Chapter XXIII: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (12)

’Tis hard to say what fears and troubles rose
In Susan’s breast, each other to oppose!
Absent the Father, Lover, Friend, she fear’d
For each in turn, and all were more endear’d;
And much she griev’d, that Men she lov’d so well
Could not in Comfort with each other dwell.
Poor Susan then forth hurried, with a Dread
Of Unknown Evil pending o’er her Head! 120
’Twas in a luckless Hour, when Joseph’s Mind
Was full of Care, he anything but kind;
When he look’d back upon the Days serene
That he and Susan had together seen,
[Ere] this free Soldier his fair Maid address’d
And broke with Dreams of Bliss the [wonted] rest.
Yet had he past the Sign, nor turn’d again
For Speech insulting nor for threat’ning vain,
Had not the Youth, contemptuous, from the Inn
Reach’d him, resolv’d a Quarrel to begin: 130
“Come, stay, my Hero, and determine now
To whom fair Susan shall engage her Vow!
Win her and wear her; fight for or decline;
Begin the battle, or the Bride is mine!”
“Coxcomb!” said Joseph; and by force he free’d
His captive Arm and hasten’d to proceed.
“‘Coxcomb!’” said Francis; “you shall quickly know
The force and Value of a ‘Coxcomb’s’ blow!”
“A Ring! a Ring!” for now a gathering Crowd
Had vulgar and tumultuous Joy avow’d. 140
“If the Great Cesar had presum’d to Call,
Him and his Mirmidons—I’d face them all!
But first I will wipe off this foul Disgrace,
And bring the Blush of shame upon thy face.”
And [on] the Instant, as he ceas’d to speak,
He struck th’ insulted Joseph on the Cheek.
For Frank was one who Lectures never mist
On all the glorious Science of the fist,
Nor wanted Courage for the noble Strife,
And would have fought for Glory or a Wife. 150
Here too he saw a Foe who could not boast
Of more than Courage and plain strength at most;
“And this,” said he, “the Maiden’s Heart must gain:
Success and Courage never plead in vain.”
With open palm he struck, and hasten’d then
To the warm Conflict of experienc’d Men;
For he was train’d in both the useful Arts
Of breaking Heroes’ Ribs and Women’s Hearts.
Joseph tho’ patient, [now] the blow was dealt
[Both] coming Shame and rising Vengeance felt. 160
“Scoundrel!” he cried, and yet for patience strove,
By Nature form’d for Harmony and Love;
But, urg’d by Insult of the grossest kind,
He gave to Vengeance and to War his Mind.
He knew his Rival’s Strength, his boasted art,
And saw the soulless Crowd upon his part;
He wanted Skill, he car’d not for Applause;
But he had Courage and the better Cause.
There was one friend of Joseph, one indeed
Almost unknown and now a friend in need, 170
With whom nor Time nor Cash he deign’d to spend—
The Landlord of the Bell was Joseph’s friend.
But why this Love? for Francis was in Truth,
His Father witness’d, [an] expensive Youth;
And all he spent, as all the Green could tell,
Save short Excursions, all was at the Bell.
But, when the Landlord would at Night repair
To the fair Wife and to the favourite Chair,
He found the Chair wherein he sang and drank
Still near[er] plac’d, and fill’d by Mr Frank; 180
And from such Trifle—strange as it appears—
Harry was harried by an Husband’s fears.
He wish’d that Joseph by some lucky blow
Might lay the Hero of the people low;
It would have pleas’d him to have told his Wife
How the poor youth had struggled for his life.
For Harry’s Malice was of fatal kind;
He had no milky Softness in his Mind;
His Love and Favour from his Hatred rose;
His Friend was help’d, his Rival to oppose. 190
Muse of my Choice and Mistress of my Time,
Who leav’st the gay, the grand, and the sublime—
These who without an Atmosphere are known,
And paintest Creatures just as they are shown:
Say, can’st thou ken the Science of the Fist
And know the Language of the Pugilist?
Not so, alas! What Glory had we found,
Could’st thou have sweetly sung of every Round?
Well! but we saw, and briefly can declare,
The Blows’ Effect, if not what Blows they were. 200
First, strong in Ale and Anger Frank appear’d,
Already Conqueror by the Rabble cheer’d;
Who, when the weaker Man is driv’n about
And Soul and Body hurt, insulting shout;
When the elated Victor stares around,
His Ears are tickled with th’ applauding sound;
[While] the poor Wretch who sobs upon the Earth
Hears the unfeeling Rabble’s mad’ning Mirth.
But Joseph, patient and with patience strong,
Felt not the Insult, nor perceiv’d it long. 210
Warm’d in the war, the clamour he disdain’d,
And half the Victory by his Temper gain’d.
He saw the rage of youth; he saw the pride,
And felt that both would lessen or subside;
His Tendons stiff grew pliant by the use
That relaxation in the young produce;
And, when he grew more eager for the fight,
It did not yield his Rival such delight.
When he could bravely in the Action mix,
He backward drew with scientific Tricks, 220
And watched and waited, till in Harry’s face
He saw a Smile betok’ning his Disgrace.
And now had Victory crown’d the juster Cause,
And patient Virtue gain’d the fond Applause—
For even Virtue when it meets Success
Will Crowds Applaud, altho’ they love it less.
A Round was over, and our Soldier found
No Inclination for another Round;
But Shame compell’d and Hatred, and he flew
To end his work, and was successful too. 230
By one dread blow on his unguarded Side
Poor Joseph fell, and, “he is gone,” they cry’d.
“Foul and dishonest!” said the Friends of Truth;
“Lawful and fair!” th’ Abettors of the Youth.
Or fair or foul, the now unhappy Man
Was lost, and the victorious Champion ran,
He knew not where, the army in his Sight,
And Susan fond companion of his flight.
Just to his Wish and in his Way, the Maid
Was with her friend dejected and afraid; 240
Sad her Conjectures, and she hasten’d on
Till Strength and Life and Thought and Hope were gone.
A fallen Tree receiv’d her, and she wept,
Till Nature fainted and Sensation slept.—
“Arise, my Charmer, Mistress of my Heart;
Share in my Joy, and never will we part!
Thine old pretender has presum’d to try
Our right in Battle—we awhile must fly.
Come then, my Beauty; and to-morrow’s Sun,
That shews thee lovely, shall behold us one.” 250
Affrighted Susan heard th’ imperfect boast;
“And Joseph dead?”—“Disabled, love, at most.
But, tho’ no Laws could my fair Deeds condemn,
Their Laws have agents, and I fly from them.
The Man will live, but he demands his Bed,
And thy kind Father will support his Head;
[Meanwhile], sweet Susan, shall thy Charms repose
In Arms destructive only to our foes.”
“Injur’d and dying!” said the Maid, “and I
Th’ accursed Cause! Go, Man of Terror, fly! 260
I dream’d of one like thee, but he was kind
And did no Murder! Go, thy Safety find!
Where is my Father?” and, of Soul bereft,
She rose and sought the Cottage she had left.
In vain the Youth intreated—vainly tried
Alarm; his Words rejected or despised.
Yet still he follow’d, but at Distance saw
The Father’s Cot that forc’d him to withdraw.
Borne to his Bed, th’ unhappy Joseph found
The wounded Mind inflam’d his Body’s wound; 270
Deeply he griev’d to think a Youth so vile
And so deprav’d must win his Susan’s smile;
[That] this vindictive Stroke should Victory gain
And all his Hope and Courage be in vain!
“And is it then a World where none can trust
On Truth and Virtue—’tis a World unjust!”
Sorely he griev’d, till Sleep a short suspense
Gave to his Sorrow and overcame the Sense.
E’en in his Dream he saw his Rival blest
With the false Maid, and anguish broke his rest— 280
Anguish no more, for watchful at his bed
He saw the Maid, by genuine pity led.

* * * * *

’Twas fond Esteem! and that immoral boy
She now despis’d and his accursed Joy.
[Ere] yet the wicked Vengeance she was told,
The vile Avenger she could ill behold,
And, as he urg’d his prayer, indignant grew,
And all her fondness [and her faith] withdrew.
Joseph she saw, his Virtues and his Worth,
And Love from grateful Sorrow took his Birth. 290
He had her pity, her Esteem, before,
When he was glad—he suffer’d, and had more;
Nor Groan escap’d him, but it touch’d the Maid,
Who, as he did not, would herself upbraid.
Advis’d, the Father, when he saw her Care,
Forbore to urge her and agreed to spare;
And the sick-room was made a mild retreat
For rising Hope and opening Love to meet.
Then Joseph told her he could yet forgive,
Would Frank reform, and they in joy might live; 300
While he—“Oh! speak not!” [quickly] she replied,
“Thine will I be, and that will be my pride!
It was a foolish Thought, a Fancy fled,
A Dream dissolv’d—the very wish is dead.
I thought that all things yielded to my Youth,
And follow’d Fancy till she fled from Truth;
Now I behold thee virtuous, as thou art,
Nor yield Esteem more freely than my Heart,
And him the worthless being he appears,
Taught to create our Terrors and our tears.” 310

CAPTAIN GODFREY.

Musing, he said—“So rich, and so addressed,
What can I hope? be, foolish heart, at rest!
Here fate has brought me—now, suppose I write,
If but my Name, and leave it for her sight?”
That instant sank the moon, and Godfrey cried:
“So perish all my Views!” and deeply sighed;
Then, with heroic Motion striding far
And Voice of Valour—“Let us to the War!”
But, as he sighed, he heard approaching feet
Behind those trees so shady and so sweet; 10
Then, dimly seen, came on with Motion slow
That pair whose Hearts he most desired to know.
The Lady’s Accent he remembered well;
The Lover’s Name his Rival’s fears could spell.
He shrank, disordered, to his hiding place;
To be detected was for life disgrace.
The best, the wisest, method he could take
Was, undisguised, a safe retreat to make;
But some mix’d Motives, not defin’d with Ease,
Led [him] behind the Phalanx of the trees.— 20
But who will pardon to an act extend
So full of Fear, so doubtful in the End?—
Cautious he stood, this Hand upon the Sword
That on his Heart, and listened to each Word.
Yes, you are good, and have in this complied;
Be kinder yet, and now my Fate decide!
Thought I, that months, nay years, attending still
Could soften that dear Heart or lead that will,
Thro’ many an arduous Month and many a year
I would attend, adore, and persevere; 30
But thou, tho’ gentlest of the gentle Kind,
Hast with the frankest heart the firmest Mind;
Tho’ with that firmness true Compassion lives,
And thy Heart murmurs at the Grief it gives.
Then, when I view thee so unmov’d tho’ mild,
Gentle yet just, my Judgment is beguil’d.
Oh! could I see thee angry and, when teiz’d,
Mov’d to resent—now sooth’d, and now displeas’d—
I should have hope; for, as thy Anger rose,
The Grief it caused thy Pity would compose. 40
Could I a weakness in thy Heart discern,
Love there might enter and enjoy his turn;
But, tho’ I seek thee early, leave thee late, }
And all day long upon thy pleasure wait, }
I find thee firm as Truth and fixed as Fate. }
Yet, what forbids? my years beyond thy own }
Are few, nor these in peevish Manners shewn; }
My Title, fortune, friends and family are known. }
These are not much; but I have more than these;
Sure, love like mine and faithfulness might please. 50
Our Thoughts in all their Views appear to strike
On the same Chords, and we have tastes alike—
And shall we here alone the difference prove,
And there be no Similitude in Love?
“Would’st thou thy Sister call to Life, O take
My Heart instead and what shall please thee make!
If Time, Entreaty and thy friends, incline
That Heart to love, I could insure thee mine;
But, if that Heart have purpose fix’d and sure,
And I must Coldness tho’ not scorn endure; 60
If something tell thee, ‘Heed not Fancy’s tale
Nor let her Visions o’er my Truth prevail’;
If that dread something, call it what you will,
Oppose me strongly and oppose me still:
Be like thyself, be candid, and impart
Thyself the Tidings to a doubtful Heart;
If Bliss await him, make thy Lover blest;
If not, oh, give these doubts and Terrors rest!”
“It grieves me much,” replied the gentle Maid,
While Godfrey listened, of each Word afraid, 70
That I am urged those Motives to explain
Which safe Experience bids the Sex retain.
What would my Friend? hast thou a Right to see
The Heart’s fond folly, scarcely known to me?
Say, is it friendly, is it kind to trace }
The tender failings of an erring race, }
In whom the faintest Speck is held Disgrace? }
’Tis true I cannot with thy wish comply;
But is it right that I should tell thee why,
And to thy harder Sex make failings known 80
That I conceal with Caution from my own?
“Then [hear]—and know I own thee for a friend;
And my Confession thy Suspense shall end.
Know then, I cannot from my breast expel
A strong Impression fated there to dwell;
Time but confirms it, and the pain it brings
Proves that it lives, for it has life that stings.
Ere yet my Father knew this Load of Wealth,
And my lov’d Sisters shar’d my Views in Health,
A Youth addressed me—I prefer’d him then; 90
But I was warn’d of the Designs of Men.
His Views in Life were humble, he confest;
But this * * *, nor could it be suppress’d.
In him ’twas policy to win the Truth;
And then I fear’d the fickle Soul of Youth.
Yet, [though] rejected, he was ever near,
And uninvited—let me own it, dear!
My parents doubted; I was urged to prove
The Heart I valued, [ere] I own’d the love.
My Sister only was his friend; she knew— 100
So love persuades—that one so brave was true;
For he was brave and had in battle shown
That War and Danger had familiar grown.
An Hero’s favourite Nymph the poet sings,
But Heroes’ Widows are neglected Things.—
Thus, while Affection shone with Fear, an Hour
Arrived to prove his patience and my power.
For an offence so trifling, that one day
Had swept the memory of the Crime away,
In spleen, in spite, in folly I reprov’d 110
And banish’d from my Sight the Man I lov’d!
[His] purpos’d visit in the morn I knew,
And bore in mind my purpos’d pardon too.
‘’Tis a last trial,’ to my Heart I said;
‘When [he returns], thy Will shall be obey’d.’
Ah! my kind Friend, remember, in thy Woes,
No Self-reproach forbids thy Soul repose!
But I detain thee; would I had detain’d
The Man my Folly, but not solely, pain’d!
Ere that return a sudden order bore 120
My Godfrey hence, and he return’d no more.
Dear Suffering Youth, forgive me; I lament }
A Man to Misery by my Humour sent; }
Doomed to rude War, sore Wounds, and long Imprisonment! }
How has he curs’d the fickle Mind! how long
Brooded in Anguish o’er the causeless Wrong!
* * *—or now perhaps a foreign Grave
Holds one so dear, so tender and so brave!
Nay, give thy Pardon; did’st thou not implore
The frank Confession? I will add no more. 130
Choose thou a virgin Heart, nor now behold
This face of Calmness with a bosom cold—
Cold to new Love and, while my Life shall last,
Hopeless of Joy and dwelling in the past!
Tho’ he returns not, justice bids me fly
Thy prayer; thy Hand ’tis Honour to deny;
And oh! if yet I might my Visions trust,
And he returns, Love, tell me to be just!”

THE AMOURS OF G[EORGE].

“Brother, what tho’ thy mind is strong,
And thou art classed the wise among,
Yet in thy earlier Life did’st thou
To Love’s imperious Godhead bow,
And [worshipp’dst] ardently in Truth
The Idol of thy giddy youth.”
_G._ “I read Romances, Joseph, then,
And wrote with a poetic Pen;
I chose in lonely walks to tread,
And held my Converse with the Dead. 10
I built me Castles rich and fair,
And shut in Wealth and Virtue there,
With Bliss that nowhere else will grow,
And Fame not realized below,
And power that none should dare contest,
And Beauty none beside possess’d;
With all that Fancy ever gave
To Man who would his Miseries brave.
My Form was slender; I was tall,
And awkward were my Motions all; 20
Nor was a Form indebted less
To Fashion, Manner, Grace or Dress.
This Form was not for Love designed,
But he intirely ruled the Mind;
And, as I felt that I should prove
A most obedient Slave to Love,
So did I judge that he should be
A most propitious God to me:
To give to me the gentlest Heart
That ever felt his keenest Dart, 30
Or that inspired the sweetest Look,
Or kindly in the features spoke.
“Possessed of Fancies vain and proud
I spurned the male and female Crowd,
And hoped in some auspicious Hour
In some May Morn, in some green Bower,
Where I should soothe my dream of Grief,
To meet the Lady of the Leaf;
Her Love and Favour to implore
And be her Knight for evermore. 40
But let me raise my Style, and tell
What in my Vision me befell.
“One day I mus’d beside a Wood,
As I had often done before,
And [seemed] so rich and brave and good
As never Man was made before.
A green Inclosure was beside,
And, not far distant on the Hill,
A noble Seat, our County’s Pride,
Built with abundant Care and Skill; 50
And thence had issued Ladies fair
And walked within the Place below,
But the green Wood conceal’d the pair
From me, who walking felt the Glow
Of all the Vanity and pride
That push’d the intruding World aside.
And now, while thus enwrap’d and fed
With thoughts that self indulgence bred,
I heard a Shriek so long and loud
That prov’d the Shriekers were not proud, 60
But would accept the meanest Aid
That ever succour’d folk afraid.
“For so it was: that pair divine
Were met by some rebellious Kine,
Who, in their stubborn Pride and Scorn,
With surly Hoof and threat’ning Horn
Usurp’d the Path, and, as the Maids
Drew near, and [would have] sought its Shades,
[Ere] they could reach the guarding Wood,
Some surly Beast their Way withstood. 70
And hence the dismal Shriek that drew
My Eyes, and asked my Action too;
As Justness prompted, forth I ran
Resolv’d to show myself a Man;
And, plucking forth an oaken Bough,
I ran like Guy to fight the Cow,
And, like a valiant Champion, fixed
Myself the Maids and Cows betwixt.
And, tho’ I had not breath to say,
‘Run, Ladies, for the Stile away!’ 80
Yet doubtless, with a warlike Grace,
My hand was pointed to the Place.
“The Ladies took me at my Word,
And each flew lightly like a Bird.
I now had time my thoughts t’ arrange
And should have liked my place to change;
For now the Creatures seemed disposed
For Battle, and in Order closed;
And, tho’ they halted, yet I found
My feet upon precarious Ground; 90
And yet, to turn me and retreat
Was not alone to own Defeat,
But to invite th’ encouraged Foe
To fell pursuit and overthrow.
“The Ladies, who had pass’d the Stile,
Looked on impatiently the while;
And were amazed, for so they said,
To see the horrid Cows afraid,
And kept in coward fear by one
Who had for them such Service done. 100
“Which had the Victory, Man or Cow,
Can never be determined now.
For lo! some amazons appear’d,
Resolv’d to milk the stubborn Herd;
Who, as they now obedient grew,
Left me my purpose to pursue—
A purpose that I could not well
Distinguish, nor can fairly tell.
“The [quicker] Nymph with gracious Smile
Received me safe beyond the Stile; 110
Where I had time to feast my Eyes
On paradise and prodigies—
Charms, such as Nature once creates,
Then breaks the Mould (the Lover states).
But this, dear Joseph, was a Face
I could not from my fancy chase,
Was more than I had dreamed, was more }
Than Fancy drew for me before, }
And bade me my own Work adore. }
But let me not on Beauty dwell: 120
The trace became indelible.”

[FRAGMENTS OF TALES OF THE HALL.]

“Are there not some things, B[rother], that will seem
Like very Truth and yet like very dream;
That we are ever at a Loss to find,
Are they of fact or are they of the mind?”

* * * * *

“Again a walk, dear R[ichard,] and so long?
Would not M[atilda] tell you, it is wrong,
That she so little of the Man behold,
The Slave rebellious or the Lover cold?
Where hast thou wandered?”—
“I describe but ill.
When past the Park, I made for Depford Mill. 10
Stopt by the Brook, I turned and slowly went
One Mile, I think, upon a smooth Ascent.
There, on that Hill, where clumps of Fir and pine
So bound the Land that they may pass for thine,
As Thy Plantations on the other Side
Give to the Neighbours something of their Pride—
There, as I stood and viewed the empty Hall
And the small Church, remarked as very small,
A sound, not ringing, but from bells a pair,
Hanged between Turrets in the open Air, 20
Called my Attention to the House; and then
I saw there passing and thence coming Men.

* * * * *

“Then first that Village wore a cheerful Air,
Not like the noisy Concourse of its Fair;
But I distinguished plainly, with my Glass,
Another people thro’ the Gardens pass.
In fact, there seemed a joy diffused around,
As if some long-lost blessing had been found;
And I could judge by both their dress and air
There went some pains to form that gentle pair. 30
You will have Neighbours; nay, perhaps you know
To whom that—Blessing, shall I say?—you owe.—

* * * * *

“Nay, B[rother], I must leave }
The Place I love; but, going, I must grieve.”— }
“True, my dear R[ichard]—but I ask reprieve; }
Speak gentle words, and you shall hear a Tale
Of the new pair who came to Ashford Dale.”

* * * * *

Small was their Garden, and they wished to grow
All that a Gardening Swain could set or sow;
And in that Soil the produce grew so tall 40
About the Path and Porch, the Door and Wall;
The Children crept the stately plants between,
And only Mary’s snow-white Cap was seen—
When the low door was opened, and the Dame
From her small Parlor to her Garden came,
To see if John was coming from the Farm; }
To hear the Village Scholars’ glad Alarm, }
And to behold the Bees, if clustering for the Swarm. }
Such were the daily Cares in Mary’s life,
The easiest Mother and the happiest Wife. 50

TRAGIC TALES, WHY?

“I have observed,” said Richard, “when I ask
Of those around us, and your memory task
For their Adventures and their Lives, what fate,
How tragic most the Stories you relate.
Is it that most are wretched, or have we
The evil fate to live with Misery?”—
“Not so perhaps, but Men of common Lives,
Who live contented with themselves and Wives,
Afford no Subject for the Muse than Mirth.

* * * * *

“Their [lowly] comforts, or a day’s delight, 10
Do not afford [us] matter when we write;
[Though] all the strange prodigious things they do
Are such as move them and are tragic too.
Amusements, pleasures, comforts, days of Joy,
May a Man’s Mind, but not his Muse, employ;
Marriage and Births of Heirs are pleasant things,
But seldom help a poet when he sings.
A Day of Hunting, fishing, shooting, these—
Music and Dancing, Cards and fiddles—please;
And wealth acquired or wealth bequeathed impart, 20
More than they ought, rejoicing to the Heart.
But these, though Man might for his Comforts choose,
Can give no Inspiration to his Muse.
But, my dear Richard, when this transient Joy
Some sudden Ills and dire Events destroy;
When the fond wife [or] faithful husband [dies]—
Fate unforseen!—when Wealth takes wings and [flies];
When by Deceit a Maiden’s peace is lost;
When tender Love by cruel fate is crost;
When groaning Poverty and fell Disease 30
Upon the happy and the wealthy seize,
And when on Man’s soft Heart these Evils press:
The awakened Poet paints the due Distress;
Tells how it came, and presses on the Mind
That we are Men, and of the suffering Kind.
We own the grieving and opprest as Friends; }
The Mind enlarges as its Grief extends; }
And Grief that’s painted true improves the Heart it rends.” }

* * * * *

[ROBERT AND CATHARINE.]

* * * * *

Time and mild Laws to Robert freedom gave;
And now the Man resolv’d his Cash to save,
If Cash were his; and Catharine felt delight
To see her Cousin in a decent plight;
And now, contracted, they resolved for Life
To join their Fortune to be Man and Wife.
With more than wonted Courage Catharine sought
For Robert’s Pardon, and at length she brought.
Henceforth a mighty Change in him began:
He was [a] sober, saving, serious Man; 10
He lived to save, and had a friend to prove
What pains he took to win his Uncle’s Love;
Till the old Man for Fact the Tales received,
And all that once opposed Belief believed.
The Nephew now increased his humble Store,
And saved as fondly as he spent before;
Yet would he purchase [savoury] things and sweet
That his dear Uncle would vouchsafe to eat.
“Some seaman gave them”—that was what he told,
And not that some confectioner had sold. 20
No doubt the fact had caused his Uncle pain,
And he perhaps had sold the Sweets again.
But he was grateful, and began to speak
Of Women harshly: they were vain and weak,
Not skill’d to manage in the great Concern
Of saving Cash, and not disposed to learn.
This Catharine heard not or, if aught she heard,
Of Man’s superior Mind she nothing feared;
But to her Uncle paid the Service due,
Nor thought of Giving, but was kind and true. 30
She now conceived their wish they might declare,
But Robert dared not, begg’d her not to dare!
She saw their dear good Kinsman every day }
Wasting in Flesh, and soon must waste away; }
And then would all be Well! well paid for their Delay! }
She, gentle Girl, though loth, yet acquiesc’d;
It pleased her Cousin, and it might be best.
Yet, as he often came and talk’d at Ease,
She judged it right; but, “Cousin, as you please!”
And now between them and their Wishes rose 40
The old Man’s Life—that only—to oppose
The purposed Union; and that Bar between }
Was now removed, as we remove a Screen }
From what we would not see, or would should not be seen. }
Death was announced; and buried was the Dead,
Relations summon’d, and the Will was read—
Brief but yet clear—Some trifles to some few;
To the dear Niece—in fact, a Trifle too.

* * * * *

Look at that Cottage and its only door:
’Tis poor without, within exceeding poor. 50
Now cast your Eye to yonder splendid scene;
Contrasted see the Prospects proud and mean!
In that proud Seat dwells Robert; in yon Cot
Catharine sits, knitting.—Such the Cousins’ lot.

DAVID JONES.

Shall I not bid to David Jones adieu—
He who had sail’d with [Anson’s] hardy Crew;
He who had been about the world and found,
On his [protested] word, it was not round!
“’Tis all like England, every earthly Spot;
The Days are short and long, and cold and hot.
So they are here! Of all that I could trace
Are, just like us, a little darker race;
But striving all, by measures foul and fair,
To get our Nails, for Nails are many there. 10
They tipple grog; they love their dance and feasts,
And are taboo’d and terrified by priests.
Civil enough, when nothing thwarts their Will,
But very Devils when you use them ill;
Vain like ourselves and very fond of praise,
Proud of their lands, and [their peculiar ways].
They have no money, but they change their Hams
And the whole Pig for * * * and yams;
There are some honest, as I may believe;
But all I saw have a delight to thieve. 20
So should we feel—at least ’tis my Belief—
If we had not our Law to hang a Thief.
They go to War like us, their Queens and Kings—
And, just like us, for mighty trivial things.
There is a difference in our Ways[, ’tis true];
But Men are Men and Women Women too.
As far as I could see into their Hearts,
They act, as we do, well and ill their parts;
And we must think, the more of [man] we see,
That he is not the thing he ought to be; 30
But, go where’er you will, you’ll ever find
Man is a selfish and a sinful kind.”

So David thought, when he was stout and stern
And had his Pittance by his toil to earn.
On my return a pensioned man I found,
For a [lost leg] and many a grievous Wound.
Grateful he was and good, and loved to sing,
“Rule, Rule Brittania!” and “God save the King!”

* * * * *

THE DESERTED FAMILY.

It is the Evening of the brightest Day
The Year can boast; it is the last of May.
On my right Hand the Ocean fills the Eye,
Far on the East there, till it meets the Sky;
Westward, a Range of lofty Hills is seen;
A Farm’s large Lands and Mansion lie between—
A lonely Mansion. From the nearest Town
The Evening Bell comes faintly floating down;
While the vast Ocean rolls its Waves so near,
The fallen Billow strikes the listless Ear. 10
Before the Mansion, and extended wide,
A level Green appears on either Side;
Which, though so lovely it must seem to all,
Some would a Lawn and some a Meadow call:
On that same Green and gazing at the tide
A Lady stands, her Children at her Side;
Save yon light Boy, who tries with restless Zeal }
His Mother’s Spirit of its Wounds to heal, }
And make her love that life which ’tis his Joy to feel; }
When the sad Lady some poor Effort makes, 20
And a faint Smile repays the Pains he takes.
To these comes One, and see! he comes with speed
And cries, “No further on your Way proceed!
No further, dear Matilda, must you go,
To muse in secret and indulge your Woe.
Pride of my Life, but Grief as well as Pride,
Why will you thus in Wretchedness abide?
Why in these Scenes of Solitude delight?
It may be soothing, but cannot be right.”
Thus spake the Squire; for he was vext to find 30
His Sister sad; for all he meant was kind.
Yet this he added—“I will not believe
In thy Religion, if I see thee grieve.
Of that Religion hast thou not enough
To baffle Grief and make thee Sorrow-Proof?
Hast thou not said, that all Mankind endure
Finds in their Faith a Comfort or a Cure?
I know thy Prayers are offered day by day,
And yet thy Griefs will obstinately stay,
To war with Grace—Come, take a chearful View 40
Of Life, and think its Pleasures are thy due!
“Why mourn an Husband, were he good, so long?
But One like thine! ’Tis desperately wrong!
One who deceived thee, whom we should despise
A Wretch, all Falsehood, Treachery and Disguise!
“Nay, my Matilda, let me not offend:
Would’st have thy Brother be a Villain’s Friend?
A vile, false, flattering Scoundrel—nay, but how
Can you thus grieve? I’m speaking kindly now—
A base deceiver, studied to betray; 50
But, come! he’s gone, and I’ve no more to say.”
Pensive and silent, passive in her Woe,
She went with him, though indisposed to go;
And to the loud Reproof and threat’ning tone
She school’d her Heart, and said, “I’ll grieve alone.”
When near their Home, again the Brother cried:
“Come let thy Griefs be still, thine Eyes be dried!
Here Captain Gale, the May’r too from the Town,
And both their Wives and Children, are come down;
Do let them see, an English Woman’s heart 60
Forbears to take a foreign Scoundrel’s Part!”
Patient and firm, the gentle Dame obey’d.
“He was not foreign,” that alone she said,
And that he heard not.—Then the hours were spent
In small discourse and petty merriment—
Such as the Men with little Minds admire;
Such as became the May’r and pleased the Squire;
Such as the Mayor’s and the Captain’s Wife
Could best display and picture to the Life—
All the small Scandal of a Place so small 70
That we might wonder whence arose it all;
With Borough-Business of such high Concern,
That poor Matilda was compell’d to learn
What Honours fell upon their Heads, and how
The worthy Burgess took the Member’s Bow,
And how returned, and what a joyous Look
His face discover’d, when their hands they shook.
The Brother, grieving for the patient Grief
Of the fair Mourner, strove for her Relief;
And, finding Wrath disturbed her gentle Breast, 80
In gentler Tone his Love and Care exprest.
“’Tis now five Years, and this about the day,
Since the Bellair was wreckt in Liddel-Bay;
When Fredrick came a Sufferer to our Home,
As for our Sins destroying Angels come.
He came alone, in Misery, to our Care;
Then fled the Home and left the Misery there.
“Nay, Sister, be not thus to Anguish wrought;
I only try to think—what can be thought.
“All seemed so fair: he no Pretences made, 90
Was poor, and owned it—that could not persuade;
His Temper gay, his Mind without a Cloud, }
Of Honour and his Country justly proud. }
No Fear, no Mask—this all must be allow’d; }
And yet, he left us.—Sister, I must go,
To seek this Angel-Dæmon, Friend and Foe.”
The gentle Mourner for a while appeared
Absorbed in thought; her Brother’s Words she feared,
His Love she owned; she thanked him from her Soul,
But begged he would these angry thoughts controul. 100
“You must not meet,” she said, with deep-drawn Sigh
And flowing Tears—“you must not, nor must I.”
There was a Pause; but Richard could not hide
The rising Anger or the wounded Pride.
“Ask me not, Sister, while Your Wrong is mine,
To bear a Blow and like a Dog to whine!
But, if I could my Sense of Wrong subdue,
I must revenge an Insult offered you.
Let him for all account, for all repent,
For all atone; and then I may relent. 110
Him I must seek; for never Man of Sense
Can live in all this horrible Suspense.
Him must I seek.”—
“Nay Richard, Brother, Friend!
Grieve not thy Sister, whom thou wouldst defend!
War not with Death or Sorrow; what I crave
Is Peace on Earth. O war not with the Grave!
Let all that Death can touch untroubled lie,
And who would strive with that which cannot die!”—
“Is he no more?”—
“’Tis painful to reply.
To us he is; and let the Subject die! 120
For, if he lives, he suffers, and he feels
The Pangs that Death concludes—at least conceals.”
“I know not this; or, grant repentance true,
I still am wronged[, and] Vengeance is my due.
You may forgive your Husband, if you can;
But I must wreak my Vengeance on the Man.
You had refused him; but for my Request
That thought disturbs me. Hence I cannot rest.
True, he was handsome; all that Women love
In Air and Manner, all that Men approve 130
In Sense and Courage; yet, before he fled,
The better Spirit of the Man was dead.
You saw he grieved and moped alone about;
The Date of Virtue, Love and Peace was out;
He for a Man of Worth awhile was known,
And then the Devil came to claim his own.”—
“No more, my Brother! I must now prepare
The one sad Secret of my Soul to share;
To make my mystic Fortune understood,
And keep thee free from peril and from blood.— 140
But I must bind thee, Richard; thou must keep
The Peace, and let thy strong Resentment sleep!”
He gave Assent.
“To know my present State,
I must a Portion of the past relate.
Remember you, before my Fred’rick’s flight,
How anxious grew that Spirit once so light?
You laught at this—”
“’Tis true; for I supposed
The Man was hypped, and Wine and Mirth proposed;
For I had some Misgiving, and could trace
The Marks that Mystics term the Signs of Grace. 150
Then, was it so? Alas! ere yet he fled,
I saw that something in his Mind had bred.
But yet I spoke not, thinking every Day
Life’s common Cares would wear the gloom away;
Indeed, I jested; for your Husband’s Style
And his sad look would often cause a smile.
But now proceed!”—
“You recollect the Praise
You gave that Spirit in our early Days.
From a light Heart we said those Spirits rise;
’Tis Virtue sparkles in those brilliant Eyes; 160
That Mirth arises from the Soul’s Content,
And all is Gay, for all is innocent.
But oh, my Brother! I had Cause to fear }
That all within that Heart did not appear; }
Frank as he ever seemed, he was not now sincere. }
His Sleep was troubled; in the solemn Night
He woke in Terror and demanded Light.
He then some Guilt with fearful Haste Avow’d,
And bade his Silent Wife not speak so loud.
Yet was he cautious, and his Words were weighed 170}
With fretful Care, like One who seems afraid }
By his own speech his Crime should be betrayed. }
Temperate before, he now would often fly }
To Wine for Aid, that treacherous Ally }
That undermines the Strength it should supply; }
That, like to Money borrowed in Distress,
Seems to increase our Power, but makes it less.—
All this I saw, not hopeless; I believed
A Man, awakened, for his Error grieved;
His seemed to me the Salutary Storm 180
That shakes the Soul it will at Length reform.
“I spoke in Love and Pity, ‘Let us Pray!’
Wherefore he cried, and turned Alarmed away.
This I had known: the new Awaken’d hide
Their Fears from Man—it is false Nature’s Pride—
But Hope still whispered, ‘Ease will follow Pain;
The broken Heart will soon be healed again.’
Nor knew I yet there was the Part unsound;
Untouched, unseen, the ever rankling Wound!
“Yet more distressed he grew; and then I cried, 190
‘Go to the Priest and take him for thy Guide!’
But Frederick’s Grief was not the transient Rage
Of Clouds that Winds collect and Rains asswage;
But still more Dark the mental Prospect grew,
And weary Hope could not her smile renew.
“Alas! I erred; I knew not that the Sin
Of my poor Frederick rankled yet within,
Nor granted Rest; but all his Crime had gained,
What Sin had purchased, that with him remained.
I saw his Self-reproach, and I could View 200
Through all his Care his Self-denial too.
He wants, I said, some meek religious Guide,
And is forbid to seek him by his Pride.
In fact, my Husband had ere this address’d }
A meek good priest; he had in part confest }
His bosom’s wound, but had in part supprest. }
“I urged my Love.—‘Thy Love shall I requite
With endless Suffering?’ I maintain’d my Right
To what he said—the Right that Martyrs have
To lingering Torture and an early Grave. 210
“‘Would I had yet,’ he said, ‘myself restrained,
And not this knowledge with this Evil gained!
Go to the Priest, thou said’st; and I receive
My Sight of Sin; I tremble and believe.
Why should I go to hear that warning Voice?
Let them attend who hearing can rejoice;
Let them exult who feel that all is well!
Why talk of Heavens to a Child of Hell?
Thy tender Sins are nipt and gently die
Without a Pang, like Girls in Infancy; 220
My Crimes are strong, and ’tis a dreadful Part
At once to tear them from the wounded heart.
Nor that the worst! I know the mighty Cost
Of my dear Sin: or that or Heav’n is lost—
And Heav’n is lost. That Sin, if Sin it be, }
Clings to the Soul, that never can be free; }
I cannot lose thee, Love, and thou art Sin to me.’” }
“Oh, my poor Sister,” Richard said, in Haste;
“What a strange Fancy has the Man embraced!
He wished to please thee and thy Way to take, 230
And lost his Reason for Matilda’s sake.
Puzzled and vext, he heard, he pray’d, he read,
Love in his Heart and Frenzy in his Head;
Led, as I doubt not Mystics always lead,
Their Flocks; no Wonder Frenzy should succeed!
But, when so sound a Mind is wrecked, we feel
Pity and Wrath and Curse the mad’ning Zeal.
Strange that a Man, from all Delusion free
And all Conceit, should not the Folly see!”—
“No, my dear Richard; Facts I now must state 240
A different Cause assign and different Fate
Describe: ’tis true that he was sore afraid
And, pierced by Sorrows, to his Maker prayed;
True that, by Guilt as well as Grief oppressed,
He asked for Mercy as he longed for Rest;
But his true Reason was an inward Sense
And a deep feeling of his own Offence.
“See, my dear Brother, when his restless Mind
Urged him to leave us, what he left behind.
Thus wrote th’ unhappy Man before he fled; 250
Read thou, and judge my feelings as I read!
Then will you learn why thus, from day to day,
Hopeless I grieve and weep my Hours away.
My Boy afflicts me, when he dares not ask,
Where is he gone, and sees I wear a Mask.
He reads my Looks; he saddens at my Sigh,
And fears alike my Silence and Reply.
My Girl, yet younger, wonders at my Woes
And seems to question whence the Grief arose.
The very Infant takes a solemn tone 260
Of silent woe [nor] lets me grieve alone.
But why is Sorrow wordy? Now receive
What he relates, nor wonder that I grieve.”—

“Bear Witness, Heav’n and all the Powers above,
Ye who in boundless, endless Glory dwell:
It is with breaking Heart I speak of Love,
For I must bid to Love and Hope farewell.

“I came to thee, when thou wert all content,
Loving and loved, a Creature half-divine;
I came, a Robber for thy Misery sent, 270
Whilst thou wert anxious in removing mine.

“On a Sick-bed, attended, soothed, caressed,
Healed of my Wounds, but smitten in my heart—
‘And must we part?’ were Words my Love exprest;
Some listening Daemon eccho’d: ‘Must you part?

“‘Art thou not dead to all the World beside,
Save these, the kind Preservers of thy Life?
Can’st thou not ask that Angel for thy Bride,
And quit the Woman who is now thy Wife?

“‘’Tis a sad Truth; but Truth may be denied. 280
Who would not Strive this matchless Maid to Win?
Is it a Sin to be to Truth allied;
Or, if it be, who could escape the sin?’

“Wretch that I am, to wear a vile disguise
With Virtue, Truth and Piety in View!
My Words, my Thoughts, my very looks were Lyes;
My Vow alone and my fond Love were true.

“Why hast thou shown me that I went astray;
Why tell What Sin the World’s Redeemer Cost?
I heard and trembled, forced myself to pray, 290
Pray’d for Conviction, was convinced—and lost.

“Chearful and Gay my Years of Unbelief;
They fled, and now a sad Reverse I see:
Like Judas I, or like the dying Thief,
But not the One who said, ‘Remember Me!’

“I go, Matilda, for my Peace is gone;
Nor would thy Heart a Lawless Love allow.
I dare not die; but must a Wretch live on,
And Life once blest must be my Torment now.

“Oh! when convinced that Jesus died for man, 300
For Sinners Suffered on th’ accursed Tree,
A dreadful Choice to shake my Soul began—
Loss of the Soul’s best Hope or loss of thee.

“I said, as Cain when Banished said before:
’Tis more than I can bear, for what can I?
From thee ’tis Death to part, from Heav’n is more;
’Tis worse than Death to that which cannot die.

“A vain, weak Boy, I took the offered Hand
Of One who with it her poor Pittance gave;
Then fled to Sea, and wrecked upon your Land, 310
To live their Bane who snatch’d me from the Grave.

“And yet, to leave thee! leave that rosy Boy,
A Life of Toil and Penury to share!
To quit all worldly Good, all earthly Joy—
It is too hard, and more than I can bear.

“For none beside thee will I ever live—
For thee I must not, though so fond and true;
But must to Heav’ns high Will my Being Give,
And pray for Strength to bid the World adieu.”

The Brother read; it grieved him at his heart, 320
And Pity softly questioned, “Must they part?”
“They must,” more calm in reasoning, he replied,
“And I remain her sole Support and Guide.
I loved to hear him, nay I loved to speak
Of Men religious as the Crazed and Weak;
And weak they were, but foolish Men will bring
When Sinners judge, Disgrace on everything.
Religion’s Self our Rashness dar’d condemn,
Because like Folly it appeared in them.
But, if an Actor plays the King amiss, 330
Shall I the Monarch in the Mimic hiss?
The thing itself is holy just and good,
When duly sought and justly understood;
But, when such weak and vain Expounders try
To force my Faith, the more resisting I.
And many a Laugh had we, not all confined
To those Expounders, though for them designed;
Cool and contemptuous we the Man survey’d,
And smil’d at Prayer, because a Bigot prayed.
I see it now—and he, unhappy! saw 340
The Aweful Truth, and he abides in Awe!—
Me too this Lesson shall to thought restore;
I may offend, but will deride no more.
Yet hope, Matilda! thy pure Bosom feels
No Pains but those which thy Devotion heals;
Time and thy Duties will their Balm afford,
The Works of God His Wonders and His Word.
If thou thy Peace, and I my Pardon, gain,
Then shall this Suffering not be lent in vain.”

Years pass’d; the School-days of the Boy were come, 350
And now the happier Girls are schooled at Home.
The Widowed Mother her sad Part sustained; }
She still a Widow in her Heart remained; }
Nor in her State repined nor of her State complain’d. }
Sometimes her pensive Spirit took the Way
To the lone Beach, where best she loved to stray.
There was a chosen Place that she would seek—
A rare Indulgence not of ev’ry Week;
But, at some Seasons, she, with Heart oppressed,
Prayed Grief away and then returned at rest. 360
This Place she loved, where, far as Eye could reach,
There seemed a boundless Length of peb’ly beach.
She loved the deep green hollow Lane, where grow
The Ferns that flourish o’er the Rill below;
In the small Course the limpid Waters run
And feed the Herbs that never feel the Sun.
She loved the still broad Lake, that in the Night
Of the full Moon reflected glorious light;
And every brilliant Star appeared to glow
With softened Lustre in the Lake below. 370
Nor less she loved the deep and solemn Shade,
By Antient Oaks of mighty Stature made;
Yet in their Strength and Glory that had Cast
Their welcome Shade on Generations past,
And to the aged and to the Young shall prove
The Ease of Labour and the Walk of Love.
Such Scenes had Beauty; but, when none appeared
Some accidental Good the Place endeared.
There Love had led them in some chearful Day,
That past in Ease and blameless Mirth away; 380
When, as their Children gambol’d in their View,
Some happy Presage from their Sport they drew.
Still to these Scenes, by fond Remembrance led,
She turn’d, and there her softest Tears were shed.
There heavenly Hope her cheering Visit paid,
And there with Faith and fervent Zeal she prayed.
Thus, Summer past, Autumnal Scenes came on,
And Winter’s Frost; and so the Year was gone.
Then other Seasons came, and other Years
Brought the same Comforts, Tenderness and Tears. 390
Year after year thus stole in Quiet by,
Sure, but unmarked, as Cranes and Swallows fly;
And now was One that with its Record fled:
No News of Frederick; but the Wife was dead!
A Crimson flush then marked Matilda’s Cheek,
This spoke; this only she allowed to speak.
Within the neighbouring Town were some whose Cares
Were kindly given to their Friends’ Affairs;
“And why,” they said, “should Richard Vernon live
Without a Wife, when we have Girls to give?” 400
But Richard had it not in Mind to wed;
He had the daily Cares that served instead—
His land, his Books, and the Attention shown
To Children now become by Choice his own;
And, if he thought of Marriage, ’twas as one
Who dreams of something that cannot be done!
Speak of the Sex, he prais’d them o’er and o’er;
Speak of the Woman, and he said no more;
And Women therefore, on their Part, began
To speak less kindly of so cool a Man. 410
But, when his Sister sighed, or when she wore
A look of Suffering, he was cool no more.
Then would he say, “My Sister, you are ill,
And need th’ Assistance of a Man of Skill.
Your Walk fatigues you, and the Cool Sea Breeze,
To Health so grateful, but augments Disease.
Do look, Matilda, in your Mother’s face;
Is she not paler? ’Tis a serious Case.”—
All this was Kindness; but the time was near
When Fear was just, when there was cause for Fear. 420
To her who panted, in her Breath opprest,
Food gave not Strength, Sleep brought uncertain Rest.
The troubled Children, as at Something strange,
Looked their distress and trembled at the Change.
Who goes in Search of Health may be supplied
In Every Way he travels with a Guide.
One of these Guides, long taught the way to please
And put a doubtful Traveller at his Ease,
Advised a Warmer Sun and clearer Sky: }
“It may be useful, and you can but try; 430}
Here you can scarsely live, and there you can but die.” }
This was not said, but something not so rude—
And this was meant, and this was understood.
Against Advice the placid Mother strove;
She fought with Learning, but complied with Love.
The Coast of France appear’d new Strength to give
And Hope, exulting, told that she would live.
“But she must move; must ever be employed;
See what is seen; enjoy what is enjoyed,
And through the Coast must at her Pleasure ride, 440
And never think!” for so advised the Guide.
“Now where, Matilda, shall we go to-day?”
So Richard said, as he was wont to say;
“Where bend our Steps?” He took his Glass in Hand:
“Here comes a Boat; suppose we see it land?”
They saw it land—“And, Boatmen, who are these?”—
“A Priest they say, and from beyond the Seas.
But he who leans upon the Friend beside
Is going fast; we judged he must have died—
Coming for Health; and, if he means to stay 450
Till it arrives, he’ll never go away.”
So spake the Seamen; when, approaching nigh,
Matilda stopt and, with an heavy sigh,
Dropt on the Shore. Her Brother, frightened, flew
To give her Aid—she breathed, and, “Is it true?”
She said; “I saw him—I my Frederick see;
Brother, forgive! he comes to die with me.
What Heaven decrees is done.”—And now began
The same strong feeling in the fainting Man.
What past so near him his Attention drew; 460
The Voice alarmed him, and the Wife he knew.

* * * * *