George Crabbe: Poems, Volume 2 (of 3)

I to your kindness speak, let that prevail, 30 And of my frailty judge as beings frail.—— My father, dying, to my mother left An infant charge, of all things else bereft; Poor, but experienced in the world, she knew What others did, and judged what she could do; Beauty she justly weigh’d, was never blind To her own interest, and she read mankind: She view’d my person with approving glance, And judged the way my fortune to advance; Taught me betimes that person to improve, 40 And make a lawful merchandize of love; Bade me my temper in subjection keep, And not permit my vigilance to sleep; I was not one, a miss, who might presume Now to be crazed by mirth, now sunk in gloom; Nor to be fretful, vapourish, or give way To spleen and anger, as the wealthy may; But I must please, and all I felt of pride, Contempt, and hatred, I must cast aside. “Have not one friend,” my mother cried, “not one; 50 That bane of our romantic triflers shun; Suppose her true, can she afford you aid? Suppose her false, your purpose is betray’d; And then in dubious points, and matters nice, How can you profit by a child’s advice? While you are writing on from post to post, Your hour is over, and a man is lost; Girls of their hearts are scribbling, their desires, And what the folly of the heart requires, Dupes to their dreams—but I the truth impart, 60 You cannot, child, afford to have a heart. Think nothing of it; to yourself be true, And keep life’s first great business in your view— Take it, dear Martha, for a useful rule, She who is poor is ugly or a fool; Or, worse than either, has a bosom fill’d With soft emotions, and with raptures thrill’d. “Read not too much, nor write in verse or prose, For then you make the dull and foolish foes; Yet those who do deride not nor condemn, 70 It is not safe to raise up foes in them; For though they harm you not, as blockheads do, There is some malice in the scribbling crew.” Such her advice; full hard with her had dealt The world, and she the usage keenly felt. “Keep your good name,” she said, “and that to keep You must not suffer vigilance to sleep. Some have, perhaps, the name of chaste retain’d, When nought of chastity itself remain’d; But there is danger—few have means to blind 80 The keen-eyed world, and none to make it kind. “And one thing more—to free yourself from foes Never a secret to your friend disclose; Secrets with girls, like loaded guns with boys, Are never valued till they make a noise; To show how trusted, they their power display; To show how worthy, they the trust betray; Like pence in children’s pockets secrets lie In female bosoms—they must burn or fly. “Let not your heart be soften’d; if it be, 90 Let not the man his softening influence see; For the most fond will sometimes tyrants prove, And wound the bosom where they trace the love. But to your fortune look, on that depend} For your life’s comfort; comforts that attend} On wealth alone—wealth gone, they have their end.” } Such were my mother’s cares to mend my lot, And such her pupil they succeeded not. It was conceived the person I had then Might lead to serious thoughts some wealthy men, 100 Who, having none their purpose to oppose, Would soon be won their wishes to disclose. My mother thought I was the very child By whom the old and amorous are beguiled: So mildly gay, so ignorantly fair, And pure, no doubt, as sleeping infants are; Then I had lessons how to look and move, And, I repeat, make merchandize of love. Thrice it was tried if one so young could bring Old wary men to buy the binding ring; 110 And on the taper finger, to whose tip The fond old swain would press his withering lip, Place the strong charm:—and one would win my heart By re-assuming youth—a trying part; Girls, he supposed, all knew the young were bold, And he would show that spirit in the old; In boys they loved to hear the rattling tongue, And he would talk as idly as the young; He knew the vices our Lotharios boast, And he would show of every vice the ghost, 120 The evil’s self, without disguise or dress, Vice in its own pure native ugliness: Not, as the drunkenness of slaves, to prove Vice hateful, but that seeing, I might love. He drove me out, and I was pleased to see Care of himself: it served as care for me; For he would tell me, that he should not spare Man, horse, or carriage, if I were not there: Provoked at last, my malice I obey’d, And smiling said, “Sir, I am not afraid.” 130 This check’d his spirit; but he said, “Could you Have charge so rich, you would be careful too.” And he, indeed, so very slowly drove, That we dismiss’d the over-cautious love. My next admirer was of equal age, } And wish’d the child’s affection to engage, } And keep the fluttering bird a victim in his cage. } He had no portion of his rival’s glee, But gravely praised the gravity in me; Religious, moral, both in word and deed, 140 But warmly disputatious in his creed; Wild in his younger time, as we were told, And therefore like a penitent when old. Strange he should wish a lively girl to look Upon the methods his repentance took! Then he would say, he was no more a rake To squander money for his passions’ sake; Yet, upon proper terms, as man discreet, He with my mother was disposed to treat, To whom he told, “the price of beauty fell 150 In every market, and but few could sell; That trade in India, once alive and brisk, Was over done, and scarcely worth the risk.” Then stoop’d to speak of board, and what for life A wife would cost——if he should take a wife. Hardly he bargain’d, and so much desired, That we demurr’d; and he, displeased, retired. And now I hoped to rest, nor act again The paltry part for which I felt disdain, When a third lover came within our view, 160 And somewhat differing from the former two. He had been much abroad, and he had seen The world’s weak side, and read the hearts of men; But all, it seem’d, this study could produce, Was food for spleen, derision, and abuse; He levell’d all, as one who had intent To clear the vile and spot the innocent; He praised my sense, and said I ought to be From girl’s restraint and nursery maxims free; He praised my mother; but he judged her wrong 170 To keep us from th’ admiring world so long; He praised himself; and then his vices named, And call’d them follies, and was not ashamed. He more than hinted that the lessons taught By priests were all with superstition fraught; And I must think them for the crowd design’d, Not to alarm the free and liberal mind. Wisdom with him was virtue. They were wrong And weak, he said, who went not with the throng; Man must his passions order and restrain 180 In all that gives his fellow-subjects pain; But yet of guilt he would in pity speak, And as he judged, the wicked were the weak. Such was the lover of a simple maid, Who seem’d to call his logic to his aid, And to mean something; I will not pretend To judge the purpose of my reasoning friend, Who was dismiss’d, in quiet to complain That so much labour was bestow’d in vain. And now my mother seem’d disposed to try 190 A life of reason and tranquillity. Ere this, her health and spirits were the best, Hers the day’s trifling, and the nightly rest; But something new was in her mind instill’d; Unquiet thoughts the matron bosom fill’d; For five and forty peaceful years she bore Her placid looks, and dress becoming wore: She could a compliment with pleasure take, But no absurd impression could it make. Now were her nerves disorder’d; she was weak, 200 And must the help of a physician seek: A Scotch physician, who had just began To settle near us, quite a graceful man, And very clever, with a soft address, That would his meaning tenderly express. Sick as my mother seem’d, when he inquired If she was ill, he found her well attired; She purchased wares so showy and so fine, The venders all believed th’ indulgence mine;— But I, who thrice was woo’d, had lovers three, 210 Must now again a very infant be; While the good lady, twenty years a wife, Was to decide the colour of his life: And she decided. She was wont t’ appear To these unequal marriages severe; Her thoughts of such with energy she told, And was repulsive, dignified, and cold; But now, like monarchs weary of a throne, She would no longer reign—at least alone. She gave her pulse, and, with a manner sweet, 220 Wish’d him to feel how kindly they could beat; And ’tis a thing quite wonderful to tell How soon he understood them, and how well. Now, when she married, I from home was sent, With grandmamma to keep perpetual Lent; For she would take me on conditions cheap, For what we scarcely could a parrot keep: A trifle added to the daily fare Would feed a maiden who must learn to spare. With grandmamma I lived in perfect ease; 230 Consent to starve, and I was sure to please. Full well I knew the painful shifts we made} Expenses all to lessen or evade, } And tradesmen’s flinty hearts to soften and persuade. } Poor grandmamma among the gentry dwelt Of a small town, and all the honour felt; Shrinking from all approaches to disgrace That might be mark’d in so genteel a place; Where every daily deed, as soon as done,} Ran through the town as fast as it could run—}240 At dinners what appear’d—at cards who lost or won.  } Our good appearance through the town was known, Hunger and thirst were matters of our own; And you would judge that she in scandal dealt Who told on what we fed, or how we felt. We had a little maid, some four feet high, Who was employ’d our household stores to buy; For she would weary every man in trade, And tease t’ assent whom she could not persuade. Methinks I see her, with her pigmy light, 250 Precede her mistress in a moonless night; From the small lantern throwing through the street The dimm’d effulgence at her lady’s feet; What time she went to prove her well-known skill With rival friends at their beloved quadrille. “And how’s your pain?” inquired the gentle maid, For that was asking if with luck she play’d; And this she answer’d as the cards decreed, “O Biddy! ask not—very bad indeed;” Or, in more cheerful tone, from spirit light, 260 “Why, thank you, Biddy, pretty well to-night.” The good old lady often thought me vain, And of my dress would tenderly complain; But liked my taste in food of every kind, As from all grossness, like her own, refined. Yet when she hinted that on herbs and bread Girls of my age and spirit should be fed, Whate’er my age had borne, my flesh and blood, Spirit and strength, the interdict withstood; But, though I might the frugal soul offend 270 Of the good matron, now my only friend, And though her purse suggested rules so strict, Her love could not the punishment inflict; She sometimes watch’d the morsel with a frown, And sigh’d to see, but let it still go down. Our butcher’s bill, to me a monstrous sum, Was such that, summon’d, he forbore to come: Proud man was he, and when the bill was paid, He put the money in his bag and play’d, Jerking it up, and catching it again, 280 And poising in his hand in pure disdain; While the good lady, awed by man so proud, And yet disposed to have her claims allow’d, Balanced between humility and pride, Stood a fall’n empress at the butcher’s side, Praising his meat as delicate and nice—— “Yes, madam, yes! if people pay the price.” So lived the lady, and so murmur’d I, In all the grief of pride and poverty. Twice in the year there came a note to tell 290 How well mamma, who hoped the child was well; It was not then a pleasure to be styled, By a mamma of such experience, ‘Child!’ But I suppressed the feelings of my pride, Or other feelings set them all aside. There was a youth from college, just the one I judged mamma would value as a son; He was to me good, handsome, learn’d, genteel, I cannot now what then I thought reveal; But, in a word, he was the very youth 300 Who told me what I judged the very truth, That love like his and charms like mine agreed, For all description they must both exceed. Yet scarcely can I throw a smile on things So painful, but that Time his comfort brings, Or rather throws oblivion on the mind, For we are more forgetful than resign’d. We both were young, had heard of love and read, And could see nothing in the thing to dread, But like a simple pair our time employ’d 310 In pleasant views to be in time enjoy’d. When Frederick came, the kind old lady smiled To see the youth so taken with her child; A nice young man, who came with unsoil’d feet In her best room, and neither drank nor eat. Alas! he planted in a vacant breast The hopes and fears that robb’d it of its rest. All now appear’d so right, so fair, so just, We surely might the lovely prospect trust; Alas! poor Frederick and his charmer found 320 That they were standing on fallacious ground: All that the father of the youth could do Was done—and now he must himself pursue Success in life; and, honest truth to state, He was not fitted for a candidate. I, too, had nothing in this world below, Save what a Scotch physician could bestow, Who for a pittance took my mother’s hand; And, if disposed, what had they to command? But these were after fears, nor came t’ annoy 330 The tender children in their dreams of joy; Who talk’d of glebe and garden, tithe and rent, And how a fancied income should be spent; What friends, what social parties we should see, And live with what genteel economy; In fact, we gave our hearts as children give, And thought of living as our neighbours live. Now, when assured ourselves that all was well, ’Twas right our friends of these designs to tell; For this we parted.—Grandmamma, amazed, 340 Upon her child with fond compassion gazed; Then pious tears appear’d, but not a word In aid of weeping till she cried, “Good Lord!” She then, with hurried motion, sought the stairs, And, calling Biddy, bade her come to prayers. Yet the good lady early in her life Was call’d to vow the duties of a wife; She sought the altar by her friends’ advice, No free-will offering, but a sacrifice; But here a forward girl and eager boy 350 Dared talk of life, and turn their heads with joy! To my mamma I wrote in just the way I felt, and said what dreaming lasses say: How handsome Frederick was, by all confess’d, How well he look’d, how very well he dress’d; With learning much, that would for both provide, His mother’s darling, and his father’s pride; ‘And then he loves me more than mind can guess, Than heart conceive, or eloquence express.’ No letter came a doubtful mind to ease, 360 And, what was worse, no Frederick came to please; To college gone—so thought our little maid— But not to see me! I was much afraid; I walk’d the garden round, and deeply sigh’d, When grandmamma grew faint! and dropt, and died: A fate so awful and so sudden drove All else away, and half extinguish’d love. Strange people came; they search’d the house around, And, vulgar wretches! sold whate’er they found: The secret hoards that in the drawers were kept, 370 The silver toys that with the tokens slept, The precious beads, the corals with their bells, That laid secure, lock’d up in secret cells, The costly silk, the tabby, the brocade, The very garment for the wedding made, Were brought to sale, with many a jest thereon! “Going—a bridal dress—for——Going!—Gone.” That ring, dear pledge of early love and true,  } That to the wedded finger almost grew,} Was sold for six and ten-pence to a Jew!}380 Great was the fancied worth; but ah! how small The sum thus made, and yet how valued all! But all that to the shameful service went Just paid the bills, the burial, and the rent; And I and Biddy, poor deserted maids! Were turn’d adrift to seek for other aids. Now left by all the world, as I believed, I wonder’d much that I so little grieved; Yet I was frighten’d at the painful view Of shiftless want, and saw not what to do. 390 In times like this the poor have little dread, They can but work, and they shall then be fed; And Biddy cheer’d me with such thoughts as this, “You’ll find the poor have their enjoyments, Miss!” Indeed I saw, for Biddy took me home To a forsaken hovel’s cold and gloom; And while my tears in plenteous flow were shed, With her own hands she placed her proper bed, Reserved for need. A fire was quickly made, And food, the purchase for the day, display’d; 400 She let in air to make the damps retire, Then placed her sad companion at her fire; She then began her wonted peace to feel, She [brought] her wool, and sought her favourite wheel; That as she turn’d, she sang with sober glee, “Begone, dull Care! I’ll have no more with thee”; Then turn’d to me, and bade me weep no more, But try and taste the pleasures of the poor. When dinner came, on table brown and bare Were placed the humblest forms of earthen ware, 410 With one blue dish, on which our food was placed, For appetite provided, not for taste. I look’d disgusted, having lately seen All so minutely delicate and clean; Yet, as I sate, I found to my surprise A vulgar kind of inclination rise, And near my humble friend, and nearer, drew, Tried the strange food, and was partaker too. I walk’d at eve, but not where I was seen, And thought, with sorrow, what can Frederick mean? 420 I must not write, I said, for I am poor; And then I wept till I could weep no more. Kind-hearted Biddy tried my griefs to heal, This is a nothing to what others feel; Life has a thousand sorrows worse than this, A lover lost is not a fortune, Miss! One goes, another comes, and which is best There is no telling—set your heart at rest.” At night we pray’d—I dare not say a word Of our devotion, it was so absurd; 430 And very pious upon Biddy’s part, But mine were all effusions of the heart; While she her angels call’d their peace to shed, And bless the corners of our little bed. All was a dream! I said, is this indeed} To be my life? and thus to lodge and feed,} To pay for what I have, and work for what I need?  } Must I be poor? and Frederick, if we meet, Would not so much as know me in the street? Or, as he walk’d with ladies, he would try 440 To be engaged as we were passing by— And then I wept to think that I should grow Like them whom he would be ashamed to know. On the third day, while striving with my fate, And hearing Biddy all its comforts state, Talking of all her neighbours, all her schemes, Her stories, merry jests, and warning dreams, With tales of mirth and murder—O! the nights Past, said the maiden, in such dear delights, And I was thinking, can the time arrive 450 When I shall thus be humbled, and survive?— Then I beheld a horse and handsome gig, With the good air, tall form, and comely wig Of Doctor Mackey—I in fear began To say, Good heaven, preserve me from the man! But fears ill reason—heaven to such a mind Had lent a heart compassionate and kind. From him I learnt that one had call’d to know What with my hand my parents could bestow; And when he learn’d the truth, in high disdain 460 He told my fate, and home return’d again. “Nay, be not grieved, my lovely girl; but few Wed the first love, however kind and true; Something there comes to break the strongest vow, Or mine had been my gentle Mattie now. When the good lady died—but let me leave All gloomy subjects—’tis not good to grieve.” Thus the kind Scotchman soothed me; he sustain’d A father’s part, and my submission gain’d, Then my affection; and he often told 470 My sterner parent that her heart was cold. He grew in honour—he obtain’d a name— And now a favourite with the place became; To me most gentle, he would condescend To read and reason, be the guide and friend; He taught me knowledge of the wholesome kind, And fill’d with many a useful truth my mind. Life’s common burden daily lighter grew; And even Frederick lessen’d in my view. Cold and repulsive as he once appear’d, 480 He was by every generous act endear’d; And, above all, that he with ardour fill’d My soul for truth—a love by him instill’d; Till my mamma grew jealous of a maid To whom an husband such attention paid: Not grossly jealous, but it gave her pain, And she observed, “He made her daughter vain; And what his help to one who must not look To gain her bread by poring on a book?” This was distress; but this, and all beside, 490 Was lost in grief—my kinder parent died; When praised and loved, when joy and health he gave, He sank lamented to an early grave; Then love and we the parent and the child, Lost in one grief, allied and reconciled. Yet soon a will, that left me half his worth, To the same spirit gave a second birth; But ’twas a mother’s spleen; and she indeed Was sick, and sad, and had of comfort need. I watch’d the way her anxious spirit took, 500 And often found her musing o’er a book; She changed her dress, her church, her priest, her prayer, Join’d a new sect, and sought her comforts there. Some strange, coarse people came, and were so free In their addresses, they offended me; But my mamma threw all her pride away— More humble she as more assuming they. “And what,” they said, as having power, “are now The inward conflicts? do you strive? and how?” Themselves confessing thoughts so new and wild, 510 I thought them like the visions of a child. “Could we,” they ask, “our best good deeds condemn? } And did we long to touch the garment’s hem?} And was it so with us? for so it was with them.”} A younger few assumed a softer part, And tried to shake the fortress of my heart; To this my pliant mother lent her aid, And wish’d the winning of her erring maid. I was constrain’d her female friends to hear; But suffer’d not a bearded convert near; 520 Though more than one attempted, with their whine. And “Sister! sister! how that heart of thine?” But this was freedom I for ever check’d: Mine was a heart no brother could affect. But, “would I hear the preacher, and receive The dropping dew of his discourse at eve? The soft, sweet words?” I gave two precious hours To hear of gifts and graces, helps and powers; When a pale youth, who should dismiss the flock, Gave to my bosom an electric shock. 530 While in that act, he look’d upon my face As one in that all-equalizing place; Nor, though he sought me, would he lay aside Their cold, dead freedom, or their dull, sad pride. Of his conversion he with triumph spoke, Before he orders from a bishop took; Then how his father’s anger he had braved, And, safe himself, his erring neighbours saved. Me he rejoiced a sister to behold Among the members of his favourite fold; 540 He had not sought me; the availing call Demanded all his love, and had it all; But, now thus met, it must be heaven’s design.— Indeed! I thought; it never shall be mine!— Yes, we must wed. He was not rich: and I Had of the earthly good a mean supply; But it sufficed. Of his conversion then He told, and labours in converting men; For he was chosen all their bands among— Another Daniel! honour’d, though so young. 550 He call’d me sister; show’d me that he knew What I possess’d; and told what it would do; My looks, I judge, express’d my full disdain; } But it was given to the man in vain:} They preach till they are proud, and pride disturbs the brain.  } Is this the youth once timid, mild, polite? How odious now, and sick’ning to the sight! Proud that he sees, and yet so truly blind, With all this blight and mildew on the mind! Amazed, the solemn creature heard me vow 560 That I was not disposed to take him now. “Then, art thou changed, fair maiden? changed thy heart?” I answered, “No; but I perceive thou art.” Still was my mother sad, her nerves relax’d, And our small income for advice was tax’d; When I, who long’d for change and freedom, cried, ‘Let sea and Sidmouth’s balmy air be tried.’ And so they were, and every neighbouring scene, That make the bosom, like the clime, serene; Yet were her teachers loth to yield assent; 570 And not without the warning voice we went; And there was secret counsel all unknown To me—but I had counsel of my own. And now there pass’d a portion of my time In ease delicious, and in joy sublime— With friends endear’d by kindness—with delight In all that could the feeling mind excite, Or please, excited; walks in every place Where we could pleasure find and beauty trace, Or views at night, where on the rocky steep 580 Shines the full moon, or glitters on the deep. Yes, they were happy days; but they are fled! All now are parted—part are with the dead! Still it is pleasure, though ’tis mix’d with pain, To think of joys that cannot live again— Here cannot live; but they excite desire Of purer kind, and heavenly thoughts inspire! And now my mother, weaken’d in her mind, Her will, subdued before, to me resign’d. Wean’d from her late directors, by degrees 590 She sank resign’d, and only sought for ease. In a small town upon the coast we fix’d, Nor in amusement with associates mix’d. My years—but other mode will I pursue, And count my time by what I sought to do. And was that mind at ease? could I avow That no once leading thoughts engaged me now? Was I convinced th’ enthusiastic man Had ruin’d what the loving boy began? I answer doubting—I could still detect 600 Feelings too soft—yet him I could reject: Feelings that came when I had least employ— When common pleasures I could least enjoy— When I was pacing lonely in the rays Of a full moon, in lonely walks and ways— When I was sighing o’er a tale’s distress, And paid attention to my Bible less. These found, I sought my remedies for these; I suffer’d common things my mind to please, And common pleasures; seldom walk’d alone, 610 Nor when the moon upon the waters shone; But then my candles lit, my window closed, My needle took, and with my neighbours prosed; And in one year—nay, ere the end of one, My labour ended, and my love was done. My heart at rest, I boldly look’d within, And dared to ask it of its secret sin; Alas! with pride it answer’d, “Look around, And tell me where a better heart is found.” And then I traced my virtues; O! how few, 620 In fact, they were, and yet how vain I grew; Thought of my kindness, condescension, ease, My will, my wishes, nay, my power to please; I judged me prudent, rational, discreet, And void of folly, falsehood and deceit; I read, not lightly, as I some had known, But made an author’s meaning all my own; In short, what lady could a poet choose As a superior subject for his muse? So said my heart; and Conscience straight replied— } “I say the matter is not fairly tried:}631 I am offended, hurt, dissatisfied.} First of the Christian graces, let me see What thy pretensions to humility? Art thou prepared for trial? Wilt thou say ‘I am this being,’ and for judgment pray? And, with the gallant Frenchman, wilt thou cry, When to thy judge presented, ‘thus am I— Thus was I formed—these talents I possess’d— So I employed them—and thou know’st the rest?’” 640 Thus Conscience; and she then a picture drew, And bade me think and tremble at the view. One I beheld—a wife, a mother—go To gloomy scenes of wickedness and wo; She sought her way through all things vile and base, And made a prison a religious place; Fighting her way—the way that angels fight With powers of darkness—to let in the light. Tell me, my heart, hast thou such victory won As this, a sinner of thy sex, has done, 650 And calls herself a sinner? What art thou? And where thy praise and exaltation now? Yet is she tender, delicate, and nice, And shrinks from all depravity and vice; Shrinks from the ruffian gaze, the savage gloom, That reign where guilt and misery find an home— Guilt chain’d, and misery purchased; and with them All we abhor, abominate, condemn— The look of scorn, the scowl, th’ insulting leer Of shame, all fix’d on her who ventures here. 660 Yet all she braved! she kept her stedfast eye On the dear cause, and brush’d the baseness by. So would a mother press her darling child Close to her breast, with tainted rags defiled. But thou hast talents truly! say, the ten: Come, let us look at their improvement then. What hast thou done to aid thy suffering kind, To help the sick, the deaf, the lame, the blind? Hast thou not spent thy intellectual force On books abstruse, in critical discourse? 670 Wasting in useless energy thy days, And idly listening to their common praise, Who can a kind of transient fame dispense, And say—“a woman of exceeding sense.” Thus tried, and failing, the suggestions fled, And a corrected spirit reign’d instead. My mother yet was living; but the flame Of life now flash’d, and fainter then became; I made it pleasant, and was pleased to see A parent looking as a child to me. 680 And now our humble place grew wond’rous gay;} Came gallant persons in their red array: } All strangers welcome there, extremely welcome they.  } When in the church I saw inquiring eyes Fix’d on my face with pleasure and surprise; And soon a knocking at my door was heard; And soon the lover of my youth appear’d— Frederick, in all his glory, glad to meet, And say, “his happiness was now complete.” He told his flight from superstitious zeal; 690 But first what torments he was doom’d to feel: The tender tears he saw from women fall— The strong persuasions of the brethren all— The threats of crazed enthusiasts, bound to keep The struggling mind, and awe the straying sheep— From these, their love, their curses, and their creed, Was I by reason and exertion freed. Then, like a man who often had been told And was convinced success attends the bold, His former purpose he renew’d, and swore 700 He never loved me half so well before: Before he felt a something to divide The heart, that now had not a love beside. In earlier times had I myself amused, And first my swain perplex’d, and then refused— Cure for conceit; but now in purpose grave, Strong and decisive the reply I gave. Still he would come, and talk as idlers do, Both of his old associates and his new; Those who their dreams and reveries receive 710 For facts, and those who would not facts believe. He now conceived that truth was hidden, placed He knew not where, she never could be traced; But that in every place, the world around, Might some resemblance of the nymph be found. Yet wise men knew these shadows to be vain, Such as our true philosophers disdain— “They laugh to see what vulgar minds pursue— } Truth, as a mistress, never in their view—} But there the shadow flies, and that, they cry, is true.”  } Thus, at the college and the meeting train’d, 721 My lover seem’d his acmè to have gain’d; With some compassion I essay’d a cure: “If truth be hidden, why art thou so sure?” This he mistook for tenderness, and cried, “If sure of thee, I care not what beside!” Compelled to silence, I, in pure disdain, Withdrew from one so insolent and vain; He then retired; and, I was kindly told, In pure compassion grew estranged and cold. 730 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. 740 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. 750 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; 760 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; 770 The tender, softening, melancholy strain,} That caused not pleasure, but that vanquished pain,} In tears she read, and wept, and long’d to read again.  } But 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, 780 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, 790 When, ere her wintry wars, the earth reposed; When from the yellow weed the feathery crown, 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, 800 “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, and distress’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, 810 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 820 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; 830 A travell’d man, and as a merchant dress’d. Large chain of gold upon his watch he wore, 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. This comely man moved onward, and a pair 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 840 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, 850 “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— 860 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, Set all his sail, and for his purpose steer’d; Loud and familiar, loving, fierce and free, 870 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 880 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 weakened; he would laugh and weep, 890 And swore profusely I had murder’d sleep, Had quite unmann’d him, cleft his heart in twain, And he should never be himself again. 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}900 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, 910 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 his 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— 920 Do, 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, And—dead to all around thee—learn to die!” Now had I rest from life’s strong hopes and fears, 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; 930 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; 940 He spoke of pleasures souls like his enjoy, And 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, 950 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, 960 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 not 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, 970 The lady call’d her son “her 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 980 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 gently beat, 990 We scarcely heard them falling, at our feet. His mother absent, absent every sound And every sight that could the youth confound; 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— 1000 “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 disclose, 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, 1010 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. O! make thy victim, though by misery, sure, And let me know the pangs I must endure; For, like the Grecian warrior, I can pray, 1020 Falling, to perish in the face of day.” “Pretty, my Rupert; and it proves the use Of all that learning which the schools produce. But come, your arm—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, 1030 Fall, and make room for penitence and pride; Then would you meet the public eye, and blame 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, 1040 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’ assuage } 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— 1050 May last till thou, thy better prospects fled, Shall 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 make 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.” 1060 Ask you, while thus I could the youth deny Was I unmoved?—Inexorable I, Fix’d and determined; thrice he made his prayer, 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? 1070 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; 1080 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; 1090 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.