A little taste, a little pomp display'd, By a dull man, who had retired from trade To enjoy his leisure-Here he came prepared To farm, nor cost in preparation spared; But many works he purchased, some he read, And often rose with projects in his head, Of crops in courses raised, of herds by match- ing bred.
We had just found these little humours out, Just saw he saw not-what he was about; Just met as neighbours, still disposed to meet, Just learn'd the current tales of Dowling- Street,
'Tis larger than the rest, and whence, indeed,
You might expect a lady to proceed; But oh! this creature, far as I could trace, Will soon be carried to another place. Fair, fragile thing! I said, when first my eye Caught hers, wilt thou expand thy wings and fly?
Or wilt thou vanish? beauteous spirit, stay!- For will it not (I question'd) melt away? No! it was mortal-I unseen was near, And saw the bosom's sigh, the standing tear! She thought profoundly, for I stay'd to look,
And were just thinking of our female friends, Saying-You know not what the man intends, A rich, kind, hearty-and it might be true Something he wish'd, but had not time to do; A cold ere yet the falling leaf! of small Effect till then, was fatal in the fall;- And of that house was his possession brief-Till pity pain'd me, and I rode away. Go; and guard well against the falling leaf. But hear me, Richard, looking to my case, Try if you can find something that will please; Faults if you see, and such as must abide, Say they are small, or say that I can hide; But faults that I can change, remove, or mend,
And first she read, then laid aside her book; Then on her hand reclined her lovely head, And seem'd unconscious of the tear she shed. Art thou so much, I said, to grief a prey?
These like a foe detect-or like a friend. Mark well the rooms, and their proportions learn,
In each some use, some elegance discern; Observe the garden, its productive wall, And find a something to commend in all; Then should you praise them in a knowing
Tell me, my Brother, is that sorrow dread For the great change that bears her to the dead?
Has she connexions? does she love?—I feel Pity and grief, wilt thou her woes reveal?
Chastised and meek! she sings them to They are not lasting, Richard, they are woes
If not, she reasons; if they still remain, She finds resource, that none shall find in vain, Whether disease first grew upon regret, Or nature gave it, is uncertain yet, And must remain; the frame was slightly made,
That grief assail'd, and all is now decay'd! But though so willing from the world to part, I must not call her case a broken heart; Nor dare I take upon me to maintain That hearts once broken never heal again.
She was an only daughter, one whose sire Loved not that girls to knowledge should aspire;
But he had sons, and Ellen quickly caught Whatever they were by their masters taught; This, when the father saw-It is the turn Of her strange mind, said he, but let her learn ;
'Tis almost pity with that shape and face— But is a fashion, and brings no disgrace; Women of old wrote verse, or for the stage Brought forth their works! they now are
reasoners sage, And with severe pursuits dare grapple and engage.
If such her mind, I shall in vain oppose, If not, her labours of themselves will close.
Ellen, 'twas found, had skill without pretence, And silenced envy by her meek good sense;
That Ellen learnt, her various knowledge proved;
Soft words and tender looks, that Ellen loved; For he who taught her brothers found in her A constant, ready, eager auditor; This he perceived, nor could his joy disguise, It tuned his voice, it sparkled in his eyes. Not very young, nor very handsome he, But very fit an Abelard to be;
His manner and his meekness hush'd alarm In all but Ellen-Ellen felt the charm; Hers was fond 'filial love,' she found delight To have her mind's dear father in her sight; But soon the borrow'd notion she resign'd! He was no father-even to the mind. But Ellen had her comforts-He will speak, She said, for he beholds me fond and weak; Fond, and he therefore may securely plead,- Weak, I have therefore of his firmness need; With whom my father will his Ellen trust, Because he knows him to be kind and just.
At last so high his apprehension rose, That he would both his love and labour close. While undisclosed my fear each instant grows,
And I lament the guilt that no one knows, Success undoes me, and the view that cheers All other men, all dark to me appears!' Thus as he thought, his Ellen at his side Her soothing softness to his grief applied; With like effect as water cast on flame, For he more heated and confused became, And broke in sorrow from the wondering maid,
Who was at once offended and afraid; Yet Do not go!' she cried, and was awhile obey'd.
Art thou then ill, dear friend? she ask'd, and took
His passive hand-How very pale thy look! And thou art cold, and tremblest-pray thee tell
Thy friend, thy Ellen, is her master well? And let her with her loving care attend To all that vexes and disturbs her friend.- Nay, my dear lady! we have all our cares, And I am troubled with my poor affairs:
Thou canst not aid me, Ellen; could it be And might it, doubtless, I would fly to thee; But we have sundry duties, and must all, Hard as it may be, go where duties call— Suppose the trial were this instant thine, Couldst thou the happiest of thy views resign At duty's strong command?—If thou wert by, Said the unconscious maiden, I would try!— And as she sigh'd she heard the soft respon- sive sigh.
And then assuming steadiness, Adieu! He cried, and from the grieving Ellen flew ; And to her father with a bleeding heart He went, his grief and purpose to impart; Told of his health, and did in part confess That he should love the noble maiden less. The parent's pride to sudden rage gave way— And the girl loves! that plainly you would
Long was he absent; as a guide to youth, With grief contending, and in search of truth,
In courting peace, and trying to forget What was so deeply interesting yet. A friend in England gave him all the news, A sad indulgence that he would not lose; He told how Ellen suffer'd, how they sent The maid from home in sullen discontent, With some relation on the Lakes to live, In all the sorrow such retirements give; And there she roved among the rocks, and took Moss from the stone, and pebbles from the brook;
Gazed on the flies that settled on the flowers, | Backward the lover in the carriage fell, And so consumed her melancholy hours. Again he wrote-The father then was dead, And Ellen to her native village fled, With native feeling-there she oped her door, Her heart, her purse, and comforted the poor,
The sick, the sad,-and there she pass'd her days,
Deserving much, but never seeking praise, Her task to guide herself, her joy the fallen to raise.
Nor would she nicely faults and merits weigh,
But loved the impulse of her soul t' obey; The prayers of all she heard, their sufferings view'd,
Nor turn'd from any, save when Love
For though to love She thought of Cecil,
pursued ; disposed, to kindness prone,
and she lived alone.
Thus heard the lover of the life she past Till his return,—and he return'd at last; For he had saved, and was a richer man Than when to teach and study he began; Something his father left, and he could fly To the loved country where he wish'd to die. And now, he said, this maid with gentle mind May I not hope to meet, as good, as kind, As in the days when first her friend she knew And then could trust and he indeed is true? She knew my motives, and she must approve The man who dared to sacrifice his love
And fondest hopes to virtue: virtuous she,
Nor can resent that sacrifice in me.
Weak, but not fainting-All, said he, is well! Return with me-I have no more to seek! And this was all the woful man would speak. Quickly he settled all his worldly views, And sail'd from home, his fiercer pains to lose And nurse the milder-now with labour less He might his solitary world possess, And taste the bitter-sweet of love in idleness.
Greece was the land he chose; a mind decay'd And ruin'd there through glorious ruin stray'd, There read, and walk'd, and mused,—there loved, and wept, and pray'd. Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live, But gave to study all his mind could give; Till, with the dead conversing, he began To lose the habits of a living man, Save that he saw some wretched, them he tried To soothe, some doubtful, them he strove to guide; Nor did he lose the mind's ennobling joy Of that new state that death must not destroy; What Time had done we know not,-Death was nigh,
To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh, But hopes more new and strong confirm'd his wish to die.
Meantime poor Ellen in her cottage thought That he would seek her-sure she should be sought;
She did not mean—It was an evil hour, Her thoughts were guardless, and beyond her power;
And for one speech, and that in rashness Have I no friend to soothe him and persuade? made! He must not leave me—He again will come, And we shall have one hope, one heart, one home!
But when she heard that he on foreign ground Sought his lost peace, hers never more was found;
But still she felt a varying hope that love Would all these slight impediments remove; Has he no friend to tell him that our pride Resents a moment and is satisfied? Soon as the hasty sacrifice is made, A look will soothe us, and a tear persuade; Have I no friend to say Return again, Reveal your wishes, and relieve her pain?'
With suffering mind the maid her prospects view'd,
That hourly varied with the varying mood; As past the day, the week, the month, the year, The faint hope sicken'd, and gave place to fear.
He could not bear that royal Herod's spouse Should, as a widow, make her second vows; Or that a mortal with his queen should wed, Or be the rival of the mighty dead. Herods, said Richard, doubtless may be found,
But haply do not in the world abound; Ladies, indeed, a dreadful lot would have, If jealousy could act beyond the grave: No doubt Othellos every place supply, Though every Desdemona does not die; But there are lovers in the world, who live Slaves to the sex, and every fault forgive.
I know, said George, a happy man and kind, Who finds his wife is all he wish'd to find, A mild, good man, who, if he nothing sees, Will suffer nothing to disturb his case; Who, ever yielding both to smiles and sighs, Admits no story that a wife denies,— She guides his mind, and she directs his eyes. Richard, there dwells within a mile a pair Of good examples,-I will guide you there: Such man is William Bailey,-but his spouse Is virtue's self since she had made her vows: I speak of ancient stories, long worn out, That honest William would not talk about; But he will sometimes check her starting tear, And call her self-correction too severe. In their own inn the gentle pair are placed, Where you behold the marks of William's taste:
They dwell in plenty, in respect, and peace, Landlord and lady of the Golden Fleece: Public indeed their calling,-but there come No brawl, no revel to that decent room; All there is still, and comely to behold, Mild as the fleece, and pleasant as the gold; But mild and pleasant as they now appear, They first experienced many a troubled year; And that, if known, might not command our praise, Like the smooth tenor of their present days.
Our hostess, now so grave and steady grown, Has had some awkward trials of her own: She was not always so resign'd and meek, Yet can I little of her failings speak; Those she herself will her misfortunes deem, And slides discreetly from the dubious theme; But you shall hear the tale that I will tell, When we have seen the mansion where they dwell.
THE letters Richard in a morning read To quiet and domestic comforts led; And George, who thought the world could not supply Comfort so pure, reflected with a sigh; Then would pursue the subject, half in play, Half carnest, till the sadness wore away. They spoke of Passion's errors, Love's disease, His pains, afflictions, wrongs, and jealousies ; Of Herod's vile commandment-that his wife Should live no more, when he no more had Were care and neatness instruments were
They saw the mansion,—and the couple made Obeisance due, and not without parade: His Honour, still obliging, took delight To make them pleasant in each other's sight; It was their duty-they were very sure It was their pleasure. This they could endure, Nor turn'd impatient-In the room around
For sacred music, books with prints and | But if that taste admitted some dispute, He charm'd the nymphs with flageolet and flute.
By learned men and good, whom William quotes
In mode familiar-Beveridge, Dodderidge,
Pyle, Whitby, Hammond-he refers to all. Next they beheld his garden, fruitful, nice, And, as he said, his little paradise. In man and wife appear'd some signs of pride, Which they perceived not, or they would not hide,-
Their honest saving, their good name, their skill,
His Honour's land, which they had grace to till; And more his favour shown, with all their friends' good will.
This past, the visit was with kindness closed, And George was ask'd to do as he proposed. Richard, said he, though I myself explore With no distaste the annals of the poor, And may with safety to a brother show What of my humble friends I chance to know,
Richard, there are who call the subjects low. The host and hostess of the Fleece-'tis base
Would I could cast some glory round the place!
The lively heroine once adorn'd a farm,— And William's virtue has a kind of charm: Nor shall we, in our apprehension, need Riches or rank-I think I may proceed: Virtue and worth there are who will not see In humble dress, but low they cannot be.
The youth's addresses pleased his favourite maid,
They wish'd for union, but were both afraid; They saw the wedded poor, and fear the bliss delay'd:
Yet they appear'd a happier lass and swain Than those who will not reason or refrain. William was honest, simple, gentle, kind, Laborious, studious, and to thrift inclined; More neat than youthful peasant in his dress,
And yet so careful, that it cost him less: He kept from inns, though doom'd an inn to keep, And all his pleasures and pursuits were cheap : perform a generous deed,
Yet would the youth
When reason saw or pity felt the need; He of his labour and his skill would lend, Nay, of his money, to a suffering friend. William had manual arts, his room was graced
With carving quaint, that spoke the master's taste;
Constant at church, and there a little proud, He sang with boldness, and he read aloud; Self-taught to write, he his example took And form'd his letters from a printed book.
I've heard of ladies who profess'd to see In a man's writing what his mind must be; As Doctor Spurzheim's pupils, when they look
Upon a skull, will read it as a book- Our talents, tendencies, and likings trace, And find for all the measure and the place: Strange times! when thus we are completely read
By man or woman, by the hand or head! Believe who can,-but William's even mind All who beheld might in his writing find; His not the scratches where we try in vain Meanings and words to construe or explain.
But with our village-hero to proceed,— He read as learned clerks are wont to read; Solemn he was in tone, and slow in pace, By nature gifted both with strength and grace.
Black parted locks his polish'd forehead press'd;
His placid looks an easy mind confess'd; His smile content, and seldom more, convey'd; Not like the smile of fair illusive maid, When what she feels is hid, and what she wills betray'd.
The lighter damsels call'd his manner prim, And laugh'd at virtue so array'd in him; But they were wanton, as he well replied, And hoped their own would not be strongly tried:
Of rustic wit, his repartees and jokes; Yet was he full of glee, and had his strokes Nor was averse, ere yet he pledged his
To stray with damsels in the shady grove; When he would tell them, as they walk'd How the birds sang, and imitate their song: along, In fact, our rustic had his proper taste, Was with peculiar arts and manners graced— And Absolon had been, had Absolon been
Frances, like William, felt her heart incline To neat attire-but Frances would be fine: Though small the farm, the farmer's daughter knew
Her rank in life, and she would have it too: This, and this only, gave the lover pain, He thought it needless, and he judged it vain:
Advice in hints he to the fault applied, And talk'd of sin, of vanity, and pride.
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