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O! it should stand recorded in all time, How they transgress'd, and he avenged the crime!

In this bad world should all his business cease, He would not seek-he would not taste of peace;

But wrath should live till vengeance had her due,

And with his wrath his life should perish too. His girls-not his-he would not be so weakChild was a word he never more must speak! How did he know what villains had defiled His honest bed?—He spurn'd the name of child:

Keep them he must; but he would coarsely hide

Their forms, and nip the growth of woman's pride;

He would consume their flesh, abridge their food,

And kill the mother-vices in their blood.

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Sir Owen saw his tenant's troubled state, But still he wish'd to know the offenders' fate. Know you they suffer, Ellis?'-Ellis knew;— "Tis well! 'tis just! but have they all their due?

Have they in mind and body, head and heart,

Sustain'd the pangs of their accursed part?' They have!'Tis well!'-and wants enough to shake The firmest mind, the stoutest heart to break.' 'But have you seen them in such misery dwell?' 'In misery past description.”—“That is well.' Alas! Sir Owen, it perhaps is just,Yet I began my purpose to distrust; For they to justice have discharged a debt, That vengeance surely may her claim forget.' Man, can you pity ?-As a man I feel Miseries like theirs.'-But never would you heal?'

Hear me, Sir Owen:-I had sought them long,

Urged by the pain of ever present wrong, Yet had not seen; and twice the year came

round

Years hateful now-ere I my victims found:
But I did find them in the dungeon's gloom
of a small garret-a precarious home,
And they were sorely frighten'd on the day;
For that depended on the weekly pay,

But there they linger'd on from week to week,
Haunted by ills of which 'tis hard to speak,
For they are many and vexatious all,
The very smallest-but they none were small.
The roof, unceil'd in patches, gave the snow
Entrance within, and there were heaps below;
I pass'd a narrow region dark and cold,
The strait of stairs to that infectious hold;
And, when I enter'd, Misery met my view
In every shape she wears, in every hue,
And the black icy blast across the dungeon
flew;

There frown'd the ruin'd walls that once were white;

There gleam'd the panes that once admitted light;

There lay unsavoury scraps of wretched food; And there a measure, void of fuel, stood. But who shall part by part describe the state Of these, thus follow'd by relentless fate? All, too, in winter, when the icy air Breathed its bleak venom on the guilty pair. That man, that Cecil!-he was left, it seems, Unnamed, unnoticed: farewell to his dreams! Heirs made by law rejected him of course, And left him neither refuge nor resource:— Their father's? No: he was the harlot's son Who wrong'd them, whom their duty bade them shun;

And they were duteous all, and he was all undone.

Now the lost pair, whom better times had led To part disputing, shared their sorrow's bed:

Their bed!-I shudder as I speak-and | At the bed's feet the man reclined his frame: Their chairs were perish'd to support the flame

shared

Scraps to their hunger by the hungry spared.'

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intent meant

That warm'd his agued limbs; and, sad to see, That shook him fiercely as he gazed on me.

I was confused in this unhappy view:
My wife! my friend! I could not think it

true;

My children's mother, my Alicia,―laid
On such a bed! so wretched, so afraid!
And her gay, young seducer, in the guise
Of all we dread, abjure, defy, despise,
And all the fear and terror in his look,
Still more my mind to its foundation shook.
At last he spoke:-Long since I would have
died,

But could not leave her, though for death
I sigh'd,

And tried the poison'd cup, and dropp'd it as I tried.

She is a woman, and that famish'd thing Makes her to life, with all its evils, cling: Feed her, and let her breathe her last in

peace,

And all my sufferings with your promise cease!'

Ghastly he smiled:-I knew not what I felt, But my heart melted-hearts of flint would melt,

To see their anguish, penury, and shame, How base, how low, how groveling they became :

To give them succour?'-What indeed II could not speak my purpose, but my eyes
And my expression bade the creature rise.

At first was vengeance; but I long pursued
The pair, and I at last their misery view'd
In that vile garret, which I cannot paint-Yet, O! that woman's look! my words are
The sight was loathsome, and the smell was

faint; And there that wife,-whom I had loved so well,

And thought so happy, was condemn'd to
dwell;
The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad
To see in dress beyond our station clad,
And to behold among our neighbours fine,
More than perhaps became a wife of mine;
And now among her neighbours to explore,
And see her poorest of the very poor!-
I would describe it, but I bore a part,
Nor can explain the feelings of the heart;
Yet memory since has aided me to trace
The horrid features of that dismal place.
There she reclined unmoved, her bosom bare
To her companion's unimpassion'd stare,
And my wild wonder:-Seat of virtue! chaste
As lovely once! O! how wert thou disgraced!
Upon that breast, by sordid rags defiled,
Lay the wan features of a famish'd child;—
That sin-born babe in utter misery laid,
Too feebly wretched even to cry for aid;
The ragged sheeting, o'er her person drawn,
Served for the dress that hunger placed in

pawn.

vain

Her mix'd and troubled feelings to explain; True, there was shame and consciousness of fall,

But yet remembrance of my love withal, And knowledge of that power which she would now recal. But still the more that she to memory brought,

The greater anguish in my mind was wrought;

The more she tried to bring the past in view,
She greater horror on the present threw ;
So that, for love or pity, terror thrill'd
My blood, and vile and odious thoughts
instill'd.

This war within, these passions in their strife,
If thus protracted, had exhausted life;
But the strong view of these departed years
Caused a full burst of salutary tears,
And as I wept at large, and thought alone,
I felt my reason re-ascend her throne.'

My friend! Sir Owen answer'd, what became Of your just anger?-when you saw their shame,

It was your triumph, and you should have shown Strength, if not joy-their sufferings were their own.

Alas, for them! their own in very deed! And they of mercy had the greater need; Their own by purchase, for their frailty paid,

And wanted heaven's own justice human aid?
And seeing this, could I beseech my God
For deeper misery, and a heavier rod?
But could you help them?-Think, Sir
Owen, how

I saw them then-methinks I see them now!
She had not food, nor aught a mother needs,
Who for another life and dearer feeds:
I saw her speechless; on her wither'd breast
The wither'd child extended, but not prest,
Who sought, with moving lip and feeble cry,
Vain instinct! for the fount without supply.
Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene,
Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean,
Foul with compell'd neglect, unwholesome,
and unclean;

That arm,—that eye,—the cold, the sunken cheek,

Spoke all, Sir Owen-fiercely miseries speak! And you relieved?—If hell's seducing crew Had seen that sight, they must have pitied

too.

Revenge was thine-thou hadst the power, the right; To give it up was heaven's own act to slight. Tell me not, Sir, of rights, and wrongs, or powers!

I felt it written-Vengeance is not ours!

Well, Ellis, well!—I find these female foes,
Or good or ill, will murder our repose;
And we, when Satan tempts them, take the cup.
The fruit of their foul sin, and drink it up:
But shall our pity all our claims remit,
And we the sinners of their guilt acquit?
And what, Sir Owen, will our vengeance do?
It follows us when we our foe pursue,
And, as we strike the blow, it smites the
smiters too.

What didst thou, man? I brought them to

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Strange was their parting, parting on the day
I offer'd help, and took the man away,
Sure not to meet again, and not to live
And taste of joy-He feebly cried: Forgive!
I have thy guilt, thou mine, but now adieu!
Tempters and tempted! what will thence

ensue

I know not, dare not think!-He said, and he withdrew.

But, Ellis, tell me, didst thou thus desire
To heap upon their heads those coals of fire?
If fire to melt, that feeling is confest,—
If fire to shame, I let that question rest;
But if aught more the sacred words imply,
I know it not-no commentator I.—
Then did you freely from your soul for-
give?-

Sure as I hope before my Judge to live,
Sure as I trust his mercy to receive,
Sure as his word I honour and believe,
Sure as the Saviour died upon the tree
For all who sin,-for that dear wretch and

me,Whom never more on earth will I forsake or see.

Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd,
Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd;
And all the way he meditating dwelt
On what this man in his affliction felt;
How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave,
His passion's lord, and not his anger's slave:
And as he rode he seem'd to fear the deed
Should not be done, and urged unwonted
speed.

Arrived at home, he scorn'd the change to hide,

Nor would indulge a mean and selfish pride,

Th' avenging vow; he now was frankness all: He saw his nephew, and with kindness spoke

That would some little at a time recal

Charles, I repent my purpose, and revoke, Take her—I'm taught, and would I could repay

The generous teacher; hear me, and obey: Bring me the dear coquette, and let me vow On lips half perjured to be passive now: Take her, and let me thank the powers divine

She was not stolen when her hand was mine,

Or when her heart-Her smiles I must She my revenge, and cancel either debt.

forget,

Here ends our tale, for who will doubt the bliss

Of ardent lovers in a case like this?
And if Sir Owen's was not half so strong,
It may, perchance, continue twice as long.

BOOK XIII.

DELAY HAS DANGER.

THREE weeks had pass'd, and Richard rambles now

Far as the dinners of the day allow;
He rode to Farley Grange and Finley Mere,
That house so ancient, and that lake so clear:
He rode to Ripley through that river gay,
Where in the shallow stream the loaches
play,

And stony fragments stay the winding stream,
And gilded pebbles at the bottom gleam,
Giving their yellow surface to the sun,
And making proud the waters as they run:
It is a lovely place, and at the side
Rises a mountain-rock in rugged pride;
And in that rock are shapes of shells, and
forms

Of creatures in old worlds, of nameless

worms,

Whose generations lived and died ere man, A worm of other class, to crawl began.

steed

Think ere the contract-but, contracted, stand

No more debating, take the ready hand: When hearts are willing, and when fears subside,

Trust not to time, but let the knot be tied;
For when a lover has no more to do,
He thinks in leisure, what shall I pursue?
And then who knows what objects come in
view?

For when, assured, the man has nought to
keep
His wishes warm and active, then they sleep:
Hopes die with fears; and then a man must
lose

All the gay visions, and delicious views, Once his mind's wealth! He travels at his

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No mortal business should the deed prevent; But the bless'd youth should legal sanction seek

Ere yet th' assenting blush has fled the cheek. And-hear me, Richard,-man has reptilepride

That often rises when his fears subside;

There is a town call'd Silford, where his
Our traveller rested-He the while would When, like a trader feeling rich, he now

feed

His mind by walking to and fro, to meet, He knew not what adventure, in the street: A stranger there, but yet a window-view Gave him a face that he conceived he knew;

He saw a tall, fair, lovely lady, dress'd As one whom taste and wealth had jointly bless'd;

He gazed, but soon a footman at the door Thundering, alarm'd her, who was seen no

more.

This was the lady whom her lover bound
In solemn contract, and then proved unsound:
Of this affair I have a clouded view,
And should be glad to have it clear'd by you.
So Richard spake, and instant George replied:
I had the story from the injured side,
But when resentment and regret were gone,
And pity (shaded by contempt) came on.
Frail was the hero of my tale, but still
Was rather drawn by accident than will;
Some without meaning into guilt advance,
From want of guard, from vanity, from
chance;

Man's weakness flies his more immediate pain,

A little respite from his fears to gain;
And takes the part that he would gladly fly,
If he had strength and courage to deny.
But now my tale, and let the moral say,
When hope can sleep, there's Danger in
Delay.

Not that for rashness, Richard, I would plead,

For unadvised alliance: No, indeed:

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And here a short excursion let me make,
A lover tried, I think, for lovers' sake;
And teach the meaning in a lady's mind
When you can none in her expressions find:
Words are design'd that meaning to convey,
But often Yea is hidden in a Nay!
And what the charmer wills, some gentle
hints betray.

Then, too, when ladies mean to yield at length,

They match their reasons with the lover's strength,

And, kindly cautious, will no force employ
But such as he can baffle or destroy.
As when heroic lovers beauty woo'd,
And were by magic's mighty art withstood,
The kind historian, for the dame afraid,
Gave to the faithful knight the stronger aid.
A downright No! would make a man despair,
Or leave for kinder nymph the cruel fair;
But No! because I'm very happy now,
Because I dread th' irrevocable vow,
Because I fear papa will not approve,
Because I love not-No, I cannot love;
Because you men of Cupid make a jest,
Because in short, a single life is best.
A No! when back'd by reasons of such
force,

Invites approach, and will recede of course.
Ladies, like towns besieged for honour's sake,
Will some defence or its appearance make;
On first approach there's much resistance
made,

And conscious weakness hides in bold parade; With lofty looks, and threat'nings stern and proud,

Come, if you dare, is said in language loud, But if th' attack be made with care and skill, Come, says the yielding party, if you will; Then each the other's valiant acts approve, And twine their laurels in a wreath of love.

We now retrace our tale, and forward go,—
Thus Henry rightly read Cecilia's No!
His prudent father, who had duly weigh'd,
And well approved the fortune of the maid,
Not much resisted, just enough to show
He knew his power, and would his son
should know.

Harry, I will, while I your bargain make,
That you a journey to our patron take:
I know her guardian; care will not become
A lad when courting; as you must be dumb,
You may be absent; I for you will speak,
And ask what you are not supposed to seek.'
Then came the parting hour, and what arise
When lovers part! expressive looks and eyes,
Tender and tear-full, many a fond adieu,
And many a call the sorrow to renew;
Sighs such as lovers only can explain,
And words that they might undertake in vain.

Cecilia liked it not; she had, in truth,
No mind to part with her enamour'd youth;

But thought it foolish thus themselves to cheat,

And part for nothing but again to meet.
Now Henry's father was a man whose heart
Took with his interest a decided part;
He knew his Lordship, and was known for

acts

That I omit,-they were acknowledged facts;

An interest somewhere; I the place forget, And the good deed—no matter 'twas a debt: Thither must Henry, and in vain the maid Express'd dissent-the father was obey'd. But though the maid was by her fears assail'd, Her reason rose against them, and prevail'd ; Fear saw him hunting, leaping, falling—led, Maim'd and disfigured, groaning to his bed; Saw him in perils, duels,-dying,-dead. But Prudence answer'd: Is not every maid With equal cause for him she loves afraid? And from her guarded mind Cecilia threw The groundless terrors that will love pursue. She had no doubts, and her reliance strong Upon the honour that she would not wrong: Firm in herself, she doubted not the truthOf him, the chosen, the selected youth; Trust of herself a trust in him supplied, And she believed him faithful, though untried: On her he might depend, in him she would confide.

If some fond girl express'd a tender pain Lest some fair rival should allure her swain, To such she answer'd, with a look severe, Can one you doubt be worthy of your fear?

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In all his walks, in hilly heath or wood,
Cecilia's form the pensive youth pursued;
In the gray morning, in the silent noon,
In the soft twilight, by the sober moon,
In those forsaken rooms, in that immense
saloon;

And he, now fond of that seclusion grown, There reads her letters, and there writes his own.

Here none approach, said he, to interfere,
But I can think of my Cecilia here!
But there did come and how it came to pass
Who shall explain?—a mild and blue-eyed
lass;-

It was the work of accident, no doubt-
The cause unknown-we say, as things fall
out;-
The damsel enter'd there, in wand'ring round
about:

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