TALES OF THE HALL.
BOOK X.
THE OLD BACHELOR.
A Friend arrives at the Hall—Old Bachelors and Maids—Relation of one—His Parents—The first Courtship—The second—The third— Long Interval—Travel—Decline of Life—The fourth Lady—Conclusion.
TALES OF THE HALL.
BOOK X.
THE OLD BACHELOR.
Save their kind friend the rector, Richard yet
Had not a favourite of his brother met;
Now at the Hall that welcome guest appear’d,
By trust, by trials, and by time endear’d;
Of him the grateful ’squire his love profess’d,
And full regard—he was of friends the best;
“Yet not to him alone this good I owe,
This social pleasure that our friends bestow;
The sex that wrought in earlier life my woes,
With loss of time who murder’d my repose, 10
They to my joys administer, nor vex
Me more; and now I venerate the sex;
And boast the friendship of a spinster kind,
Cheerful and pleasant, to her fate resign’d;
Then by her side my bachelor I place,
And hold them honours to the human race.
Yet these are they in tale and song display’d,
The peevish man, and the repining maid;
Creatures made up of misery and spite,
Who taste no pleasures, except those they blight; 20
From whom th’ affrighten’d niece and nephew fly—
Fear’d while they live, and useless till they die.
“Not such these friends of mine; they never meant
That youth should so be lost, or life be spent.
They had warm passions, tender hopes, desires
That youth indulges, and that love inspires;
But fortune frown’d on their designs, displaced
The views of hope, and love’s gay dreams disgraced;
Took from the soul her sunny views, and spread
A cloud of dark but varying gloom instead. 30
And shall we these with ridicule pursue,
Because they did not what they could not do?
If they their lot preferr’d, still why the jest
On those who took the way they judged the best?
But if they sought a change, and sought in vain,
’Tis worse than brutal to deride their pain—
But you will see them; see the man I praise,
The kind protector in my troubled days,
Himself in trouble; you shall see him now,
And learn his worth! and my applause allow.” 40
This friend appear’d, with talents form’d to please,
And with some looks of sprightliness and ease;
To him indeed the ills of life were known,
But misery had not made him all her own.
They spoke on various themes, and George design’d
To show his brother this, the favourite mind;
To lead the friend, by subjects he could choose, }
To paint himself, his life, and earlier views,}
What he was bless’d to hope, what he was doom’d to lose. }
They spoke of marriage, and he understood 50
Their call on him, and said, “It is not good
To be alone, although alone to be
Is freedom; so are men in deserts free;
Men who unyoked and unattended groan,
Condemn’d and grieved to walk their way alone.
Whatever ills a married pair betide,
Each feels a stay, a comfort, or a guide;
‘Not always comfort,’ will our wits reply.—
Wits are not judges, nor the cause shall try.
“Have I not seen, when grief his visits paid, 60
That they were easier by communion made?
True, with the quiet times and days serene,
There have been flying clouds of care and spleen;
But is not man, the solitary, sick
Of his existence, sad and splenetic?
And who will help him, when such evils come,
To bear the pressure or to clear the gloom?
“Do you not find, that joy within the breast
Of the unwedded man is soon suppress’d;
While, to the bosom of a wife convey’d, 70
Increase is by participation made?—
The lighted lamp that gives another light,
Say, is it by th’ imparted blaze less bright?
Are not both gainers when the heart’s distress
Is so divided that the pain is less?
And when the tear has stood in either eye,
Love’s sun shines out, and they are quickly dry.”
He ended here—but would he not confess,
How came these feelings on his mind to press?
He would! nor fear’d his weakness to display 80
To men like them; their weakness too had they.
Bright shone the fire, wine sparkled, sordid care
Was banish’d far, at least appear’d not there;
A kind and social spirit each possess’d,
And thus began his tale the friendly guest.
“Near to my father’s mansion—but apart,
I must acknowledge, from my father’s heart—
Dwelt a keen sportsman, in a pleasant seat;
Nor met the neighbours as should neighbours meet.
To them revenge appear’d a kind of right, 90
A lawful pleasure, an avow’d delight;
Their neighbours too blew up their passion’s fire,
And urged the anger of each rival-squire;
More still their waspish tempers to inflame,
A party-spirit, friend of anger, came.
Oft would my father cry, ‘that tory-knave,
That villain-placeman, would the land enslave.’
Not that his neighbour had indeed a place,
But would accept one—that was his disgrace;
Who, in his turn, was sure my father plann’d 100
To revolutionize his native land.
He dared the most destructive things advance,
And even pray’d for liberty to France;
Had still good hope that Heaven would grant his prayer,
That he might see a revolution there.
At this the tory-squire was much perplex’d,
‘Freedom in France!—what will he utter next?
Sooner should I in Paris look to see
An English army sent their guard to be.’
“My poor mamma, who had her mind subdued 110
By whig-control, and hated every feud,
Would have her neighbour met with mind serene;
But fiercer spirit fired the tory-queen.
My parents both had given her high disgust,
Which she resenting said, ‘Revenge is just;’
And till th’ offending parties chose to stoop,
She judged it right to keep resentment up;
Could she in friendship with a woman live
Who could the insult of a man forgive?
Did not her husband in a crowded room 120
Once call her idiot, and the thing was dumb?
The man’s attack was brutal to be sure,
But she no less an idiot to endure.
“This lofty dame, with unrelenting soul,
Had a fair girl to govern and control;
The dear Maria!—whom, when first I met,—
Shame on this weakness! do I feel it yet?
“The parents’ anger, you will oft-times see,
Prepares the children’s minds for amity;
Youth will not enter into such debate, 130
’Tis not in them to cherish groundless hate;
Nor can they feel men’s quarrels or their cares,
Of whig or tory, partridges or hares.
“Long ere we loved, this gentle girl and I
Gave to our parents’ discord many a sigh;
It was not ours—and, when the meeting came,
It pleased us much to find our thoughts the same;
But grief and trouble in our minds arose
From the fierce spirits we could not compose;
And much it vex’d us that the friends so dear 140
To us should foes among themselves appear.
“Such was this maid, the angel of her race,
Whom I had loved in any time and place,
But in a time and place which chance assign’d,
When it was almost treason to be kind;
When we had vast impediments in view,
Then wonder not that love in terror grew
With double speed—we look’d, and strove to find
A kindred spirit in the hostile mind;
But is it hostile? there appears no sign 150
In those dear looks of warfare—none have mine;
At length I whisper’d—‘Would that war might cease
Between our houses, and that all was peace!’
A sweet confusion on her features rose,
‘She could not bear to think of having foes,
When we might all as friends and neighbours live,
And for that blessing, O! what would she give!’—
‘Then let us try and our endeavours blend,’
I said, ‘to bring these quarrels to an end.’
Thus, with one purpose in our hearts, we strove, 160
And, if no more, increased our secret love:
Love that, with such impediments in view,
To meet the growing danger stronger grew;
And from that time each heart, resolved and sure,
Grew firm in hope, and patient to endure.
“To those who know this season of delight
I need not strive their feelings to excite;
To those who know not the delight or pain,
The best description would be lent in vain;
And to the grieving, who will no more find 170
The bower of bliss, to paint it were unkind.
I pass it by, to tell that long we tried
To bring our fathers over to our side;
’Twas bootless on their wives our skill to try,
For one would not, and one in vain, comply.
“First I began my father’s heart to move,
By boldly saying ‘We are born to love;’
My father answer’d, with an air of ease,
‘Well! very well! be loving if you please!
Except a man insults us or offends, 180
In my opinion we should all be friends.’
“This gain’d me nothing; little would accrue
From clearing points so useless though so true;
But with some pains I brought him to confess,
That to forgive our wrongs is to redress.
“‘It might be so,’ he answer’d, yet with doubt
That it might not; ‘but what is this about?’
I dared not speak directly, but I strove
To keep my subjects, harmony and love.
“Coolly my father look’d, and much enjoy’d 190
The broken eloquence his eye destroy’d;
Yet less confused, and more resolved at last,
With bolder effort to my point I past;
And, fondly speaking of my peerless maid, }
I call’d her worth and beauty to my aid;}
‘Then make her mine!’ I said, and for his favour pray’d. }
“My father’s look was one I seldom saw;
It gave no pleasure, nor created awe:
It was the kind of cool contemptuous smile
Of witty persons, overcharged with bile; 200
At first he spoke not, nor at last to me—
“‘Well now, and what if such a thing could be?
What, if the boy should his addresses pay
To the tall girl, would that old tory say?
I have no hatred to the dog—but, still,
It was some pleasure when I used him ill;
This I must lose if we should brethren be,
Yet may be not, for brethren disagree;
The fool is right—there is no bar in life
Against their marriage—let her be his wife.— 210
Well, sir, you hear me!’—Never man complied,
And left a beggar so dissatisfied;
Though all was granted, yet was grace refused;}
I felt as one indulged, and yet abused; }
And yet, although provoked, I was not unamused. }
“In a reply like this appear’d to meet
All that encourage hope, and that defeat;
Consent, though cool, had been for me enough,
But this consent had something of reproof;
I had prepared my answer to his rage, 220
With his contempt I thought not to engage.
I, like a hero, would my castle storm,
And meet the giant in his proper form;
Then, conquering him, would set my princess free:
This would a trial and a triumph be—
When lo! a sneering menial brings the keys,
And cries in scorn, ‘Come, enter, if you please;
You’ll find the lady sitting on her bed,
And ’tis expected that you woo and wed.’
“Yet not so easy was my conquest found; 230
I met with trouble ere with triumph crown’d.
Triumph, alas!—My father little thought,
A king at home, how other minds are wrought;
True, his meek neighbour was a gentle squire,
And had a soul averse from wrath and ire;
He answer’d frankly, when to him I went,
‘I give you little, sir, in my consent.’
He and my mother were to us inclined,
The powerless party with the peaceful mind;
But that meek man was destined to obey 240
A sovereign lady’s unremitted sway,
Who bore no partial, no divided rule;
All were obedient pupils in her school.
She had religious zeal, both strong and sour,
That gave an active sternness to her power;
But few could please her—she herself was one
By whom that deed was very seldom done.
With such a being, so disposed to feed
Contempt and scorn—how was I to succeed?
But love commanded, and I made my prayer 250
To the stern lady, with an humble air,
Said all that lovers hope, all measures tried
That love suggested, and bow’d down to pride.
“Yes! I have now the tygress in my eye—
When I had ceased and waited her reply,
A pause ensued; and then she slowly rose,
With bitter smile predictive of my woes,
A look she saw was plainly understood——
“‘Admire my daughter! Sir, you’re very good.
The girl is decent, take her all in all—}260
Genteel, we hope—perhaps a thought too tall; }
A daughter’s portion hers—you’ll think her fortune small. }
Perhaps her uncles, in a cause so good,
Would do a little for their flesh and blood;
We are not ill allied—and, say we make
Her portion decent, whither would you take?
Is there some cottage on your father’s ground,
Where may a dwelling for the girl be found?
Or a small farm—your mother understands
How to make useful such a pair of hands. 270
“‘But this we drop at present, if you please;
We shall have leisure for such things as these;
They will be proper ere you fix the day
For the poor girl to honour and obey;
At present therefore we may put an end
To our discourse—Good morrow to you, friend!’
“Then, with a solemn curtesy and profound,}
Her laughing eye she lifted from the ground, }
And left me lost in thought, and gazing idly round.— }
“Still we had hope, and, growing bold in time, 280
I would engage the father in our crime;
But he refused, for, though he wish’d us well,
He said, ‘he must not make his house a hell;’—
And sure the meaning look that I convey’d
Did not inform him that the hell was made.
“Still hope existed that a mother’s heart
Would in a daughter’s feelings take a part;
Nor was it vain—for there is found access
To a hard heart, in time of its distress.
“The mother sicken’d, and the daughter sigh’d, 290
And we petition’d till our queen complied;
She thought of dying, and, if power must cease,
Better to make, than cause, th’ expected peace;
And sure, this kindness mixing with the blood,
Its balmy influence caused the body’s good;
For as a charm it work’d upon the frame
Of the reviving and relenting dame;
For, when recover’d, she no more opposed
Her daughter’s wishes.—Here contention closed.
“Then bliss ensued, so exquisitely sweet, 300
That with it once, once only, we can meet;
For, though we love again, and though once more
We feel th’ enlivening hope we felt before,
Still the pure freshness of the joy that cast
Its sweet around us is for ever past.
O! time to memory precious—ever dear, }
Though ever painful—this eventful year;}
What bliss is now in view! and now what woes appear! }
Sweet hours of expectation!—I was gone
To the vile town to press our business on; 310
To urge its formal instruments—and lo!
Comes with dire looks a messenger of wo,
With tidings sad as death!—With all my speed
I reach’d her home!—but that pure soul was freed—
She was no more—for ever shut that eye,
That look’d all soul, as if it could not die;
It could not see me—O! the strange distress}
Of these new feelings!—misery’s excess,}
What can describe it? words will not express. }
When I look back upon that dreadful scene, 320
I feel renew’d the anguish that has been,
And reason trembles——Yes! you bid me cease,
Nor try to think; but I will think in peace.—
Unbid and unforbidden, to the room
I went, a gloomy wretch amid that gloom;
And there the lovely being on her bed
Shrouded and cold was laid—Maria dead!
There was I left—and I have now no thought
Remains with me, how fear or fancy wrought;
I know I gazed upon the marble cheek, 330
And pray’d the dear departed girl to speak—
Further I know not, for, till years were fled,
All was extinguish’d—all with her was dead.
I had a general terror, dread of all
That could a thinking, feeling man befall;
I was desirous from myself to run,
And something, but I knew not what, to shun.
There was a blank from this I cannot fill;
It is a puzzle and a terror still.
Yet did I feel some intervals of bliss, 340
Ev’n with the horrors of a fate like this;
And dreams of wonderful construction paid
For waking horror—dear angelic maid!
“When peace return’d, unfelt for many a year,
And hope, discarded flatterer, dared t’ appear;
I heard of my estate, how free from debt,
And of the comforts life afforded yet;
Beside that best of comforts in a life
So sad as mine—a fond and faithful wife.
My gentle mother, now a widow, made 350
These strong attempts to guide me or persuade.
“‘Much time is lost,’ she said, ‘but yet my son
May, in the race of life, have much to run;
When I am gone, thy life to thee will seem
Lonely and sad, a melancholy dream;
Get thee a wife—I will not say to love,
But one, a friend in thy distress to prove;
One who will kindly help thee to sustain
Thy spirit’s burden in its hours of pain:
Say, will you marry?’—I in haste replied, 360
‘And who would be the self-devoted bride?
There is a melancholy power that reigns
Tyrant within me—who would bear his chains,
And hear them clicking every wretched hour,
With will to aid me, but without the power?
But if such one were found with easy mind,
Who would not ask for raptures—I’m resign’d.’
“‘’Tis quite enough,’ my gentle mother cried;
‘We leave the raptures, and will find the bride.’
“There was a lady near us, quite discreet, 370
Whom in our visits ’twas our chance to meet:
One grave and civil, who had no desire
That men should praise her beauties or admire;
She in our walks would sometimes take my arm,
But had no foolish fluttering or alarm;
She wish’d no heart to wound, no truth to prove,
And seem’d, like me, as one estranged from love;
My mother praised her, and with so much skill,
She gave a certain bias to my will;
But calm indeed our courtship; I profess’d 380
A due regard—My mother did the rest:
Who soon declared that we should love, and grow
As fond a couple as the world could show;
And talk’d of boys and girls with so much glee,
That I began to wish the thing could be.
“Still, when the day that soon would come was named,
I felt a cold fit, and was half ashamed;
But we too far proceeded to revoke,
And had been much too serious for a joke;
I shook away the fear that man annoys, 390
And thought a little of the girls and boys.
“A week remain’d—for seven succeeding days
Nor man nor woman might control my ways;
For seven dear nights I might to rest retire
At my own time, and none the cause require;
For seven blest days I might go in and out,
And none demand, ‘Sir, what are you about?’
For one whole week I might at will discourse
On any subject, with a freeman’s force.
“Thus while I thought, I utter’d, as men sing 400
In under-voice, reciting ‘With this ring;’
That, when the hour should come, I might not dread
These, or the words that follow’d, ‘I thee wed.’
“Such was my state of mind, exulting now
And then depress’d—I cannot tell you how—
When a poor lady, whom her friends could send
On any message, a convenient friend,
Who had all feelings of her own o’ercome,
And could pronounce to any man his doom;
Whose heart indeed was marble, but whose face 410
Assumed the look adapted to the case,
Enter’d my room, commission’d to assuage
What was foreseen, my sorrow and my rage.
“It seem’d the lady whom I could prefer,
And could my much-loved freedom lose for her,
Had bold attempts, but not successful, made,
The heart of some rich cousin to invade;
Who, half resisting, half complying, kept
A cautious distance, and the business slept.
“This prudent swain his own importance knew, 420
And swore to part the now affianced two.
Fill’d with insidious purpose, forth he went,
Profess’d his love, and woo’d her to consent.
‘Ah! were it true!’ she sigh’d; he boldly swore
His love sincere, and mine was sought no more.
“All this the witch at dreadful length reveal’d,
And begg’d me calmly to my fate to yield:
Much pains she took engagements old to state,
And hoped to hear me curse my cruel fate,
Threat’ning my luckless life; and thought it strange 430
In me to bear the unexpected change;
In my calm feelings she beheld disguise,
And told of some strange wildness in my eyes.
“But there was nothing in the eye amiss,
And the heart calmly bore a stroke like this.
Not so my mother; though of gentle kind,
She could no mercy for the creature find.
“‘Vile plot!’ she said.—‘But, madam, if they plot,
And you would have revenge, disturb them not.’—
“‘What can we do, my son?’—‘Consult our ease, 440
And do just nothing, madam, if you please.’—
“‘What will be said?’—‘We need not that discuss;
Our friends and neighbours will do that for us.’—
“‘Do you so lightly, son, your loss sustain?’—
‘Nay, my dear madam, but I count it gain.’—
“‘The world will blame us sure, if we be still.’—
‘And, if we stir, you may be sure it will.’—
“‘Not to such loss your father had agreed.’—
‘No, for my father’s had been loss indeed.’
“With gracious smile my mother gave assent, 450
And let th’ affair slip by with much content.
“Some old dispute, the lover meant should rise,
Some point of strife they could not compromise,
Displeased the squire—he from the field withdrew,
Not quite conceal’d, not fully placed in view;
But half advancing, half retreating, kept
At his old distance, and the business slept.
“Six years had past, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks:
The locks once comely in a virgin’s sight, 460
Locks of pure brown, display’d th’ encroaching white;
The blood once fervid now to cool began,
And Time’s strong pressure to subdue the man.
I rode or walk’d as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I show’d my stranger-guest those hills sublime,
But said, ‘the view is poor, we need not climb.’
At a friend’s mansion I began to dread 470
The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed;
I ceased to hunt, my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more; I learn’d to play at chess;
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot;
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And bless’d the shower that gave me not to choose:
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; 480
The active arm, the agile hand were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashion new;
I loved my trees in order to dispose,}
I number’d peaches, look’d how stocks arose,}
Told the same story oft—in short, began to prose. }
“My books were changed; I now preferred the truth
To the light reading of unsettled youth;
Novels grew tedious, but, by choice or chance,
I still had interest in the wild romance. 490
There is an age, we know, when tales of love
Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve;
Then as we read we feel, and are indeed,
We judge, th’ heroic men of whom we read;
But in our after life these fancies fail;
We cannot be the heroes of the tale;
The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles play
We cannot—cannot be so smart and gay.
“But all the mighty deeds and matchless powers
Of errant knights we never fancied ours, 500
And thus the prowess of each gifted knight
Must at all times create the same delight;
Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem,
But Lancelot never—that he could not dream;
Nothing reminds us in the magic page
Of old romance, of our declining age.
If once our fancy mighty dragons slew,
This is no more than fancy now can do;
But when the heroes of a novel come,
Conquer’d and conquering, to a drawing-room, 510
We no more feel the vanity that sees
Within ourselves what we admire in these;
And so we leave the modern tale, to fly
From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy.
“Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose
That queens would call me to subdue their foes;
But, by a voluntary weakness sway’d,
When fancy call’d, I willingly obey’d.
“Such I became, and I believed my heart
Might yet be pierced by some peculiar dart 520
Of right heroic kind, and I could prove
Fond of some peerless nymph who deign’d to love,
Some high-soul’d virgin, who had spent her time
In studies grave, heroic and sublime;
Who would not like me less that I had spent
Years eight and forty, just the age of Kent—
But not with Kent’s discretion, for I grew
Fond of a creature whom my fancy drew:
A kind of beings who are never found
On middle-earth, but grow on fairy-ground. 530
“These found I not; but I had luck to find
A mortal woman of this fairy kind;
A thin, tall, upright, serious, slender maid,
Who in my own romantic regions stray’d;
From the world’s glare to this sweet vale retired,
To dwell unseen, unsullied, unadmired;
In all her virgin excellence, above
The gaze of crowds, and hopes of vulgar love.
“We spoke of noble deeds in happier times,
Of glorious virtues, of debasing crimes. 540
Warm was the season, and the subject too,
And therefore warm in our discourse we grew.
Love made such haste, that ere a month was flown
Since first we met, he had us for his own:
Riches are trifles in an hero’s sight,
And lead to questions low and unpolite;
I nothing said of money or of land,
But bent my knee, and fondly ask’d her hand;
And the dear lady, with a grace divine,
Gave it, and frankly answer’d, ‘it is thine.’ 550
“Our reading was not to romance confined,
But still it gave its colour to the mind;
Gave to our studies something of its force,
And made profound and tender our discourse;
Our subjects all, and our religion, took
The grave and solemn spirit of our book;
And who had seen us walk, or heard us read,
Would say, ‘these lovers are sublime indeed.’
“I knew not why, but when the day was named
My ardent wishes felt a little tamed; 560
My mother’s sickness then awaked my grief,
And yet, to own the truth, was some relief;
It left uncertain that decisive time
That made my feelings nervous and sublime.
“Still all was kindness, and at morn and eve
I made a visit, talk’d, and took my leave:
Kind were the lady’s looks, her eyes were bright,
And swam, I thought, in exquisite delight;
A lovely red suffused the virgin cheek,
And spoke more plainly than the tongue could speak; 570
Plainly all seem’d to promise love and joy,
Nor fear’d we ought that might our bliss destroy.
“Engaged by business, I one morn delay’d
My usual call on the accomplish’d maid;
But soon, that small impediment removed,
I paid the visit that decisive proved;
For the fair lady had, with grieving heart,
So I believed, retired to sigh apart:
I saw her friend, and begg’d her to entreat
My gentle nymph her sighing swain to meet. 580
“The gossip gone—What dæmon, in his spite}
To love and man, could my frail mind excite,}
And lead me curious on, against all sense of right? }
There met my eye, unclosed, a closet’s door—
Shame! how could I the secrets there explore?
Pride, honour, friendship, love, condemn’d the deed,
And yet, in spite of all, I could proceed!
I went, I saw—Shall I describe the hoard
Of precious worth in seal’d deposits stored
Of sparkling hues? Enough—enough is told, 590
’Tis not for man such mysteries to unfold.
Thus far I dare—Whene’er those orbits swam
In that blue liquid that restrain’d their flame,
As showers the sunbeams—when the crimson glow
Of the red rose o’erspread those cheeks of snow,
I saw, but not the cause—’twas not the red
Of transient blush that o’er her face was spread;
’Twas not the lighter red, that partly streaks
The Catherine pear, that brighten’d o’er her cheeks,
Nor scarlet blush of shame—but such disclose 600
The velvet petals of the Austrian rose,
When first unfolded: warm the glowing hue,
Nor cold as rouge, but deep’ning on the view.
Such were those cheeks—the causes unexplored
Were now detected in that secret hoard;
And ever to that rich recess would turn
My mind, and cause for such effect discern.
Such was my fortune, O! my friends, and such
The end of lofty hopes that grasp’d too much.
This was, indeed, a trying time in life, 610
I lost at once a mother and a wife;
Yet compensation came in time for these,
And what I lost in joy, I gain’d in ease.”—
“But,” said the squire, “did thus your courtship cease?
Resign’d your mistress her betroth’d in peace?”—
“Yes; and had sense her feelings to restrain,
Nor ask’d me once my conduct to explain;
But me she saw those swimming eyes explore,
And explanation she required no more.
Friend to the last, I left her with regret— 620
Nay, leave her not, for we are neighbours yet.
“These views extinct, I travell’d, not with taste,
But so that time ran wickedly to waste;
I penn’d some notes, and might a book have made,
But I had no connexion with the trade;
Bridges and churches, towers and halls, I saw,
Maids and madonnas, and could sketch and draw:
Yes, I had made a book, but that my pride
In the not making was more gratified.
“There was one feeling upon foreign ground, 630
That more distressing than the rest was found:
That, though with joy I should my country see,
There none had pleasure in expecting me.
“I now was sixty, but could walk and eat;
My food was pleasant, and my slumbers sweet;
But what could urge me at a day so late
To think of women?—my unlucky fate.
It was not sudden; I had no alarms,
But was attack’d when resting on my arms;
Like the poor soldier: when the battle raged 640
The man escaped, though twice or thrice engaged;
But, when it ended, in a quiet spot
He fell, the victim of a random-shot.
“With my good friend the vicar oft I spent
The evening hours in quiet, as I meant;
He was a friend in whom, although untried
By ought severe, I found I could confide;
A pleasant, sturdy disputant was he,}
Who had a daughter—such the Fates decree,}
To prove how weak is man—poor yielding man, like me. }
“Time after time the maid went out and in, 651
Ere love was yet beginning to begin;
The first awakening proof, the early doubt,
Rose from observing she went in and out.
My friend, though careless, seem’d my mind to explore,
‘Why do you look so often at the door?’
I then was cautious, but it did no good,
For she, at least, my meanings understood;
But to the vicar nothing she convey’d
Of what she thought—she did not feel afraid. 660
“I must confess, this creature in her mind
Nor face had beauty that a man would blind;
No poet of her matchless charms would write,
Yet sober praise they fairly would excite.
She was a creature form’d man’s heart to make
Serenely happy, not to pierce and shake;
If she were tried for breaking human hearts,
Men would acquit her—she had not the arts.
Yet without art, at first without design,
She soon became the arbitress of mine; 670
Without pretensions—nay, without pretence,
But by a native strange intelligence
Women possess when they behold a man
Whom they can tease, and are assured they can;
Then ’tis their soul’s delight and pride to reign}
O’er the fond slave, to give him ease or pain,}
And stretch and loose by turns the weighty viewless chain, }
“Though much she knew, yet nothing could she prove;
I had not yet confess’d the crime of love;
But, in an hour when guardian-angels sleep, 680
I fail’d the secret of my soul to keep;
And then I saw the triumph in those eyes
That spoke—‘Ay, now you are indeed my prize.’
I almost thought I saw compassion, too,
For all the cruel things she meant to do.
Well I can call to mind the managed air
That gave no comfort, that brought no despair,
That in a dubious balance held the mind,
To each side turning, never much inclined.
“She spoke with kindness—thought the honour high, 690
And knew not how to give a fit reply;
She could not, would not, dared not, must not deem
Such language proof of ought but my esteem;
It made her proud—she never could forget
My partial thoughts—she felt her much in debt:
She who had never in her life indulged
The thought of hearing what I now divulged:
I, who had seen so many and so much—
It was an honour—she would deem it such.
Our different years, indeed, would put an end}700
To other views, but still her father’s friend}
To her, she humbly hoped, would his regard extend. }
Thus, saying nothing, all she meant to say,
She play’d the part the sex delights to play;
Now by some act of kindness giving scope
To the new workings of excited hope,
Then by an air of something like disdain,
But scarcely seen, repelling it again;
Then for a season, neither cold nor kind,
She kept a sort of balance in the mind, 710
And, as his pole a dancer on the rope,
The equal poise on both sides kept me up.
“Is it not strange that man can fairly view
Pursuit like this, and yet his point pursue;
While he the folly fairly will confess,
And even feel the danger of success?
But so it is, and nought the Circes care
How ill their victims with their poison fare,
When thus they trifle, and with quiet soul
Mix their ingredients in the maddening bowl: 720
Their high regard, the softness of their air,
The pitying grief that saddens at a prayer,
Their grave petitions for the peace of mind
That they determine you shall never find,
And all their vain amazement that a man
Like you should love—they wonder how you can.
“For months the idler play’d her wicked part,
Then fairly gave the secret of her heart.
‘She hoped’—I now the smiling gipsy view—
‘Her father’s friend would be her lover’s too; 730
Young Henry Gale’—‘But why delay so long?’—
‘She could not tell—she fear’d it might be wrong,
But I was good’—I knew not, I was weak,
And spoke as love directed me to speak.
“When in my arms their boy and girl I take,
I feel a fondness for the mother’s sake;
But though the dears some softening thoughts excite,
I have no wishes for the father’s right.
“Now all is quiet, and the mind sustains
Its proper comforts, its befitting pains; 740
The heart reposes; it has had its share}
Of love, as much as it could fairly bear;}
And what is left in life that now demands its care? }
“For O! my friends, if this were all indeed;
Could we believe that nothing would succeed;
If all were but this daily dose of life,
Without a care or comfort, child or wife;
These walks for health with nothing more in view;
This doing nothing, and with labour too;
This frequent asking when ’tis time to dine; 750
This daily dosing o’er the news and wine;
This age’s riddle, when each day appears
So very long, so very short the years;
If this were all—but let me not suppose— }
What then were life! whose virtues, trials, woes, }
Would sleep th’ eternal sleep, and there the scene would close. }
“This cannot be—but why has Time a pace
That seems unequal in our mortal race?
Quick is that pace in early life, but slow,
Tedious and heavy, as we older grow; 760
But yet, though slow, the movements are alike,
And with no force upon the memory strike,
And therefore tedious as we find them all,
They leave us nothing we in view recal;
But days that we so dull and heavy knew
Are now as moments passing in review,
And hence arises ancient men’s report,
That days are tedious, and yet years are short.”