A vicar died, and left his daughter poor— It hurt her not, she was not rich before: Her humble share of worldly goods she sold, Paid every debt, and then her fortune told; And found, with youth and beauty, hope and health, Two hundred guineas was her worldly wealth; It then remain’d to choose her path in life, And first, said Jesse, “Shall I be a wife?— Colin is mild and civil, kind and just, I know his love, his temper I can trust; 10 But small his farm, it asks perpetual care, And we must toil as well as trouble share. True, he was taught in all the gentle arts That raise the soul, and soften human hearts, And boasts a parent, who deserves to shine In higher class, and I could wish her mine; Nor wants he will his station to improve, A just ambition waked by faithful love;— Still is he poor—and here my father’s friend Deigns for his daughter, as her own, to send; 20 A worthy lady, who it seems has known A world of griefs and troubles of her own. I was an infant, when she came, a guest Beneath my father’s humble roof to rest; Her kindred all unfeeling, vast her woes; Such her complaint, and there she found repose; Enrich’d by fortune, now she nobly lives, And nobly, from the blest abundance, gives; The grief, the want of human life, she knows, And comfort there and here relief bestows; 30 But are they not dependants?—Foolish pride! Am I not honour’d by such friend and guide? Have I a home,” (here Jesse dropp’d a tear,) “Or friend beside?”—A faithful friend was near. Now Colin came, at length resolved to lay His heart before her and to urge her stay; True, his own plough the gentle Colin drove, An humble farmer with aspiring love; Who, urged by passion, never dared till now, Thus urged by fears, his trembling hopes avow. 40 Her father’s glebe he managed; every year The grateful vicar held the youth more dear; He saw indeed the prize in Colin’s view, And wish’d his Jesse with a man so true; Timid as true, he urged with anxious air His tender hope, and made the trembling prayer; When Jesse saw, nor could with coldness see, Such fond respect, such tried sincerity, Grateful for favours to her father dealt, She more than grateful for his passion felt; 50 Nor could she frown on one so good and kind, Yet fear’d to smile, and was unfix’d in mind; But prudence placed the female friend in view— What might not one so rich and grateful do? So lately, too, the good old vicar died,} His faithful daughter must not cast aside} The signs of filial grief, and be a ready bride: } Thus, led by prudence, to the lady’s seat The village-beauty purposed to retreat; But, as in hard-fought fields the victor knows 60 What to the vanquish’d he, in honour, owes, So, in this conquest over powerful love, Prudence resolved a generous foe to prove; And Jesse felt a mingled fear and pain In her dismission of a faithful swain, Gave her kind thanks, and when she saw his wo, Kindly betray’d that she was loth to go. But would she promise, if abroad she met} A frowning world, she would remember yet} “Where dwelt a friend?”—“That could she not forget.” } And thus they parted; but each faithful heart 71 Felt the compulsion, and refused to part. Now by the morning mail the timid maid Was to that kind and wealthy dame convey’d; Whose invitation, when her father died, Jesse as comfort to her heart applied. She knew the days her generous friend had seen— As wife and widow, evil days had been; She married early, and for half her life Was an insulted and forsaken wife; 80 Widow’d and poor, her angry father gave, Mix’d with reproach, the pittance of a slave; Forgetful brothers pass’d her, but she knew Her humbler friends, and to their home withdrew; The good old vicar to her sire applied For help, and help’d her when her sire denied; When in few years death stalk’d through bower and hall, Sires, sons, and sons of sons, were buried all; She then abounded, and had wealth to spare For softening grief she once was doom’d to share; 90 Thus train’d in misery’s school, and taught to feel, She would rejoice an orphan’s woes to heal. So Jesse thought, who look’d within her breast, And thence conceived how bounteous minds are bless’d. From her vast mansion look’d the lady down On humbler buildings of a busy town; Thence came her friends of either sex, and all With whom she lived on terms reciprocal. They pass’d the hours with their accustom’d ease, As guests inclined, but not compell’d to please; 100 But there were others in the mansion found, For office chosen, and by duties bound; Three female rivals, each of power possess’d, Th’ attendant-maid, poor friend, and kindred-guest. To these came Jesse, as a seaman thrown By the rude storm upon a coast unknown: The view was flattering, civil seem’d the race, But all unknown the dangers of the place. Few hours had pass’d, when, from attendants freed, The lady utter’d—“This is kind indeed; 110 Believe me, love! that I for one like you Have daily pray’d, a friend discreet and true; Oh! wonder not that I on you depend, You are mine own hereditary friend: Hearken, my Jesse, never can I trust Beings ungrateful, selfish, and unjust; But you are present, and my load of care Your love will serve to lighten and to share. Come near me, Jesse—let not those below Of my reliance on your friendship know; 120 Look as they look, be in their freedoms free— But all they say do you convey to me.” Here Jesse’s thoughts to Colin’s cottage flew, And with such speed she scarce their absence knew. “Jane loves her mistress, and should she depart, I lose her service, and she breaks her heart; My ways and wishes, looks and thoughts she knows, And duteous care by close attention shows; But is she faithful? in temptation strong? Will she not wrong me? ah! I fear the wrong. 130 Your father loved me; now, in time of need, Watch for my good, and to his place succeed. “Blood doesn’t bind—that girl, who every day Eats of my bread, would wish my life away; I am her dear relation, and she thinks To make her fortune, an ambitious minx! She only courts me for the prospect’s sake, Because she knows I have a will to make; Yes, love! my will delay’d, I know not how— But you are here, and I will make it now. 140 “That idle creature, keep her in your view, See what she does, what she desires to do; On her young mind may artful villains prey, And to my plate and jewels find a way; A pleasant humour has the girl; her smile And cheerful manner tedious hours beguile; But well observe her, ever near her be, Close in your thoughts, in your professions free. “Again, my Jesse, hear what I advise, And watch a woman ever in disguise; 150 Issop, that widow, serious, subtle, sly— But what of this?—I must have company. She markets for me, and although she makes Profit, no doubt, of all she undertakes, Yet she is one I can to all produce, And all her talents are in daily use; Deprived of her, I may another find As sly and selfish, with a weaker mind: But never trust her, she is full of art, And worms herself into the closest heart; 160 Seem then, I pray you, careless in her sight, Nor let her know, my love, how we unite. “Do, my good Jesse, cast a view around, And let no wrong within my house be found; That girl associates with—I know not who Are her companions, nor what ill they do; ’Tis then the widow plans, ’tis then she tries Her various arts and schemes for fresh supplies; ’Tis then, if ever, Jane her duty quits, And, whom I know not, favours and admits: 170 Oh! watch their movements all; for me ’tis hard, Indeed is vain, but you may keep a guard; And I, when none your watchful glance deceive, May make my will, and think what I shall leave.” Jesse, with fear, disgust, alarm, surprise, Heard of these duties for her ears and eyes; Heard by what service she must gain her bread, And went with scorn and sorrow to her bed. Jane was a servant fitted for her place, Experienced, cunning, fraudful, selfish, base; 180 Skill’d in those mean, humiliating arts That make their way to proud and selfish hearts; By instinct taught, she felt an awe, a fear, For Jesse’s upright, simple character; Whom with gross flattery she awhile assail’d, And then beheld with hatred when it fail’d; Yet, trying still upon her mind for hold, She all the secrets of the mansion told; And to invite an equal trust she drew Of every mind a bold and rapid view; 190 But on the widow’d friend with deep disdain, And rancorous envy, dwelt the treacherous Jane.— In vain such arts; without deceit or pride, With a just taste and feeling for her guide, From all contagion Jesse kept apart, Free in her manners, guarded in her heart. Jesse one morn was thoughtful, and her sigh The widow heard as she was passing by; And—“Well!” she said, “is that some distant swain, Or aught with us, that gives your bosom pain? 200 Come, we are fellow-sufferers, slaves in thrall, And tasks and griefs are common to us all; Think not my frankness strange: they love to paint Their state with freedom, who endure restraint; And there is something in that speaking eye And sober mien, that prove I may rely. You came a stranger; to my words attend, Accept my offer, and you find a friend; It is a labyrinth in which you stray, Come, hold my clue, and I will lead the way. 210 “Good Heav’n! that one so jealous, envious, base, Should be the mistress of so sweet a place; She, who so long herself was low and poor, Now broods suspicious on her useless store; She loves to see us abject, loves to deal Her insult round, and then pretends to feel; Prepare to cast all dignity aside, For know your talents will be quickly tried; Nor think, from favours past, a friend to gain, ’Tis but by duties we our posts maintain: 220 I read her novels, gossip through the town, And daily go, for idle stories, down; I cheapen all she buys, and bear the curse Of honest tradesmen for my niggard-purse; And, when for her this meanness I display, She cries, ’I heed not what I throw away;’ Of secret bargains I endure the shame, And stake my credit for our fish and game; Oft has she smiled to hear, ’her generous soul Would gladly give, but stoops to my control’; 230 Nay! I have heard her, when she chanced to come Where I contended for a petty sum, Affirm ’twas painful to behold such care, ‘But Issop’s nature is to pinch and spare:’ Thus all the meanness of the house is mine, And my reward—to scorn her, and to dine. “See next that giddy thing, with neither pride To keep her safe, nor principle to guide: Poor, idle, simple flirt! as sure as fate Her maiden-fame will have an early date. 240 Of her beware; for all who live below Have faults they wish not all the world to know; And she is fond of listening, full of doubt, And stoops to guilt to find an error out. “And now once more observe the artful maid, A lying, prying, jilting, thievish jade; I think, my love, you would not condescend To call a low, illiterate girl your friend; But in our troubles we are apt, you know, To lean on all who some compassion show; 250 And she has flexile features, acting eyes, And seems with every look to sympathise; No mirror can a mortal’s grief express With more precision, or can feel it less; That proud, mean spirit, she by fawning courts, By vulgar flattery, and by vile reports; And by that proof she every instant gives To one so mean, that yet a meaner lives.— “Come, I have drawn the curtain, and you see Your fellow-actors, all our company; 260 Should you incline to throw reserve aside, And in my judgment and my love confide, I could some prospects open to your view, That ask attention—and, till then, adieu.” “Farewell!” said Jesse, hastening to her room, Where all she saw within, without, was gloom: Confused, perplex’d, she pass’d a dreary hour, Before her reason could exert its power; To her all seem’d mysterious, all allied To avarice, meanness, folly, craft, and pride; 270 Wearied with thought, she breathed the garden’s air, Then came the laughing lass, and join’d her there. “My sweetest friend has dwelt with us a week, And does she love us? be sincere and speak; My aunt you cannot—Lord! how I should hate To be like her, all misery and state; Proud, and yet envious, she disgusted sees All who are happy, and who look at ease. Let friendship bind us, I will quickly show Some favourites near us you’ll be bless’d to know; 280 My aunt forbids it—but, can she expect, To soothe her spleen, we shall ourselves neglect? Jane and the widow were to watch and stay My free-born feet; I watch’d as well as they; Lo! what is this? this simple key explores The dark recess that holds the spinster’s stores; And led by her ill star, I chanced to see Where Issop keeps her stock of ratafie; Used in the hours of anger and alarm, It makes her civil, and it keeps her warm; 290 Thus bless’d with secrets, both would choose to hide, Their fears now grant me what their scorn denied. “My freedom thus by their assent secured, Bad as it is, the place may be endured; And bad it is, but her estates, you know, And her beloved hoards, she must bestow; So we can slyly our amusements take, And friends of dæmons, if they help us, make.” “Strange creatures these,” thought Jesse, half inclined To smile at one malicious and yet kind; 300 Frank and yet cunning, with a heart to love And malice prompt—the serpent and the dove; Here could she dwell? or could she yet depart? Could she be artful? could she bear with art?— This splendid mansion gave the cottage grace, She thought a dungeon was a happier place; And Colin pleading, when he pleaded best, Wrought not such sudden change in Jesse’s breast. The wondering maiden, who had only read Of such vile beings, saw them now with dread; 310 Safe in themselves—for nature has design’d The creature’s poison harmless to the kind; But all beside who in the haunts are found Must dread the poison, and must feel the wound. Days full of care, slow weary weeks pass’d on; Eager to go, still Jesse was not gone; Her time in trifling or in tears she spent, She never gave, she never felt content: The lady wonder’d that her humble guest Strove not to please, would neither lie nor jest; 320 She sought no news, no scandal would convey, But walk’d for health, and was at church to pray; All this displeased, and soon the widow cried: “Let me be frank—I am not satisfied; You know my wishes, I your judgment trust; You can be useful, Jesse, and you must; Let me be plainer, child—I want an ear, When I am deaf, instead of mine to hear; When mine is sleeping, let your eye awake; When I observe not, observation take; 330 Alas! I rest not on my pillow laid, Then threat’ning whispers make my soul afraid; The tread of strangers to my ear ascends, Fed at my cost, the minions of my friends; While you, without a care, a wish to please, Eat the vile bread of idleness and ease.” Th’ indignant girl astonish’d answer’d—“Nay! This instant, madam, let me haste away; Thus speaks my father’s, thus an orphan’s, friend? This instant, lady, let your bounty end.” 340 The lady frown’d indignant—“What!” she cried, “A vicar’s daughter with a princess’ pride! And pauper’s lot! but pitying I forgive; How, simple Jesse, do you think to live? Have I not power to help you, foolish maid? To my concerns be your attention paid; With cheerful mind th’ allotted duties take, And recollect I have a will to make.” Jesse, who felt as liberal natures feel, When thus the baser their designs reveal, 350 Replied—“Those duties were to her unfit, Nor would her spirit to her tasks submit.” In silent scorn the lady sate awhile, And then replied with stern contemptuous smile— “Think you, fair madam, that you came to share Fortunes like mine without a thought or care? A guest, indeed! from every trouble free, Dress’d by my help, with not a care for me. When I a visit to your father made, I for the poor assistance largely paid; 360 To his domestics I their tasks assign’d; I fix’d the portion for his hungry hind; And had your father (simple man!) obey’d My good advice, and watch’d as well as pray’d, He might have left you something with his prayers, And lent some colour for these lofty airs.— “In tears! my love! Oh, then my soften’d heart Cannot resist—we never more will part; I need your friendship—I will be your friend; And thus determined, to my will attend.” 370 Jesse went forth, but with determined soul To fly such love, to break from such control; “I hear enough,” the trembling damsel cried; “Flight be my care, and Providence my guide: Ere yet a prisoner, I escape will make; } Will, thus display’d, th’ insidious arts forsake,} And, as the rattle sounds, will fly the fatal snake.” } Jesse her thanks upon the morrow paid, Prepared to go, determined though afraid. “Ungrateful creature,” said the lady, “this 380 Could I imagine?—are you frantic, miss? What! leave your friend, your prospects—is it true?” This Jesse answer’d by a mild “Adieu!” The dame replied, “Then houseless may you rove, The starving victim to a guilty love; Branded with shame, in sickness doom’d to nurse An ill-form’d cub, your scandal and your curse; Spurn’d by its scoundrel father, and ill fed By surly rustics with the parish-bread!— Relent you not?—speak—yet I can forgive; 390 Still live with me”—“With you,” said Jesse, “live? No! I would first endure what you describe, Rather than breathe with your detested tribe: Who long have feign’d, till now their very hearts Are firmly fix’d in their accursed parts; Who all profess esteem, and feel disdain, And all, with justice, of deceit complain; Whom I could pity, but that, while I stay, My terror drives all kinder thoughts away; Grateful for this, that when I think of you, 400 I little fear what poverty can do.” The angry matron her attendant Jane Summon’d in haste to soothe the fierce disdain. “A vile detested wretch!” the lady cried,} “Yet shall she be, by many an effort, tried,} And, clogg’d with debt and fear, against her will abide; } And, once secured, she never shall depart Till I have proved the firmness of her heart; Then when she dares not, would not, cannot go, I’ll make her feel what ’tis to use me so.” 410 The pensive Colin in his garden stray’d, But felt not then the beauties it display’d; There many a pleasant object met his view, A rising wood of oaks behind it grew; A stream ran by it, and the village-green And public road were from the gardens seen; Save where the pine and larch the bound’ry made, And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade. The mother sat beside the garden-door, Dress’d as in times ere she and hers were poor; 420 The broad-laced cap was known in ancient days, When madam’s dress compell’d the village praise; And still she look’d as in the times of old, Ere his last farm the erring husband sold; While yet the mansion stood in decent state, And paupers waited at the well-known gate. “Alas! my son!” the mother cried, “and why That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh? True, we are poor, but thou hast never felt Pangs to thy father for his error dealt; 430 Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain, For ever raised, and ever found in vain. He rose unhappy! from his fruitless schemes, As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams; But thou wert then, my son, a playful child, Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild; Listening at times to thy poor mother’s sighs, With curious looks and innocent surprise; Thy father dying, thou, my virtuous boy, My comfort always, waked my soul to joy; 440 With the poor remnant of our fortune left, Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft: Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air, Have cast a smile on sadness and despair; Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace; And all around us wonder when they find Such taste and strength, such skill and power combined; There is no mother, Colin, no not one, But envies me so kind, so good a son; 450 By thee supported on this failing side, Weakness itself awakes a parent’s pride; I bless the stroke that was my grief before, And feel such joy that ’tis disease no more; Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth— And, soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health; The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise, And say, like thee were youth in earlier days; While every village-maiden cries, ’How gay, How smart, how brave, how good is Colin Grey!’ 460 “Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow; Fain would I think that Jesse still may come To share the comforts of our rustic home: She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid, When thou hast kindly brought the vicar aid— When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain, Oh! I have seen her—she will come again.” The matron ceased; and Colin stood the while Silent, but striving for a grateful smile; 470 He then replied—“Ah! sure, had Jesse stay’d, And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade, The tenderest duty and the fondest love Would not have fail’d that generous heart to move; A grateful pity would have ruled her breast, And my distresses would have made me blest. “But she is gone, and ever has in view} Grandeur and taste—and what will then ensue?} Surprise and then delight in scenes so fair and new;  } For many a day, perhaps for many a week, 480 Home will have charms, and to her bosom speak; But thoughtless ease, and affluence, and pride, Seen day by day, will draw the heart aside: And she at length, though gentle and sincere, Will think no more of our enjoyments here.” Sighing he spake—but hark! he hears th’ approach Of rattling wheels! and lo! the evening-coach; Once more the movement of the horses’ feet Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat; Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight 490 Drawn him to gaze beside his gate at night; And when with rapid wheels it hurried by, He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh; And could the blessing have been bought—what sum Had he not offer’d, to have Jesse come! She came—he saw her bending from the door, Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more; Lost in his joy—the mother lent her aid T’ assist and to detain the willing maid; Who thought her late, her present home to make, 500 Sure of a welcome for the vicar’s sake. But the good parent was so pleased, so kind, So pressing Colin, she so much inclined, That night advanced; and then so long detain’d,} No wishes to depart she felt, or feign’d; } Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce remain’d. } Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere; Here was content and joy, for she was here: In the mild evening, in the scene around, The maid, now free, peculiar beauties found; 510 Blended with village-tones, the evening-gale Gave the sweet night-bird’s warblings to the vale; The youth embolden’d, yet abash’d, now told His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold; The mother smiling whisper’d—“Let him go And seek the licence!” Jesse answer’d, “No:” But Colin went, I know not if they live With all the comforts wealth and plenty give; But with pure joy to envious souls denied, To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride; 520 And village-maids of happy couples say, “They live like Jesse Bourn and Colin Grey.”