His resolution failed; he slunk back, and, locking the gate as softly as he could, stood on tiptoe looking over the wall till they were gone. At that instant a shepherd blew his horn: the romantic melancholy of the sound quite overcame him!—it was the very note that wanted to be touched—he sighed! he dropped a tear!—and returned.
At supper his aunt observed that he was graver than usual; but she did not suspect the cause: indeed, it may seem odd that she was the only person in the family who had no suspicion of his attachment to Miss Walton. It was frequently matter of discourse amongst the servants: perhaps her maiden coldness—but for those things we need not account.
In a day or two he was so much master of himself as to be able to rhyme upon the subject. The following pastoral he left, some time after, on the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neighbouring house where we were visiting; and as I filled the tea-pot after him, I happened to put it in my pocket by a similar act of forgetfulness. It is such as might be expected from a man who makes verses for amusement. I am pleased with somewhat of good nature that runs through it, because I have commonly observed the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on their lost mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of choice, which led them to prefer another to the poet himself: I do not doubt the vehemence of their passion; but, alas! the sensations of love are something more than the returns of gratitude.
LAVINIA.
A Pastoral.
Why steals from my bosom the sigh?
Why fixed is my gaze on the ground?
Come, give me my pipe, and I’ll try
To banish my cares with the sound.Erewhile were its notes of accord
With the smile of the flow’r-footed Muse;
Ah! why by its master implored
Shou’d it now the gay carrol refuse?’Twas taught by Lavinia’s sweet smile,
In the mirth-loving chorus to join:
Ah, me! how unweeting the while!
Lavinia—can never be mine!Another, more happy, the maid
By fortune is destin’d to bless—
’Tho’ the hope has forsook that betray’d,
Yet why should I love her the less?Her beauties are bright as the morn,
With rapture I counted them o’er;
Such virtues these beauties adorn,
I knew her, and prais’d them no more.I term’d her no goddess of love,
I call’d not her beauty divine:
These far other passions may prove,
But they could not be figures of mine.It ne’er was apparel’d with art,
On words it could never rely;
It reign’d in the throb of my heart,
It gleam’d in the glance of my eye.Oh fool! in the circle to shine
That Fashion’s gay daughters approve,
You must speak as the fashions incline;
Alas! are there fashions in love?Yet sure they are simple who prize
The tongue that is smooth to deceive;
Yet sure she had sense to despise,
The tinsel that folly may weave.When I talk’d, I have seen her recline,
With an aspect so pensively sweet,—
Tho’ I spoke what the shepherds opine,
A fop were ashamed to repeat.She is soft as the dew-drops that fall
From the lip of the sweet-scented pea;
Perhaps when she smil’d upon all,
I have thought that she smil’d upon me.But why of her charms should I tell?
Ah me! whom her charms have undone
Yet I love the reflection too well,
The painful reflection to shun.Ye souls of more delicate kind,
Who feast not on pleasure alone,
Who wear the soft sense of the mind,
To the sons of the world still unknown.Ye know, tho’ I cannot express,
Why I foolishly doat on my pain;
Nor will ye believe it the less,
That I have not the skill to complain.I lean on my hand with a sigh,
My friends the soft sadness condemn;
Yet, methinks, tho’ I cannot tell why,
I should hate to be merry like them.When I walk’d in the pride of the dawn,
Methought all the region look’d bright:
Has sweetness forsaken the lawn?
For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.When I stood by the stream, I have thought
There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound;
But now ’tis a sorrowful note,
And the banks are all gloomy around!I have laugh’d at the jest of a friend;
Now they laugh, and I know not the cause,
Tho’ I seem with my looks to attend,
How silly! I ask what it was.They sing the sweet song of the May,
They sing it with mirth and with glee;
Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay,
But now ’tis all sadness to me.Oh! give me the dubious light
That gleams thro’ the quivering shade;
Oh! give me the horrors of night,
By gloom and by silence array’d!Let me walk where the soft-rising wave,
Has pictur’d the moon on its breast;
Let me walk where the new cover’d grave
Allows the pale lover to rest!When shall I in its peaceable womb,
Be laid with my sorrows asleep?
Should Lavinia but chance on my tomb—
I could die if I thought she would weep.Perhaps, if the souls of the just
Revisit these mansions of care,
It may be my favourite trust
To watch o’er the fate of the fair.Perhaps the soft thought of her breast,
With rapture more favour’d to warm;
Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress’d,
Her sorrow with patience to arm.Then, then, in the tenderest part
May I whisper, “Poor Colin was true,”
And mark if a heave of her heart
The thought of her Colin pursue.
THE PUPIL.
A FRAGMENT.
* * * “But as to the higher part of education, Mr. Harley, the culture of the mind—let the feelings be awakened, let the heart be brought forth to its object, placed in the light in which nature would have it stand, and its decisions will ever be just. The world
Will smile, and smile, and be a villain;
and the youth, who does not suspect its deceit, will be content to smile with it. Men will put on the most forbidding aspect in nature, and tell him of the beauty of virtue.
“I have not, under these grey hairs, forgotten that I was once a young man, warm in the pursuit of pleasure, but meaning to be honest as well as happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, which I had never been at the pains to define; but I felt my bosom heave at the thoughts of them, and I made the most delightful soliloquies. It is impossible, said I, that there can be half so many rogues as are imagined.
“I travelled, because it is the fashion for young men of my fortune to travel. I had a travelling tutor, which is the fashion too; but my tutor was a gentleman, which it is not always the fashion for tutors to be. His gentility, indeed, was all he had from his father, whose prodigality had not left him a shilling to support it.