis their father’s tale—

Who in all seas had gone where ship can sail;

Who in all lands had been, where men can live;

“He could indeed some strange relations give,

And many a bold adventure; but in vain

We look for him; he comes not home again.” 590

“And is it so? why then, if so it be,”

Said Captain Elliot, “you must look to me:

I knew John Dyson”——Instant every one

Was moved to wonder—“Knew my Uncle John!

Can he be rich? be childless? he is old,

That is most certain—What! can more be told?

Will he return, who has so long been gone,

And lost to us? Oh! what of Uncle John?”

This was aside: their unobservant friend

Seem’d on their thoughts but little to attend; 600

A traveller speaking, he was more inclined

To tell his story than their thoughts to find.

“Although, my Friends, I love you well, ’tis true, }

’Twas your relation turn’d my mind to you; }

For we were friends of old, and friends like us are few; }

And, though from dearest friends a man will hide

His private vices in his native pride,

Yet such our friendship from its early rise,

We no reserve admitted, no disguise;

But ’tis the story of my friend I tell, 610

And to all others let me bid farewell.

“Take each your glass, and you shall hear how John,

My old companion, through the world has gone;

I can describe him to the very life,

Him and his ways, his ventures, and his wife.”

“Wife!” whisper’d all; “then what his life to us,

His ways and ventures, if he ventured thus?”

This, too, apart; yet were they all intent,

And, gravely listening, sigh’d with one consent.

“My friend, your Uncle, was design’d for trade, 620

To make a fortune as his father made;

But early he perceived the house declined,

And his domestic views at once resign’d;

While stout of heart, with life in every limb,

He would to sea, and either sink or swim.

No one forbad; his father shook his hand,

Within it leaving what he could command.

“He left his home, but I will not relate

What storms he braved, and how he bore his fate,

Till his brave frigate was a Spanish prize, 630

And prison-walls received his first-born sighs—

Sighs for the freedom that an English boy,

Or English man, is eager to enjoy.

“Exchanged, he breathed in freedom, and aboard

An English ship, he found his peace restored;

War raged around, each British tar was press’d

To serve his king, and John among the rest;

Oft had he fought and bled, and ’twas his fate

In that same ship to grow to man’s estate.

Again ’twas war: of France a ship appear’d 640

Of greater force, but neither shunn’d nor fear’d;

’Twas in the Indian Sea, the land was nigh,

When all prepared to fight, and some to die;

Man after man was in the ocean thrown, }

Limb after limb was to the surgeon shown, }

And John at length, poor John! held forth his own.— }

“A tedious case—the battle ceased with day,

And in the night the foe had slipp’d away.

Of many wounded were a part convey’d

To land, and he among the number laid. 650

Poor, suffering, friendless—who shall now impart

Life to his hope, or comfort to his heart?

A kind good priest among the English there

Selected him as his peculiar care;

And, when recover’d, to a powerful friend

Was pleased the lad he loved to recommend;

Who read your Uncle’s mind, and, pleased to read,

Placed him where talents will in time succeed.

“I will not tease you with details of trade,

But say he there a decent fortune made— 660

Not such as gave him, if return’d, to buy

A duke’s estate, or principality,

But a fair fortune; years of peace he knew,

That were so happy, and that seem’d so few.

“Then came a cloud; for who on earth has seen

A changeless fortune, and a life serene?

Ah! then how joyous were the hours we spent!

But joy is restless, joy is not content.

“There one resided, who, to serve his friend,

Was pleased a gay fair lady to commend; 670

Was pleased t’ invite the happy man to dine,

And introduced the subject o’er their wine;

Was pleased the lady his good friend should know,

And as a secret his regard would show.

“A modest man lacks courage; but, thus train’d,

Your Uncle sought her favour and obtain’d.

To me he spake, enraptured with her face,

Her angel smile, her unaffected grace;

Her fortune small indeed; but, ‘curse the pelf,

She is a glorious fortune in herself!’ 680

‘John!’ answer’d I, ‘friend John, to be sincere,

These are fine things, but may be bought too dear.

You are no stripling, and, it must be said,

Have not the form that charms a youthful maid.

What you possess, and what you leave behind,

When you depart, may captivate her mind;

And I suspect she will rejoice at heart,

Your will once made, if you should soon depart.’

“Long our debate, and much we disagreed;

‘You need no wife,’ I said—said he, ‘I need; 690

I want a house, I want in all I see

To take an interest; what is mine to me?’

So spake the man, who to his word was just,

And took the words of others upon trust.

He could not think that friend in power so high,

So much esteem’d, could like a villain lie;

Nor, till the knot, the fatal knot, was tied,

Had urged his wedding a dishonour’d bride.

The man he challenged, for his heart was rent

With rage and grief, and was to prison sent; 700

For men in power—and this, alas! was one—

Revenge on all the wrongs themselves have done;

And he whose spirit bends not to the blow }

The tyrants strike shall no forgiveness know; }

For ’tis to slaves alone that tyrants favour show. }

“This cost him much; but that he did not heed;

The lady died, and my poor friend was freed.

‘Enough of ladies!’ then said he, and smiled;

‘I’ve now no longings for a neighbour’s child.’

So patient he return’d, and not in vain, 710

To his late duties, and grew rich again.

He was no miser; but the man who takes

Care to be rich will love the gain he makes;

Pursuing wealth, he soon forgot his woes;

No acts of his were bars to his repose.

“Now John was rich, and, old and weary grown,

Talk’d of the country that he calls his own—

And talk’d to me; for now, in fact, began

My better knowledge of the real man.

Though long estranged, he felt a strong desire, 720

That made him for his former friends enquire;

What Dysons yet remain’d, he long’d to know,

And doubtless meant some proofs of love to show.

His purpose known, our native land I sought,

And with the wishes of my Friend am fraught.”

Fix’d were all eyes, suspense each bosom shook,

And expectation hung on every look.

“‘Go to my kindred, seek them all around,

Find all you can, and tell me all that’s found;

Seek them if prosperous, seek them in distress, 730

Hear what they need, know what they all possess;

What minds, what hearts they have, how good they are,

How far from goodness—speak, and no one spare,

And no one slander: let me clearly see

What is in them, and what remains for me.’

“Such is my charge, and haply I shall send

Tidings of joy and comfort to my Friend.

Oft would he say, ‘If of our race survive

Some two or three, to keep the name alive—

I will not ask if rich or great they be, 740

But if they live in love, like you and me.’

“’Twas not my purpose yet awhile to speak

As I have spoken; but why further seek?

All that I heard I in my heart approve;

You are indeed a Family of Love;

And my old friend were happy in the sight

Of those of whom I shall such tidings write.”

The Captain wrote not: he perhaps was slow;

Perhaps he wish’d a little more to know.

He wrote not yet; and, while he thus delay’d, 750

Frances alone an early visit paid.

The maiden Lady braved the morning cold,

To tell her Friend what duty bade be told,

Yet not abruptly—she has first to say,

“How cold the morning, but how fine the day!—

I fear you slept but ill, we kept you long,

You made us all so happy, but ’twas wrong—

So entertain’d, no wonder we forgot

How the time pass’d; I fear me you did not.”

In this fair way the Lady seldom fail’d 760

To steer her course, still sounding as she sail’d.

“Dear Captain Elliot, how your Friends you read!

We are a loving Family indeed;

Left in the world each other’s aid to be,

And join to raise a fallen family.

Oh! little thought we there was one so near,

And one so distant, to us all so dear—

All, all alike; he cannot know, dear man!

Who needs him most, as one among us can:

One who can all our wants distinctly view, 770

And tell him fairly what were just to do.

But you, dear Captain Elliot, as his friend,

As ours, no doubt, will your assistance lend.

Not for the world would I my Brothers blame;

Good men they are: ’twas not for that I came.

No! did they guess what shifts I make, the grief

That I sustain, they’d fly to my relief;

But I am proud as poor; I cannot plead

My cause with them, nor show how much I need.

But to my Uncle’s Friend it is no shame, 780

Nor have I fear, to seem the thing I am;

My humble pittance life’s mere need supplies,

But all indulgence, all beyond denies.

I aid no pauper, I myself am poor;

I cannot help the beggar at my door;

I from my scanty table send no meat;

Cook’d and recook’d is every joint I eat.

At Church a sermon begs our help—I stop

And drop a tear; nought else have I to drop;

But pass the out-stretch’d plate with sorrow by, 790

And my sad heart this kind relief deny.

My dress—I strive with all my maiden skill

To make it pass, but ’tis disgraceful still;

Yet from all others I my wants conceal—

Oh! Captain Elliot, there are few that feel!

But did that rich and worthy Uncle know }

What you, dear Sir, will in your kindness show, }

He would his friendly aid with generous hand bestow. }

“Good men my Brothers both, and both are raised

Far above want—the Power that gave be praised! 800

My Sister’s jointure, if not ample, gives

All she can need, who as a lady lives;

But I, unaided, may through all my years

Endure these ills—forgive these foolish tears.

“Once, my dear Sir—I then was young and gay,

And men would talk—but I have had my day:

Now all I wish is so to live, that men

May not despise me whom they flatter’d then.

If you, kind Sir——

Thus far the Captain heard,

Nor save by sign or look had interfered; 810

But now he spoke; to all she said agreed,

And she conceived it useless to proceed.

Something he promised, and the Lady went

Half-pleased away, yet wondering what he meant;

Polite he was and kind, but she could trace

A smile, or something like it, in his face;

’Twas not a look that gave her joy or pain—

She tried to read it, but she tried in vain.

Then call’d the Doctor—’twas his usual way—

To ask “How fares my worthy friend to-day?” 820

To feel his pulse, and as a friend to give

Unfee’d advice, how such a man should live;

And thus, digressing, he could soon contrive,

At his own purpose smoothly to arrive.

“My Brother? yes, he lives without a care,

And, though he needs not, yet he loves to spare.

James I respect; and yet it must be told,

His speech is friendly, but his heart is cold.

His smile assumed has not the real glow

Of love!—a sunbeam shining on the snow. 830

Children he has; but are they causes why

He should our pleas resist, our claims deny?

Our father left the means by which he thrives,

While we are labouring to support our lives—

We, need I say? my widow’d Sister lives

On a large jointure; nay, she largely gives;—

And Fanny sighs—for gold does Fanny sigh?

Or wants she that which money cannot buy—

Youth and young hopes?—Ah! could my kindred share

The liberal mind’s distress, and daily care, 840

The painful toil to gain the petty fee—

They’d bless their stars, and join to pity me.

Hard is his fate, who would, with eager joy,

To save mankind, his every power employ;

Yet in his walk unnumber’d insults meets

And gains ‘mid scorn the food that chokes him as he eats.

“Oh, Captain Elliot! you who know mankind,

With all the anguish of the feeling mind,

Bear to our kind relation these the woes

That e’en to you ’tis misery to disclose. 850

You can describe what I but faintly trace—

A man of learning cannot bear disgrace;

Refinement sharpens woes that wants create,

And ’tis fresh grief such grievous things to state;

Yet those so near me let me not reprove—

I love them well, and they deserve my love;

But want they know not—Oh! that I could say

I am in this as ignorant as they.”

The Doctor thus.—The Captain grave and kind, }

To the sad tale with serious looks inclined, 860}

And promise made to keep th’ important speech in mind. }

James and the Widow, how is yet unknown,

Heard of these visits, and would make their own.

All was not fair, they judged, and both agreed

To their good Friend together to proceed.

Forth then they went to see him, and persuade—

As warm a pair as ever Anger made.

The Widow lady must the speaker be:

So James agreed; for words at will had she;

And then her Brother, if she needed proof, 870

Should add, “’Tis truth;”—it was for him enough.

“Oh, sir! it grieves me”—for we need not dwell

On introduction: all was kind and well—

Oh, sir! it grieves, it shocks us both to hear }

What has, with selfish purpose, gain’d your ear— }

Our very flesh and blood, and, as you know, how dear. }

Doubtless they came your noble mind t’ impress

With strange descriptions of their own distress;

But I would to the Doctor’s face declare, }

That he has more to spend and more to spare, 880}

With all his craft, than we with all our care. }

“And for our Sister, all she has she spends

Upon herself; herself alone befriends.

She has the portion that our father left,

While me of mine a careless wretch bereft,

Save a small part; yet I could joyful live,

Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give.

For this she cares not; Frances does not know

Their heartfelt joy who largely can bestow.

You, Captain Elliot, feel the pure delight, 890

That our kind acts in tender hearts excite,

When to the poor we can our alms extend,

And make the Father of all Good our friend;

And, I repeat, I could with pleasure live,

Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give.

“We speak not thus, dear Sir, with vile intent,

Our nearest friends to wrong or circumvent;

But that our Uncle, worthy man! should know

How best his wealth, Heaven’s blessing, to bestow:

What widows need, and chiefly those who feel 900

For all the sufferings which they cannot heal;

And men in trade, with numbers in their pay,

Who must be ready for the reckoning-day,

Or gain or lose!”—

—“Thank Heaven,” said James, “as yet

I’ve not been troubled by a dun or debt.”

—The Widow sigh’d, convinced that men so weak

Will ever hurt the cause for which they speak;

However tempted to deceive, still they

Are ever blundering to the broad high-way

Of very truth.—But Martha pass’d it by 910

With a slight frown, and half-distinguish’d sigh.—

“Say to our Uncle, sir, how much I long

To see him sit his kindred race among;

To hear his brave exploits, to nurse his age,

And cheer him in his evening’s pilgrimage.

How were I blest to guide him in the way

Where the religious poor in secret pray;

To be the humble means by which his heart

And liberal hand might peace and joy impart!

But now, farewell!”—and slowly, softly fell 920

The tender accents as she said “farewell!”

The Merchant stretch’d his hand, his leave to take,

And gave the Captain’s a familiar shake;

Yet seem’d to doubt if this was not too free;

But, gaining courage, said, “Remember me.”

Some days elaps’d; the Captain did not write,

But still was pleased the party to invite;

And, as he walk’d, his custom every day,

A tall pale stripling met him on his way,

Who made some efforts, but they proved too weak, 930

And only show’d he was inclined to speak.

“What would’st thou, lad?” the Captain ask’d, and gave

The youth a power his purposed boon to crave,

Yet not in terms direct—“My name,” quoth he,

“Is Thomas Bethel; you have heard of me”—

“Not good nor evil, Thomas—had I need

Of so much knowledge;—but pray now proceed.”—

“Dyson’s my mother’s name; but I have not

That interest with you, and the worse my lot.

I serve my Uncle James, and run and write, 940

And watch and work from morning until night;

Confined among the looms, and webs, and wheels,

You cannot think how like a slave one feels.

’Tis said you have a ship at your command—

An’ please you, sir, I’m weary of the land,

And I have read of foreign parts such things

As make me sick of Uncle’s wheels and springs.”

“But, Thomas, why to sea? you look too slim

For that rough work—and, Thomas, can you swim?”

That he could not, but still he scorn’d a lie, 950

And boldly answer’d, “No, but I can try.”—

“Well, my good lad, but tell me, can you read?”

Now, with some pride he answer’d, “Yes, indeed!

I construe Virgil, and our usher said,

I might have been in Homer had I staid;

And he was sorry when I came away,

And so was I, but Uncle would not pay;

He told the master I had read enough,

And Greek was all unprofitable stuff;

So all my learning now is thrown away, 960

And I’ve no time for study or for play;

I’m ordered here and there, above, below,

And call’d a dunce for what I cannot know;

Oh, that I were but from this bondage free!

Do, please your honour, let me go to sea.”—

“But why to sea? they want no Latin there;

Hard is their work, and very hard their fare.”

“But then,” said Thomas, “if on land, I doubt

My Uncle Dyson soon would find me out;

And, though he tells me what I yearly cost, 970

’Tis my belief he’d miss me were I lost.

For he has said, that I can act as well

As he himself—but this you must not tell.”—

“Tell, Thomas! no, I scorn the base design,

Give me your hand, I pledge my word with mine;

And, if I cannot do thee good, my friend,

Thou may’st at least upon that word depend.

And hark ye, lad, thy worthy name retain

To the last hour, or I shall help in vain;

And then the more severe and hard thy part, 980

Thine the more praise, and thine the happier art.

We meet again—farewell!”—and Thomas went

Forth to his tasks, half angry, half content.

“I never ask’d for help,” thought he, “but twice,

And all they then would give me was advice;

My Uncle Doctor, when I begg’d his aid,

Bade me work on, and never be afraid,

But still be good; and I’ve been good so long,

I’m half persuaded that they tell me wrong.

And now this Captain still repeats the same; 990

But who can live upon a virtuous name,

Starving and praised?—‘have patience—patience still!’

He said, and smiled; and, if I can, I will.”

So Thomas rested with a mind intent

On what the Captain by his kindness meant.

Again the invited party all attend,

These dear relations, on this generous Friend.

They ate, they drank, each striving to appear

Fond, frank, forgiving—above all, sincere.

Such kindred souls could not admit disguise, 1000

Or envious fears, or painful jealousies;

So each declared, and all in turn replied,

“’Tis just indeed, and cannot be denied.”

Now various subjects rose—the country’s cause,

The war, the allies, the lottery, and the laws.

The widow’d Sister then advantage took

Of a short pause, and, smiling softly, spoke:

She judged what subject would his mind excite—

“Tell us, dear Captain, of that bloody fight,

When our brave Uncle, bleeding at his gun, 1010

Gave a loud shout to see the Frenchmen run.”

“Another day”—replied the modest host;

“One cannot always of one’s battles boast.

Look not surprise—behold the man in me!

Another Uncle shall you never see.

No other Dyson to this place shall come;

Here end my travels, here I place my home;

Here to repose my shatter’d frame I mean,

Until the last long journey close the scene.”

The Ladies softly brush’d the tear away; 1020

James look’d surprise, but knew not what to say;

But Doctor Dyson lifted up his voice,

And said, “Dear Uncle, how we all rejoice!”

“No question, Friends! and I your joy approve,

We are, you know, a Family of Love.”

So said the wary Uncle, but the while }

Wore on his face a questionable smile, }

That vanish’d, as he spake in grave and solemn style— }

“Friends and relations! let us henceforth seem

Just as we are, nor of our virtues dream, 1030

That with our waking vanish.—What we are

Full well we know—t’ improve it be our care.

Forgive the trial I have made: ’tis one

That has no more than I expected done.

If as frail mortals you, my Friends, appear,

I look’d for no angelic beings here,

For none that riches spurn’d as idle pelf,

Or served another as he served himself.

Deceived no longer, let us all forgive;

I’m old, but yet a tedious time may live. 1040

This dark complexion India’s suns bestow,

These shrivell’d looks to years of care I owe;

But no disease ensures my early doom—

And I may live—forgive me—years to come.

But, while I live, there may some good be done,

Perchance to many, but at least to One.”—

Here he arose, retired, return’d, and brought

The Orphan boy, whom he had train’d and taught

For this his purpose; and the happy boy,

Though bade to hide, could ill suppress, his joy.— 1050

“This young relation, with your leave, I take,

That he his progress in the world may make—

Not in my house a slave or spy to be,

And first to flatter, then to govern me;—

He shall not nurse me when my senses sleep,

Nor shall the key of all my secrets keep,

And be so useful that a dread to part

Shall make him master of my easy heart;—

But to be placed where merit may be proved,

And all that now impedes his way removed. 1060

“And now no more on these affairs I dwell; }

What I possess that I alone can tell, }

And to that subject we will bid farewell. }

As go I must, when Heaven is pleased to call,

What I shall leave will seem or large or small,

As you shall view it. When this pulse is still,

You may behold my wealth, and read my will.

“And now, as Captain Elliot much has known,

That to your Uncle never had been shown,

From him one word of honest counsel hear— 1070

And think it always gain to be sincere.”

TALE III.
THE EQUAL MARRIAGE.

There are gay nymphs whom serious matrons blame,

And men adventurous treat as lawful game—

Misses, who strive, with deep and practised arts,

To gain and torture inexperienced hearts.

The hearts entangled they in pride retain,

And at their pleasure make them feel their chain;

For this they learn to manage air and face,

To look a virtue, and to act a grace,

To be whatever men with warmth pursue— }

Chaste, gay, retiring, tender, timid, true, 10}

To-day approaching near, to-morrow just in view. }

Maria Glossip was a thing like this—

A much observing, much experienced Miss;

Who on a stranger-youth would first decide

Th’ important question—“Shall I be his bride?”

But, if unworthy of a lot so bless’d,

’Twas something yet to rob the man of rest;

The heart, when stricken, she with hope could feed,

Could court pursuit, and, when pursued, recede.

Hearts she had won, and with delusion fed, 20

With doubt bewilder’d, and with hope misled;

Mothers and rivals she had made afraid,

And wrung the breast of many a jealous maid;

Friendship, the snare of lovers, she profess’d,

And turn’d the heart’s best feelings to a jest.

Yet seem’d the Nymph as gentle as a dove,

Like one all guiltless of the game of love—

Whose guileless innocence might well be gay; }

Who had no selfish secrets to betray; }

Sure, if she play’d, she knew not how to play. 30}

Oh! she had looks so placid and demure,

Not Eve, ere fallen, seem’d more meek or pure;

And yet the Tempter of the falling Eve

Could not with deeper subtilty deceive.

A Sailor’s heart the Lady’s kindness moved,

And winning looks, to say how well he loved;

Then left her hopeful for the stormy main,

Assured of love when he return’d again.

Alas! the gay Lieutenant reach’d the shore,

To be rejected, and was gay no more; 40

Wine and strong drink the bosom’s pain suppress’d,

Till Death procured, what Love denied him—rest.

But men of more experience learn to treat

These fair enslavers with their own deceit.

Finch was a younger brother’s youngest son,

Who pleased an Uncle with his song and gun;

Who call’d him ‘Bob,’ and ‘Captain,’ by that name

Anticipating future rank and fame;

Not but there was for this some fair pretence—

He was a cornet in the Home Defence. 50

The Youth was ever drest in dapper style,

Wore spotless linen, and a ceaseless smile;

His step was measured, and his air was nice—

They bought him high, who had him at the price

That his own judgment and becoming pride,

And all the merit he assumed, implied.

A life he loved of liberty and ease,

And all his pleasant labour was to please;

Not call’d at present hostile men to slay,

He made the hearts of gentle dames his prey. 60

Hence tales arose, and one of sad report:

A fond, fair girl became his folly’s sport—

A cottage lass, who “knew the youth would prove

For ever true, and give her love for love;

Sure when he could, and that would soon be known,

He would be proud to show her as his own.”

But still she felt the village damsels’ sneer,

And her sad soul was fill’d with secret fear;

His love excepted, earth was all a void,

And he, the excepted man, her peace destroy’d. 70

When the poor Jane was buried, we could hear

The threat of rustics whisper’d round her bier.

Stories like this were told, but yet, in time

Fair ladies lost their horror at the crime.

They knew that cottage girls were forward things,

Who never heed a nettle till it stings;

Then, too, the Captain had his fault confess’d,

And scorn’d to turn a murder to a jest.

Away with murder!—This accomplish’d swain

Beheld Maria, and confess’d her reign— 80

She came, invited by the rector’s wife,

Who “never saw such sweetness in her life.”

Now, as the rector was the Uncle’s friend,

It pleased the Nephew there his steps to bend,

Where the fair damsel then her visit paid,

And seem’d an unassuming rustic maid.

A face so fair, a look so meek, he found

Had pierced that heart no other nymph could wound.

“Oh, sweet Maria”—so began the Youth

His meditations—“thine the simple truth! 90

Thou hast no wicked wisdom of thy sex,

No wish to gain a subject-heart—then vex.

That heavenly bosom no proud passion swells;

No serpent’s wisdom with thy meekness dwells.

Oh! could I bind thee to my heart, and live

In love with thee, on what our fortunes give!

Far from the busy world, in some dear spot,

Where Love reigns king, we’d find some peaceful cot.

To wed, indeed, no prudent man would choose;

But such a maid will lighter bonds refuse!” 100

And was this youth a rake?—In very truth;

Yet, feeling love, he felt it as a youth;

If he had vices, they were laid aside;

He quite forgot the simple girl who died;

With dear Maria he in peace would live,

And what had pass’d—Maria would forgive.

The fair Coquette at first was pleased to find

A swain so knowing had become so blind;

And she determined, with her utmost skill,

To bind the rebel to her sovereign will. 110

She heard the story of the old deceit,

And now resolved he should with justice meet;—

“Soon as she saw him on her hook secure,

He should the pangs of perjured man endure.”

These her first thoughts—but as, from time to time,

The Lover came, she dwelt not on his crime—

“Crime could she call it? prudes, indeed, condemn

These slips of youth—but she was not of them.”

So gentler thoughts arose as, day by day,

The Captain came his passion to display. 120

When he display’d his passion, and she felt,

Not without fear, her heart begin to melt—

Joy came with terror at a state so new;

Glad of his truth; if he indeed were true!

This she decided as the heart decides,

Resolved to be the happiest of brides.

“Not great my fortune—hence,” said she, “’tis plain,

Me, and not mine, dear Youth! he hopes to gain;

Nor has he much; but, as he sweetly talks,

We from our cot shall have delightful walks, 130

Love, lord within it! I shall smile to see

My little cherubs on the father’s knee.”

Then sigh’d the nymph, and in her fancied lot,

She all the mischiefs of the past forgot.

Such were their tender meditations; thus

Would they the visions of the day discuss:

Each, too, the old sad habits would no more

Indulge; both dare be virtuous and be poor.

They both had past the year when law allows

Free-will to lover who would fain be spouse: 140

Yet the good youth his Uncle’s sanction sought—

“Marry her, Bob! and are you really caught?

Then you’ve exchanged, I warrant, heart for heart—

’Tis well! I meant to warn her of your art;

This Parson’s Babe has made you quite a fool—

But are you sure your ardour will not cool?

Have you not habits, Boy? but take your chance!

How will you live? I cannot much advance.

But hear you not what through the village flies

That this your dove is famed for her disguise? 150

Yet, say they not, she leads a gayish life?

Art sure she’ll show the virtues of a wife?”—

“Oh, Sir, she’s all that mortal man can love!”—

“Then marry, Bob! and that the fact will prove—

Yet, in a kind of lightness, folk agree.”— }

“Lightness in her! indeed, it cannot be— }

’Tis Innocence alone that makes her manners free.”— }

“Well, my good friend! then Innocence alone

Is to a something like Flirtation prone;

And I advise—but let me not offend— 160

That Prudence should on Innocence attend,

Lest some her sportive purity mistake,

And term your angel more than half a rake.”

The Nymph, now sure, could not entirely curb

The native wish her lover to disturb.

Oft he observed her, and could ill endure

The gentle coquetry of maid so pure:

Men he beheld press round her, and the Fair

Caught every sigh, and smiled at every prayer;

And grieved he was with jealous pains to see 170

The effects of all her wit and pleasantry.

“Yet why alarm’d?”—he said; “with so much sense,

She has no freedom, dashing, or pretence:

’Tis her gay mind, and I should feel a pride

In her chaste levities”—he said, and sigh’d.

Yet, when apart from company, he chose

To talk a little of his bosom’s woes—

But one sweet smile, and one soft speech, suppress’d

All pain, and set his feeling heart at rest.

Nay, in return, she felt, or feign’d, a fear: 180

“He was too lively to be quite sincere—

She knew a certain lady, and could name }

A certain time”—So, even was the blame, }

And thus the loving pair more deep in love became. }

They married soon—for why delay the thing }

That such amazing happiness would bring?— }

Now of that blissful state, O Muse of Hymen! sing. }

Love dies all kinds of death: in some so quick

It comes—he is not previously sick;

But ere the sun has on the couple shed 190

The morning rays, the smile of Love is fled.

And what the cause? for Love should not expire,

And none the reason of such fate require.

Both had a mask, that with such pains they wore;

Each took it off when it avail’d no more.

They had no feeling of each other’s pain;

To wear it longer had been crime in vain.

As in some pleasant eve we view the scene,

Though cool yet calm, if joyless yet serene—

Who has not felt a quiet still delight 200

In the clear, silent, love-befriending night?

The moon so sweetly bright, so softly fair,

That all but happy lovers would be there—

Thinking there must be in her still domain

Something that soothes the sting of mortal pain;

While earth itself is dress’d in light so clear,

That they might rest contented to be here!

Such is the night; but, when the morn awakes,

The storm arises, and the forest shakes;

This mighty change the grieving travellers find, 210

The freezing snows fast drifting in the wind;

Firs deeply laden shake the snowy top,

Streams slowly freezing, fretting till they stop;

And void of stars the angry clouds look down

On the cold earth, exchanging frown with frown.

Such seem’d, at first, the cottage of our pair—

Fix’d in their fondness, in their prospects fair;

Youth, health, affection, all that life supplies,

Bright as the stars that gild the cloudless skies—

Were theirs—or seem’d to be; but soon the scene 220

Was black as if its light had never been.

Weary full soon, and restless then, they grew; }

Then off the painful mask of prudence threw; }

For Time has told them all, and taught them what to rue. }

They long again to tread the former round

Of dissipation—“Why should he be bound,

While his sweet inmate of the cottage sighs

For adulation, rout, and rhapsodies?

Not Love himself, did love exist, could lead

A heart like hers, that flutter’d to be freed.” 230

But Love, or what seem’d like him, quickly died;

Nor Prudence, nor Esteem, his place supplied.

Disguise thrown off, each reads the other’s heart,

And feels with horror that they cannot part.

Still they can speak—and ’tis some comfort still,

That each can vex the other when they will:

Words half in jest to words in earnest led, }

And these the earnest angry passions fed, }

Till all was fierce reproach, and peace for ever fled. }

“And so you own it! own it to my face, 240

Your love is vanish’d—infamous and base!”—

“Madam, I loved you truly, while I deem’d

You were the truthful being that you seem’d;

But, when I see your native temper rise

Above control, and break through all disguise,

Casting it off, as serpents do their skin, }

And showing all the folds of vice within— }

What see I then to love? was I in love with Sin?”— }

“So may I think, and you may feel it too;

A loving couple, Sir, were Sin and you! 250

Whence all this anger? is it that you find

You cannot always make a woman blind?

You talk of falsehood and disguise—talk on!

But all my trust and confidence are gone;

Remember you, with what a serious air

You talk’d of love, as if you were at prayer?

You spoke of home-born comforts, quiet, ease,

And the pure pleasure, that must always please,

With an assumed and sentimental air,

Smiting your breast, and acting like a player. 260

Then your life’s comfort! and your holy joys!

Holy, forsooth! and your sweet girls and boys,

How you would train them!—All this farce review,

And then, Sir, talk of being just and true!”—

“Madam! your sex expects that ours should lie.

The simple creatures know it, and comply—

You hate the truth; there’s nothing you despise

Like a plain man, who spurns your vanities.

Are you not early taught your prey to catch?

When your mammas pronounce—‘A proper match!’ 270

What said your own?—‘Do, daughter! curb your tongue,

And you may win him, for the man is young;

But if he views you as ourselves, good-by

To speculation!—He will never try.’

“Then is the mask assumed, and then you bait

Your hook with kindness! and as anglers wait,

Now here, now there, with keen and eager glance,

Marking your victims as the shoals advance;

When, if the gaping wretch should make a snap,

You jerk him up, and have him in your trap: 280

Who gasping, panting, in your presence lies,

And you exulting view the imprison’d prize.

“Such are your arts! while he did but intend

In harmless play an idle hour to spend,

Lightly to talk of love! your fix’d intent }

Is on to lure him, where he never meant }

To go, but, going, must his speed repent. }

If he of Cupid speaks, you watch your man,

And make a change for Hymen, if you can;

Thus he, ingenuous, easy, fond, and weak, 290

Speaks the rash words he has been led to speak;

Puts the dire question that he meant to shun,

And by a moment’s frenzy is undone.”—

“Well!” said the Wife, “admit this nonsense true—

A mighty prize she gains in catching you!

For my part, Sir, I most sincerely wish

My landing-net had miss’d my precious fish!”—

“Would that it had! or I had wisely lent

An ear to those who said I should repent.”—

“Hold, Sir! at least my reputation spare, 300

And add another falsehood if you dare.”—

“Your reputation, Madam!—rest secure:

That will all scandal and reproach endure,

And be the same in worth; it is like him

Who floats, but finds he cannot sink or swim;

Half raised above the storm, half sunk below,

It just exists, and that is all we know.

Such the good name that you so much regard,

And yet to keep afloat find somewhat hard.

Nay, no reply! in future I decline 310

Dispute, and take my way.”—

“And I, Sir, mine.”

Oh! happy, happy, happy pair! both sought,

Both seeking—catching both [—], and caught!

TALE IV.
RACHEL.

It chanced we walk’d upon the heath, and met

A wandering woman; her thin clothing wet

With morning fog; the little care she took

Of things like these was written in her look.

Not pain from pinching cold was in her face,

But hurrying grief, that knows no resting place—

Appearing ever as on business sent,

The wandering victim of a fix’d intent;

Yet in her fancied consequence and speed,

Impell’d to beg assistance for her need. 10

When she beheld my friend and me, with eye

And pleading hand she sought our charity;

More to engage our friendly thoughts the while,

She threw upon her miseries a smile,

That, like a varnish on a picture laid,

More prominent and bold the figures made;

Yet was there sign of joy that we complied,

The moment’s wish indulged and gratified.

“Where art thou wandering, Rachel? whither stray,

From thy poor heath in such unwholesome day?” 20

Ask’d my kind friend, who had familiar grown

With Rachel’s grief, and oft compassion shown;

Oft to her hovel had in winter sent

The means of comfort—oft with comforts went.

Him well she knew, and with requests pursued,

Though too much lost and spent for gratitude.

“Where art thou wandering, Rachel? let me hear?”—

“The fleet! the fleet!” she answer’d, “will appear

Within the bay, and I shall surely know

The news to-night!—turn tide, and breezes blow! 30

For if I lose my time, I must remain

Till the next year before they come again!”

“What can they tell thee, Rachel?”—

“Should I say,

I must repent me to my dying day.

Then I should lose the pension that they give;

For who would trust their secrets to a sieve?

I must be gone!”—And with her wild, but keen

And crafty look, that would appear to mean,

She hurried on; but turn’d again to say,

“All will be known; they anchor in the bay; 40

Adieu! be secret!—sailors have no home;

Blow wind, turn tide!—Be sure the fleet will come.”

Grown wilder still, the frantic creature strode

With hurried feet upon the flinty road.

On her departing form I gazed with pain—

“And should you not,” I cried, “her ways restrain?

What hopes the wild deluded wretch to meet?

And means she aught by this expected fleet?

Knows she her purpose? has she hope to see

Some friend to aid her in her poverty? 50

Why leave her thus bewilder’d to pursue

The fancy’s good, that never comes in view?”—

“Nay! she is harmless, and, if more confined,

Would more distress in the coercion find.

Save at the times when to the coast she flies,

She rests, nor shows her mind’s obliquities;

But ever talks she of the sea, and shows

Her sympathy with every wind that blows.

We think it, therefore, useless to restrain

A creature of whose conduct none complain; 60

Whose age and looks protect her—should they fail,

Her craft and wild demeanour will prevail.

A soldier once attack’d her on her way—

She spared him not, but bade him kneel and pray—

Praying herself aloud—th’ astonish’d man

Was so confounded, that away he ran.

“Her sailor left her, with, perhaps, intent

To make her his—’tis doubtful what he meant:

But he was captured, and the life he led

Drove all such young engagements from his head. 70

On him she ever thought, and none beside,

Seeking her love, were favour’d or denied;

On her dear David she had fix’d her view,

And fancy judged him ever fond and true.

Nay, young and handsome—Time could not destroy—

No—he was still the same—her gallant boy!

Labour had made her coarse, and her attire

Show’d that she wanted no one to admire;

None to commend her; but she could conceive

The same of him, as when he took his leave, 80

And gaily told what riches he would bring,

And grace her hand with the symbolic ring.

“With want and labour was her mind subdued;

She lived in sorrow and in solitude.

Religious neighbours, kindly calling, found

Her thoughts unsettled, anxious, and unsound;

Low, superstitious, querulous, and weak,

She sought for rest, but knew not how to seek;

And their instructions, though in kindness meant

Were far from yielding the desired content. 90

They hoped to give her notions of their own,

And talk’d of ‘feelings’ she had never known;

They ask’d of her ‘experience,’ and they bred

In her weak mind a melancholy dread

Of something wanting in her faith, of some—

She knew not what—‘acceptance,’ that should come;

And, as it came not, she was much afraid

That she in vain had served her God and pray’d.

“She thought her Lover dead. In prayer she named

The erring Youth, and hoped he was reclaim’d. 100

This she confess’d; and trembling, heard them say,

‘Her prayers were sinful—So the papists pray.

Her David’s fate had been decided long,

And prayers and wishes for his state were wrong.’

“Had these her guides united love and skill,

They might have ruled and rectified her will;

But they perceived not the bewilder’d mind,

And show’d her paths that she could never find.

The weakness that was Nature’s, they reproved,

And all its comforts from the Heart removed. 110

“Ev’n in this state, she loved the winds that sweep

O’er the wild heath, and curl the restless deep;

A turf-built hut beneath a hill she chose,

And oft at night in winter storms arose,

Hearing, or dreaming, the distracted cry

Of drowning seamen on the breakers by;

For there were rocks, that when the tides were low

Appear’d, and vanish’d when the waters flow;

And there she stood, all patient to behold

Some seaman’s body on the billows roll’d. 120

“One calm, cold evening, when the moon was high,

And rode sublime within the cloudless sky,

She sat within her hut, nor seem’d to feel

Or cold or want, but turn’d her idle wheel,

And with sad song its melancholy tone

Mix’d, all unconscious that she dwelt alone.

“But none will harm her—Or who, willing can?

She is too wretched to have fear of man—

Not man! but something—if it should appear,

That once was man—that something did she fear. 130

“No causeless terror!—In that moon’s clear light

It came, and seem’d a parley to invite;

It was no hollow voice—no brushing by

Of a strange being, who escapes the eye—

No cold or thrilling touch, that will but last

While we can think, and then for ever past.

But this sad face—though not the same she knew,

Enough the same to prove the vision true—

Look’d full upon her!—starting in affright

She fled, her wildness doubling at the sight; 140

With shrieks of terror, and emotion strong,

She pass’d it by, and madly rush’d along

To the bare rocks—While David, who, that day,

Had left his ship at anchor in the bay,

Had seen his friends who yet survived, and heard

Of her who loved him—and who thus appear’d—

He tried to soothe her, but retired afraid

T’ approach, and left her to return for aid.

“None came! and Rachel in the morn was found }

Turning her wheel, without its spindles, round, 150}

With household look of care, low singing to the sound. }

“Since that event, she is what you have seen;

But time and habit make her more serene,

The edge of anguish blunted—yet, it seems,

Sea, ships, and sailors’ miseries are her dreams.”

TALE V.
VILLARS.

Poet. Know you the fate of Villars?—

Friend. What! the lad

At school so fond of solitude, and sad;

Who broke our bounds because he scorn’d a guide,

And would walk lonely by the river’s side?—

P. The same!—who rose at midnight to behold

The moonbeams shedding their ethereal gold;

Who held our sports and pleasures in disgrace,

For Guy of Warwick, and old Chevy Chase.—

F. Who sought for friendships, gave his generous heart

To every boy who chose to act the part, 10

Or judged he felt it—not aware that boys

Have poor conceit of intellectual joys.

Theirs is no season for superfluous friends,

And none they need—but those whom Nature lends.—

P. But he, too, loved?—

F. Oh, yes! his friend betray’d

The tender passion for the angel-maid.

Some child, whose features he at church had seen,

Became his bosom’s and his fancy’s queen;

Some favourite look was on his mind impress’d—

His warm and fruitful fondness gave the rest.— 20

P. He left his father?—

F. Yes! and rambled round

The land on foot—I know not what he found.

Early he came to his paternal land,

And took the course he had in rambling plann’d.

Ten years we lost him: he was then employ’d

In the wild schemes that he, perhaps, enjoy’d.

His mode of life, when he to manhood grew,

Was all his own—its shape disclosed to few.

Our grave, stern dames, who know the deeds of all,

Say that some damsels owe to him their fall; 30

And, though a Christian in his creed profess’d,

He had some heathen notions in his breast.

Yet we may doubt; for women, in his eyes,

Were high and glorious, queens and deities;

But he, perhaps, adorer and yet man,

Transgress’d, yet worshipp’d. There are those who can.

Near him a Widow’s mansion he survey’d—

The lovely mother of a lovelier Maid;

Not great their wealth, though they were proud to claim

Alliance with a house of noblest name. 40

Now, had I skill, I would right fain devise

To bring the highborn spinster to your eyes.

I could discourse of lip, and chin, and cheek;

But you would see no picture as I speak.

Such colours cannot—mix them as I may—

Paint you this nymph—We’ll try a different way.

First take Calista in her glowing charms,

Ere yet she sank within Lothario’s arms—

Endued with beauties ripe, and large desires,

And all that feels delight, and that inspires. 50

Add Cleopatra’s great, yet tender, soul,

Her boundless pride, her fondness of control,

Her daring spirit, and her wily art,

That, though it tortures, yet commands the heart;

Add woman’s anger for a lover’s slight,

And the revenge, that insult will excite;

Add looks for veils, that she at will could wear,

As Juliet fond, as Imogen sincere—

Like Portia grave, sententious, and design’d

For high affairs, or gay as Rosalind— 60

Catch, if you can, some notion of the dame,

And let Matilda serve her for a name.

Think next how Villars saw th’ enchanting maid,

And how he loved, pursued, adored, obey’d—

Obey’d in all, except the dire command,

No more to dream of that bewitching hand.

His love provoked her scorn, his wealth she spurn’d,

And frowns for praise, contempt for prayer return’d;

But, proud yet shrewd, the wily sex despise

The would-be husband—yet the votary prize. 70

As Roman conquerors, of their triumph vain,

Saw humbled monarchs in their pompous train,

Who, when no more they swell’d the show of pride,

In secret sorrow’d, or in silence died:

So, when our friend adored the Beauty’s shrine,

She mark’d the act, and gave the nod divine;

And strove with scatter’d smiles, yet scarcely strove,

To keep the lover, while she scorn’d his love.

These, and his hope, the doubtful man sustain’d;

For who that loves believes himself disdain’d?— 80

Each look, each motion, by his fondness read,

Became Love’s food, and greater fondness bred;

The pettiest favour was to him the sign,

Of secret love, and said, “I’ll yet be thine!”

One doleful year she held the captive swain,

Who felt and cursed, and wore and bless’d, the chain;

Who pass’d a thousand galling insults by,

For one kind glance of that ambiguous eye.

P. Well! time, perhaps, might to the coldest heart

Some gentle thought of one so fond impart; 90

And pride itself has often favour shown

To what it governs, and can call its own.

F. Thus were they placed, when to the village came

That lordly stranger, whom I need not name;

Known since too well, but then as rich and young,

Untried his prowess, and his crimes unsung.

Smooth was his speech, and show’d a gentle mind, }

Deaf to his praise, and to his merits blind, }

But raised by woman’s smile, and pleased with all mankind. }

At humble distance he this fair survey’d, 100

Read her high temper, yet adored the Maid;

Far off he gazed, as if afraid to meet,

Or show the hope her anger would defeat.

Awful his love, and kept a guarded way,

Afraid to venture, till it finds it may.

And soon it found! nor could the Lady’s pride

Her triumph bury, or her pleasure hide.

And jealous Love, that ever looks to spy

The dreaded wandering of a lady’s eye,

Perceived with anguish, that the prize long sought 110

A sudden rival from his hopes had caught.

Still Villars loved; at length, in strong despair,

O’er-tortured passion thus preferr’d its prayer:—

“Life of my life! at once my fate decree—

I wait my death, or more than life, from thee.

I have no arts, nor powers, thy soul to move,

But doting constancy, and boundless love;

This is my all: had I the world to give,

Thine were its throne—now bid me die or live!”

“Or die or live”—the gentle Lady cried— 120

“As suits thee best; that point thyself decide!

But, if to death thou hast thyself decreed,

Then like a man perform the manly deed;

The well-charged pistol to the ear apply,

Make loud report, and like a hero die!

Let rogues and rats on ropes and poison seize—

Shame not thy friends by petty death like these;

Sure we must grieve at what thou think’st to do,

But spare us blushes for the manner too!”

Then with inviting smiles she turn’d aside, 130

Allay’d his anger, and consoled his pride.

Oft had the fickle fair beheld with scorn

The unhappy man bewilder’d and forlorn;

Then with one softening glance of those bright eyes

Restored his spirit, and dispersed his sighs.

Oft had I seen him on the lea below,

As feelings moved him, walking quick or slow:

Now a glad thought, and now a doleful came,

And he adored or cursed the changeful dame,

Who was to him as cause is to effect— 140

Poor tool of pride, perverseness, and neglect!

Upon thy rival were her thoughts bestow’d;

Ambitious love within her bosom glow’d;

And oft she wish’d, and strong was her desire,

The Lord could love her like the faithful Squire.

But she was rivall’d in that noble breast—

He loved her passing well, but not the best;

For self reign’d there; but still he call’d her fair,

And woo’d the Muse, his passion to declare.

His verses all were flaming, all were fine, 150

With sweetness, nay with sense, in every line—

Not as Lord Byron would have done the thing,

But better far than lords are used to sing.

It pleased the Maid, and she, in very truth,

Loved, in Calista’s love, the noble youth;

Not, like sweet Juliet, with that pure delight,

Fond and yet chaste, enraptur’d and yet right;

Not like the tender Imogen, confined

To one, but one! the true, the wedded mind;

True, one preferr’d our sighing nymph as these, 160

But thought not, like them, one alone could please.

Time pass’d, nor yet the youthful peer proposed

To end his suit, nor his had Villars closed;

Fond hints the one, the other cruel, bore;

That was more cautious, this was kind the more:

Both for soft moments waited—that, to take

Of these advantage; fairly, this, to make.

These moments came—or so my Lord believed—

He dropp’d his mask; and both were undeceived.

She saw the vice that would no longer feign, 170

And he an angry beauty’s pure disdain.

Villars that night had in my ear confess’d,

He thought himself her spaniel and her jest.

He saw his rival of his goddess sure;

“But then,” he cried, “her virtue is secure.

Should he offend, I haply may obtain

The high reward of vigilance and pain;

Till then I take, and on my bended knee,

Scraps from the banquet, gleanings of the tree.”

Pitying, I smiled; for I had known the time 180

Of Love insulted—constancy my crime.

Not thus our friend: for him the morning shone

In tenfold glory, as for him alone;

He wept, expecting still reproof to meet,

And all that was not cruel count as sweet.

Back he return’d, all eagerness and joy;

Proud as a prince, and restless as a boy.

He sought to speak, but could not aptly find

Words for his use, they enter’d not his mind;

So full of bliss, that wonder and delight 190

Seem’d in those happy moments to unite.

He was like one who gains, but dreads to lose,

A prize that seems to vanish as he views;

And in his look was wildness and alarm—

Like a sad conjuror, who forgets his charm

And, when the demon at the call appears,

Cannot command the spirit for his fears:

So Villars seem’d by his own bliss perplex’d,

And scarcely knowing what would happen next.

But soon, a witness to their vows, I saw 200

The maiden his, if not by love, by law;

The bells proclaim’d it—merry call’d by those

Who have no foresight of their neighbours’ woes.

How proudly show’d the man his lovely bride,

Demurely pacing, pondering, at his side!

While all the loving maids around declared,

That faith and constancy deserved reward!

The baffled Lord retreated from the scene

Of so much gladness, with a world of spleen;

And left the wedded couple, to protest, 210}

That he no fear, that she no love, possess’d; }

That all his vows were scorn’d, and all his hope a jest. }

Then fell the oaks, to let in light of day;

Then rose the mansion that we now survey;

Then all the world flock’d gaily to the scene

Of so much splendour, and its splendid queen.

But, whether all within the gentle breast

Of him, of her, was happy or at rest;

Whether no lonely sigh confess’d regret—

Was then unknown, and is a secret yet; 220

And we may think, in common duty bound,

That no complaint is made where none is found.

Then came the Rival to his villa down,

Lost to the pleasures of the heartless town;

Famous he grew, and he invited all

Whom he had known to banquet at the Hall;

Talk’d of his love, and said, with many a sigh,

“’Tis death to lose her, and I wish to die.”

Twice met the parties; but with cool disdain

In her, in him with looks of awe and pain. 230

Villars had pity, and conceived it hard

That true regret should meet with no regard—

“Smile, my Matilda! virtue should inflict

No needless pain, nor be so sternly strict.”

The Hall was furnish’d in superior style,

And money wanted from our sister isle;

The lady-mother to the husband sued—

“Alas! that care should on our bliss intrude!

You must to Ireland; our possessions there

Require your presence, nay, demand your care. 240

My pensive daughter begs with you to sail;

But spare your wife, nor let the wish prevail!”

He went, and found upon his Irish land

Cases and griefs he could not understand.

Some glimmering light at first his prospect cheer’d—

Clear it was not, but would in time be clear’d;

But, when his lawyers had their efforts made,

No mind in man the darkness could pervade;

’Twas palpably obscure: week after week

He sought for comfort, but was still to seek. 250

At length, impatient to return, he strove

No more with law, but gave the rein to love;

And to his Lady and their native shore

Vow’d to return, and thence to turn no more.

While yet on Irish ground in trouble kept,

The Husband’s terrors in his toils had slept;

But he no sooner touch’d the British soil,

Than jealous terrors took the place of toil—

Where has she been? and how attended? Who

Has watch’d her conduct, and will vouch her true? 260

She sigh’d at parting; but methought her sighs

Were more profound than would from nature rise;

And, though she wept as never wife before,

Yet were her eyelids neither swell’d nor sore.

Her lady-mother has a good repute

As watchful dragon of forbidden fruit;

Yet dragons sleep, and mothers have been known

To guard a daughter’s secret as their own;

Nor can the absent in their travel see

How a fond wife and mother may agree. 270

“Suppose the lady is most virtuous!—then,

What can she know of the deceits of men?

Of all they plan she neither thinks nor cares,

But keeps, good lady! at her books and prayers.

“In all her letters there are love, respect, }

Esteem, regret, affection, all correct— }

Too much—she fears that I should see neglect; }

And there are fond expressions, but unlike

The rest, as meant to be observed and strike;

Like quoted words, they have the show of art, 280

And come not freely from the gentle heart—

Adopted words, and brought from memory’s store,

When the chill faltering heart supplies no more:

’Tis so the hypocrite pretends to feel,

And speaks the words of earnestness and zeal,

“Hers was a sudden, though a sweet consent;

May she not now as suddenly repent?

My rival’s vices drove him from her door;

But hates she vice as truly as before?

How do I know, if he should plead again, 290

That all her scorn and anger would remain?

“Oh, words of folly!—is it thus I deem

Of the chaste object of my fond esteem?

Away with doubt! to jealousy adieu!

I know her fondness, and believe her true.—

“Yet why that haste to furnish every need,

And send me forth with comfort, and with speed?

Yes; for she dreaded that the winter’s rage

And our frail hoy should on the seas engage.

“But that vile girl! I saw a treacherous eye 300

Glance on her mistress! so demure and sly,

So forward too—and would Matilda’s pride

Admit of that, if there was nought beside?”

Such, as he told me, were the doubt, the dread,

By jealous fears on observations fed.

Home he proceeded: there remain’d to him

But a few miles—the night was wet and dim;

Thick, heavy dews descended on the ground,

And all was sad and melancholy round.

While thinking thus, an inn’s far gleaming fire 310

Caused new emotions in the pensive Squire:

Here I may learn, and seeming careless too,

If all is well, ere I my way pursue.—

How fare you, landlord?—how, my friend, are all—

Have you not seen—my people at the Hall?

Well, I may judge?——”

“Oh! yes, your Honour, well,

As Joseph knows; and he was sent to tell.”—

“How? sent?—I miss’d him—Joseph, do you say?

Why sent, if well?—I miss’d him on the way.”

There was a poacher on the chimney-seat, 320

A gipsy, conjuror, smuggler, stroller, cheat.

The Squire had fined him for a captured hare,

Whipp’d and imprison’d—he had felt the fare,

And he remember’d: “Will your Honour know

How does my Lady? that myself can show.

On Monday early—for your Honour sees

The poor man must not slumber at his ease,

Nor must he into woods and coverts lurk,

Nor work alone, but must be seen to work:

’Tis not, your Honour knows, sufficient now 330

For us to live, but we must prove it—how.

Stay, please your Honour—I was early up,

And forth without a morsel or a sup.

There was my Lady’s carriage—Whew! it drove

As if the horses had been spurr’d by Love.”

“A poet, John!” said Villars—feebly said,

Confused with fear, and humbled and dismay’d—

“And where this carriage?—but, my heart! enough—

Why do I listen to the villain’s stuff?—

And where wert thou? and what the spur of thine 340

That led thee forth?—we surely may divine!”

“Hunger, your Honour! I and my poor wife

Have now no other in our wane of life.

Were Phœbe handsome, and were I a Squire,

I might suspect her, and young Lords admire.”—

What, rascal!——”—“Nay, your Honour, on my word,

I should be jealous of that fine young Lord;

Yet him my Lady in the carriage took,

But innocent—I’d swear it on the book.”—

“You villain, swear!”—for still he wish’d to stay, 350

And hear what more the fellow had to say.—

“‘Phœbe,’ said I, ‘a rogue that had a heart

To do the deed would make his Honour smart.’—

Says Phœbe, wisely, ‘Think you, would he go,

If he were jealous, from my Lady?—No.’”

This was too much! poor Villars left the inn,

To end the grief that did but then begin.

“With my Matilda in the coach!—what lies

Will the vile rascal in his spleen devise?

Yet this is true, that on some vile pretence 360

Men may entrap the purest innocence.

He saw my fears—alas! I am not free

From every doubt—but, no! it cannot be!”

Villars moved slow, moved quick, as check’d by fear

Or urged by Love, and drew his mansion near.

Light burst upon him, yet he fancied gloom,

Nor came a twinkling from Matilda’s room.—

What then? ’tis idle to expect that all

Should be produced at jealous fancy’s call;

How! the park-gate wide open! who would dare 370

Do this, if her presiding glance were there?

But yet, by chance—I know not what to think,

For thought is hell, and I’m upon the brink!

Not for a thousand worlds, ten thousand lives,

Would I——Oh! what depends upon our wives!

Pains, labours, terrors, all would I endure,

Yes, all but this—and this, could I be sure——”

Just then a light within the window shone,

And show’d a lady, weeping and alone.

His heart beat fondly—on another view, 380

It beat more strongly, and in terror too—

It was his Sister!—and there now appear’d

A servant, creeping like a man that fear’d.

He spoke with terror—“Sir, did Joseph tell?

Have you not met him?”—

“Is your Lady well?”

Well? Sir—your Honour——”

“Heaven and earth! what mean

Your stupid questions? I have nothing seen,

Nor heard, nor know, nor—Do, good Thomas, speak!

Your mistress——”

“Sir, has gone from home a week—

My Lady, Sir, your sister”—— But, too late 390

Was this—my Friend had yielded to his fate.

He heard the truth, became serene and mild,

Patient and still, as a corrected child;

At once his spirit with his fortune fell

To the last ebb, and whisper’d—‘It is well.’

Such was his fall; and grievous the effect! }

From henceforth all things fell into neglect— }

The mind no more alert, the form no more erect. }

Villars long since, as he indulged his spleen

By lonely travel on the coast, had seen 400

A large old mansion suffer’d to decay

In some law-strife, and slowly drop away.

Dark elms around the constant herons bred;

Those the marsh dykes, the neighbouring ocean, fed;

Rocks near the coast no shipping would allow,

And stubborn heath around forbad the plough;

Dull must the scene have been in years of old,

But now was wildly dismal to behold—

One level sadness! marsh, and heath, and sea,

And, save these high dark elms, nor plant nor tree. 410

In this bleak ruin Villars found a room,

Square, small, and lofty—seat of grief and gloom.

A sloping skylight on the white wall threw,

When the sun set, a melancholy hue;

The Hall of Vathek has a room so bare,

So small, so sad, so form’d to nourish care.

“Here,” said the Traveller, “all so dark within,

And dull without, a man might mourn for sin,

Or punish sinners—here a wanton wife

And vengeful husband might be cursed for life.” 420

His mind was now in just that wretched state

That deems Revenge our right, and crime our fate.

All other views he banish’d from his soul,

And let this tyrant vex him and control;

Life he despised, and had that Lord defied,

But that he long’d for Vengeance e’er he died.

The law he spurn’d, the combat he declined,

And to his purpose all his soul resign’d.

Full fifteen months had pass’d, and we began

To have some hope of the returning man; 430

Now to his steward of his small affairs

He wrote, and mention’d leases and repairs;

But yet his soul was on its scheme intent,

And but a moment to his interest lent.

His faithless wife and her triumphant peer

Despised his vengeance, and disdained to fear;

In splendid lodgings near the town they dwelt,

Nor fears from wrath, nor threats from conscience, felt.

Long time our friend had watch’d, and much had paid

For vulgar minds, who lent his vengeance aid. 440

At length one evening, late returning home,

Thoughtless and fearless of the ills to come,

The Wife was seized, when void of all alarm

And vainly trusting to a footman’s arm.

Death in his hand, the Husband stood in view,

Commanding silence, and obedience too;

Forced to his carriage, sinking at his side,

Madly he drove her—Vengeance was his guide.

All in that ruin Villars had prepared,

And meant her fate and sorrow to have shared; 450

There he design’d they should for ever dwell,

The weeping pair of a monastic cell.

An ancient couple from their cottage went,

Won by his pay, to this imprisonment;

And all was order’d in his mind—the pain

He must inflict, the shame she must sustain;

But such his gentle spirit, such his love,

The proof might fail of all he meant to prove.

Features so dear had still maintain’d their sway,

And looks so loved had taught him to obey; 460

Rage and Revenge had yielded to the sight

Of charms that waken wonder and delight;

The harsher passions from the heart had flown,

And Love regain’d his Subject and his Throne.