P. Such were the Man and Master—and I now
Would know if they together live, and how.
To such enquiries, thus my Friend replied:— 100
F. The Wife was slain—or, say at least, she died.
But there are murders that the human eye
Cannot detect—which human laws defy.
There are the wrongs insulted fondness feels,
In many a secret wound that never heals;
The Savage murders with a single blow;
Murders like this are secret and are slow.
Yet, when his victim lay upon her bier,
There were who witness’d that he dropt a tear;
Nay, more, he praised the woman he had lost, 110
And undisputed paid the funeral cost.
The Favourite now, her lord and master freed,
Prepared to wed, and be a wife indeed.
The day, ’twas said, was fix’d, the robes were bought,
A feast was order’d; but a cold was caught,
And pain ensued, with fever—grievous pain,
With the mind’s anguish that disturb’d the brain—
Till nature ceased to struggle, and the mind
Saw clearly death before, and sin behind.
Priests and physicians gave what they could give; 120
She turn’d away, and, shuddering, ceased to live.
The Dealer now appeared awhile as one
Lost, with but little of his race to run,
And that in sorrow; men with one consent,
And one kind hope, said, “Bonner will repent.”
Alas! we saw not what his fate would be,
But this we fear’d—no penitence had he;
Nor time for penitence, nor any time,
So quick the summons, to look back on crime.
When he the partner of his sin entomb’d, 130
He paused awhile, and then the way resumed,
Ev’n as before; yet was he not the same:
The tempter once, he now the dupe became.
John long had left him, nor did one remain
Who would his harlot in her course refrain;
Obsequious, humble, studious of his ease,
The present Phœbe only sought to please.
“With one so artless, what,” said he, “to fear,
Or what to doubt, in one who holds me dear?
Friends she may have, but me she will not wrong; 140
If weak her judgment, yet her love is strong;
And I am lucky now in age to find
A friend so trusty, and a nurse so kind.”
Yet neither party was in peace; the man
Had restless nights, and in the morn began
To cough and tremble; he was hot and cold—
He had a nervous fever, he was told.
His dreams—’twas strange, for none reflected less
On his past life—were frightful to excess;
His favourite dinners were no more enjoy’d, 150
And, in a word, his spirits were destroy’d.
And what of Phœbe? She her measures plann’d;
All but his money was at her command;
All would be hers, when Heav’n her Friend should call;
But Heav’n was slow, and much she long’d for all:—
“Mine when he dies, mean wretch! and why not mine,
When it would prove him generous to resign
What he enjoys not!”—Phœbe, at command,
Gave him his brandy with a liberal hand.
A way more quick and safe she did not know, 160
And brandy, though it might be sure, was slow.
But more she dared not; for she felt a dread
Of being tried, and only wish’d him dead.
Such was her restless strife of hope and fear—
He might cough on for many a weary year;
Nay, his poor mind was changing, and, when ill, }
Some foe to her may wicked thoughts instil! }
Oh! ’tis a trial sore to watch a Miser’s will! }
Thus, though the pair appear’d in peace to live,
They felt that vice has not that peace to give. 170
There watch’d a cur before the Miser’s gate—
A very cur, whom all men seem’d to hate;
Gaunt, savage, shaggy, with an eye that shone
Like a live coal, and he possess’d but one;
His bark was wild and eager, and became }
That meagre body and that eye of flame; }
His master prized him much, and Fang his name. }
His master fed him largely; but not that,
Nor aught of kindness, made the snarler fat.
Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay; 180
He bark’d, and snarl’d, and growl’d it all away.
His ribs were seen extended like a rack,
And coarse red hair hung roughly o’er his back.
Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore,
Now his sore body made his temper sore.
Such was the friend of him, who could not find,
Nor make him one, ‘mong creatures of his kind.
Brave deeds of Fang his master often told,
The son of Fury, famed in days of old,
From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they 190
In earlier times—each dog will have his day.
The notes of Fang were to his master known,
And dear—they bore some likeness to his own;
For both convey’d to the experienced ear,
“I snarl and bite, because I hate and fear.”
None pass’d ungreeted by the master’s door;
Fang rail’d at all, but chiefly at the poor;
And, when the nights were stormy, cold, and dark,
The act of Fang was a perpetual bark;
But though the master loved the growl of Fang, 200
There were who vow’d the ugly cur to hang;
Whose angry master, watchful for his friend,
As strongly vow’d his servant to defend.
In one dark night, and such as Fang before
Was ever known its tempests to outroar,
To his protector’s wonder now express’d
No angry notes—his anger was at rest.
The wond’ring master sought the silent yard,
Left Phœbe sleeping, and his door unbarr’d;
Nor more returned to that forsaken bed— 210
But lo! the morning came, and he was dead.
Fang and his master side by side were laid
In grim repose—their debt of nature paid!
The master’s hand upon the cur’s cold chest
Was now reclined, and had before been press’d,
As if he search’d how deep and wide the wound
That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;
And, when he found it was the sleep of death,
A sympathising sorrow stopp’d his breath.
Close to his trusty servant he was found, 220
As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.
We know no more; but who on horrors dwell
Of that same night have dreadful things to tell.
Of outward force, they say, was not a sign—
The hand that struck him was the Hand Divine;
And then the Fiend, in that same stormy night,
Was heard—as many thought—to claim his right;
While grinning imps the body danced about,
And then they vanish’d with triumphant shout.
So think the crowd, and well it seems in them, 230
That ev’n their dreams and fancies vice condemn;
That not alone for virtue Reason pleads,
But Nature shudders at unholy deeds;
While our strong fancy lists in her defence,
And takes the side of Truth and Innocence.