THE FAREWELL AND RETURN
[The next Tale, and a number of others, were originally designed for a separate volume, to be entitled “The Farewell and Return.” In a letter to Mrs. Leadbetter, written in 1823, the poet says—“In my ‘Farewell and Return’ I suppose a young man to take leave of his native place, and to exchange farewells with his friends and acquaintance there—in short, with as many characters as I have fancied I could manage. These, and their several situations and prospects, being briefly sketched, an interval is supposed to elapse; and our youth, a youth no more, returns to the scene of his early days. Twenty years have passed; and the interest, if there be any, consists in the completion, more or less unexpected, of the history of each person to whom he had originally bidden farewell.”
The reader will find the Tales written on this plan divided each into two or more sections, and will easily perceive where the farewell terminates and the return begins.]
TALE VI.
THE FAREWELL AND RETURN.
I.
I am of age, and, now no more the Boy,
Am ready Fortune’s favours to enjoy,
Were they, too, ready; but, with grief I speak,
Mine is the fortune that I yet must seek.
And let me seek it; there’s the world around—
And if not sought it never can be found.
It will not come, if I the chase decline;
Wishes and wants will never make it mine.
Then let me shake these lingering fears away;
What one day must be, let it be to-day; 10
Lest courage fail ere I the search commence,
And resolution pall upon suspense.
Yet, while amid these well-known scenes I dwell,
Let me to friends and neighbours bid Farewell.
First to our men of wealth—these are but few—
In duty bound I humbly bid adieu.
This is not painful, for they know me not,
Fortune in different states has placed our lot;
It is not pleasant, for full well I know
The lordly pity that the rich bestow— 20
A proud contemptuous pity, by whose aid
Their own triumphant virtues are display’d.—
“Going, you say? and what intends the Lad?
‘To seek his fortune?’ ‘Fortune!’ is he mad?
Has he the knowledge? is he duly taught?
I think we know how Fortune should be sought.
Perhaps he takes his chance to sink or swim;
Perhaps he dreams of Fortune’s seeking him?
Life is his lottery, and away he flies,
Without a ticket to obtain his prize; 30
But never man acquired a weighty sum,
Without foreseeing whence it was to come.”
Fortunes are made, if I the facts may state—
Though poor myself, I know the fortunate—
First, there’s a knowledge of the way from whence
Good fortune comes—and that is sterling sense;
Then perseverance, never to decline
The chase of riches till the prey is thine;
And firmness, never to be drawn away
By any passion from that noble prey— 40
By love, ambition, study, travel, fame,
Or the vain hope that lives upon a name.
The whistling Boy that holds the plough,
Lured by the tale that soldiers tell,
Resolves to part, yet knows not how
To leave the land he loves so well.
He now rejects the thought, and now
Looks o’er the lea, and sighs “Farewell!”
“Farewell!” the pensive Maiden cries,
Who dreams of London, dreams awake— 50
But, when her favourite Lad she spies,
With whom she loved her way to take:
Then Doubts within her soul arise,
And equal Hopes her bosom shake!
Thus, like the Boy, and like the Maid,
I wish to go, yet tarry here;
And, now resolved, and now afraid,
To minds disturb’d old views appear
In melancholy charms array’d,
And, once indifferent, now are dear. 60
How shall I go, my fate to learn—
And, oh! how taught shall I return?
II.
Yes!—twenty years have pass’d, and I am come,
Unknown, unwelcomed, to my early home;
A stranger, striving in my walks to trace
The youthful features in some aged face.
On as I move, some curious looks I read;
We pause a moment, doubt, and then proceed.
They’re like what once I saw, but not the same;
I lose the air, the features, and the name. 70
Yet something seems like knowledge, but the change
Confuses me, and all in him is strange.
That bronzed old Sailor, with his wig awry—
Sure he will know me! No, he passes by.
They seem like me in doubt; but they can call
Their friends around them—I am lost to all.
The very place is alter’d. What I left
Seems of its space and dignity bereft:
The streets are narrow, and the buildings mean;
Did I, or Fancy, leave them broad and clean? 80
The ancient church, in which I felt a pride,
As struck by magic, is but half as wide;
The tower is shorter, the sonorous bell
Tells not the hour as it was wont to tell;
The market dwindles, every shop and stall
Sinks in my view; there’s littleness in all.
Mine is the error; prepossess’d I see;
And all the change I mourn is change in me.
One object only is the same; the sight
Of the wide Ocean by the moon’s pale light, 90
With her long ray of glory, that we mark
On the wild waves when all beside is dark.
This is the work of Nature, and the eye
In vain the boundless prospect would descry:
What mocks our view cannot contracted be;
We cannot lessen what we cannot see.
Would I could now a single Friend behold,
Who would the yet mysterious facts unfold,
That Time yet spares, and to a stranger show
Th’ events he wishes, and yet fears to know! 100
Much by myself I might in listening glean,
Mix’d with the crowd, unmark’d if not unseen;
Uninterrupted, I might ramble on,
Nor cause an interest, nor a thought, in one.
For who looks backward to a being tost
About the world, forgotten long, and lost;
For whom, departing, not a tear was shed,
Who disappear’d, was missing, and was dead—
Save that he left no grave, where some might pass,
And ask each other who that being was! 110
I, as a ghost invisible, can stray
Among the crowd, and cannot lose my way;
My ways are where the voice of man is known,
Though no occasion offers for my own;
My eager mind to fill with food I seek,
And, like the ghost, await for one to speak.
See I not One whom I before have seen?
That face, though now untroubled and serene,
That air, though steady now, that look, though tame,
Pertain to one, whom, though I doubt to name, 120
Yet was he not a dashing youth and wild,
Proud as a man, and haughty when a child?
Talents were his; he was in nature kind,
With lofty, strong, and independent mind;
His father wealthy, but, in very truth,
He was a rash, untamed, expensive youth;
And, as I now remember the report,
Told how his father’s money he would sport.
Yet in his dress and manner now appears
No sign of faults that stain’d his earlier years; 130
Mildness there seems, and marks of sober sense,
That bear no token of that wild expense
Such as to ruin leads!—I may mistake,
Yet may, perchance, a useful friendship make.
He looks as one whom I should not offend,
Address’d as him whom I would make a friend.
Men with respect attend him.—He proceeds
To yonder public room—why, then he reads!
Suppose me right—a mighty change is wrought;
But Time ere now has care and caution taught. 140
May I address him? And yet, why afraid? }
Deny he may, but he will not upbraid; }
Nor must I lose him, for I want his aid. }
Propitious fate! beyond my hope I find }
A being well-inform’d, and much inclined }
To solve my many doubts, and ease my anxious mind. }
Now shall we meet, and he will give reply
To all I ask!—How full of fears am I;
Poor, nervous, trembling! what have I to fear? }
Have I a wife, a child, one creature here, 150}
Whose health would bring me joy, whose death would claim a tear? }
This is the time appointed, this the place:
Now shall I learn, how some have run their race
With honour, some with shame; and I shall know
How man behaves in Fortune’s ebb and flow;—
What wealth or want, what trouble, sorrow, joy,
Have been allotted to the [girl] and boy
Whom I left laughing at the ills of life—
Now the grave father, or the awful wife.
Then shall I hear, how tried the wise and good! 160}
How fall’n the house that once in honour stood! }
And moving accidents, from war and fire and flood! }
These shall I hear, if to his promise true;
His word is pledged to tell me all he knew
Of living men; and memory then will trace
Those who no more with living men have place,
As they were borne to their last quiet homes—
This shall I learn!—And lo! my Teacher comes.
TALE VII.
THE SCHOOL-FELLOW.
I.
Yes! I must leave thee, brother of my heart,
The world demands us, and at length we part;
Thou whom that heart, since first it felt, approved—
I thought not why, nor question’d how I loved;
In my first thoughts, first notions, and first cares,
Associate; partner in my mind’s affairs,
In my young dreams, my fancies ill-express’d
But well conceived, and to the heart address’d—
A fellow-reader in the books I read;
A fellow-mourner in the tears I shed; 10
A friend, partaking every grief and joy;
A lively, frank, engaging, generous boy.
At school each other’s prompters, day by day
Companions in the frolic or the fray;
Prompt in disputes—we never sought the cause;
The laws of friendship were our only laws:
We ask’d not how or why the strife began,
But David’s foe was foe to Jonathan.
In after-years my Friend, the elder boy,
Would speak of Love, its tumult and its joy; 20
A new and strong emotion, thus imprest,
Prepared for pain to come the yielding breast;
For, though no object then the fancy found,
She dreamt of darts, and gloried at the wound;
Smooth verse and tender tales the spirit moved,
And ere the Chloes came the Strephons loved.
This is the Friend I leave; for he remains
Bound to his home by strong but viewless chains:
Nor need I fear that his aspiring soul
Will fail his adverse fortunes to controul, 30
Or lose the fame he merits; yet awhile
The clouds may lour—but then his sun will smile.
O Time, thou teller of men’s fortunes, lend
Thy aid, and be propitious to my Friend!
Let me behold him prosperous, and his name
Enroll’d among the darling sons of Fame;
In love befriend him, and be his the bride,
Proud of her choice, and of her lord the pride!
“So shall my little bark attendant sail”—
(As Pope has sung)—and prosperous be the gale! 40
II.
He is not here: the Youth I loved so well
Dwells in some place where kindred spirits dwell;
But I shall learn. Oh! tell me of my Friend,
With whom I hoped life’s evening-calm to spend;
With whom was spent the morn, the happy morn,
When gay conceits and glorious views are born;
With whom conversing I began to find
The early stirrings of an active mind,
That, done the tasks and lessons of the day, }
Sought for new pleasures in our untried way, 50}
And stray’d in fairy land, where much we long’d to stray. }
Here he abides not; could not surely fix
In this dull place, with these dull souls to mix;
He finds his place where lively spirits meet,
And loftier souls from baser kind retreat.
First, of my early Friend I gave the name,
Well known to me, and, as I judged, to Fame;
My grave informer doubted, then replied,
“That Lad!—why, yes!—some ten years since he died.”
P. Died! and unknown! the man I loved so well! 60
But is this all? the whole that you can tell
Of one so gifted?—
F. Gifted! why, in truth,
You puzzle me; how gifted was the Youth?
I recollect him, now—his long, pale face—
He dress’d in drab, and walk’d as in a race.
P. Good Heaven! what did I not of him expect!
And is this all indeed you recollect—
Of wit that charm’d me, with delightful ease— }
And gay good-humour that must ever please— }
His taste, his genius! know you nought of these? 70}
F. No, not of these:—but stop! in passing near,
I’ve heard his flute—it was not much to hear.
As for his genius—let me not offend;
I never had a genius for a friend,
And doubt of yours; but still, he did his best,
And was a decent Lad—there let him rest!
He lies in peace, with all his humble race,
And has no stone to mark his burial place;
Nor left he that which to the world might show
That he was one that world was bound to know, 80
For aught he gave it.—Here his story ends!
P. And is this all? This character my Friend’s!
That may, alas! be mine——“a decent Lad!”—
The very phrase would make a Poet mad!
And he is gone!—Oh! proudly did I think
That we together at that fount should drink;
Together climb the steep ascent of Fame;
Together gain an ever-during name,
And give due credit to our native home—
Yet here he lies, without a name or tomb; 90
Perhaps not honour’d by a single tear;
Just enter’d in a parish-register,
With common dust, forgotten to remain—
And shall I seek, what thou could’st not obtain—
A name for men when I am dead to speak?—
Oh! let me something more substantial seek;
Let me no more on man’s poor praise depend,
But learn one lesson from my buried Friend!
TALE VIII.
BARNABY, THE SHOPMAN.
I.
Farewell! to him whom, just across my way,
I see his shop attending day by day;
Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes
To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes.
Young though he is, yet careful there he stands,
Opening his shop with his own ready hands;
Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves,
Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves—
But yet preserves not: in his zeal for trade
He has his shop an ark for all things made; 10
And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye,
His sundry wares in strange confusion lie—
Delightful token of the haste that keeps
Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps;
Yet ere he rests, he takes them all away,
And order smiles on the returning day.
Most ready tradesman he of men! alive
To all that turns to money—he must thrive.
Obsequious, civil, loath t’ offend or trust,
And full of awe for greatness—thrive he must: 20
For well he knows to creep; and he in time,
By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb.
Pains-taking lad he was, and with his slate
For hours in useful meditation sate;
Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand,
To make him—hard the labour!—understand.
But, when of learning he enough possess’d
For his affairs, who would might learn the rest;
All else was useless, when he had obtain’d
Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain’d. 30
He envied no man for his learning: he
Who was not rich, was poor with Barnaby;
But he for envy has no thought to spare,
Nor love nor hate—his heart is in his ware.
Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies
In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise!
To him how bright the opening day, how blest
The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest!
To him the nation’s state is all unknown,
Whose watchful eye is ever on his own. 40
You talk of patriots, men who give up all,
Yea, life itself, at their dear country’s call:
He look’d on such as men of other date—
Men to admire, and not to imitate;
They as his Bible-Saints to him appear’d:
Lost to the world, but still to be revered.
Yet there’s a Widow, in a neighbouring street,
Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet;
Her’s house and land; and these are more delight
To him than learning, in the proverb’s spite. 50
The Widow sees at once the Trader’s views,
And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse.
Yet there are moments when a woman fails
In such design, and so the man prevails.
Love she has not; but, in a guardless hour,
May lose her purpose, and resign her power;
Yet all such hazard she resolves to run,
Pleased to be woo’d, and fearless to be won.
Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside,
Are kept and shown to feed a woman’s pride: 60
Old-fashion’d, ugly, call them what she will,
They serve as signs of her importance still.
She thinks they might inferior forms adorn
And does not love to hear them used with scorn;
Till, on some day when she has need of dress,
And none at hand to serve her in distress,
She takes th’ insulted robe, and turns about;
Long-hidden beauties one by one peer out.
“’Tis not so bad! see, Jenny—I declare,
’Tis pretty well, and then ’tis lasting wear; 70
And what is fashion?—if a woman’s wise,
She will the substance, not the shadow, prize;
’Tis a choice silk; and, if I put it on,
Off go these ugly trappings every one.”
The dress is worn; a friendly smile is raised,
But the good lady for her courage praised—
Till wonder dies.—The dress is worn with pride,
And not one trapping yet is cast aside.
Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews;
And on the seventh he worships Heav’n, and woos, 80
I leave thee, Barnaby; and if I see
Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be.
II.
But how is this? I left a thriving man,
Hight Barnaby, when he to trade began—
Trade his delight and hope; and, if alive,
Doubt I had none that Barnaby would thrive.
Yet here I see him, sweeping as before
The very dust from forth the very door.
So would a miser! but, methinks, the shop
Itself is meaner—has he made a stop? 90
I thought I should at least a burgess see,
And lo! ’tis but an older Barnaby;
With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare
As coats of his once begging kindred were;
Brush’d to the thread that is distinctly seen,
And beggarly would be, but that ’tis clean.
Why, how is this? Upon a closer view,
The shop is narrow’d; it is cut in two.
Is all that business from its station fled?
Why, Barnaby! thy very shop is dead! 100
Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate—
And what the fall from that predicted fate.
F. A common cause: it seems his lawful gains
Came slowly forth, and came with care and pains.
These he, indeed, was willing to bestow;
But still his progress to his point was slow,
And might be quicken’d, “could he cheat the eyes }
Of all those rascal officers and spies, }
The Customs’ greedy tribe, the wolves of the Excise.” }
Tea, coffee, spirits, laces, silks, and spice, 110
And sundry drugs that bear a noble price,
Are bought for little, but, ere sold, the things
Are deeply charged for duty of the king’s.
Now, if the servants of this king would keep
At a kind distance, or would wink or sleep,
Just till the goods in safety were disposed,
Why then his labours would be quickly closed.
True! some have thriven—but they the laws defied,
And shunn’d the powers they should have satisfied.
Their way he tried, and, finding some success, 120
His heart grew stouter, and his caution less;
Then—for why doubt, when placed in Fortune’s way?—
There was a bank, and that was sure to pay.
Yes, every partner in that thriving bank
He judged a man of a superior rank.
Were he but one in a concern so grand—
Why, he might build a house, and buy him land;
Then, too, the Widow, whom he loved so well,
Would not refuse with such a man to dwell;
And, to complete his views, he might be made 130
A Borough-Justice, when he ceased to trade;
For he had known—well pleased to know—a mayor
Who once had dealt in cheese and vinegar.
Who hastens to be rich, resembles him
Who is resolved that he will quickly swim,
And trusts his full-blown bladders! He, indeed,
With these supported, moves along with speed;
He laughs at those whom untried depths alarm,
By caution led, and moved by strength of arm;
Till in mid-way, the way his folly chose, 140
His full-blown bladder bursts, and down he goes!
Or, if preserved, ’tis by their friendly aid
Whom he despised as cautious and afraid.
Who could resist? Not Barnaby. Success
Awhile his pride exalted—to depress.
Three years he pass’d in feverish hopes and fears,
When fled the profits of the former years;
Shook by the Law’s strong arm, all he had gain’d
He dropp’d—and hopeless, pennyless remain’d.
The cruel Widow, whom he yet pursued, 150
Was kind but cautious, then was stern and rude.
“Should wealth, now hers, from that dear man which came,
Be thrown away to prop a smuggler’s fame?”
She spake, insulting; and, with many a sigh,
The fallen Trader passed her mansion by.
Fear, shame, and sorrow, for a time endured,
Th’ adventurous man was ruin’d, but was cured—
His weakness pitied, and his once-good name
The means of his returning peace became.
He was assisted, to his shop withdrew, 160
Half let, half rented, and began anew
To smile on custom, that in part return’d,
With the small gains that he no longer spurn’d.
Warn’d by the past, he rises with the day,
And tries to sweep off sorrow.——Sweep away!
TALE IX.
JANE.
I.
Known but of late, I yet am loth to leave
The gentle Jane, and wonder why I grieve—
Not for her wants, for she has no distress,
She has no suffering that her looks express,
Her air or manner—hers the mild good sense
That wins its way by making no pretence.
When yet a child, her dying mother knew
What, left by her, the widow’d man would do,
And gave her Jane, for she had power, enough
To live in ease—of love and care a proof. 10
Enabled thus, the maid is kind to all—
Is pious too, and that without a call.
Not that she doubts of calls that Heav’n has sent—
Calls to believe, or warnings to repent:
But that she rests upon the Word divine,
Without presuming on a dubious sign—
A sudden light, the momentary zeal
Of those who rashly hope, and warmly feel;
These she rejects not, nor on these relies,
And neither feels the influence nor denies. 20
Upon the sure and written Word she trusts,
And by the Law Divine her life adjusts;
She blames not her who other creed prefers,
And all she asks is charity for hers.
Her great example is her gracious Lord,
Her hope his promise, and her guide his Word;
Her quiet alms are known to God alone,
Her left hand knows not what her right has done;
Her talents, not the few, she well improves,
And puts to use in labour that she loves. 30
Pensive, though good, I leave thee, gentle maid,
In thee confiding, of thy peace afraid,
In a strange world to act a trying part,
With a soft temper, and a yielding heart!
II.
P. How fares my gentle Jane, with spirit meek,
Whose fate with some foreboding care I seek:
Her whom I pitied in my pride, while she,
For many a cause more weighty, pitied me;
For she has wonder’d how the idle boy
His head or hands would usefully employ— 40
At least for thee his grateful spirit pray’d,
And now to ask thy fortune is afraid.—
——How fares ‘the gentle Jane?—
F. Know first, she fares
As one who bade adieu to earthly cares;
As one by virtue guided, and who, tried
By man’s deceit, has never lost her guide.
Her age I knew not, but it seem’d the age
When Love is wont a serious war to wage
In female hearts,—when hopes and fears are strong,
And ’tis a fatal step to place them wrong; 50
For childish fancies now have ta’en their flight,
And love’s impressions are no longer light.
Just at this time—what time I do not tell—
There came a Stranger in the place to dwell;
He seem’d as one who sacred truth reveres,
And like her own his sentiments and years;
His person manly, with engaging mien;
His spirit quiet, and his looks serene.
He kept from all disgraceful deeds aloof,
Severely tried, and found temptation-proof: 60
This was by most unquestioned, and the few
Who made inquiry said report was true.
His very choice of our neglected place
Endear’d him to us—’twas an act of grace;
And soon to Jane, our unobtrusive maid,
In still respect was his attention paid;
Each in the other found what both approved,
Good sense and quiet manners: these they loved.
So came regard, and then esteem, and then
The kind of friendship women have with men: 70
At length t’was love, but candid, open, fair,
Such as became their years and character.
In their discourse religion had its place,
When he of doctrines talk’d, and she of grace:
He knew the different sects, the varying creeds,
While she, less learned, spake of virtuous deeds;
He dwelt on errors into which we fall,
She on the gracious remedy for all;
So between both, his knowledge and her own,
Was the whole Christian to perfection shown. 80
Though neither quite approved the other’s part—
Hers without learning, his without a heart—
Still to each other they were dear, were good,
And all these matters kindly understood;
For Jane was liberal, and her friend could trust,—
“He thinks not with me! but is fair and just.”
Her prudent lover to her man of law }
Show’d how he lived: it seem’d without a flaw; }
She saw their moderate means—content with what she saw. }
Jane had no doubts—with so much to admire, 90
She judged it insult farther to inquire.
The lover sought—what lover brooks delay?— }
For full assent, and for an early day— }
And he would construe well the soft consenting Nay! }
The day was near, and Jane, with book in hand,
Sat down to read—perhaps might understand;
For what prevented?—say, she seem’d to read;
When one there came, her own sad cause to plead;
A stranger she, who fearless named that cause,
A breach in love’s and honour’s sacred laws. 100
“In a far country, Lady, bleak and wild,
Report has reach’d me: how art thou beguiled!
Or dared he tell thee, that for ten sad years
He saw me struggling with fond hopes and fears?
“From my dear home he won me, blest and free,
To be his victim.”——“Madam, who is he?”
“Not yet thy husband, Lady; no! not yet;
For he has first to pay a mighty debt.”
“Speaks he not of religion?”—“So he speaks,
When he the ruin of his victim seeks. 110
How smooth and gracious were his words, how sweet—
The fiend his master prompting his deceit!
Me he with kind instruction led to trust
In one who seem’d so grave, so kind, so just.
Books to amuse me, and inform, he brought,
Like that old serpent with temptation fraught;
His like the precepts of the wise appear’d,
Till I imbibed the vice I had not fear’d.
By pleasant tales and dissertations gay,
He wiled the lessons of my youth away. 120
“Of moral duties he would talk, and prove
They gave a sanction, and commanded love;
His sober smile at forms and rites was shown,
To make my mind depraved, and like his own.
“But wilt thou take him? wilt thou ruin take,
With a grave robber, a religious rake?
’Tis not to serve thee, Lady, that I came—
’Tis not to claim him, ’tis not to reclaim—
But ’tis that he may for my wrongs be paid,
And feel the vengeance of the wretch he made. 130
“Not for myself I thy attention claim }
My children dare not take their father’s name; }
They know no parent’s love—love will not dwell with shame. }
What law would force, he not without it gives,
And hates each living wretch, because it lives!
Yet, with these sinful stains, the man is mine: }
How will he curse me for this rash design! }
Yes—I will bear his curse, but him will not resign. }
“I see thee grieved; but, Lady, what thy grief?
It may be pungent, but it must be brief. 140
Pious thou art; but what will profit thee,
Match’d with a demon, woman’s piety?
Not for thy sake my wrongs and wrath I tell,
Revenge I seek! but yet, I wish thee well.
And now I leave thee! Thou art warn’d by one,
The rock on which her peace was wreck’d to shun.”
The Lover heard; but not in time to stay
A woman’s vengeance in its headlong way.
Yet he essay’d, with no unpractised skill,
To warp the judgment, or at least the will; 150
To raise such tumults in the poor weak heart,
That Jane, believing all—yet should not dare to part.
But there was Virtue in her mind that strove
With all his eloquence, and all her love;
He told what hope and frailty dared to tell,
And all was answered by a stern Farewell!
Home with his consort he returned once more;
And they resumed the life they led before.
Not so our maiden. She, before resign’d, }
Had now the anguish of a wounded mind— 160}
And felt the languid grief that the deserted find. }
On him she had reposed each worldly view,
And when he fail’d, the world itself withdrew,
With all its prospects. Nothing could restore
To life its value; hope would live no more:
Pensive by nature, she can not sustain
The sneer of pity that the heartless feign;
But to the pressure of her griefs gives way,
A quiet victim, and a patient prey;
The one bright view that she had cherish’d dies, 170
And other hope must from the future rise.
She still extends to grief and want her aid,
And by the comfort she imparts, is paid.
Death is her soul’s relief; to him she flies
For consolation that this world denies.
No more to life’s false promises she clings, }
She longs to change this troubled state of things, }
Till every rising morn the happier prospect brings. }