[196] The proper title of this picture was, no doubt, “The birth of our Saviour.”
[197] Affliction.
XII.
Jane now began (as Arnold wish’d) to arrange
Her little wardrobe, for th’ approaching change.
From humble life she soon was to withdraw
To Rollingate,—there learn the “genteel law,”
’Midst scenes of gaiety; (but yet aloof;)—
To learn in private, ’neath the mansion roof,
The necessary etiquette—for she
The future hope of Arnold was to be.
Tears flow’d, and oft, as day and night flew past;
More often still at every eve-repast:
The cottage-home serenity had fled;
And George look’d forward with an earthly dread
To that sad day; his very heart recoil’d—
To think of parting with his only child!
But Hollybrand, though passionately fond,
Had giv’n his word, and hence fulfill’d his bond.
XIII.
At length the month, the week, the day had flown,
And high in heav’n revolved the silent moon,—
The night had come; and (save the poor girl’s heart,
Which now began to fail and dread to part)
All’s ready: but the evening’s pensive shade
Unmann’d the heart, o’er forty years had made:
Poor George felt sad—indeed, well, well he might—
Whilst pondering o’er the last long-dreaded night;
He knew too well that when the morning came
To him his child would only be a name.
Thus then to pray’rs:—Upon their bended knee
They sent their orisons forth unto God, that He
Would grant to them (especially to her)
His favoring spirit, and His bounteous care.
And from its bounds the briny-liquid lept,
For Hollybrand could not refrain, and wept:
The last “good night,” with intermissive sighs,
Fell from their lips; while ’kerchiefs to their eyes
Detain’d their tears: Such was the dreary eve
Of that lone day when “Jenny” took her leave.
XIV.
Red ’rose the sun, and flush’d the fleecy sky;
His ’fulgent rays foretold the hour was nigh
When soon the cottagers would ope their eye,
For chanticleer had loos’d his horny bill,
And sent abroad his unmistaken thrill.
That honor’d oak bore up a motley throng
Of feathery warblers, lively with their song;
Beneath the tree the chickens ’wait the hour,
Then rush like steeple-chasers to the door:
And, helter-skelter, forth the bristled beast
With usual manners begg’d their usual feast:
(Could they have known their mistress sigh’d and cried,
No doubt the cloven group would have denied
Themselves one meal at least; and would have mourn’d
With Hollybrand, his loss; for Jane adorn’d
That little cot so long, ’twas sure unkind
To leave it now, and everything behind:)
But Jane came not, as usual, forth to feed
The drowsy grunters; so, to lull their greed,
George did for once (but not without much pain)
Strew out, among them all, the crumbs and grain,
And fill’d the trough. ’Twas now the hour of eight,
When lo! they heard a noise,—the birds took flight,—
’Twas like the sound of carriages afar:
At length they see the fastly-driven car.
Jane then, ’mid hopes and fears, tripp’d ’cross the floor
And saw the coach advancing to the door!
Another moment, whilst, embracing her,
Lord Arnold’s kisses stayed the falling tear.
His mode of greeting, and his gentle grace,
Implanted joy-looks on poor George’s face;—
For Arnold’s winning manners never fail’d
To cheer the hearts of those whom grief assail’d:
They all sit down (the morning meal is spread),
But George, at times, seem’d sad and sore afraid;
At intervals he scarcely could restrain
From weeping: Arnold now announc’d to Jane
The time was fast approaching when, in fact,
Her luggage in the carriage should be pack’d:
Then she, in answer, to her room repairs
And, more serene, her humble self prepares;
Return’d, and what? a picture to behold,—
Her eyes like diamonds unadorn’d with gold:
With hasty steps she gain’d her father’s side;
Her lifted hands a screen became, to hide
Once more her sad and saturated cheek:
In tones subdued, unnerv’d, she tries to speak,
(Her words were ’sunder’d with repeated sighs,)
And then a pause; and then again she tries,
Say’ng—“Father, father, oh! ’tis sad to part;
But, father, trust in God, and cheer your heart.”
These were the words, the parting words of those
Whose cottage sanctity was just about to close.
One moment more must bring that last “farewell,”—
Whose import—none but George and Jane could tell;
And Hollybrand, now left alone to dwell!
XV.
George, recollecting Arnold’s solemn vow,
Bethought himself of future joy: and so—
In silent solitude—he work’d away,
And tried to gather comfort through the day.
He doubted not that Arnold would redeem
The solemn pledges he had made to him—
That he should come and live on his estate,—
Live at the lodge and keep the entrance-gate:
(Adjoining which were well-plann’d premises,
For cows or pigs; for chickens, ducks or geese:)
And there, such things should be at his command,
As compensation for his daughter’s hand:
This, for his life-time, should be set apart;
Together with a nice light horse-and-cart.
But ere this possibly could be enjoy’d,
Full eight months more, his time must be employ’d
At Westonbury,—there (in sun or shade)
To serve the year’s engagement he had made
With the new occupants now at the Hall;—
For all the Prews were gone—yes, one and all
Were gone to their long home! So George worked on
Until these eight months’ solitude had flown:
But not a week pass’d by without the post
Convey’d to Hollybrand (from one who cost
Him many a tear) a letter; which scann’d o’er,
Infused in George—a hundred times or more—
A gleam of joy; and, oft when he would pore
Each well-filled page, he’d turn to her dear name,
Imprint a kiss—and then infold the same.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
I.
Now (retrospective of the hour of sighs—
Disconsolate moments—inundated eyes),
When disconcerted George look’d, but in vain!
As Arnold bore away his daughter Jane,
The trundled dust uprising points the way,
But disappoints his all-observant eye;
Obedient then to its instructive mood
His heart, relaxing, propagates the flood.
The Great All-ruler of a cloudless sky
Roll’d on and on the lovely lamp of joy,
And shed its holiness o’er nature’s face;
And thus, Omniscient, with compelling grace,
Ordain’d the products of the bounteous earth,
All in due season, to come smiling forth.
(Such was the hour and such the transient day
When Arnold’s carriage roll’d along the way.)
Ah! Who the Artist,—Whose the skilful hand
Impels the beams which fructify the land?
’Tis He, ’tis His, who governs earth and air,
Who pois’d the sun, the moon, and every star,
And who directs them morning, noon, and night,
Yea, ever since He said: and gave the light!
The painter imitates with studied stroke
The ruffled ocean, or the stirring brook;
But where the roarings of the troubled main
So well defined upon the painted plain?
Or where’s the music of the humble thrush,
So well depicted by his able brush
Perch’d on yon twig of nut-brown hazel-bush?
Or where the whisperings of the rustling trees,
As through their branches curl the gentle breeze?—
Or, when ’presented in a wintry storm,
We hear no moaning through the leafless form.
And then again—behold his[198] emerald glade
How breezy-bent it greets the crescent blade,
When, as it were, ten mowers (rosy blithe)
Advance by steps and sway the merc’less scythe;
Aye: how so natural the golden grain
Seems, aged-like, incline to earth again,
And, as the harvesters with rigid eye
Thrust forth the sickle most contemptuously,
How great the fall, but where the weapon’s cry? * * *
[198] The painter’s.
II.
While thus the muse compares the works of God
With that of man, twelve miles of country road
Had borne the pressure of the chariot-wheel,
Since George and Jane partook their parting meal.
And here—a quaint secluded neighbourhood—
Just where the ruins of a convent stood,
A group of gipsies (tented in a cove)
Bore tokens of contentment and of love:
One of the tribe advanced towards the coach,
And begg’d permission that she might approach:
Lord Arnold stopp’d, and lent his gen’rous ear,
Whilst she address’d him with a gentle air:
And then, observing Arnold’s willing smile,
(He not unmindful of their practis’d guile)
Rehears’d a story with considerable tact,
And hard-endeavoured to enforce the fact—
Peace and prosperity for thee’s in store,
For thou art generous to the sick and poor!
“Two years from now,” she said, “thou shalt repair
To Hymen’s altar with your lady-fair;
And when, dear sir, the nuptial hour shall come
Much joy shall reign at thy paternal home:
Then, when twelve moons their course hath duly run,
Thy virtuous wife shall bless thee with a son!”
This startling prophecy astounded Jane,
Who seem’d desirous to proceed again;
But ere they started Arnold threw her down
A goodly portion of a “half-a-crown:”
“God bless you sir,” she pleasingly replies:
“And you, dear lady, with those lucky eyes,—
Ten thousand comforts ’wait thee in thy bow’r;
And Heav’n shall smile upon thy wedding-hour.”
Then Arnold, gathering in the careless rein,
Inclined his whip across the horses mane;
They bend their twin-like necks as they proceed,
And soon attain the regulated speed.
The converse now continued for awhile
Upon the subject of the gipsy’s tale;
When Jane, consistent with her lowly sphere,
Relieved her eye of an incredulous tear:
Her hope was where it had continually soar’d,
And forth in secret there her pray’rs were pour’d.
E’en, as the coach resum’d the onward course,
A thought struck Arnold, with emphatic force,—
That this sly woman, dexterous and sedate,
Might have inform’d herself on the estate:
“How cunning,” thought he; “well, it is their trade,
And fools are often innocently made.”
III.
As day wore on—the evening-hour of eight
Brought them within a league of Rollingate:
There the old house stood in a pleasant vale,
’Mid goodly elms and oaks which stem the gale,
And which commandingly arose to view;
The pale-blue smoke curl’d up anon anew;
And on a mound the flag-staff bore on high
The family-banner, in the sun-set sky.
Above—there waited the pale queen of night,
With her retaining beams of holy light;
Then condescending to the happy pair—
When Sol had vanish’d—strew’d her silvery care:
O righteous moon, refulgent in the skies!—
All poets greet thee with their longing eyes,—
Thou art to them a river of delight;
Their choicest pages praise thee with their might:
Unnumber’d titles to thy form are given,
As they behold thee in th’ unbounded heaven:
Soul-stirring Byron loved the night, and strove
T’immortalise thee as “the lamp of love.”
(Another tries thy title to improve.)
Most welcome were its hallow’d beams to those
Whose long day’s journey drew near to a close.
Th’ exhausted horses knew the well-trod ground,
And long’d to hear the groom’s inducing sound;
The grooms, they listen, and are glad to hear
The distant rumbling which disturbs the deer:
The whizzing whip re-echoed through the trees,
And Arnold’s voice came with the western breeze,—
The sound increased as forth they onward bore
In steady paces, to the mansion-door.
High up, in night, now sat “The dark-robed moon;”[199]
Whilst round about her purple-drapèd throne,
The assembled twinklers—brilliantly array’d—
Unite in love to welcome forth the maid.
Great is the joy throughout the boundless vast.
Imagination sent a silvery blast
To ’wake the nightingales; the birds uprise
And pour their melodies into the skies.
The inmates of the mansion, hast’ning forth,
Beheld (they said) an angel come on earth;—
No greater beauty, say they, could exist
Than she, on whom their eyes were firmly fixt:
When through the hall Jane, trembling, passèd by
They saw, unveil’d, her brilliant sparkling eye
As round she gazed upon the chandeliers,
That here and there lit up the winding stairs;
And swords and bucklers, which had hung for years,
Seem’d coalescing, with the central vase[200]
Which saved its perfumes until then, and rose
In all its fresh and lovely fragrancy
To greet the stranger: but, Lord Arnold, he
Observing his dear Jane’s timidity
Hail’d Toogood,[201] who (both elderly and kind,
And one to whom Jane could unfold her mind)
Came ’cross the hall, and bow’d and shook the hand
And made th’ acquaintance of Jane Hollybrand.
[199] See Ossian’s “Songs of Selma.”
[200] Of flowers.
[201] An elderly aunt, formerly a faithful companion to the late Lady Mountjoy.
IV.
Transcendent morn ’rose o’er yon barley-field;
But dusky clouds fly’ng ’cross the golden shield
Dispersed his beams; yet, he controll’d the main,
And usher’d in a brighter day for Jane.
She ’wakes (her wonted hour), looks ’round and finds
Rich damask drapery for her window-blinds!
Chairs, almost fairy-like with ’lastic touch,
Resemble the impurpled-cover’d couch.
Then half-recumbent lo: the gentle girl
Beholds the furniture inlaid with pearl!
Herself she now reflectedly espies,
But scarce believing her yet slumb’rous eyes—
’Til, opportune, the wardrobe glass disclosed
The doubtful myst’ry; then she grew composed,
Alighted venturously on the soft floor,
And scann’d the toilet o’er and o’er and o’er:
She timorously removes[202] the window-blind;
Observes, with pleasure, the fantastic hind,
The antler’d buck, the mother and her fawn;
And all the beauties of the verdured lawn.
The ivy tendrils kiss’d her window-pane,
And further rearward wound the jessamine
With other fragrant vines. Now, Jane, she makes
Another survey t’wards the glist’ning lakes:
There she beholds, most gracefully afloat—
The silvery swans; and there the anchor’d boat
Hugg’d the green bank. All nature smiles, as ’twere;
And passing showers cool’d the atmosphere;
While birds among[203] made music sweet and clear.
On bended knee, Jane’s orisons had flown
With the appearance of the saffron dawn:
So now (rememb’ring Arnold’s fond desire
To breakfast with her), in her best attire,
She decks herself—expectant of a knock:
Mid joy and grief she hears the tuneful[204] clock,
Which crown’d the summit of the mansion mews,—
The time arrived: now Jane once more re-views
Her humble self, and modestly prepares * * *
When lo!—she hears a patting on the stairs,
And hies obediently across the floor—
To welcome Toogood at the appointed hour:
With all the sweetness of her youth, she said—
“Oh dear! dear ma’am (and sigh’d) I really dread
To leave the room;” but when Aunt Toogood smil’d
And bade Jane cheer, thus say’ng: “Come, come, my child
(In such a winsome mood) and follow me,
For Arnold now is anxious, ’waiting thee,”
She doff’d her trepidness, and went the way.
And so began the duties[205] of the day.
[202] Drawing aside.
[203] The branches.
[204] The chimes.
[205] Family prayers.
V.
All now goes well: the breakfast-meal is o’er:
Her Arnold takes her for a morning-tour,
Points out the beauties of the oak and elm,
And other grandeurs of his little realm;
Then guides her to th’ embankment of the lake—
Where various water-fowl their jauntings take,
And make—in common with their kindred race—
Untarnish’d pleasure and conjugal peace:
With some persuasion Arnold gain’d consent,
Releas’d the boat, then on the lake is spent
A pleasant cruise, ’til sundry drops of rain
Fell lustily and ringleted the main.
Each fleet intruder from the upper air
Involves the cruisers in increasing care;
The skiff’s made fast, and both with speed return
Along a route through laurel, myrtle, fern;
Soon as they gain the lofty portico
Down pours the rain,—a thousand riv’lets flow.
When, as the clouds have broke, th’ incumbent drops—
Like diamonds strewn about the verdant crops—
Sway to and fro in answer to the breeze,—
The bending blade directs them by degrees
Down to the mould; thus mingled with the roots
The earth brings forth its seasonable fruits,
And nature laughs. How good such transient showers,
Unguentous to the parched herbs and flowers!—
The shrubs are cleans’d, as though re-varnish’d o’er,
And Horus now shines out with greater pow’r.
VI.
Ascendant in the heav’ns the monarch reigns.
Noon (all-defiant in th’ imperial plains),
Surnamed Meridian, bends his mystic bow,
And waits the assault of his presumptuous foe;[206]
But grew despairingly as forth he came
(Like heav’n and earth combin’d in one great flame.)
Towards the vertex of the brazen arch.
But as he came, and with prodigious march,
Meridian waver’d, and declined the fray:
Thus onward Horus roll’d triumphantly!
The god, though angry with this vain pretence,
Forgave Meridian the unjust offence,—
On this condition—that he’d[207] ne’er again
Dispute his passage through the vaulted main.
Meridian thankfully received the boon,
And thus renounced all title to the throne.
VII.
Just as Meridian felt so dire dismay’d,
And ever after so discomforted,
The luncheon-bell invited forth the guest—
To be partakers of the mid-day feast:
Such food and drinkables meet for the hour
Were attributes most welcome, since the tour
Occasion’d such exertion to obtain
The much desired shelter from the rain:
Thus then refresh’d, retiring to her room
Jane penn’d her first epistle to th’ old home;
(Ah me! how sweet “th’ old home” falls on the ear
To all to whomsoever “home” is dear.)
In language of simplicity she wrote
Thus: (now in strictest confidence we quote)—
“My dearest father. We arriv’d last night
At Rollingate (thank gracious God) all right;
We halted twice, refresh’d ourselves, drove on,—
Most truly thankful when the day was done:
Before I laid me down I bent my knee
And pray’d to Him above to comfort thee;
Arose this morning, breakfasted, and talk’d,
Then ’round the grounds we comfortably walk’d;
We rowed upon the lake among the swans,
And fell in love with all the little ones;
Just then a rapid show’r began to fall,
We hasten’d back and luncheon’d in the Hall:
All now is quiet; Arnold’s very kind
And I, dear father, happier in mind.
That dear old lady, whom you heard him say
Was such a motherly creature, said to-day
That all at Rollingate were proud of me;
So now, dear father, pray thee happy be:
Next week, I purpose, you shall hear again.
Believe me * * * yours affectionately, Jane.”
Then came the thoughts of how she should proceed
To get it posted, and the postage freed,
But just that instant Toogood happily came,
And Jane’s distress dissolv’d into a name:
The compliant footman took it to the lodge,
And there consigned it to old Andrew Hodge.
“Old Andrew,” now, was seventy years of age;
(Had come to Rollingate erst as a page;)
O’er fifty years, it was the old man’s boast,
He had been guardian of th’ important post:
But then, besides, he rode about th’ estate,—
A sort of bailiff over Rollingate,
And superintendent of the flocks and herds,
The deer, the swine, and the domestic birds,—
He made arrangements for the animal sale
Of surplus cattle; oak, and ashen, pale;
The over-crowding firs and elms and pines;
And kept with strict regard the bound’ry lines;
Such then was Andrew’s alternating work,
With his kind niece at home as medium clerk.
Though now the poor old man had grown infirm
From partial palsy in his dexter[208] arm,
And sometimes suffer’d almost martyrdom
With the lumbago in his back and loins,
And painful visitations in his groins;
So that a few years more like this, distress’d,
Must of necessity send him to rest.
[206] The Sun.
[207] Meridian.
[208] The right (arm).
VIII.
In the meantime that dear old Christian dame,
(The bearer of that most appropriate name[209]—
Who never turn’d a beggar from the door
Without a penny and some surplus store,)
Appriz’d dear Jane that dinner-time was near—
If she would be so kind as to prepare;
And waited ’til she wash’d and plann’d her hair;
Whilst Jane made such inquiries which become
So lowly-a stranger to so lordly-a home.
And the blithe bell, diminutive in size,
Sent forth its welcome in the blissful skies—
As though a host of potentates were there
Prebent on turkey, venison, and hare;—
Not so just now, yet shall its merry ting
Continue its accustom’d carolling.—
The time may come again when princely guest
Shall be the bidden-ones unto the feast;
When round the hall the old ancestral cup
By lords and ladies shall be lifted up;
But in the interim there is much to do:
Around its orbit twice the world shall go
Before the ancient dignity’s restored,
And knights and squires admixture at the board:
(Yes, two ’volutions round the sun is plann’d
Ere Jane shall doff the name of “Hollybrand,”
For that of “Mountjoy;” and when that is done
The old festivities shall be begun.)—
“To-day at dinner there will only be,”
Said Toogood, “Arnold, you—my dear, and me:
But, dearest girl, I have a word to say—
You know that Arnold thinks of going away
A fortnight hence for just a year or two,
For—as he says—the benefit of you,—
Yes, dearest Jane,—the benefit of you!—
He’s going, he tells me, to the far-off East—
To Rome, Vienna, Berlin, and Trieste.
In the meantime (please God to grant it so)
Such education as is apropos—
For instance: grammar, ’rithmetic, and prose,
Geography, and music, and all those
Embellishments—enrichments of the mind,
And such-like things which make us good and kind,
You’ll learn, dear Jane, from gentlemen of wit;
That with their teaching you may be found fit
To fill the duties which on you will fall
When you are, darling, mistress of the Hall!”
Now this announcement, evidently made
With all affection for the gentle maid
To meliorate the anxiety of mind
Which must accrue, was (doubtless) well design’d;
And equally as well digested, as
Poor Jane, know’ng well how ignorant she was,
Told dear Aunt Toogood of her willingness,
And trusted it would lead to happiness.
[209] Toogood.
IX.
But hark! the festal-bell is ringing loud;
And Toogood, sev’nty-three, as ever proud
Comes strutting through the passage to the hall
In the same silk, and likewise handsome shawl,
That she received at Arnold’s christening ball;
Whilst Jane, all in the vigour of her youth,
Leans on her arm—exemplary of truth,
But plainly dress’d; yet with a lovely face;
And paced the passage with a queenly grace.
Now Arnold meets them and allays alarm—
By his embraces and inviting arm;
Whilst dear Aunt Toogood hastens on before
And blithely deputizes at the door;
Which ceremonial frolicsomely plann’d
Dispell’d those fears that Innocence had fann’d:
Thus then they enter and draw near the board.
While the vouchsafing grace from God’s implored
The savoury viands, which compose the food,
Send up their vapours in consonant mode;
And wines, propitious—in the crystal vase,
Move round in token of th’ eventful cause:
The homely meal—as homely as could be
Consistent with Lord Arnold’s dignity—
Affords them joy. Now, while the time beguiles
And peace and plenty, compliments and smiles
Predominate, Lord Arnold of the hour
Avails himself, describes th’ intended tour,—
Improving every moment as it flew
With tales fictitious or with stories true;
Or hum’rously endeavours to explain
The great advantage it will be to Jane,
Whilst he’s away; and what arrangements he
Ordain’d for her improvement and futurity:
His eye beheld her,—fain was he to find
The plan propounded suiting to her mind:
For Jane express’d herself with great delight,
And promised to improve with all her might.
X.
Mark how this hope lit up dear Toogood’s breast.—
How her maternal heart seem’d lull’d to rest;
How she endeavour’d—though ’twere vain to try—
To stay the tear now issuing from her eye;
How she attempted to describe her joy,
And seem’d in raptures with her darling boy!—
At length, as though empower’d by Him on high,
She doffs her tears and draws this imagery—
“There are,” she said, “some who make chary wives,
Are blest with families, and live their lives
In sweet contentment, happiness and love,
Whose guardian is the mighty One above;
But there are others who without a thought
Waste bags of gold and lack at last a groat
Wherewith to pay, and then—but when too late—
In tears discover their impoverish’d state;
Whilst, on the other hand, those keeping well in mind—
Economy, will always comfort find;
Their homes their castles—whether small or great—
Are ramparts of defence by day or night,—
No bitter whinings, nor remorseless sighs,
Reproachful twitt’rings o’er invented lies,
Are theirs, but truthful love’s protectorate:
And may God grant it—so at Rollingate!”—
Such was the purport of Aunt Toogood’s tale—
A sort of lecture on a little scale;
Perhaps experience of some family feud
Had prompted this extemporaneous mood,
Or the remembrance of some ruined pair
Impelled her speech to tell of their despair;
For ’t seemed to give th’ old lady much relief
When she had summarised her tale of grief,
As then again her countenance bespoke
Her readiness to embrace a passing joke;
And she in turn some funny things would say,
Then leave to Jove to solve the mystery;
Till Night (nocturnal goddess of the skies)
Invades the hall in mystical disguise
And with due courteousness involved their eyes.
XI.
Nine times the earth with its redeeming force
Whirl’d round its vast undeviating course:
Nine times the sun (obscured but only twice)
Obey’d the law and paid his sacrifice:
As oft the moon in reverential robes
Stood forth predominant among the globes;[210]
And only once—and that in love it seems—
The halo atmosphere impair’d her beams:
The stars, obedient to the mighty Hand,
Imparted promise to Jane Hollybrand.
But now alas! alas! that dreadful pow’r[211]
Had usher’d in the last and pitiable hour,
When that dissyllable—that dread “farewell”
Will fall from Arnold like a deathful knell!—
But true t’his promise he will faithful be,
Should Heaven preserve him over land and sea,
For love combined with strict integrity
Will well assist him through those trying years,
And turn to joy Jane’s first momentous tears.
When, as reluctantly he turn’d around,
Great Day[212] portray’d him on the gravell’d ground—
Sh’ inclined her tearful eyes toward the shade;
But in the twinkling of an eye it fled:
“Ah me! (she said) he’s gone—yet not for ever!”
Now Jane had learnt how painful ’twas to sever
From one who dearly lov’d, and whom she lov’d,—
As her demeanour most distinctly prov’d,—
For when she looked (in vain) to see the coach
Which bore him on, she hurried to her couch
And there * * * but ere she’d time to vent her grief
Her kind adviser[213] came to her relief—
“Be cheer’d” she said—and bent to stay Jane’s tears,
And solac’d the dear girl with soothing pray’rs:
Then Jane, obedient to th’ impulsive move,
Arose and openly confess’d her love.