Minutely trace man’s life; year after year, Through all his days let all his deeds appear, And then, though some may in that life be strange, Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change; The links that bind those various deeds are seen, And no mysterious void is left between. But let these binding links be all destroy’d, All that through years he suffer’d or enjoy’d; Let that vast gap be made, and then behold— This was the youth, and he is thus when old; 10 Then we at once the work of Time survey, And in an instant see a life’s decay: Pain[s] mix’d with pity in our bosoms rise, And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise. Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair— } A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,} Watching his looks with kind and pensive air; } No wife, nor sister she, nor is the name Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same; Yet so allied are they, that few can feel 20 Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal, Their years and woes, although they long have loved, Keep their good name and conduct unreproved; Thus life’s small comforts they together share, And while life lingers for the grave prepare. No other subjects on their spirits press, Nor gain such int’rest as the past distress; Grievous events that from the mem’ry drive Life’s common cares, and those alone survive, Mix with each thought, in every action share, 30 Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer. To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy, Allen his name, was more than common joy; And as the child grew up, there seem’d in him A more than common life in every limb; A strong and handsome stripling he became, And the gay spirit answer’d to the frame; A lighter, happier lad was never seen, For ever easy, cheerful, or serene; His early love he fix’d upon a fair 40 And gentle maid—they were a handsome pair. They at an infant-school together play’d, Where the foundation of their love was laid; The boyish champion would his choice attend In every sport, in every fray defend. As prospects open’d and as life advanced, They walk’d together, they together danced; On all occasions, from their early years, They mix’d their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears; Each heart was anxious, till it could impart 50 Its daily feelings to its kindred heart; As years increased, unnumber’d petty wars Broke out between them; jealousies and jars; Causeless indeed, and follow’d by a peace, That gave to love—growth, vigour, and increase. Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void, Domestic thoughts young Allen’s hours employ’d; Judith in gaining hearts had no concern, Rather intent the matron’s part to learn; Thus early prudent and sedate they grew, 60 While lovers, thoughtful—and, though children, true. To either parents not a day appear’d, When with this love they might have interfered: Childish at first, they cared not to restrain; And strong at last, they saw restriction vain; Nor knew they when that passion to reprove— Now idle fondness, now resistless love. So, while the waters rise, the children tread On the broad estuary’s sandy bed; But soon the channel fills, from side to side 70 Comes danger rolling with the deep’ning tide; Yet none who saw the rapid current flow Could the first instant of that danger know. The lovers waited till the time should come When they together could possess a home: In either house were men and maids unwed, Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led. Then Allen’s mother of his favourite maid Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid: “Dress and amusements were her sole employ,” 80 She said—“entangling her deluded boy;” And yet, in truth, a mother’s jealous love Had much imagined and could little prove; Judith had beauty—and, if vain, was kind, Discreet, and mild, and had a serious mind. Dull was their prospect—when the lovers met, They said, we must not—dare not venture yet: “Oh! could I labour for thee,” Allen cried, “Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied? On my own arm I could depend, but they}90 Still urge obedience—must I yet obey?”} Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg’d delay.  } At length a prospect came that seem’d to smile, And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle. A kinsman there a widow’s hand had gain’d, “Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain’d; Would some young Booth to his affairs attend, And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.” The elder brothers, who were not in love, Fear’d the false seas, unwilling to remove; 100 But the young Allen, an enamour’d boy, Eager an independence to enjoy, Would through all perils seek it—by the sea— Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery. The faithful Judith his design approved; For both were sanguine, they were young and loved. The mother’s slow consent was then obtain’d; The time arrived, to part alone remain’d. All things prepared, on the expected day Was seen the vessel anchor’d in the bay. 110 From her would seamen in the evening come, To take th’ advent’rous Allen from his home; With his own friends the final day he pass’d, And every painful hour, except the last. The grieving father urged the cheerful glass, To make the moments with less sorrow pass; Intent the mother look’d upon her son, And wish’d th’ assent withdrawn, the deed undone; The younger sister, as he took his way, Hung on his coat, and begg’d for more delay: 120 But his own Judith call’d him to the shore, Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more;— And there he found her—faithful, mournful, true, Weeping and waiting for a last adieu! The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair: Sweet were the painful moments—but how sweet, And without pain, when they again should meet! Now either spoke, as hope and fear impress’d Each their alternate triumph in the breast. 130 Distance alarm’d the maid—she cried, “’Tis far!” And danger too—“it is a time of war. Then, in those countries are diseases strange, And women gay, and men are prone to change; What, then, may happen in a year, when things Of vast importance every moment brings! But hark! an oar!” she cried, yet none appear’d— ’Twas love’s mistake, who fancied what it fear’d; And she continued—“Do, my Allen, keep Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep; 140 Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail, And stand in safety where so many fail; And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride, Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide; Can I believe his love will lasting prove, Who has no rev’rence for the God I love? I know thee well! how good thou art and kind; But strong the passions that invade thy mind.— Now, what to me hath Allen to commend?”— “Upon my mother,” said the youth, “attend; 150 Forget her spleen, and in my place appear; Her love to me will make my Judith dear: Oft I shall think (such comfort lovers seek), Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak; Then write on all occasions, always dwell On hope’s fair prospects, and be kind and well, And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style.” She answer’d, “No,” but answer’d with a smile. “And now, my Judith, at so sad a time, Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime; 160 When with our youthful neighbours ’tis thy chance To meet in walks, the visit or the dance, When every lad would on my lass attend, Choose not a smooth designer for a friend; That fawning Philip!—nay, be not severe, A rival’s hope must cause a lover’s fear.” Displeased she felt, and might in her reply Have mix’d some anger, but the boat was nigh, Now truly heard!—it soon was full in sight;— Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night; 170 For, see!—his friends come hast’ning to the beach, And now the gunwale is within the reach; “Adieu!—farewell!—remember!”—and what more Affection taught, was utter’d from the shore! But Judith left them with a heavy heart, Took a last view, and went to weep apart! And now his friends went slowly from the place, Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace, Till all were silent!—for the youth she pray’d, And softly then return’d the weeping maid. 180 They parted, thus by hope and fortune led, And Judith’s hours in pensive pleasure fled. But when return’d the youth?—the youth no more Return’d exulting to his native shore. But forty years were past, and then there came} A worn-out man with wither’d limbs and lame, } His mind oppress’d with woes, and bent with age his frame: } Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay, } Was Allen landing in his native bay,} Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. } In an autumnal eve he left the beach, 191 In such an eve he chanced the port to reach. He was alone; he press’d the very place Of the sad parting, of the last embrace: There stood his parents, there retired the maid, So fond, so tender, and so much afraid; And on that spot, through many a year, his mind Turn’d mournful back, half sinking, half resign’d. No one was present; of its crew bereft, A single boat was in the billows left; 200 Sent from some anchor’d vessel in the bay, At the returning tide to sail away. O’er the black stern the moonlight softly play’d, The loosen’d foresail flapping in the shade; All silent else on shore; but from the town A drowsy peal of distant bells came down; From the tall houses here and there, a light Served some confused remembrance to excite: “There,” he observed, and new emotions felt, “Was my first home—and yonder Judith dwelt; 210 Dead! dead are all! I long—I fear to know,” He said, and walk’d impatient, and yet slow. Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys: Seamen returning to their ship, were come, With idle numbers straying from their home; Allen among them mix’d, and in the old Strove some familiar features to behold; While fancy aided memory;—“Man! what cheer?” A sailor cried; “Art thou at anchor here?” 220 Faintly he answer’d, and then tried to trace Some youthful features in some aged face; A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought She might unfold the very truths he sought; Confused and trembling, he the dame address’d: “The Booths! yet live they?” pausing and oppress’d; Then spake again:—“Is there no ancient man, David his name?—assist me, if you can.— Flemmings there were—and Judith, doth she live?” The woman gazed, nor could an answer give; 230 Yet wond’ring stood, and all were silent by, Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy. The woman musing said—“She knew full well Where the old people came at last to dwell; They had a married daughter and a son, But they were dead, and now remain’d not one.” “Yes,” said an elder, who had paused intent On days long past, “there was a sad event;— One of these Booths—it was my mother’s tale— Here left his lass, I know not where to sail; 240 She saw their parting, and observed the pain; But never came th’ unhappy man again.” “The ship was captured”—Allen meekly said, “And what became of the forsaken maid?” The woman answer’d: “I remember now, She used to tell the lasses of her vow, And of her lover’s loss, and I have seen The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been; Yet in her grief she married, and was made Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey’d 250 And early buried—but I know no more. And hark! our friends are hast’ning to the shore.” Allen soon found a lodging in the town, And walk’d, a man unnoticed, up and down. This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face He sometimes could among a number trace; Of names remember’d there remain’d a few, But of no favourites, and the rest were new; A merchant’s wealth, when Allen went to sea, Was reckon’d boundless.—Could he living be? 260 Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir To a vast business, and a fortune fair. No! but that heir’s poor widow, from her shed, With crutches went to take her dole of bread. There was a friend whom he had left a boy, With hope to sail the master of a hoy; Him, after many a stormy day, he found With his great wish, his life’s whole purpose, crown’d. This hoy’s proud captain look’d in Allen’s face;— “Yours is, my friend,” said he, “a woful case; 270 We cannot all succeed; I now command The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land; But when we meet, you shall your story tell Of foreign parts—I bid you now farewell!” Allen so long had left his native shore, He saw but few whom he had seen before; The older people, as they met him, cast A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass’d:— “The man is Allen Booth, and it appears He dwelt among us in his early years; 280 We see the name engraved upon the stones, Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones.” Thus where he lived and loved—unhappy change!— He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange. But now a widow, in a village near, Chanced of the melancholy man to hear; Old as she was, to Judith’s bosom came Some strong emotions at the well-known name; He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay’d Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid; 290 Then was she wedded, of his death assured, And much of mis’ry in her lot endured; Her husband died; her children sought their bread In various places, and to her were dead. The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age, Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage: Each had immediate confidence; a friend Both now beheld, on whom they might depend: “Now is there one to whom I can express My nature’s weakness and my soul’s distress.” 300 Allen look’d up, and with impatient heart:— “Let me not lose thee—never let us part; So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give, It is not all distress to think and live.” Thus Allen spoke—for time had not removed The charms attach’d to one so fondly loved; Who with more health, the mistress of their cot, Labours to soothe the evils of his lot. To her, to her alone, his various fate, At various times, ’tis comfort to relate; 310 And yet his sorrow she too loves to hear What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear. First he related how he left the shore, Alarm’d with fears that they should meet no more; Then, ere the ship had reach’d her purposed course, They met and yielded to the Spanish force; Then ’cross th’ Atlantic seas they bore their prey, Who grieving landed from their sultry bay; And, marching many a burning league, he found Himself a slave upon a miner’s ground: 320 There a good priest his native language spoke, And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke; Kindly advanced him in his master’s grace, And he was station’d in an easier place. There, hopeless ever to escape the land, He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand; In cottage shelter’d from the blaze of day He saw his happy infants round him play; Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees, Waved o’er his seat, and soothed his reveries; 330 E’en then he thought of England, nor could sigh, But his fond Isabel demanded, “Why?” Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid, And wept in pity for the English maid: Thus twenty years were pass’d, and pass’d his views Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose. His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint “His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint; Make all his children infidels, and found An English heresy on Christian ground.” 340 “Whilst I was poor,” said Allen, “none would care What my poor notions of religion were; None ask’d me whom I worshipp’d, how I pray’d, If due obedience to the laws were paid: My good adviser taught me to be still, Nor to make converts had I power or will. I preached no foreign doctrine to my wife, And never mention’d Luther in my life; I, all they said, say what they would, allow’d, And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow’d; 350 Their forms I follow’d, whether well or sick, And was a most obedient Catholic. But I had money, and these pastors found My notions vague, heretical, unsound: A wicked book they seized; the very Turk Could not have read a more pernicious work; To me pernicious, who if it were good Or evil question’d not, nor understood: Oh! had I little but the book possess’d, I might have read it, and enjoy’d my rest.” 360 Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seen Crimes that by poverty conceal’d had been: Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown Are in an instant through the varnish shown. He told their cruel mercy: how at last, In Christian kindness for the merits past, They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly, Or for his crime and contumacy die; Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight; } His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,}370 All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his flight. } He next related how he found a way, Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay: There in the woods he wrought, and there, among Some lab’ring seamen, heard his native tongue. The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain With joyful force; he long’d to hear again; Again he heard; he seized an offer’d hand, “And when beheld you last our native land?” He cry’d, “and in what county? quickly say!”— 380 The seamen answer’d, strangers all were they; One only at his native port had been; He, landing once, the quay and church had seen, For that esteem’d; but nothing more he knew. Still more to know, would Allen join the crew, Sail where they sail’d; and, many a peril past, They at his kinsman’s isle their anchor cast; But him they found not, nor could one relate Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate. This grieved not Allen; then again he sail’d 390 For England’s coast, again his fate prevail’d: War raged, and he, an active man and strong, Was soon impress’d, and served his country long. By various shores he pass’d, on various seas, Never so happy as when void of ease.— And then he told how, in a calm distress’d, Day after day his soul was sick of rest; When as a log upon the deep they stood, Then roved his spirit to the inland wood; Till, while awake, he dream’d, that on the seas 400 Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees. He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:—“There stand My wife, my children, ’tis my lovely land; See! there my dwelling—oh! delicious scene Of my best life—unhand me—are ye men?” And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind Brush’d the fond pictures from the stagnant mind. He told of bloody fights, and how at length The rage of battle gave his spirits strength. ’Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost, 410 And he was left half-dead upon the coast; But living gain’d, ’mid rich aspiring men, A fair subsistence by his ready pen. “Thus,” he continued, “pass’d unvaried years, Without events producing hopes or fears.” Augmented pay procured him decent wealth, But years advancing undermined his health; Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew To England’s shore, and scenes his childhood knew: He saw his parents, saw his fav’rite maid, 420 No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay’d; And, thus excited, in his bosom rose A wish so strong, it baffled his repose; Anxious he felt on English earth to lie; To view his native soil, and there to die. He then described the gloom, the dread he found, When first he landed on the chosen ground, Where undefined was all he hoped and fear’d, And how confused and troubled all appear’d; His thoughts in past and present scenes employ’d, 430 All views in future blighted and destroy’d: His were a medley of bewild’ring themes, Sad as realities, and wild as dreams. Here his relation closes, but his mind Flies back again, some resting-place to find; Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees His children sporting by those lofty trees, Their mother singing in the shady scene, Where the fresh springs burst o’er the lively green;— So strong his eager fancy, he affrights 440 The faithful widow by its powerful flights; For what disturbs him he aloud will tell, And cry—“’Tis she, my wife! my Isabel! Where are my children?”—Judith grieves to hear How the soul works in sorrows so severe; Assiduous all his wishes to attend, Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend; Watch’d by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes. ’Tis now her office; her attention see! 450 While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree, Careful she guards him from the glowing heat, And pensive muses at her Allen’s feet. And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes Of his best days, amid the vivid greens, Fresh with unnumber’d rills, where ev’ry gale Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb’ring vale; Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes The night-bird’s music from the thickening glooms? And as he sits with all these treasures nigh, }460 Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly, } When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by?  } This is the joy that now so plainly speaks In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks; For he is list’ning to the fancied noise Of his own children, eager in their joys: All this he feels, a dream’s delusive bliss Gives the expression, and the glow like this. And now his Judith lays her knitting by, These strong emotions in her friend to spy; 470 For she can fully of their nature deem——} But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,} And wakes and cries—“My God! ’twas but a dream.” }