TALE X.
THE ANCIENT MANSION.
I.
To part is painful; nay, to bid adieu
Ev’n to a favourite spot is painful too.
That fine old Seat, with all those oaks around, }
Oft have I view’d with reverence so profound, }
As something sacred dwelt in that delicious ground. }
There, with its tenantry about, reside
A genuine English race, the country’s pride;
And now a Lady, last of all that race,
Is the departing spirit of the place.
Hers is the last of all that noble blood, 10
That flow’d through generations brave and good;
And, if there dwells a native pride in her,
It is the pride of name and character.
True, she will speak, in her abundant zeal,
Of stainless honour; that she needs must feel;
She must lament, that she is now the last
Of all who gave such splendour to the past.
Still are her habits of the ancient kind;
She knows the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind.
She holds, so she believes, her wealth in trust; 20
And being kind, with her, is being just.
Though soul and body she delights to aid,
Yet of her skill she’s prudently afraid;
So to her chaplain’s care she this commends,
And, when that craves, the village doctor sends.
At church attendance she requires of all
Who would be held in credit at the Hall;
A due respect to each degree she shows,
And pays the debt that every mortal owes;
’Tis by opinion that respect is led: 30
The rich esteem because the poor are fed.
Her servants all, if so we may describe
That ancient, grave, observant, decent tribe,
Who with her share the blessings of the Hall,
Are kind but grave, are proud but courteous all—
Proud of their lucky lot! behold, how stands
That grey-haired butler, waiting her commands;
The Lady dines, and every day he feels
That his good mistress falters in her meals.
With what respectful manners he entreats 40
That she would eat—yet Jacob little eats;
When she forbears, his supplicating eye
Intreats the noble dame once more to try.
Their years the same; and he has never known
Another place; and this he deems his own—
All appertains to him. Whate’er he sees
Is ours!—“our house, our land, our walks, our trees!”
But still he fears the time is just at hand,
When he no more shall in that presence stand;
And he resolves with mingled grief and pride, 50
To serve no being in the world beside.
“He has enough,” he says, with many a sigh,
“For him to serve his God, and learn to die:
He and his lady shall have heard their call,
And the new folk, the strangers, may have all.”
But, leaving these to their accustom’d way,
The Seat itself demands a short delay.
We all have interest there—the trees that grow }
Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe; }
They take, but largely pay, and equal grace bestow. 60}
They hide a part, but still, the part they shade
Is more inviting to our fancy made;
And, if the eye be robb’d of half its sight,
Th’ imagination feels the more delight.
These giant oaks by no man’s order stand;
Heaven did the work, by no man was it plann’d.
Here I behold no puny works of art; }
None give me reasons why these views impart }
Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the heart. }
These very pinnacles, and turrets small, 70
And windows dim, have beauty in them all.
How stately stand yon pines upon the hill;
How soft the murmurs of that living rill;
And o’er the park’s tall paling, scarcely higher,
Peeps the low Church and shows the modest spire.
Unnumber’d violets on those banks appear,
And all the first-born beauties of the year;
The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring
The large wild bees upon the labouring wing.
Then comes the Summer with augmented pride, 80
Whose pure small streams along the valleys glide;
Her richer Flora their brief charms display,
And, as the fruit advances, fall away.
Then shall th’ autumnal yellow clothe the leaf,
What time the reaper binds the burden’d sheaf;
Then silent groves denote the dying year,
The morning frost, and noon-tide gossamer;
And all be silent in the scene around—
All, save the distant sea’s uncertain sound,
Or here and there the gun, whose loud report 90
Proclaims to man that Death is but his sport.
And then the wintry winds begin to blow;
Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow;
When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue,
Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew;
The aged moss grows brittle on the pale;
The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale;
And every changing season of the year
Stamps on the scene its English character.
Farewell! a prouder Mansion I may see, 100
But much must meet in that which equals thee!
II.
I leave the town, and take a well-known way
To that old Mansion in the closing day,
When beams of golden light are shed around,
And sweet is every night and every sound.
Pass but this hill, and I shall then behold
The Seat so honour’d, no admired of old,
And yet admired——
Alas! I see a change,
Of odious kind, and lamentably strange.
Who had done this? The good old Lady lies 110
Within her tomb; but, who could this advise?
What barbarous hand could all this mischief do,
And spoil a noble house, to make it new?
Who had done this? Some genuine Son of Trade
Has all this dreadful devastation made;
Some man with line and rule, and evil eye,
Who could no beauty in a tree descry,
Save in a clump, when stationed by his hand,
And standing where his genius bade them stand;
Some true admirer of the time’s reform, 120
Who strips an ancient dwelling like a storm;
Strips it of all its dignity and grace,
To put his own dear fancies in their place.
He hates concealment: all that was enclosed
By venerable wood is now exposed,
And a few stripling elms all oaks appear,
Fenced round by boards, to keep them from the deer.
I miss the grandeur of the rich old scene,
And see not what these clumps and patches mean!
This shrubby belt that runs the land around 130
Shuts freedom out! what being likes a bound?
The shrubs indeed, and ill-placed flowers, are gay, }
And some would praise; I wish they were away, }
That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might stray. }
The things themselves are pleasant to behold,
But not like those which we beheld of old—
That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain, }
Unbound and unsubdued!—but sighs are vain; }
It is the rage of Taste—the rule and compass reign. }
As thus my spleen upon the view I fed, 140
A man approach’d me, by his grandchild led—
A blind old man, and she a fair young maid,
Listening in love to what her grandsire said.
And thus with gentle voice he spoke—
“Come lead me, lassie, to the shade,
Where willows grow beside the brook;
For well I know the sound it made,
When, dashing o’er the stony rill,
It murmur’d to St. Osyth’s Mill.”
The Lass replied—“The trees are fled, 150
They’ve cut the brook a straighter bed:
No shades the present lords allow,
The miller only murmurs now;
The waters now his mill forsake,
And form a pond they call a lake.”—
“Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,
And to the holy water bring;
A cup is fasten’d to the stone,
And I would taste the healing spring,
That soon its rocky cist forsakes, 160
And green its mossy passage makes.”—
“The holy spring is turn’d aside,
The rock is gone, the stream is dried;
The plough has levell’d all around,
And here is now no holy ground.”—
“Then, lass, thy grandsire’s footsteps guide
To Bulmer’s Tree, the giant oak,
Whose boughs the keeper’s cottage hide,
And part the church-way lane o’erlook;
A boy, I climb’d the topmost bough, 170
And I would feel its shadow now!
“Or, lassie, lead me to the west,
Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall,
Where rooks unnumber’d build their nest—
Deliberate birds, and prudent all:
Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,
But they’re a social multitude.”
“The rooks are shot, the trees are fell’d,
And nest and nursery all expell’d;
With better fate the giant-tree, 180
Old Bulmer’s Oak, is gone to sea.
The church-way walk is now no more,
And men must other ways explore;
Though this indeed promotion gains,
For this the park’s new wall contains;
And here I fear we shall not meet
A shade—although, perchance, a seat.”
“O then, my lassie, lead the way
To Comfort’s Home, the ancient inn:
That something holds, if we can pay— 190
Old David is our living kin;
A servant once, he still preserves
His name, and in his office serves.”
“Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David’s sorrows to relate!
But they were brief; not long before
He died, his office was no more.
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound.”
“O then,” the grieving Man replied, 200
“No further, lassie, let me stray;
Here’s nothing left of ancient pride,
Of what was grand, of what was gay;
But all is chang’d, is lost, is sold—
All, all that’s left is chilling cold.
I seek for comfort here in vain;
Then lead me to my cot again!”
TALE XI.
THE MERCHANT.
I.
Lo! one appears, to whom if I should dare
To say farewell, the lordly man would stare,
Would stretch his goodly form some inches higher,
And then, without a single word, retire;
Or from his state might haply condescend
To doubt his memory—“Ha! your name, my friend?”
He is the master of these things we see:
Those vessels proudly riding by the quay;
With all those mountain heaps of coal that lie,
For half a county’s wonder and supply. 10
Boats, cables, anchors, all to him pertain—
A swimming fortune, all his father’s gain.
He was a porter on the quay, and one
Proud of his fortune, prouder of his son—
Who was ashamed of him, and much distress’d
To see his father was no better dress’d.
Yet for this parent did the son erect
A tomb—’tis whisper’d, he must not expect
The like for him, when he shall near it sleep—
Where we behold the marble cherubs weep. 20
There are no merchants who with us reside
In half his state—no wonder he has pride;
Then he parades around that vast estate,
As if he spurn’d the slaves that make him great;
Speaking in tone so high, as if the ware
Was nothing worth—at least not worth his care;
Yet should he not these bulky stores contemn,
For all his glory he derives from them;
And, were it not for that neglected store,
This great rich man would be extremely poor. 30
Generous men call him, for he deigns to give;
He condescends to say the poor must live.
Yet in his seamen not a sign appears
That they have much respect, or many fears;
With inattention they their patron meet,
As if they thought his dignity a cheat;
Or of himself as, having much to do
With their affairs, he very little knew;
As if his ways to them so well were known
That they might hear, and bow, and take their own. 40
He might contempt for men so humble feel,
But this experience taught him to conceal;
For sailors do not to a lord at land
As to their captain in submission stand;
Nor have mere pomp and pride, of look or speech,
Been able yet respect or awe to teach.
Guns, when with powder charged, will make a noise,
To frighten babes, and be the sport of boys;
But, when within men find there’s nothing more,
They shout contemptuous at the idle roar. 50
Thus will our lofty man to all appear,
With nothing charged that they respect or fear.
His Lady, too, to her large purse applies,
And all she fancies at the instant buys.
How bows the market, when from stall to stall
She walks, attended! how respectful all!
To her free orders every maid attends,
And strangers wonder what the woman spends.
There is an auction, and the people, shy,
Are loth to bid, and yet desire to buy. 60
Jealous they gaze with mingled hope and fear,
Of buying cheaply, and of paying dear.
They see the hammer with determined air
Seized for despatch, and bid in pure despair!
They bid—the hand is quiet as before—
Still stands old Puff till one advances more.—
Behold great madam, gliding through the crowd;
Hear her too bid—decisive tone and loud!
“Going! ’tis gone!” the hammer-holder cries—
“Joy to you, Lady! you have gain’d a prize.” 70
Thus comes and goes the wealth, that, saved or spent,
Buys not a moment’s credit or content.
Farewell! your fortune I forbear to guess;
For chance, as well as sense, may give success.
II.
P. Say, what yon buildings, neat indeed, but low,
So much alike, in one commodious row?
F. You see our Alms-house: ancient men, decay’d,
Are here sustain’d, who lost their way in trade;
Here they have all that sober men require—
So thought the Poet—“meat, and clothes, and fire”; 80
A little garden to each house pertains,
Convenient each, and kept with little pains.
Here for the sick are nurse and medicine found;
Here walks and shaded alleys for the sound;
Books of devotion on the shelves are placed,
And not forbidden are the books of taste.
The Church is near them—in a common seat
The pious men with grateful spirit meet;
Thus from the world, which they no more admire,
They all in silent gratitude retire. 90
P. And is it so? Have all, with grateful mind,
The world relinquish’d, and its ways resign’d?
Look they not back with lingering love and slow,
And fain would once again the oft-tried follies know?
F. Too surely some! We must not think that all,
Call’d to be hermits, would obey the call;
We must not think that all forget the state
In which they moved, and bless their humbler fate;
But all may here the waste of life retrieve,
And, ere they leave the world, its vices leave. 100
See yonder man, who walks apart, and seems
Wrapt in some fond and visionary schemes;
Who looks uneasy, as a man oppress’d
By that large copper badge upon his breast.
His painful shame, his self-tormenting pride,
Would all that’s visible in bounty hide;
And much his anxious breast is swell’d with woe,
That where he goes his badge must with him go.
P. Who then is he? Do I behold aright?
My lofty Merchant in this humble plight! 110
Still has he pride?
F. If common fame be just,
He yet has pride—the pride that licks the dust;
Pride that can stoop, and feed upon the base
And wretched flattery of this humbling place;
Nay, feeds himself! his failing is avow’d:
He of the cause that made him poor is proud;
Proud of his greatness, of the sums he spent,
And honours shown him wheresoe’er he went.
Yes! there he walks, that lofty man is he,
Who was so rich; but great he could not be. 120
Now to the paupers who about him stand
He tells of wonders, by his bounty plann’d;
Tells of his traffic, where his vessels sail’d,
And what a trade he drove—before he fail’d;
Then what a failure, not a paltry sum,
Like a mean trader, but for half a plum;
His Lady’s wardrobe was apprised so high
At his own sale, that nobody would buy!—
“But she is gone,” he cries, “and never saw
The spoil and havoc of our cruel law; 130
My steeds, our chariot that so roll’d along,
Admired of all! they sold them for a song.
You all can witness what my purse could do;
And now I wear a badge like one of you,
Who in my service had been proud to live—
And this is all a thankless town will give.
I, who have raised the credit of that town,
And gave it, thankless as it is, renown—
Who’ve done, what no man there had done before,
Now hide my head within an Alms-house door— 140
Deprived of all—my wife, my wealth, my vote,
And in this blue defilement——Curse the Coat!”
TALE XII.
THE BROTHER BURGESSES.
I.
Two busy Brothers in our place reside,
And wealthy each, his party’s boast and pride;
Sons of one father, of two mothers born,
They hold each other in true party-scorn.
James is the one who for the people fights,
The sturdy champion of their dubious rights;
Merchant and seaman rough, but not the less
Keen in pursuit of his own happiness;
And what his happiness?—To see his store
Of wealth increase, till Mammon groans, “No more!” 10
James goes to church—because his father went,
But does not hide his leaning to dissent;
Reasons for this, whoe’er may frown, he’ll speak—
Yet the old pew receives him once a week.
Charles is a churchman, and has all the zeal
That a strong member of his church can feel;
A loyal subject is the name he seeks;
He of “his King and Country” proudly speaks:
He says, his brother and a rebel-crew,
Minded like him, the nation would undo, 20
If they had power, or were esteem’d enough
Of those who had, to bring their plans to proof.
James answers sharply—“I will never place
My hopes upon a Lordship or a Grace!
To some great man you bow, to greater he,
Who to the greatest bends his supple knee,
That so the manna from the head may drop,
And at the lowest of the kneelers stop.
Lords call you loyal, and on them you call
To spare you something from our plunder’d all: 30
If tricks like these to slaves can treasure bring,
Slaves well may shout them hoarse for ‘Church and King!’”
“Brother!” says Charles,—“yet ‘brother’ is a name
I own with pity, and I speak with shame—
One of these days you’ll surely lead a mob,
And then the hangman will conclude the job.”
“And would you, Charles, in that unlucky case, }
Beg for his life whose death would bring disgrace }
On you, and all the loyal of our race? }
Your worth would surely from the halter bring 40}
One neck, and I, a patriot, then might sing— }
A brother patriot I—‘God save our noble King!’” }
“James!” said the graver man, in manner grave—
“Your neck I could not, I your soul would save;
Oh! ere that day, alas, too likely! come,
I would prepare your mind to meet your doom,
That then the priest, who prays with that bad race
Of men, may find you not devoid of grace.”
These are the men who, from their seats above,
Hear frequent sermons on fraternal love; 50
Nay, each approves, and answers—“Very true!
Brother would heed it, were he not a Jew.”
II.
P. Read I aright? beneath this stately stone
The Brothers rest in peace, their grave is one!
What friend, what fortune interfered, that they
Take their long sleep together, clay with clay?
How came it thus?—
F. It was their own request,
By both repeated, that they thus might rest.
P. ’Tis well! Did friends at length the pair unite?
Or was it done because the deed was right? 60
Did the cool spirit of enfeebling age
Chill the warm blood, and calm the party rage,
And kindly lead them, in their closing day,
To put their animosity away,
Incline their hearts to live in love and peace,
And bid the ferment in each bosom cease?
F. Rich men have runners, who will to and fro
In search of food for their amusement go;
Who watch their spirits, and with tales of grief
Yield to their melancholy minds relief; 70
Who of their foes will each mishap relate,
And of their friends the fall or failings state.
One of this breed—the Jackall who supplied
Our Burgess Charles with food for spleen and pride—
Before he utter’d what his memory brought,
On its effect, in doubtful matters, thought,
Lest he, perchance, in his intent might trip,
Or a strange fact might indiscreetly slip.—
But he, one morning, had a tale to bring,
And felt full sure he need not weigh the thing; 80
That must be welcome! With a smiling face
He watch’d th’ accustom’d nod, and took his place.
“Well! you have news—I see it—Good, my friend,
No preface, Peter! Speak, man; I attend.”
“Then, sir, I’m told—nay, ’tis beyond dispute—
Our Burgess James is routed horse and foot;
He’ll not be seen; a clerk for him appears,
And their precautions testify their fears;
Before the week be ended you shall see,
That our famed patriot will a bankrupt be.”— 90
“Will he, by——! No, I will not be profane,
But James a bankrupt! Boy, my hat and cane!
No! he’ll refuse my offers—Let me think!
So would I his; here, give me pen and ink!
There! that will do.—What! let my father’s son,
My brother, want, and I—away! and run;
Run, as for life, and then return—but stay
To take his message—now, away, away!”
The pride of James was shaken as he read—
The Brothers met—the angry spirit fled. 100
Few words were needed—in the look of each
There was a language words can never reach;
But, when they took each other’s hand, and press’d,
Subsiding tumult sank to endless rest;
Nor party wrath with quick affection strove,
Drown’d in the tears of reconciling love.
Affairs confused, and business at a stand,
Were soon set right by Charles’s powerful hand;
The rudest mind in this rude place enjoy’d
The pleasing thought of enmity destroy’d, 110
And so destroy’d, that neither spite nor spleen,
Nor peevish look from that blest hour were seen;
Yet each his party and his spirit kept,
Though all the harsh and angry passions slept.
P. And they too sleep! and, at their joint request,
Within one tomb, beneath one stone, they rest!
TALE XIII.
THE DEAN’S LADY.
I.
Next, to a Lady I must bid adieu—
Whom some in mirth or malice call a “Blue.”
There needs no more—when that same word is said,
The men grow shy, respectful, and afraid;
Save the choice friends who in her colour dress,
And all her praise in words like hers express.
Why should proud man in man that knowledge prize,
Which he affects in woman to despise?
Is he not envious when a lady gains, }
In hours of leisure, and with little pains, 10}
What he in many a year with painful toil obtains? }
For surely knowledge should not odious grow,
Nor ladies be despised for what they know;
Truth, to no sex confined, her friends invites,
And woman, long restrain’d, demands her rights.
Nor should a light and odious name be thrown
On the fair dame who makes that knowledge known—
Who bravely dares the world’s sarcastic sneer,
And what she is, is willing to appear.
“And what she is not!” peevish man replies, 20
His envy owning what his pride denies.
But let him, envious as he is, repair
To this sage Dame, and meet conviction there!
Miranda sees her morning levee fill’d
With men, in every art and science skill’d—
Men who have gain’d a name, whom she invites,
Because in men of genius she delights.
To these she puts her questions, that produce
Discussion vivid, and discourse abstruse;
She no opinion for its boldness spares, 30
But loves to show her audience what she dares;
The creeds of all men she takes leave to sift,
And, quite impartial, turns her own adrift.
Her noble mind, with independent force,
Her Rector questions on his late discourse;
Perplex’d and pain’d, he wishes to retire
From one whom critics, nay, whom crowds, admire—
From her whose faith on no man’s dictate leans;
Who her large creed from many a teacher gleans;
Who for herself will judge, debate, decide, 40
And be her own “philosopher and guide.”
Why call a lady Blue? It is because
She reads, converses, studies for applause;
And therefore all that she desires to know
Is just as much as she can fairly show.
The real knowledge we in secret hide;
It is the counterfeit that makes our pride.
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”—
So sings the Poet, and so let him sing;
But, if from little learning danger rose, 50
I know not who in safety could repose.
The evil rises from our own mistake,
When we our ignorance for knowledge take;
Or when the little that we have, through pride
And vain poor self-love view’d, is magnified.
Nor is your deepest Azure always free
From these same dangerous calls of vanity.
Yet of the sex are those who never show,
By way of exhibition, what they know.
Their books are read and praised, and so are they, 60
But all without design, without display.
Is there not One who reads the hearts of men,
And paints them strongly with unrivall’d pen?
All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear;
Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear;
Looks in the close recesses of the mind,
And gives the finish’d portraits to mankind,
By skill conducted, and to Nature true—
And yet no man on earth would call Joanna Blue!
Not so Miranda! She is ever prest 70
To give opinions, and she gives her best.
To these with gentle smile her guests incline,
Who come to hear, improve, applaud—and dine.
Her hungry mind on every subject feeds;
She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads;
Locke entertains her, and she wonders why
His famous Essay is consider’d dry.
For her amusement in her vacant hours
Are earths and rocks, and animals and flowers;
She could the farmer at his work assist, 80
A systematic agriculturist.
Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind,
Nor let us see that they themselves are blind;
But—thank our stars!—the liberal times allow,
That all may think, and men have rivals now.
Miranda deems all knowledge might be gain’d—
“But she is idle, nor has much attain’d;
Men are in her deceived: she knows at most
A few light matters, for she scorns to boast.
Her mathematic studies she resign’d— 90
They did not suit the genius of her mind.
She thought indeed the higher parts sublime,
But then they took a monstrous deal of time!”
Frequent and full the letters she delights
To read in part; she names not him who writes—
But here and there a precious sentence shows,
Telling what literary debts she owes.
Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come,
“Alas!” she cries, “and I must seal their doom.
Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain— 100
Ah! why must truth be told, or man be vain?”
Much she has written, and still deigns to write,
But not an effort yet must see the light.
“Cruel!” her friends exclaim; “unkind, unjust!”
But, no! the envious mass she will not trust;
Content to hear that fame is due to her,
Which on her works the world might not confer—
Content with loud applauses while she lives;
Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives.
II.
P. Now where the Learned Lady? Doth she live, 110
Her dinners yet and sentiments to give—
The Dean’s wise consort, with the many friends,
From whom she borrows, and to whom she lends
Her precious maxims?
F. Yes, she lives to shed
Her light around her; but her Dean is dead.
Seen her I have, but seldom could I see;
Borrow she could not, could not lend to me.
Yet I attended, and beheld the tribe
Attending too, whom I will not describe—
Miranda Thomson! Yes, I sometimes found 120
A seat among a circle so profound;
When all the science of the age combined
Was in that room, and hers the master-mind.
Well I remember the admiring crowd,
Who spoke their wonder and applause aloud;
They strove who highest should her glory raise,
And cramm’d the hungry mind with honied praise—
While she, with grateful hand, a table spread,
The Dean assenting—but the Dean is dead;
And, though her sentiments are still divine,
She asks no more her auditors to dine. 130
Once from her lips came wisdom; when she spoke,
Her friends in transport or amazement broke.
Now to her dictates there attend but few,
And they expect to meet attention too;
Respect she finds is purchased at some cost,
And deference is withheld, when dinner’s lost.
She, once the guide and glory of the place
Exists between oblivion and disgrace;
Praise, once afforded, now—they say not why, 140
They dare not say it—fickle men deny;
That buzz of fame a new Minerva cheers,
Which our deserted queen no longer hears.
Old, but not wise, forsaken, not resign’d,
She gives to honours past her feeble mind;
Back to her former state her fancy moves,
And lives on past applause, that still she loves;
Yet holds in scorn the fame no more in view, }
And flies the glory that would not pursue }
To yon small cot a poorly jointured Blue. 150}
TALE XIV.
THE WIFE AND WIDOW.
I.
I leave Sophia; it would please me well,
Before we part, on so much worth to dwell.
’Tis said of one who lived in times of strife,
There was no boyhood in his busy life;
Born to do all that mortal being can,
The thinking child became at once the man;
So this fair girl in early youth was led,
By reasons strong in early youth, to wed.
In her new state her prudence was her guide,
And of experience well the place supplied; 10
With life’s important business full in view,
She had no time for its amusements too;
She had no practised look man’s heart t’ allure,
No frown to kill him, and no smile to cure;
No art coquettish, nothing of the prude;
She was with strong yet simple sense endued,
Intent on duties, and resolved to shun
Nothing that ought to be, and could be, done.
A Captain’s wife, with him she long sustain’d
The toil of war, and in a camp remain’d; 20
Her husband wounded, with a child in arms,
She nurst them both, unheeded all alarms;
All useless terror in her soul supprest—
None could discern in hers a troubled breast.
Her wounded soldier is a prisoner made—
She hears, prepares, and is at once convey’d
Through hostile ranks; with air sedate she goes,
And makes admiring friends of wondering foes.
Her dying husband to her care confides }
Affairs perplex’d; she reasons, she decides; 30}
If intricate her way, her walk discretion guides. }
Home to her country she returns alone,
Her health decay’d, her child, her husband, gone;
There she in peace reposes, there resumes
Her female duties, and in rest reblooms;
She is not one at common ills to droop,
Nor to vain murmuring will her spirit stoop.
I leave her thus: her fortieth year is nigh,
She will not for another captain sigh;
Will not a young and gay lieutenant take, 40
Because ’tis pretty to reform a rake;
Yet she again may plight her widow’d hand,
Should love invite, or charity demand,
And make her days, although for duty’s sake,
As sad as folly and mischance can make.