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

repose;

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;

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.

BOOK XIX.

WILLIAM BAILEY.

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

life;

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

found

For sacred music, books with prints and | But if that taste admitted some dispute, He charm'd the nymphs with flageolet and flute.