A poor old Man, foot-founder'd and alone,
Thus urgent spoke, in Trouble's genuine tone:
'My pretty Maid, if happiness you seek,
May disappointment never fade your cheek!—
Your's be the joy;—yet, feel another's woe;
O leave some little, gift before you go.'
His words struck home; and back she turn'd again,
(The ready friend of indigence and pain,)
To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame;
And close behind her, lo, the Miller, came,
With Jug in hand, and cried, 'GEORGE, why such haste?
Here, take a draught; and let that Soldier taste.'
'Thanks for your bounty, Sir,' the Veteran said;
Threw down his Wallet, and made bare his head;
And straight began, though mix'd with doubts and fears,
Th' unprefac'd History of his latter years,
'I cross'd th' Atlantic with our Regiment, brave,
Where Sickness sweeps whole Regiments to the grave;
The Surprise.
Yet I've escap'd; and bear my arms no more;
My age discharg'd me when I came on shore.
My Wife, I've heard,'—and here he wip'd his eyes,—-
'In the cold corner of the Church-yard lies.
By her consent it was I left my home:
Employment fail'd, and poverty waa come;
The Bounty tempted me;—she had it all:
We parted; and I've seen my betters fall.
Yet, as I'm spar'd, though in this piteous case,
I'm tray'ling homeward to my native place;
Though should I reach that dear remember'd spot,
Perhaps OLD GRAINGER will be quite forgot.'
All eyes beheld young George with wonder start:
Strong were the secret bodings of his heart;
Yet not indulg'd: for he with doubts survey'd
By turns the Stranger, and the lovely Maid.
'Had you no Children?'—'Yes, young Man; I'd two:
A Boy, if still he lives, as old as you:
The Discovery.
Yet not my own; but likely so to prove;
Though but the pledge of an unlawful Love:
I cherish'd him, to hide a Sister's shame:
He shar'd my best affections, and my name.
But why, young folks, should I detain you here?
Go; and may blessings wait upon your cheer:
I too will travel on;—perhaps to find
The only treasure that I left behind.
Such kindly thoughts my fainting hopes revive!—
Phoebe, my Cherub, ART thou still alive?'
Could Nature hold!—Could youthful Love forbear!
George clasp'd the wond'ring Maid, and whisper'd, 'There!
You're mine for, ever!—O, sustain the rest;
And hush the tumult of your throbbing breast.'
Then to the Soldier turn'd, with manly pride,
And fondly led his long-intended Bride:
'Here see your Child; nor wish a sweeter flow'r.
'Tis George that speaks; thou'lt bless the happy hour!—
The Bliss of disinterested Benevolence.
Nay, be compos'd; for all will yet be well,
Though here our history's too long to tell'—
A long-lost Father found, the mystery clear'd,
What mingled transports in her face appear'd!
The gazing Veteran stood with hands uprais'd—
'Art thou indeed my Child! then, God be prais'd.'
O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread:
Such as fools say become not Men to shed;
Past hours of bliss, regenerated charms,
Rose, when he felt his Daughter in his arms:
So tender was the scene, the generous Dame
Wept, as she told of Phoebe's virtuous fame,
And the good Host, with gestures passing strange,
Abstracted seem'd through fields of joy to range:
Rejoicing that his favour'd Roof should prove
Virtue's asylum, and the nurse of Love;
Rejoicing that to him the task was given,
his full Soul was mounting up to Heav'n.