My mother died; but, in my grief, drew near | A bosom-friend, who dried the useless tear; We lived together: we combined our shares Of the world's good, and learn'd to brave its cares:
We were the ladies of the place, and found Protection and respect the country round; We gave, and largely, for we wish'd to live In good repute for this 'tis good to give; Our annual present to the priest convey'd Was kindly taken:—we in comfort pray'd; There none molested in the crimson pew The worthy ladies, whom the vicar knew: And we began to think that life might be, Not happy all, but innocently free.
My friend in early life was bound to one
Of gentle kindred, but a younger son.
He fortune's smile with perseverance woo'd,
And wealth beneath the burning sun pursued:
There, urged by love and youthful hope,
he went
Loth; but 'twas all his fortune could present. From hence he wrote; and, with a lover's fears,
And gloomy fondness, talk'd of future years;
To her devoted, his Priscilla found
His faithful heart still suffering with its
wound,
That would not heal. A second time she heard ;
And then no more: nor lover since appear'd; Year after year the country's fleet arrived, Confirm'd her fear,and yet her love survived; It still was living; yet her hope was dead, And youthful dreams, nay, youth itself, was fled;
And he was lost: so urged her friends, so she
At length believed, and thus retired with me ;
She would a dedicated vestal prove,
And give her virgin vows to heaven and love;
She dwelt with fond regret on pleasures past,
With ardent hope on those that ever last;
Pious and tender, every day she view'd
With solemn joy our perfect solitude;
Her reading, that which most delighted her,
That soothed the passions, yet would gently
stir;
The tender, softening, melancholy strain, That caused not pleasure, but that vanquish'd pain,
In tears she read, and wept, and long'd to read again. Bat other worlds were her supreme delight, And there, it seem'd, she long'd to take her flight:
Yet patient, pensive, arm'd by thoughts sublime,
She watch'd the tardy steps of lingering time.
My friend, with face that most would handsome call, Possess'd the charm that wins the heart of all;
And, thrice entreated by a lover's prayer,
She thrice refused him with determined air.
No! had the world one monarch, and was he
All that the heart could wish its lord to be.--
Lovely and loving, generous, brave, and
true,-
Vain were his hopes to waken hers anew!'
For she was wedded to ideal views,
And fancy's prospects, that she would not
lose,
Would not forego to be a mortal's wife,
And wed the poor realities of life.
There was a day,ere yet the autumn closed, When,ere her wintry wars, the earth reposed, When from the yellow weed the feathery
Light as the curling smoke, fell slowly down; When the wing'd insect settled in our sight, And waited wind to recommence her flight; When the wide river was a silver sheet, And on the ocean slept th' unanchor'd fleet; When from our garden, as we look'd above, There was no cloud, and nothing seem'd to move;
Then was my friend in ecstasies—she cried,
There is, I feel there is, a world beside!
Martha, dear Martha! we shall hear not then
Of hearts distress'd by good or evil men,
But all will constant, tender, faithful be—
So had I been, and so had one with me;
But in this world the fondest and the best
Are the most tried, most troubled, aud dis-
tress'd:
This is the place for trial, here we prove,
And there enjoy, the faithfulness of love.
Nay, were he here in all the pride of youth,
With honour, valour, tenderness, and truth,
Entirely mine, yet what could I secure,
Or who one day of comfort could insure?
No! all is closed on earth, and there is now
Nothing to break th' indissoluble vow ;
But in that world will be th' abiding bliss,
That pays for every tear and sigh in this.'
Such her discourse, and more refined it grew,
Till she had all her glorious dream in view;
And she would further in that dream proceed
Than I dare go, who doubtfully agreed:
Smiling I ask'd, again to draw the soul
From flight so high, and fancy to control,
If this be truth, the lover's happier way
Is distant still to keep the purposed day:
The real bliss would mar the fancied joy,
And marriage all the dream of love destroy.
She softly smiled, and as we gravely talk'd,
We saw a man who up the gravel walk'd,
Not quite erect, nor quite by age depress'd,
A travell'd man, and as a merchant dress'd ;
Large chain of gold upon his watch he
Small golden buckles on his feet he bore; A head of gold his costly cane display'd. And all about him love of gold betray'd.
And he should never be himself again.
This comely man moved onward, and a pair | Had quite unmann'd him, cleft his heart in
Of comely maidens met with serious air;
Till one exclaim'd, and wildly look'd around,
O heav'n, 'tis Paul! and dropt upon the
ground;
But she recover'd soon, and you must guess
What then ensued, and how much happiness.
They parted lovers, both distress'd to part!
They met as neighbours, heal'd and whole of
heart:
She in his absence look'd to heaven for bliss,
He was contented with a world like this;
And she prepared in some new state to meet
The man now seeking for some snug retreat.
He kindly told her he was firm and true,
Nor doubted her, and bade her then adieu!
What shall I do? the sighing maid began,
How lost the lover! O, how gross the man.
For the plain dealer had his wish declared,
Nor she, devoted victim! could be spared:
He spoke as one decided; she as one
Who fear'd the love,and would the lover shun.
O Martha, sister of my soul! how dies
Each lovely view! for can I truth disguise,
That this is he? No! nothing shall persuade;
This is a man the naughty world has made,
An eating, drinking, buying, bargaining man—
And can I love him? No! I never can.
What once he was, what fancy gave beside,
Full well I know, my love was then my pride;
What time has done, what trade and travel
wrought,
You see! and yet your sorrowing friend is sought;
But can I take him?-Take him not, I cried, If so averse—but why so soon decide?
Meantime a daily guest the man appear'd,
He was himself; weak, nervous, kind,and poor,
Ill dress'd and idle, he besieged my door,
Borrow'd,-or, worse. made verses on my
charms,
And did his best to fill me with alarms;
I had some pity, and I sought the price
Of my repose-my hero was not nice;
There was a loan, and promise I should be
From all the efforts of his fondness free,
From hunger's future claims, or those of
vanity.
Yet, said he, bowing, do to study take!
O! what a Desdemona wouldst thou make!
Thus was my lover lost; yet even now
He claims one thought,and this we will allow.
His father lived to an extreme old age,
But never kind! — his son had left the stage,
And gain'd some office, but an humble place,
And that he lost! Want sharpen'd his disgrace,
Urged him to seek his father-but too late,
His jealous brothers watch'd and barr'd the
gate.
The old man died; but there is one who pays
A moderate pension for h's latter days,
Who, though assured inquiries will offend,
Is ever asking for this unknown friend;
Some partial lady, whom he hopes to find
As to his wants so to his wishes kind.
Be still, a cool adviser sometimes writes-
Nay, but, says he, the gentle maid invites-
O, let me know the young! the soft! the
fair!
Old man, 'tis answer'd, take thyself to prayer!
Be clean, be sober, to thy priest apply,
Set all his sail, and for his purpose steer'd; | And—dead to all around thee-learn to die!
Loud and familiar, loving, fierce and free,
He overpower'd her soft timidity?
Who, weak and vain, and grateful to behold
The man was hers, and hers would be the
gold;
Thus sundry motives, more than I can name,
Leagued on his part, and she a wife became.
A home was offer'd, but I knew too well
What comfort was with married friends to
dwell;
I was resign'd, and had I felt distress,
Again a lover offer'd some redress;
Behold, a hero of the buskin hears
My loss, and with consoling love appears;
Frederick was now a hero on the stage,
In all its glories, rhapsody, and rage;
Again himself he offer'd, offer'd all
That his an hero of the kind can call:
He for my sake would hope of fame resign,
And leave the applause of all the world for
mine.
Hard fate was Frederick's, never to succeed,
Yet ever try-but so it was decreed :
His mind was weaken'd; he would laugh and
Now had I rest from life's strong hopes and
And no disturbance mark'd the flying years;
So on in quiet might those years have past,
But for a light adventure, and a last.
A handsome boy, from school-day bondage
free,
Came with mamma to gaze upon the sea;
With soft blue eye he look'd upon the waves,
And talk'd of treacherous rocks, and seamen's
graves:
There was much sweetness in his boyish smile,
And signs of feelings frank, that knew not guile.
The partial mother, of her darling proud,
Besought my friendship and her own avow'd;
She praised her Rupert's person, spirit, ease,
How fond of study, yet how form'd to please;
In our discourse he often bore a part,
And talk'd, heaven bless him, of his feeling
heart;
He spoke of pleasures souls like his enjoy, And swore profusely I had murder'd sleep, | Aud hated Lovelace like a virtuous boy;
He felt for Clementina's holy strife,
And was Sir Charles as large and true as life:
For Virtue's heroines was his soul distress'd;
True love and guileless honour fill'd his
breast,
When,as the subjects drew the frequent sigh,
The tear stood trembling in his large blue eye,
And softly he exclaim'd: Sweet, sweetest|
sympathy !
When thus I heard the handsome stripling speak,
I smiled assent, and thought to pat his cheek; But when I saw the feelings blushing there, Signs of emotions strong, they said-forbear ! | The youth would speak of his intent to live On that estate which heaven was pleased to give,
There with the partner of his joys to dwell,
And nurse the virtues that he loved so well;
The humble good of happy swains to share,
And from the cottage drive distress and care;
To the dear infants make some pleasures
known,
And teach, he gravely said, the virtues to
his own.
He loved to read in verse,and verse-like prose,
The softest tales of love-inflicted woes;
When, looking fondly, he would smile and cry,
Is there no bliss in sensibility?
We walk'd together, and it seem'd not harm
In linking thought with thought, and arm
with arm,
Till the dear boy would talk too much of bliss,
And indistinctly murmur-such as this.
When no maternal wish her heart beguiled,
The lady call'd her son the darling child;
When with some nearer view her speech
began,
She changed her phrase, and said, the good young man!
And lost, when hinting of some future bride, The woman's prudence in the mother's pride, Still decent fear and conscious folly strove With fond presumption and aspiring love; But now too plain to me the strife appear'd, And what he sought I knew, and what he fear'd;
The trembling hand and frequent sigh disclosed
The wish that prudence, care, and time opposed.
Was I not pleased, will you demand?-Amused By boyish love, that woman's pride refused? This I acknowledge, and from day to day Resolved no longer at such game to play; Yet I forbore, though to my purpose true, And firmly fix'd to bid the youth adieu.
There was a moonlight-eve, serenely cool,
When the vast ocean seem'd a mighty pool;
Save the small rippling waves that gentlybeat,
We scarcely heard them falling, at our feet:
His mother absent, absent every sound
And every sight that could the youth con- |
found;
The arm, fast lock'd in mine, his fear betray'd,
And when he spoke not his designs convey'd;
He oft-times gasp'd for breath, he tried to
speak,
And studying words,at last had words to seek.
Silent the boy, by silence more betray'd,
And fearing lest he should appear afraid,
He knelt abruptly, and his speech began-
Pity the pangs of an unhappy man.'
Be sure,' I answer'd, and relieve them too—
But why that posture? What the woes to
you?
To feel for others' sorrows is humane,
But too much feeling is our virtue's bane.
Come, my dear Rupert! now your tale dis-
That I may know the sufferer and his woes, Know there is pain that wilful man endures, That our reproof and not our pity cures ; For though for such assumed distress we grieve,
Since they themselves as well as us deceive, Yet we assist not.'-The unhappy youth, Unhappy then, beheld not all the truth.
O! what is this? exclaim'd the dubious boy, Words that confuse the being they destroy ? So have I read the gods to madness drive The man condemn'd with adverse fate to strive;
0 ! make thy victim though by misery sure, And let me know the pangs I must endure; For, like the Grecian warrior, I can pray Falling, to perish in the face of day.
Pretty, my Rupert; and it proves the use Of all that learning which the schools proBut come, your arm
duce: no trembling, but attend
To sober truth, and a maternal friend. You ask for pity?-O! indeed I do. Well then, you have it, and assistance too: Suppose us married! - O! the heavenly thought! Nay-nay, my friend, be you by wisdom taught;
For wisdom tells you, love would soon subside, Fall, and make room for penitence and pride; Then would you meet the public eye, and
Your private taste, and be o'erwhelm'd with shame :
How must it then your bosom's peace destroy To hear it said : The mother and her boy ! And then to show the sneering world it lies, You would assume the man, and tyrannize; Ev'n Time, Care's general soother, would augment
Your self-reproaching, growing discontent. Add twenty years to my precarious life, And lo! your aged, feeble, wailing wife; Displeased, displeasing, discontented, blamed ; Both, and with cause, ashaming and ashamed:
When I shall bend beneath a press of time, Thou wilt be all erect in manhood's prime ; Then wilt thou fly to younger minds t' as
Thy bosom's pain, and I in jealous age
Shall move contempt, if still; if active, rage:
And though in anguish all my days are past,
Yet far beyond thy wishes they may last;
May last till thou, thy better prospects fled,
Shalt have no comfort when thy wife is dead.
Then thou in turn, though none will call
thee old,
Wilt feel thy spirit fled, thy bosom cold;
No strong or eager wish to wake the will,
Life will appear to stagnate and be still,
As now with me it slumbers; O! rejoice
That I attend not to that pleading voice;
So will new hopes this troubled dream
succeed,
And one will gladly hear my Rupert plead.
Ask you, while thus I could the youth deny
Was I unmoved?-Inexorable I,
Fix'd and determined: thrice he made his
With looks of sadness first, and then despair;
Thrice doom'd to bear refusal, not exempt, At the last effort, from a slight contempt. Did his distress, his pains, your joy excite?No; but I fear'd his perseverance might. Was there no danger in the moon's soft rays, To hear the handsome stripling's earnest praise?
Was there no fear that while my words
reproved
The eager youth, I might myself be moved?
Not for his sake alone I cried, persist
No more, and with a frown the cause
dismiss'd.
Seek you th' event?-I scarcely need reply,
Love, unreturn'd, will languish, pine, and die:
We lived awhile in friendship, and with joy
I saw depart in peace the amorous boy.
We met some ten years after, and he then
Was married, and as cool as married men;
He talk'd of war and taxes, trade and farms,
And thought no more of me, or of my charms.
We spoke; and when, alluding to the past,
Something of meaning in my look I cast,
He, who could never thought or wish
disguise,
Look'd in my face with trouble and surprise; To kill reserve, I seized his arm, and cried: Know me, my lord! when laughing, he replied,
Wonder'd again, and look'd upon my face, And seem'd unwilling marks of time to trace; But soon I brought him fairly to confess, That boys in love judge ill of happiness.
Love had his day-to graver subjects led,
My will is govern'd, and my mind is fed;
And to more vacant bosoms I resign
The hopes and fears that once affected mine.
Grant, said the Brothers, for we humbly ask;
Ours be the gratitude, and thine the task:
Yet dine we first: then to this tale of thine,
As to thy sermon, seriously incline:
In neither case our rector shall complain,
Of this recited, that composed in vain.
Something we heard of vengeance, who
appall'd,
Like an infernal spirit, him who call'd;
And, ere he vanish'd, would perform his part,
Inflicting tortures on the wounded heart;
Of this but little from report we know:
If you the progress of revenge can show,
Give it, and all its horrors, if you please,
We hear our neighbour's sufferings much
Should these fierce passions-so we reason'd
Is it not so? For do not men delight—
We call them men—our bruisers to excite,
And urge with bribing gold, and feed them Their long-worn chain, what ravage will
for the fight?
they make! Men beyond common strength, of giant size, | In vain will prudence then contend with And threat'ning terrors in each other's eyes; pride, When in their naked, native force display'd, Look answers look, affrighting and afraid; While skill, like spurs and feeding, gives the arm
The wicked power to do the greater harm:
Maim'd in the strife, the falling man sustains
Th' insulting shout, that aggravates his
pains:-
Man can bear this; and shall thy hearers heed
A tale of human sufferings? Come! proceed.
Thus urged, the worthy Rector thought it
Some moral truth, as preface, to repeat;
Reflection serious, common - place, 'tis
true,-
But he would act as he was wont to do,
And bring his morals in his neighbour's view.
O! how the passions, insolent and strong,
Bear our weak minds their rapid course
along;
Make us the madness of their will obey;
Then die, and leave us to our griefs a prey!
Sir Owen Dale his fortieth year had seen,
With temper placid, and with mind serene;
Rich; early married to an easy wife,
They led in comfort a domestic life:
He took of his affairs a prudent care,
And was by early habit led to spare;
Not as a miser, but in pure good taste,
That scorn'd the idle wantonness of waste.
In fact, the lessons he from prudence took
Were written in his mind, as in a book:
There what to do he read, and what to shun;
And all commanded was with promptness
done :
He seem'd without a passion to proceed,
Or one whose passions no correction need;
Yet some believed those passions only slept,
And were in bounds by early habits kept:
Curb'd as they were by fetters worn so long,
There were who judged them a rebellious
throng.
To these he stood, not as a hero true,
Who fought his foes, and in the combat slew,
But one who all those foes, when sleeping,
found,
And, unresisted, at his pleasure bound.
We thought for I was one-that we espied
Some indications strong of dormant pride;
It was his wish in peace with all to live;
And he could pardon, but could not forgive:
Nay, there were times when stern defiance
shook
The moral man, and threaten'd in his look.
And reason vainly bid revenge subside;
Anger will not to meek persuasion bend,
Nor to the pleas of hope or fear attend:
What curb shall, then, in their disorder'd
Check the wild passions? what the calm
replace?
Virtue shall strive in vain; and has he help
in grace?
While yet the wife with pure discretion ruled,
The man was guided, and the mind was school'd;
But then that mind unaided ran to waste:
He had some learning, but he wanted taste: Placid, not pleased contented, not employ'd,
He neither time improved, nor life enjoy'd.
That wife expired, and great the loss
sustain❜d,
Though much distress he neither felt nor
feign'd;
He loved not warmly; but the sudden stroke
Deeply and strongly on his habits broke.
He had no child to soothe him, and his
farm,
His sports, his speculations, lost their charm;
Then would he read and travel, would
Life's busy scenes, and forth Sir Owen went: The mind, that now was free, unfix'd, uncheck'd,
Read and observed with wonderful effect;
And still the more he gain'd, the more he
long'd
To pay that mind his negligence had wrong'd;
And, first enduring, then the labour loved.
He felt his pleasures rise as he improved;
But, by the light let in, Sir Owen found
Some of those passions had their chain
unbound;
And seize, as due to them, a feeling heart.
As from a trance they rose to act their part,
And took some graces from th' improving
His very person now appear'd refined,
He grew polite without a fix'd intent,
And to the world a willing pupil went.
Restore him twenty years,-restore him
ten,-
And bright had been his earthly prospect
then;
But much refinement, when it late arrives,
May be the grace, not comfort, of our lives.
Now had Sir Owen feeling; things of late
Indifferent, he began to love or hate;
|