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And He said unto her "Thy sins are forgiven" 524

ERRATA 525

VARIANTS 526

BIBLIOGRAPHY 554

TALES OF THE HALL.

The Rector at the Hall--Why absent--He relates the Story of Sir Owen--His Marriage--Death of his Lady--His Mind acquires new Energy--His Passions awake--His Taste and Sensibility--Admires a Lady--Camilla--Her Purpose--Sir Owen's Disappointment--His Spirit of Revenge--How gratified--The Dilemma of Love--An Example of Forgiveness--Its Effect.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Our knight a tenant had in high esteem, His constant boast, when justice was his theme: 500 He praised the farmer's sense, his shrewd discourse, Free without rudeness, manly, and not coarse; As farmer, tenant, nay, as man, the knight Thought Ellis all that is approved and right. Then he was happy, and some envy drew, For knowing more than other farmers knew; They call'd him learned, and it sooth'd their pride, While he in his was pleased and gratified. Still more t' offend, he to the altar led The vicar's niece, to early reading bred; 510 Who, though she freely ventured on the life, Could never fully be the farmer's wife; She had a softness, gentleness, and ease, Sure a coarse mind to humble and displease. O! had she never known a fault beside, How vain their spite, how impotent their pride! Three darling girls the happy couple bless'd, Who now the sweetest lot of life possess'd; For what can more a grateful spirit move Than health, with competence, and peace, with love? 520 Ellis would sometimes, thriving man! retire To the town inn, and quit the parlour fire; But he was ever kind where'er he went, } And trifling sums in his amusements spent; } He bought, he thought, for her--she should have been content. } Oft, when he cash received at Smithfield mart, At Cranbourn-alley he would leave a part; And, if to town he follow'd what he sold, Sure was his wife a present to behold. Still, when his evenings at the inn were spent, 530 She mused at home in sullen discontent; And, sighing, yielded to a wish that some With social spirit to the farm would come. There was a farmer in the place, whose name, And skill in rural arts, was known to fame; He had a pupil, by his landlord sent, On terms that gave the parties much content: The youth those arts, and those alone, should learn; With aught beside his guide had no concern. He might to neighb'ring towns or distant ride, 540 And there amusements seek without a guide; With handsome prints his private room was graced, } His music there, and there his books were placed; } Men knew not if he farm'd, but they allow'd him taste. } Books, prints, and music, cease, at times, to charm, And sometimes men can neither ride nor farm; They look for kindred minds, and Cecil found, In Farmer Ellis, one inform'd and sound; But in his wife--I hate the fact I tell-- A lovely being, who could please too well; 550 And he was one who never would deny Himself a pleasure, or indeed would try. Early and well the wife of Ellis knew Where danger was, and trembled at the view; So evil spirits tremble, but are still Evil, and lose not the rebellious will. She sought not safety from the fancied crime, "And why retreat before the dangerous time?" Oft came the student of the farm and read, And found his mind with more than reading fed: 560 This Ellis seeing, left them, or he staid, As pleased him, not offended nor afraid: He came in spirits with his girls to play, Then ask excuse, and, laughing, walk away: When, as he entered, Cecil ceased to read, He would exclaim, "Proceed, my friend, proceed!" Or, sometimes weary, would to bed retire, And fear and anger by his ease inspire. "My conversation does he then despise? Leaves he this slighted face for other eyes?" 570 So said Alicia; and she dwelt so long Upon that thought, to leave her was to wrong. Alas! the woman loved the soothing tongue, That yet pronounced her beautiful and young; The tongue that, seeming careless, ever praised; The eye that, roving, on her person gazed; The ready service, on the watch to please; And all such sweet, small courtesies as these. Still there was virtue, but a rolling stone On a hill's brow is not more quickly gone; 580 The slightest motion--ceasing from our care-- A moment's absence--when we're not aware-- When down it rolls, and at the bottom lies, Sunk, lost, degraded, never more to rise! Far off the glorious height from whence it fell, With all things base and infamous to dwell. Friendship with woman is a dangerous thing-- Thence hopes avow'd and bold confessions spring; Frailties confess'd to other frailties lead, And new confessions new desires succeed; 590 And, when the friends have thus their hearts disclosed, They find how little is to guilt opposed. The foe's attack will on the fort begin, When he is certain of a friend within. When all was lost--or, in the lover's sight, When all was won--the lady thought of flight. "What! sink a slave?" she said, "and with deceit The rigid virtue of a husband meet? No! arm'd with death, I would his fury brave, And own the justice of the blow he gave! 600 But thus to see him easy, careless, cold, And his confiding folly to behold; To feel incessant fears that he should read, In looks assumed, the cause whence they proceed, I cannot brook; nor will I here abide Till chance betrays the crime that shame would hide. Fly with me, Henry!" Henry sought in vain To soothe her terrors and her griefs restrain; He saw the lengths that women dared to go, And fear'd the husband both as friend and foe. 610 Of farming weary--for the guilty mind Can no resource in guiltless studies find-- Left to himself, his mother all unknown, His titled father, loth the boy to own, Had him to decent expectations bred, A favour'd offspring of a lawless bed; And would he censure one who should pursue The way he took? Alicia yet was new; Her passion pleased him; he agreed on flight; They fix'd the method, and they chose the night. 620 Then, while the farmer read of public crimes, Collating coolly and Times, The flight was taken by the guilty pair, That made one passage in the columns there. The heart of Ellis bled; the comfort, pride, The hope and stay of his existence, died; Rage from the ruin of his peace arose, And he would follow and destroy his foes; Would with wild haste the guilty pair pursue, And when he found--Good heaven? what would he do? 630 That wretched woman he would wildly seize, And agonize her heart, his own to ease; That guilty man would grasp, and in her sight Insult his pangs, and her despair excite; Bring death in view, and then the stroke suspend, And draw out tortures till his life should end; O! it should stand recorded in all time, How they transgress'd, and he avenged the crime! In this bad world should all his business cease, He would not seek--he would not taste of peace; 640 But wrath should live till vengeance had her due, And with his wrath his life should perish too. His girls--not his--he would not be so weak-- Child was a word he never more must speak! How did he know what villains had defiled His honest bed?--He spurn'd the name of child: Keep them he must; but he would coarsely hide Their forms, and nip the growth of woman's pride; He would consume their flesh, abridge their food, And kill the mother-vices in their blood. 650

Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd, Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd; And all the way he meditating dwelt On what this man in his affliction felt: How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave, His passion's lord, and not his anger's slave; And as he rode he seem'd to fear the deed Should not be done, and urged unwonted speed. Arrived at home, he scorn'd the change to hide, Nor would indulge a mean and selfish pride, 900 That would some little at a time recal Th' avenging vow; he now was frankness all. He saw his nephew, and with kindness spoke-- "Charles, I repent my purpose, and revoke; Take her--I'm taught, and would I could repay The generous teacher; hear me, and obey. Bring me the dear coquette, and let me vow On lips half perjured to be passive now: Take her, and let me thank the powers divine She was not stolen when her hand was mine, 910 Or when her heart--Her smiles I must forget, She my revenge, and cancel either debt." Here ends our tale, for who will doubt the bliss Of ardent lovers in a case like this? And if Sir Owen's was not half so strong, It may, perchance, continue twice as long.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Morning Excursion--Lady at Silford, who?--Reflections on Delay--Cecilia and Henry--The Lovers contracted--Visit to the Patron--Whom he finds there--Fanny described--The yielding of Vanity--Delay--Resentment--Want of Resolution--Further Entanglement--Danger--How met--Conclusion.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Three weeks had past, and Richard rambles now Far as the dinners of the day allow; He rode to Farley Grange and Finley Mere, That house so ancient, and that lake so clear: He rode to Ripley through that river gay, Where in the shallow stream the loaches play, And stony fragments stay the winding stream, And gilded pebbles at the bottom gleam, Giving their yellow surface to the sun, And making proud the waters as they run. 10 It is a lovely place, and at the side Rises a mountain-rock in rugged pride; And in that rock are shapes of shells, and forms Of creatures in old worlds, of nameless worms, Whole generations lived and died ere man, A worm of other class, to crawl began. There is a town call'd Silford, where his steed Our traveller rested--He the while would feed His mind by walking to and fro, to meet, He knew not what adventure, in the street-- 20 A stranger there; but yet a window-view Gave him a face that he conceived he knew; He saw a tall, fair, lovely lady, dress'd As one whom taste and wealth had jointly bless'd; He gazed, but soon a footman at the door Thundering, alarm'd her, who was seen no more. "This was the lady whom her lover bound In solemn contract, and then proved unsound: Of this affair I have a clouded view, And should be glad to have it clear'd by you." 30 So Richard spake, and instant George replied, I had the story from the injured side, But when resentment and regret were gone, And pity came on. Frail was the hero of my tale, but still Was rather drawn by accident than will. Some without meaning into guilt advance, From want of guard, from vanity, from chance; Man's weakness flies his more immediate pain, A little respite from his fears to gain, 40 And takes the part that he would gladly fly, If he had strength and courage to deny. "But now my tale; and let the moral say, When hope can sleep, there's danger in delay. Not that for rashness, Richard, I would plead, For unadvised alliance--No, indeed. Think ere the contract--but, contracted, stand No more debating, take the ready hand. When hearts are willing, and when fears subside, Trust not to time, but let the knot be tied; 50 For when a lover has no more to do, } He thinks in leisure, what shall I pursue? } And then, who knows what objects come in view? } For when, assured, the man has nought to keep His wishes warm and active, then they sleep; Hopes die with fears; and then a man must lose All the gay visions, and delicious views, Once his mind's wealth! He travels at his ease, Nor horrors now nor fairy-beauty sees. When the kind goddess gives the wish'd assent, 60 No mortal business should the deed prevent; But the blest youth should legal sanction seek Ere yet the assenting blush has fled the cheek. "And--hear me, Richard--man has reptile-pride That often rises when his fears subside; When, like a trader feeling rich, he now Neglects his former smile, his humble bow, And, conscious of his hoarded wealth, assumes New airs, nor thinks how odious he becomes. "There is a wandering, wavering train of thought 70 That something seeks where nothing should be sought, And will a self-delighted spirit move To dare the danger of pernicious love."

TALES OF THE HALL.

The Rector of the Parish--His Manner of teaching--Of living--Richard's Correspondence--The Letters received--Love that survives Marriage--That dies in consequence--That is permitted to die for Want of Care--Henry and Emma, a Dialogue--Complaints on either Side--And Replies--Mutual Accusation--Defence of acknowledged Error--Means of restoring Happiness--The one to be adopted.

TALES OF THE HALL.

"Love has slow death and sudden: wretches prove That fate severe--the sudden death of love; 90 It is as if, on day serenely bright, Came with its horrors instantaneous night; Others there are with whom love dies away In gradual waste and unperceived decay. Such is that death of love that nature finds Most fitted for the use of common minds, The natural death; but doubtless there are some Who struggle hard when they perceive it come; Loth to be loved no longer, loth to prove To the once dear that they no longer love; 100 And some with not successless arts will strive To keep the weak'ning, fluttering flame alive. "But see my verse; in this I try to paint The passion failing, fading to complaint; The gathering grief for joys remember'd yet; The vain remonstrance, and the weak regret. First speaks the wife in sorrow; she is grieved T' admit the truth, and would be still deceived."

TALES OF THE HALL.

Richard meets an Acquaintance of his Youth--The Kind of Meeting--His School--The Doctor Sidmere and his Family--Belwood, a Pupil--The Doctor's Opinion of him--The Opinion of his Wife--and of his Daughter--Consultation--The Lovers--Flight to Gretna Green--Return no more--The Doctor and his Lady--Belwood and his Wife--The Doctor reflects--Goes to his Son-in-law--His Reception and Return.

TALES OF THE HALL.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Introductory Discourse--For what Purpose would a Ghost appear?--How the Purpose would be answered--The Fact admitted, would not Doubts return?--Family Stories of Apparitions--Story of Lady Barbara--Her Widowhood--Resides with a Priest--His Family--A favourite Boy--His Education--His Fondness for the Lady--It becomes Love--His Reflections--His Declaration--Her Reply--Her Relation--Why she must not marry a second Time--How warned--Tokens of the Appearance--The Lover argues with the Lady--His Success--The Consequences of it.

TALES OF THE HALL.

The Brothers spoke of Ghosts--a favourite theme With those who love to reason or to dream; And they, as greater men were wont to do, Felt strong desire to think the stories true: Stories of spirits freed, who came to prove To spirits bound in flesh that yet they love; To give them notice of the things below, Which we must wonder how they came to know, Or known, would think of coming to relate To creatures who are tried by unknown fate. 10 "Warning," said Richard, "seems the only thing That would a spirit on an errand bring; To turn a guilty mind from wrong to right A ghost might come; at least I think it might." "But," said the Brother, "if we here are tried, A spirit sent would put that law aside; It gives to some advantage others need, Or hurts the sinner, should it not succeed. 'If from the dead,' said Dives, 'one were sent To warn my brethren, sure they would repent;' 20 But Abraham answer'd, they now reject The guides they have, no more would that effect; Their doubts too obstinate for grace would prove, For wonder hardens hearts it fails to move.' "Suppose a sinner in an hour of gloom, And let a ghost with all its horrors come; From lips unmoved let solemn accents flow, Solemn his gesture be, his motion slow; Let the waved hand and threatening look impart Truth to the mind and terror to the heart; 30 And, when the form is fading to the view, Let the convicted man cry, 'this is true!' "Alas! how soon would doubts again invade The willing mind, and sins again persuade! I saw it--What?--I was awake, but how? Not as I am, or I should see it now: It spoke, I think--I thought, at least, it spoke-- And look'd alarming--yes, I felt the look. "But then in sleep those horrid forms arise, That the soul sees,--and, we suppose, the eyes-- 40 And the soul hears--the senses then thrown by, She is herself the ear, herself the eye; A mistress so will free her servile race For their own tasks, and take herself the place: In sleep what forms will ductile fancy take, And what so common as to dream awake? On others thus do ghostly guests intrude? Or why am I by such advice pursued? One out of millions who exist, and why They know not--cannot know--and such am I; 50 And shall two beings of two worlds, to meet, The laws of one, perhaps of both, defeat? It cannot be--But, if some being lives Who such kind warning to a favourite gives, Let him these doubts from my dull spirit clear, And once again, expected guest! appear. "And if a second time the power complied, } Why is a third, and why a fourth denied? } Why not a warning ghost for ever at our side? } Ah, foolish being! thou hast truth enough; 60 Augmented guilt would rise on greater proof; Blind and imperious passion disbelieves, Or madly scorns the warning it receives, Or looks for pardon ere the ill be done, Because 'tis vain to strive our fate to shun; In spite of ghosts, predestined woes would come, And warning add new terrors to our doom. "Yet there are tales that would remove our doubt-- The whisper'd tales that circulate about; That in some noble mansion take their rise, 70 And told with secresy and awe, surprise. It seems not likely people should advance, For falsehood's sake, such train of circumstance; Then the ghosts bear them with a ghost-like grace, That suits the person, character, and place. "But let us something of the kind recite: What think you, now, of Lady Barbara's spright?"-- "I know not what to think; but I have heard A ghost, to warn her or advise, appear'd; And that she sought a friend before she died 80 To whom she might the awful fact confide; Who seal'd and secret should the story keep Till Lady Barbara slept her final sleep, In that close bed, that never spirit shakes, Nor ghostly visitor the sleeper wakes."-- "Yes, I can give that story, not so well As your old woman would the legend tell, But as the facts are stated; and now hear How ghosts advise, and widows persevere."

This was her last, for she described no more The rankling feelings of a mind so sore, But died in peace.--One moral let us draw, Be it a ghost or not the lady saw. If our discretion tells us how to live, We need no ghost a helping hand to give; But, if discretion cannot us restrain, It then appears a ghost would come in vain.

TALES OF THE HALL.

The Morning Walk--Village Scenery--The Widow's Dwelling--Her Story related--The first Husband--His Indulgence--Its Consequence--Dies--The second--His Authority--Its Effects--His Death--A third Husband--Determinately indulgent--He dies also--The Widow's Retirement.

TALES OF THE HALL.

TALES OF THE HALL.

A Morning Ride--A Purchase of the Squire--The Way to it described--The former Proprietor--Richard's Return--Inquiries respecting a Lady whom he had seen--Her History related--Her Attachment to a Tutor--They are parted--Impediments removed--How removed in vain--Fate of the Lover--Of Ellen.

TALES OF THE HALL.

"Such is my tale, dear Richard, but, that told, I must all comments on the text withhold; What is the sin of grief I cannot tell, Nor of the sinners who have loved too well; But to the cause of mercy I incline, 350 Or, O! my Brother, what a fate is mine!"

TALES OF THE HALL.

Discourse on Jealousy--Of unsuspicious Men--Visit William and his Wife--His Dwelling--Story of William and Fanny--Character of both--Their Contract--Fanny's Visit to an Aunt--Its Consequences--Her Father's Expectation--His Death--William a Wanderer--His Mode of Living--The Acquaintance he forms--Travels across the Kingdom--Whom he finds--The Event of their Meeting.

TALES OF THE HALL.

TALES OF THE HALL.

George in his hypochondriac State--A Family Mansion now a Farmhouse--The Company there--Their Conversation--Subjects afforded by the Pictures--Doubts if Spirits can appear--Arguments--Facts--The Relation of an old Lady--Her Walks in a Cathedral--Appearance there.

TALES OF THE HALL.

"Early in life, beneath my parent's roof, Of man's true honour I had noble proof; A generous lover who was worthy found, Where half his sex are hollow and unsound. "My father fail'd in trade, and sorrowing died, When all our loss a generous youth supplied; And soon the time drew on when he could say, } 'O! fix the happy, fix the early day!' } Nor meant I to oppose his wishes, or delay. 210} But then came fever, slight at first indeed, Then hastening on and threatening in its speed; It mock'd the powers of medicine; day by day I saw those helpers sadly walk away; So came the hand-like cloud, and with such power And with such speed, that brought the mighty shower. "Him nursed I dying, and we freely spoke Of what might follow the expected stroke; We talk'd of spirits, of their unknown powers, And dared to dwell on what the fate of ours; 220 But the dread promise, to appear again, Could it be done, I sought not to obtain; But yet we were presuming--'Could it be,' He said, 'O Emma! I would come to thee!' "At his last hour his reason, late astray, Again return'd t' illuminate his way. "In the last night my mother long had kept Unwearied watch, and now reclined and slept; The nurse was dreaming in a distant chair, And I had knelt to soothe him with a prayer; 230 When, with a look of that peculiar kind That gives its purpose to the fellow mind, His manner spoke--'Confide--be not afraid-- I shall remember'--this was all convey'd-- 'I know not what awaits departed man; But this believe--I meet thee if I can.'

TALES OF THE HALL.

A Widow at the Hall--Inquiry of Richard--Relation of two Brothers--Their different Character--Disposition--Modes of thinking--James a Servant--Robert joins the Smugglers--Rachel at the Hall--James attached to her--Trade fails--Robert a Poacher--Is in Danger--How released--James and Rachel--Revenge excited--Association formed--Attack resolved--Preparation made for Resistance--A Night Adventure--Reflections.

TALES OF THE HALL.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Richard prepares to depart--Visits the Rector--His Reception--Visit to the Sisters--Their present Situation--The Morning of the last Day--The Conference of the Brothers--Their Excursion--Richard dissatisfied--The Brother expostulates--The End of their Ride, and of the Day's Business--Conclusion.

TALES OF THE HALL.

"No letters, Tom?" said Richard--"None to-day."-- "Excuse me, Brother, I must now away; Matilda never in her life so long Deferr'd--Alas! there must be something wrong!" "Comfort!" said George, and all he could he lent; } Wait till your promised day, and I consent; } Two days, and those of hope, may cheerfully spent. } "And keep your purpose, to review the place, My choice; and I beseech you do it grace: Mark each apartment, their proportions learn, 10 And either use or elegance discern; Look o'er the land, the gardens, and their wall, Find out the something to admire in all; And, should you praise them in a knowing style, I'll take it kindly--it is well--a smile."

POSTHUMOUS TALES.

There are gay nymphs whom serious matrons blame, And men adventurous treat as lawful game-- Misses, who strive, with deep and practised arts, To gain and torture inexperienced hearts. The hearts entangled they in pride retain, And at their pleasure make them feel their chain; For this they learn to manage air and face, To look a virtue, and to act a grace, To be whatever men with warmth pursue-- } Chaste, gay, retiring, tender, timid, true, 10} To-day approaching near, to-morrow just in view. } Maria Glossip was a thing like this-- A much observing, much experienced Miss; Who on a stranger-youth would first decide Th' important question--"Shall I be his bride?" But, if unworthy of a lot so bless'd, 'Twas something yet to rob the man of rest; The heart, when stricken, she with hope could feed, Could court pursuit, and, when pursued, recede. Hearts she had won, and with delusion fed, 20 With doubt bewilder'd, and with hope misled; Mothers and rivals she had made afraid, And wrung the breast of many a jealous maid; Friendship, the snare of lovers, she profess'd, And turn'd the heart's best feelings to a jest. Yet seem'd the Nymph as gentle as a dove, Like one all guiltless of the game of love-- Whose guileless innocence might well be gay; } Who had no selfish secrets to betray; } Sure, if she play'd, she knew not how to play. 30} Oh! she had looks so placid and demure, Not Eve, ere fallen, seem'd more meek or pure; And yet the Tempter of the falling Eve Could not with deeper subtilty deceive. A Sailor's heart the Lady's kindness moved, And winning looks, to say how well he loved; Then left her hopeful for the stormy main, Assured of love when he return'd again. Alas! the gay Lieutenant reach'd the shore, To be rejected, and was gay no more; 40 Wine and strong drink the bosom's pain suppress'd, Till Death procured, what Love denied him--rest. But men of more experience learn to treat These fair enslavers with their own deceit. Finch was a younger brother's youngest son, Who pleased an Uncle with his song and gun; Who call'd him 'Bob,' and 'Captain,' by that name Anticipating future rank and fame; Not but there was for this some fair pretence-- He was a cornet in the Home Defence. 50 The Youth was ever drest in dapper style, Wore spotless linen, and a ceaseless smile; His step was measured, and his air was nice-- They bought him high, who had him at the price That his own judgment and becoming pride, And all the merit he assumed, implied. A life he loved of liberty and ease, And all his pleasant labour was to please; Not call'd at present hostile men to slay, He made the hearts of gentle dames his prey. 60 Hence tales arose, and one of sad report: A fond, fair girl became his folly's sport-- A cottage lass, who "knew the youth would prove For ever true, and give her love for love; Sure when he could, and that would soon be known, He would be proud to show her as his own." But still she felt the village damsels' sneer, And her sad soul was fill'd with secret fear; His love excepted, earth was all a void, And he, the excepted man, her peace destroy'd. 70 When the poor Jane was buried, we could hear The threat of rustics whisper'd round her bier. Stories like this were told, but yet, in time Fair ladies lost their horror at the crime. They knew that cottage girls were forward things, Who never heed a nettle till it stings; Then, too, the Captain had his fault confess'd, And scorn'd to turn a murder to a jest. Away with murder!--This accomplish'd swain Beheld Maria, and confess'd her reign-- 80 She came, invited by the rector's wife, Who "never saw such sweetness in her life." Now, as the rector was the Uncle's friend, It pleased the Nephew there his steps to bend, Where the fair damsel then her visit paid, And seem'd an unassuming rustic maid. A face so fair, a look so meek, he found Had pierced that heart no other nymph could wound. "Oh, sweet Maria"--so began the Youth His meditations--"thine the simple truth! 90 Thou hast no wicked wisdom of thy sex, No wish to gain a subject-heart--then vex. That heavenly bosom no proud passion swells; No serpent's wisdom with thy meekness dwells. Oh! could I bind thee to my heart, and live In love with thee, on what our fortunes give! Far from the busy world, in some dear spot, Where Love reigns king, we'd find some peaceful cot. To wed, indeed, no prudent man would choose; But such a maid will lighter bonds refuse!" 100 And was this youth a rake?--In very truth; Yet, feeling love, he felt it as a youth; If he had vices, they were laid aside; He quite forgot the simple girl who died; With dear Maria he in peace would live, And what had pass'd--Maria would forgive. The fair Coquette at first was pleased to find A swain so knowing had become so blind; And she determined, with her utmost skill, To bind the rebel to her sovereign will. 110 She heard the story of the old deceit, And now resolved he should with justice meet;-- "Soon as she saw him on her hook secure, He should the pangs of perjured man endure." These her first thoughts--but as, from time to time, The Lover came, she dwelt not on his crime-- "Crime could she call it? prudes, indeed, condemn These slips of youth--but she was not of them." So gentler thoughts arose as, day by day, The Captain came his passion to display. 120 When he display'd his passion, and she felt, Not without fear, her heart begin to melt-- Joy came with terror at a state so new; Glad of his truth; if he indeed were true! This she decided as the heart decides, Resolved to be the happiest of brides. "Not great my fortune--hence," said she, "'tis plain, Me, and not mine, dear Youth! he hopes to gain; Nor has he much; but, as he sweetly talks, We from our cot shall have delightful walks, 130 Love, lord within it! I shall smile to see My little cherubs on the father's knee." Then sigh'd the nymph, and in her fancied lot, She all the mischiefs of the past forgot. Such were their tender meditations; thus Would they the visions of the day discuss: Each, too, the old sad habits would no more Indulge; both dare be virtuous and be poor. They both had past the year when law allows Free-will to lover who would fain be spouse: 140 Yet the good youth his Uncle's sanction sought-- "Marry her, Bob! and are you really caught? Then you've exchanged, I warrant, heart for heart-- 'Tis well! I meant to warn her of your art; This Parson's Babe has made you quite a fool-- But are you sure your ardour will not cool? Have you not habits, Boy? but take your chance! How will you live? I cannot much advance. But hear you not what through the village flies That this your dove is famed for her disguise? 150 Yet, say they not, she leads a gayish life? Art sure she'll show the virtues of a wife?"-- "Oh, Sir, she's all that mortal man can love!"-- "Then marry, Bob! and that the fact will prove-- Yet, in a kind of lightness, folk agree."-- } "Lightness in her! indeed, it cannot be-- } 'Tis Innocence alone that makes her manners free."-- } "Well, my good friend! then Innocence alone Is to a something like Flirtation prone; And I advise--but let me not offend-- 160 That Prudence should on Innocence attend, Lest some her sportive purity mistake, And term your angel more than half a rake." The Nymph, now sure, could not entirely curb The native wish her lover to disturb. Oft he observed her, and could ill endure The gentle coquetry of maid so pure: Men he beheld press round her, and the Fair Caught every sigh, and smiled at every prayer; And grieved he was with jealous pains to see 170 The effects of all her wit and pleasantry. "Yet why alarm'd?"--he said; "with so much sense, She has no freedom, dashing, or pretence: 'Tis her gay mind, and I should feel a pride In her chaste levities"--he said, and sigh'd. Yet, when apart from company, he chose To talk a little of his bosom's woes-- But one sweet smile, and one soft speech, suppress'd All pain, and set his feeling heart at rest. Nay, in return, she felt, or feign'd, a fear: 180 "He was too lively to be quite sincere-- She knew a certain lady, and could name } A certain time"--So, even was the blame, } And thus the loving pair more deep in love became. } They married soon--for why delay the thing } That such amazing happiness would bring?-- } Now of that blissful state, O Muse of Hymen! sing. } Love dies all kinds of death: in some so quick It comes--he is not previously sick; But ere the sun has on the couple shed 190 The morning rays, the smile of Love is fled. And what the cause? for Love should not expire, And none the reason of such fate require. Both had a mask, that with such pains they wore; Each took it off when it avail'd no more. They had no feeling of each other's pain; To wear it longer had been crime in vain. As in some pleasant eve we view the scene, Though cool yet calm, if joyless yet serene-- Who has not felt a quiet still delight 200 In the clear, silent, love-befriending night? The moon so sweetly bright, so softly fair, That all but happy lovers would be there-- Thinking there must be in her still domain Something that soothes the sting of mortal pain; While earth itself is dress'd in light so clear, That they might rest contented to be here! Such is the night; but, when the morn awakes, The storm arises, and the forest shakes; This mighty change the grieving travellers find, 210 The freezing snows fast drifting in the wind; Firs deeply laden shake the snowy top, Streams slowly freezing, fretting till they stop; And void of stars the angry clouds look down On the cold earth, exchanging frown with frown. Such seem'd, at first, the cottage of our pair-- Fix'd in their fondness, in their prospects fair; Youth, health, affection, all that life supplies, Bright as the stars that gild the cloudless skies-- Were theirs--or seem'd to be; but soon the scene 220 Was black as if its light had never been. Weary full soon, and restless then, they grew; } Then off the painful mask of prudence threw; } For Time has told them all, and taught them what to rue. } They long again to tread the former round Of dissipation--"Why should he be bound, While his sweet inmate of the cottage sighs For adulation, rout, and rhapsodies? Not Love himself, did love exist, could lead A heart like hers, that flutter'd to be freed." 230 But Love, or what seem'd like him, quickly died; Nor Prudence, nor Esteem, his place supplied. Disguise thrown off, each reads the other's heart, And feels with horror that they cannot part. Still they can speak--and 'tis some comfort still, That each can vex the other when they will: Words half in jest to words in earnest led, } And these the earnest angry passions fed, } Till all was fierce reproach, and peace for ever fled. } "And so you own it! own it to my face, 240 Your love is vanish'd--infamous and base!"-- "Madam, I loved you truly, while I deem'd You were the truthful being that you seem'd; But, when I see your native temper rise Above control, and break through all disguise, Casting it off, as serpents do their skin, } And showing all the folds of vice within-- } What see I then to love? was I in love with Sin?"-- } "So may I think, and you may feel it too; A loving couple, Sir, were Sin and you! 250 Whence all this anger? is it that you find You cannot always make a woman blind? You talk of falsehood and disguise--talk on! But all my trust and confidence are gone; Remember you, with what a serious air You talk'd of love, as if you were at prayer? You spoke of home-born comforts, quiet, ease, And the pure pleasure, that must always please, With an assumed and sentimental air, Smiting your breast, and acting like a player. 260 Then your life's comfort! and your holy joys! Holy, forsooth! and your sweet girls and boys, How you would train them!--All this farce review, And then, Sir, talk of being just and true!"-- "Madam! your sex expects that ours should lie. The simple creatures know it, and comply-- You hate the truth; there's nothing you despise Like a plain man, who spurns your vanities. Are you not early taught your prey to catch? When your mammas pronounce--'A proper match!' 270 What said your own?--'Do, daughter! curb your tongue, And you may win him, for the man is young; But if he views you as ourselves, good-by To speculation!--He will never try.' "Then is the mask assumed, and then you bait Your hook with kindness! and as anglers wait, Now here, now there, with keen and eager glance, Marking your victims as the shoals advance; When, if the gaping wretch should make a snap, You jerk him up, and have him in your trap: 280 Who gasping, panting, in your presence lies, And you exulting view the imprison'd prize. "Such are your arts! while he did but intend In harmless play an idle hour to spend, Lightly to talk of love! your fix'd intent } Is on to lure him, where he never meant } To go, but, going, must his speed repent. } If he of Cupid speaks, you watch your man, And make a change for Hymen, if you can; Thus he, ingenuous, easy, fond, and weak, 290 Speaks the rash words he has been led to speak; Puts the dire question that he meant to shun, And by a moment's frenzy is undone."-- "Well!" said the Wife, "admit this nonsense true-- A mighty prize she gains in catching you! For my part, Sir, I most sincerely wish My landing-net had miss'd my precious fish!"-- "Would that it had! or I had wisely lent An ear to those who said I should repent."-- "Hold, Sir! at least my reputation spare, 300 And add another falsehood if you dare."-- "Your reputation, Madam!--rest secure: That will all scandal and reproach endure, And be the same in worth; it is like him Who floats, but finds he cannot sink or swim; Half raised above the storm, half sunk below, It just exists, and that is all we know. Such the good name that you so much regard, And yet to keep afloat find somewhat hard. Nay, no reply! in future I decline 310 Dispute, and take my way."-- "And I, Sir, mine." Oh! happy, happy, happy pair! both sought, Both seeking--catching both , and caught!

It chanced we walk'd upon the heath, and met A wandering woman; her thin clothing wet With morning fog; the little care she took Of things like these was written in her look. Not pain from pinching cold was in her face, But hurrying grief, that knows no resting place-- Appearing ever as on business sent, The wandering victim of a fix'd intent; Yet in her fancied consequence and speed, Impell'd to beg assistance for her need. 10 When she beheld my friend and me, with eye And pleading hand she sought our charity; More to engage our friendly thoughts the while, She threw upon her miseries a smile, That, like a varnish on a picture laid, More prominent and bold the figures made; Yet was there sign of joy that we complied, The moment's wish indulged and gratified. "Where art thou wandering, Rachel? whither stray, From thy poor heath in such unwholesome day?" 20 Ask'd my kind friend, who had familiar grown With Rachel's grief, and oft compassion shown; Oft to her hovel had in winter sent The means of comfort--oft with comforts went. Him well she knew, and with requests pursued, Though too much lost and spent for gratitude. "Where art thou wandering, Rachel? let me hear?"-- "The fleet! the fleet!" she answer'd, "will appear Within the bay, and I shall surely know The news to-night!--turn tide, and breezes blow! 30 For if I lose my time, I must remain Till the next year before they come again!" "What can they tell thee, Rachel?"-- "Should I say, I must repent me to my dying day. Then I should lose the pension that they give; For who would trust their secrets to a sieve? I must be gone!"--And with her wild, but keen And crafty look, that would appear to mean, She hurried on; but turn'd again to say, "All will be known; they anchor in the bay; 40 Adieu! be secret!--sailors have no home; Blow wind, turn tide!--Be sure the fleet will come." Grown wilder still, the frantic creature strode With hurried feet upon the flinty road. On her departing form I gazed with pain-- "And should you not," I cried, "her ways restrain? What hopes the wild deluded wretch to meet? And means she aught by this expected fleet? Knows she her purpose? has she hope to see Some friend to aid her in her poverty? 50 Why leave her thus bewilder'd to pursue The fancy's good, that never comes in view?"-- "Nay! she is harmless, and, if more confined, Would more distress in the coercion find. Save at the times when to the coast she flies, She rests, nor shows her mind's obliquities; But ever talks she of the sea, and shows Her sympathy with every wind that blows. We think it, therefore, useless to restrain A creature of whose conduct none complain; 60 Whose age and looks protect her--should they fail, Her craft and wild demeanour will prevail. A soldier once attack'd her on her way-- She spared him not, but bade him kneel and pray-- Praying herself aloud--th' astonish'd man Was so confounded, that away he ran. "Her sailor left her, with, perhaps, intent To make her his--'tis doubtful what he meant: But he was captured, and the life he led Drove all such young engagements from his head. 70 On him she ever thought, and none beside, Seeking her love, were favour'd or denied; On her dear David she had fix'd her view, And fancy judged him ever fond and true. Nay, young and handsome--Time could not destroy-- No--he was still the same--her gallant boy! Labour had made her coarse, and her attire Show'd that she wanted no one to admire; None to commend her; but she could conceive The same of him, as when he took his leave, 80 And gaily told what riches he would bring, And grace her hand with the symbolic ring. "With want and labour was her mind subdued; She lived in sorrow and in solitude. Religious neighbours, kindly calling, found Her thoughts unsettled, anxious, and unsound; Low, superstitious, querulous, and weak, She sought for rest, but knew not how to seek; And their instructions, though in kindness meant Were far from yielding the desired content. 90 They hoped to give her notions of their own, And talk'd of 'feelings' she had never known; They ask'd of her 'experience,' and they bred In her weak mind a melancholy dread Of something wanting in her faith, of some-- She knew not what--'acceptance,' that should come; And, as it came not, she was much afraid That she in vain had served her God and pray'd. "She thought her Lover dead. In prayer she named The erring Youth, and hoped he was reclaim'd. 100 This she confess'd; and trembling, heard them say, 'Her prayers were sinful--So the papists pray. Her David's fate had been decided long, And prayers and wishes for his state were wrong.' "Had these her guides united love and skill, They might have ruled and rectified her will; But they perceived not the bewilder'd mind, And show'd her paths that she could never find. The weakness that was Nature's, they reproved, And all its comforts from the Heart removed. 110 "Ev'n in this state, she loved the winds that sweep O'er the wild heath, and curl the restless deep; A turf-built hut beneath a hill she chose, And oft at night in winter storms arose, Hearing, or dreaming, the distracted cry Of drowning seamen on the breakers by; For there were rocks, that when the tides were low Appear'd, and vanish'd when the waters flow; And there she stood, all patient to behold Some seaman's body on the billows roll'd. 120 "One calm, cold evening, when the moon was high, And rode sublime within the cloudless sky, She sat within her hut, nor seem'd to feel Or cold or want, but turn'd her idle wheel, And with sad song its melancholy tone Mix'd, all unconscious that she dwelt alone. "But none will harm her--Or who, willing can? She is too wretched to have fear of man-- Not man! but something--if it should appear, That once was man--that something did she fear. 130 "No causeless terror!--In that moon's clear light It came, and seem'd a parley to invite; It was no hollow voice--no brushing by Of a strange being, who escapes the eye-- No cold or thrilling touch, that will but last While we can think, and then for ever past. But this sad face--though not the same she knew, Enough the same to prove the vision true-- Look'd full upon her!--starting in affright She fled, her wildness doubling at the sight; 140 With shrieks of terror, and emotion strong, She pass'd it by, and madly rush'd along To the bare rocks--While David, who, that day, Had left his ship at anchor in the bay, Had seen his friends who yet survived, and heard Of her who loved him--and who thus appear'd-- He tried to soothe her, but retired afraid T' approach, and left her to return for aid. "None came! and Rachel in the morn was found } Turning her wheel, without its spindles, round, 150} With household look of care, low singing to the sound. } "Since that event, she is what you have seen; But time and habit make her more serene, The edge of anguish blunted--yet, it seems, Sea, ships, and sailors' miseries are her dreams."

THE FAREWELL AND RETURN

The whistling Boy that holds the plough, Lured by the tale that soldiers tell, Resolves to part, yet knows not how To leave the land he loves so well. He now rejects the thought, and now Looks o'er the lea, and sighs "Farewell!"

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