To farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down His only daughter, from her school in town; A tender, timid maid! who knew not how To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow: Smiling she came, with petty talents graced, A fair complexion, and a slender waist. Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure, Her father’s kitchen she could ill endure; Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat, And laid at once a pound upon his plate; 10 Hot from the field, her eager brother seized An equal part, and hunger’s rage appeased; The air, surcharged with moisture, flagg’d around, And the offended damsel sigh’d and frown’d; The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid, And fancy’s sickness seized the loathing maid. But, when the men beside their station took, The maidens with them, and with these the cook; When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, Fill’d with huge balls of farinaceous food; 20 With bacon, mass saline, where never lean Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen; When from a single horn the party drew Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new; When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain, Soil’d by rude hinds who cut and came again— She could not breathe; but, with a heavy sigh, Rein’d the fair neck, and shut th’ offended eye; She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine, And wonder’d much to see the creatures dine: 30 When she resolved her father’s heart to move, If hearts of farmers were alive to love. She now entreated by herself to sit In the small parlour, if papa thought fit, And there to dine, to read, to work alone.— “No!” said the farmer, in an angry tone; “These are your school-taught airs; your mother’s pride Would send you there; but I am now your guide.— Arise betimes, our early meal prepare, And, this despatch’d, let business be your care; 40 Look to the lasses, let there not be one Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done; In every household work your portion take, And what you make not, see that others make. At leisure times attend the wheel, and see The whit’ning web be sprinkled on the [lea]; When thus employ’d, should our young neighbour view An useful lass, you may have more to do.” Dreadful were these commands; but worse than these The parting hint—a farmer could not please: 50 ’Tis true she had without abhorrence seen Young Harry Carr, when he was smart and clean; But to be married—be a farmer’s wife— A slave! a drudge!—she could not, for her life. With swimming eyes the fretful nymph withdrew, And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew; There on her knees, to Heav’n she grieving pray’d For change of prospect to a tortured maid. Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire Had left him all industrious men require, 60 Saw the pale beauty—and her shape and air Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear: “For my small farm what can the damsel do?” He said—then stopp’d to take another view: “Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn Of household cares—for what can beauty earn By those small arts which they at school attain, That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?” This luckless damsel look’d the village round, To find a friend, and one was quickly found; 70 A pensive widow—whose mild air and dress} Pleased the sad nymph, who wish’d her soul’s distress  } To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess.— } “What lady that?” the anxious lass inquired, Who then beheld the one she most admired. “Here,” said the brother, “are no ladies seen— That is a widow dwelling on the green; A dainty dame, who can but barely live On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give; She happier days has known, but seems at ease, 80 And you may call her lady, if you please. But if you wish, good sister, to improve, You shall see twenty better worth your love.” These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught, This useless widow was the one she sought. The father growl’d; but said he knew no harm In such connexion that could give alarm; “And if we thwart the trifler in her course, ’Tis odds against us she will take a worse.” Then met the friends; the widow heard the sigh 90 That ask’d at once compassion and reply:— “Would you, my child, converse with one so poor, Yours were the kindness—yonder is my door; And, save the time that we in public pray, From that poor cottage I but rarely stray.” There went the nymph, and made her strong complaints, Painting her wo as injured feeling paints. “Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel, Shock’d all day long, and sicken’d every meal; Could you behold our kitchen (and to you 100 A scene so shocking must indeed be new), A mind like yours, with true refinement graced, Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste; And yet, in truth, from such a polish’d mind All base ideas must resistance find, And sordid pictures from the fancy pass, As the breath startles from the polish’d glass. “Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene, Without so pleasant, and within so clean; These twining jess’mines, what delicious gloom 110 And soothing fragrance yield they to the room! What lovely garden! there you oft retire, And tales of wo and tenderness admire: In that neat case, your books, in order placed, Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultured taste; And thus, while all about you wears a charm, How must you scorn the farmer and the farm!” The widow smiled, and “Know you not,” said she, } “How much these farmers scorn or pity me; } Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see?  }120 True, their opinion alters not my fate, By falsely judging of an humble state: This garden, you with such delight behold, Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold; These plants, which please so well your livelier sense, To mine but little of their sweets dispense; Books soon are painful to my failing sight, And oftener read from duty than delight; (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find Both joy and duty in the act combined;) 130 But view me rightly, you will see no more Than a poor female, willing to be poor; Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers, Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours, Of never-tasted joys—such visions shun, My youthful friend, nor scorn the farmer’s son.” “Nay,” said the damsel, nothing pleased to see A friend’s advice could like a father’s be; “Bless’d in your cottage, you must surely smile At those who live in our detested style. 140 To my Lucinda’s sympathizing heart Could I my prospects and my griefs impart, She would console me; but I dare not show Ills that would wound her tender soul to know: And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell The secrets of the prison where I dwell; For that dear maiden would be shock’d to feel The secrets I should shudder to reveal; When told her friend was by a parent ask’d, ‘Fed you the swine?’—Good heav’n! how I am task’d! 150 What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief That woos your pity and demands relief.” “Trifles, my love; you take a false alarm; Think, I beseech you, better of the farm: Duties in every state demand your care, And light are those that will require it there: Fix on the youth a favouring eye, and these, To him pertaining, or as his, will please.” “What words,” the lass replied, “offend my ear! Try you my patience? Can you be sincere? 160 And am I told a willing hand to give To a rude farmer, and with rustic live? Far other fate was yours—some gentle youth Admired your beauty, and avow’d his truth; The power of love prevail’d, and freely both Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding oath; And then the rivals’ plot, the parent’s power, And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour: Ah! let not memory lose the blissful view, But fairly show what love has done for you.” 170 “Agreed, my daughter; what my heart has known Of love’s strange power shall be with frankness shown: But let me warn you, that experience finds Few of the scenes that lively hope designs.”— “Mysterious all,” said Nancy; “you, I know, Have suffer’d much; now deign the grief to show— I am your friend, and so prepare my heart In all your sorrows to receive a part.” The widow answer’d: “I had once, like you, Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue. 180 You judge it fated and decreed to dwell} In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel, } A passion doom’d to reign, and irresistible.} The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain Rejects the fury or defies the pain; The strongest reason fails the flame t’ allay, And resolution droops and faints away: Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they prove At once the force of this all-powerful love; Each from that period feels the mutual smart, 190 Nor seeks to cure it—heart is changed for heart; Nor is there peace till they delighted stand, And, at the altar, hand is join’d to hand. “Alas! my child, there are who, dreaming so, Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the wo; There is no spirit sent the heart to move With such prevailing and alarming love; Passion to reason will submit—or why Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny? Or how could classes and degrees create 200 The slightest bar to such resistless fate? Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix; No beggars’ eyes the heart of kings transfix; And who but am’rous peers or nobles sigh When titled beauties pass triumphant by? For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove; You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love: All would be safe, did we at first inquire— ‘Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?’ But, quitting precept, let example show 210 What joys from love uncheck’d by prudence flow. “A youth my father in his office placed, Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste; But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks; He studied much, and pored upon his books: Confused he was when seen, and, when he saw Me or my sisters, would in haste withdraw; And had this youth departed with the year, His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear. “But with my father still the youth remain’d, 220 And more reward and kinder notice gain’d: He often, reading, to the garden stray’d, Where I by books or musing was delay’d; This to discourse in summer evenings led, Of these same evenings, or of what we read. On such occasions we were much alone; But, save the look, the manner, and the tone, (These might have meaning,) all that we discuss’d We could with pleasure to a parent trust. “At length ’twas friendship—and my friend and I 230 Said we were happy, and began to sigh; My sisters first, and then my father, found That we were wandering o’er enchanted ground; But he had troubles in his own affairs, And would not bear addition to his cares. With pity moved, yet angry, ‘Child,’ said he, ‘Will you embrace contempt and beggary? Can you endure to see each other cursed By want, of every human wo the worst? Warring for ever with distress, in dread 240 Either of begging or of wanting bread; While poverty, with unrelenting force, Will your own offspring from your love divorce; They, through your folly, must be doom’d to pine, And you deplore your passion, or resign; For, if it die, what good will then remain? And if it live, it doubles every pain.’”— “But you were true,” exclaim’d the lass, “and fled } The tyrant’s power who fill’d your soul with dread?”—} “But,” said the smiling friend, “he fill’d my mouth with bread;  }250 And in what other place that bread to gain We long consider’d, and we sought in vain. This was my twentieth year—at thirty-five Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive; So many years in anxious doubt had pass’d.”— “Then,” said the damsel, “you were bless’d at last?” A smile again adorn’d the widow’s face, But soon a starting tear usurp’d its place.— “Slow pass’d the heavy years, and each had more Pains and vexations than the years before. 260 My father fail’d; his family was rent, And to new states his grieving daughters sent; Each to more thriving kindred found a way, Guests without welcome—servants without pay; Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel The sad, sweet converse at our final meal: Our father then reveal’d his former fears, Cause of his sternness, and then join’d our tears; Kindly he strove our feelings to repress, But died, and left us heirs to his distress. 270 The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose; I with a wealthy widow sought repose; Who with a chilling frown her friend received, Bade me rejoice, and wonder’d that I grieved: In vain my anxious lover tried his skill To rise in life, he was dependent still; We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years: Our dying hopes and stronger fears between, We felt no season peaceful or serene; 280 Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night, Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light; And then domestic sorrows, till the mind, Worn with distresses, to despair inclined; Add too the ill that from the passion flows, When its contemptuous frown the world bestows— The peevish spirit caused by long delay, When being gloomy we contemn the gay, When, being wretched, we incline to hate And censure others in a happier state; 290 Yet loving still, and still compell’d to move In the sad labyrinth of ling’ring love: While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm, May wed—oh! take the farmer and the farm.” “Nay,” said the nymph, “joy smiled on you at last!” “Smiled for a moment,” she replied, “and pass’d: My lover still the same dull means pursued, Assistant call’d, but kept in servitude; His spirits wearied in the prime of life, By fears and wishes in eternal strife; 300 At length he urged impatient—‘Now consent; With thee united, fortune may relent.’ I paused, consenting; but a friend arose, Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose; From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream; By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired, And sail’d—was wounded—reach’d us—and expired! You shall behold his grave, and, when I die, There—but ’tis folly—I request to lie.” 310 “Thus,” said the lass, “to joy you bade adieu! But how a widow?—that cannot be true; Or was it force, in some unhappy hour, That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant’s power?” “Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled, Is what a woman seldom has to dread; She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls, And seldom comes a lover, though she calls. Yet moved by fancy, one approved my face, Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace. 320 “The man I married was sedate and meek, And spoke of love as men in earnest speak; Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought, for years, A heart in sorrow and a face in tears; That heart I gave not; and ’twas long before I gave attention, and then nothing more; But in my breast some grateful feeling rose For one whose love so sad a subject chose; Till long delaying, fearing to repent, But grateful still, I gave a cold assent. 330 “Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find, And he but one; my heart could not be kind: Alas! of every early hope bereft, There was no fondness in my bosom left; So had I told him, but had told in vain, He lived but to indulge me and complain. His was this cottage, he inclosed this ground, And planted all these blooming shrubs around; He to my room these curious trifles brought, And with assiduous love my pleasure sought; 340 He lived to please me, and I oft-times strove Smiling, to thank his unrequited love; ‘Teach me,’ he cried, ‘that pensive mind to ease, For all my pleasure is the hope to please.’ “Serene, though heavy, were the days we spent, Yet kind each word, and gen’rous each intent; But his dejection lessen’d every day, And to a placid kindness died away. In tranquil ease we pass’d our latter years, By griefs untroubl’d, unassail’d by fears. 350 “Let not romantic views your bosom sway, Yield to your duties, and their call obey: Fly not a youth, frank, honest, and sincere; Observe his merits, and his passion hear! ’Tis true, no hero, but a farmer sues— Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views; With him you cannot that affliction prove, That rends the bosom of the poor in love; Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days, Your friends’ approval, and your father’s praise, 360 Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late.” The damsel heard; at first th’ advice was strange, Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change. “I have no care,” she said, when next they met, “But one may wonder he is silent yet; He looks around him with his usual stare, And utters nothing—not that I shall care.” This pettish humour pleased th’ experienced friend— None need despair, whose silence can offend; 370 “Should I,” resumed the thoughtful lass, “consent To hear the man, the man may now repent. Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough, Or give one hint, that ‘You may woo me now?’” “Persist, my love,” replied the friend, “and gain A parent’s praise, that cannot be in vain.” The father saw the change, but not the cause, And gave the alter’d maid his fond applause. The coarser manners she in part removed, In part endured, improving and improved; 380 She spoke of household works, she rose betimes, And said neglect and indolence were crimes; The various duties of their life she weigh’d, And strict attention to her dairy paid; The names of servants now familiar grew, And fair Lucinda’s from her mind withdrew. As prudent travellers for their ease assume Their modes and language to whose lands they come: So to the farmer this fair lass inclined, Gave to the business of the farm her mind; 390 To useful arts she turn’d her hand and eye; And by her manners told him—“You may try.” Th’ observing lover more attention paid, With growing pleasure, to the alter’d maid; He fear’d to lose her, and began to see That a slim beauty might a helpmate be; ’Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address’d, And in his Sunday robe his love express’d. She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy, Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; 400 But still she lent an unreluctant ear To all the rural business of the year; Till love’s strong hopes endured no more delay, And Harry ask’d, and Nancy named the day. “A happy change! my boy,” the father cried: “How lost your sister all her school-day pride?” The youth replied, “It is the widow’s deed: The cure is perfect, and was wrought with speed.”— “And comes there, boy, this benefit of books, Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks? 410 We must be kind—some offerings from the farm To the white cot will speak our feelings warm; Will show that people, when they know the fact, Where they have judged severely, can retract. Oft have I smil’d, when I beheld her pass With cautious step, as if she hurt the grass; Where if a snail’s retreat she chanced to storm, She look’d as begging pardon of the worm; And what, said I, still laughing at the view, Have these weak creatures in the world to do? 420 But some are made for action, some to speak;} And, while she looks so pitiful and meek,} Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.”  } Soon told the village-bells the rite was done, That join’d the school-bred miss and farmer’s son; Her former habits some slight scandal raised, But real worth was soon perceived and praised; She, her neat taste imparted to the farm, And he, th’ improving skill and vigorous arm.