Classic Poem

THE WIDOW.

R ICHARD one morning — it was custom now —
Walk'd and conversed with labourers at the plough,
With thrashers hastening to their daily task,
With woodmen resting o'er the enlivening flask,
And with the shepherd, watchful of his fold
Beneath the hill, and pacing in the cold:
Further afield he sometimes would proceed,
And take a path wherever it might lead.

It led him far about to Wickham Green,
Where stood the mansion of the village queen;
Her garden yet its wintry blossoms bore,
And roses graced the windows and the door —
That lasting kind that through the varying year
Or in the bud or in the bloom appear;
All flowers that now the gloomy days adorn
Rose on the view, and smiled upon that morn:
Richard a damsel at the window spied,
Who kindly drew a useless veil aside,
And show'd a lady who was sitting by,
So pensive, that he almost heard her sigh:
Full many years she could, no question, tell,
But in her mourning look'd extremely well.

" In truth, " said Richard, when he told at night
His tale to George, " it was a pleasant sight;
She look'd like one who could, in tender tone,
Say, " Will you let a lady sigh alone?
See! Time has touch'd me gently in his race,
And left no odious furrows in my face:
See, too, this house and garden, neat and trim,
Kept for its master — Will you stand for him?"

Say this is vain and foolish if you please,
But I believe her thoughts resembled these:
" Come!" said her looks, " and we will kindly take
The visit kindness prompted you to make."
And I was sorry that so much good play
Of eye and attitude was thrown away
On one who has his lot, on one who had his day."

" Your pity, brother, " George, with smile, replied,
" You may dismiss, and with it send your pride:
No need of pity, when the gentle dame
Has thrice resign'd and reassumed her name;
And be not proud — for, though it might be thine,
She would that hand to humbler men resign.

Young she is not, — it would be passing strange
If a young beauty thrice her name should change,
Yes! she has years beyond your reckoning seen —
Smiles and a window years and wrinkles screen;
But she, in fact, has that which may command
The warm admirer and the willing hand:
What is her fortune we are left to guess,
But good the sign — she does not much profess;
Poor she is not, — and there is that in her
That easy men to strength of mind prefer;
She may be made, with little care and skill,
Yielding her own, t' adopt a husband's will:
Women there are, who of a man will take
The helm, and steer — will no resistance make:
Who, if neglected, will the power assume,
And then what wonder if the shipwreck come?

Queens they will be if man allow the means,
And give the power to these domestic queens;
Whom, if he rightly trains, he may create
And make obedient members of his state. "
Harriet at school was very much the same
As other misses, and so home she came,
Like other ladies, there to live and learn,
To wait her season, and to take her turn

Their husbands maids as priests their livings gain,
The best, they find, are hardest to obtain:
On those that offer both awhile debate —
" I need not take it, it is not so late;
Better will come if we will longer stay,
And strive to put ourselves in fortune's way: "
And thus they wait, till many years are past,
For what comes slowly — but it comes at last .

Harriet was wedded, — but it must be said,
The vow'd obedience was not duly paid:
Hers was an easy man, — it gave him pain
To hear a lady murmur and complain:
He was a merchant, whom his father made
Rich in the gains of a successful trade:
A lot more pleasant, or a view more fair,
Has seldom fallen to a youthful pair.

But what is faultless in a world like this?
In every station something seems amiss:
The lady, married, found the house too small —
" Two shabby parlours, and that ugly hall!
Had we a cottage somewhere, and could meet
One's friends and favourites in one's snug retreat;
Or only join a single room to these,
It would be living something at our ease,
And have one's self, at home, the comfort that one sees. "

Such powers of reason, and of mind such strength,
Fought with man's fear, and they prevail'd at length;
The room was built, — and Harriet did not know
A prettier dwelling, either high or low;
But Harriet loved such conquests, loved to plead
With her reluctant man, and to succeed;
It was such pleasure to prevail o'er one
Who would oppose the thing that still was done,
Who never gain'd the race, but yet would groan and run.

But there were times when love and pity gave
Whatever thoughtless vanity could crave:
She now the carriage chose with freshest name,
And was in quite a fever till it came;
But can a carriage be alone enjoy'd?
The pleasure not partaken is destroy'd;
" I must have some good creature to attend
On morning visits as a kind of friend. "

A courteous maiden then was found to sit
Beside the lady, for her purpose fit,
Who had been train'd in all the soothing ways
And servile duties from her early days;
One who had never from her childhood known
A wish fulfill'd, a purpose of her own:
Her part it was to sit beside the dame,
And give relief in every want that came;
To soothe the pride, to watch the varying look,
And bow in silence to the dumb rebuke.

This supple being strove with all her skill
To draw her master's to her lady's will;
For they were like the magnet and the steel,
At times so distant that they could not feel;
Then would she gently move them, till she saw
That to each other they began to draw;
And then would leave them, sure on her return
In Harriet's joy her conquest to discern.

She was a mother now, and grieved to find
The nursery window caught the eastern wind;
What could she do with fears like these oppress'd,
She built a room all window'd to the west;
For sure in one so dull, so bleak, so old,
She and her children must expire with cold:
Meantime the husband murmur'd — " So he might;
She would be judged by Cousins — Was it right? "

Water was near them, and, her mind afloat,
The lady saw a cottage and a boat,
And thought what sweet excursions they might make,
How they might sail, what neighbours they might take,
And nicely would she deck the lodge upon the lake.

She now prevail'd by habit; had her will,
And found her patient husband sad and still:
Yet this displeased; she gain'd, indeed, the prize,
But not the pleasure of her victories;
Was she a child to be indulged? He knew
She would have right, but would have reason too.

Now came the time, when in her husband's face
Care, and concern, and caution she could trace;
His troubled features gloom and sadness bore,
Less he resisted, but he suffer'd more;
His nerves were shook like hers; in him her grief
Had much of sympathy, but no relief.

She could no longer read, and therefore kept
A girl to give her stories while she wept;
Better for Lady Julia's woes to cry,
Than have her own for ever in her eye:
Her husband grieved and o'er his spirits came
Gloom, and disease attack'd his slender frame;
He felt a loathing for the wretched state
Of his concerns, so sad, so complicate;
Grief and confusion seized him in the day,
And the night pass'd in agony away;
" My ruin comes! " was his awakening thought,
And vainly through the day was comfort sought;
" There, take my all! " he said, and in his dream
Heard the door bolted, and his children scream
And he was right, for not a day arose
That he exclaim'd not, " Will it never close? "
" Would it were come! " — but still he shifted on,
Till health, and hope, and life's fair views were gone.

Fretful herself, he of his wife in vain
For comfort sought — " He would be well again;
Time would disorders of such nature heal!
O! if he felt what she was doom'd to feel,
Such sleepless nights! such broken rest! her frame
Rack'd with diseases that she could not name!
With pangs like hers no other was oppress'd!"
Weeping, she said, and sigh'd herself to rest.

The suffering husband look'd the world around,
And saw no friend: on him misfortune frown'd,
Him self-reproach tormented; sorely tried,
By threats he mourn'd, and by disease he died.

As weak as wailing infancy or age,
How could the widow with the world engage?
Fortune not now the means of comfort gave,
Yet all her comforts Harriet wept to have.

" My helpless babes, " she said, " will nothing know, "
Yet not a single lesson would bestow;
Her debts would overwhelm her, that was sure,
But one privation would she not endure;
" We shall want bread! the thing is past a doubt. " —
" Then part with Cousins! " — " Can I do without? " —
" Dismiss your servants! " — " Spare me them, I pray! " —
" At least your carriage! " — " What will people say? " —
" That useless boat, that folly on the lake! " —
" O! but what cry and scandal will it make! "
It was so hard on her, who not a thing
Had done such mischief on their heads to bring;
This was her comfort, this she would declare,
And then slept soundly on her pillow'd chair:
When not asleep, how restless was the soul
Above advice, exempted from control!
For ever begging all to be sincere,
And never willing any truth to hear;
A yellow paleness o'er her visage spread,
Her fears augmented as her comforts fled;
Views dark and dismal to her mind appear'd,
And death she sometimes woo'd, and always fear'd.

Among the clerks there was a thoughtful one,
Who still believed that something might be done;
All in his view was not so sunk and lost,
But of a trial things would pay the cost;
He judged the widow, and he saw the way
In which her husband suffer'd her to stray;
He saw entangled and perplex'd affairs,
And Time's sure hand at work on their repairs;
Children he saw, but nothing could he see
Why he might not their careful father be;
And looking keenly round him, he believed
That what was lost might quickly be retrieved.

Now thought our clerk — " I must not mention love,
That she at least must seem to disapprove;
But I must fear of poverty enforce,
And then consent will be a thing of course.

" Madam! " said he, " with sorrow I relate
That our affairs are in a dreadful state;
I call'd on all our friends, and they declared
They dared not meddle — not a creature dared;
But still our perseverance chance may aid,
And though I'm puzzled, I am not afraid;
If you, dear lady, will attention give
To me, the credit of the house shall live;
Do not, I pray you, my proposal blame,
It is my wish to guard your husband's fame,
And ease your trouble: then your cares resign
To my discretion — and, in short, be mine. "

" Yours! O! my stars! — Your goodness, sir, deserves
My grateful thanks — take pity on my nerves;
I shake and tremble at a thing so new,
And fear 'tis what a lady should not do;
And then to marry upon ruin's brink
In all this hurry — What will people think? "

" Nay, there's against us neither rule nor law,
And people's thinking is not worth a straw:
Those who are prudent have too much to do
With their own cares to think of me and you;
And those who are not are so poor a race,
That what they utter can be no disgrace: —
Come! let us now embark; when time and tide
Invite to sea, in happy hour decide;
If yet we linger, both are sure to fail,
The turning waters and the varying gale;
Trust me, our vessel shall be ably steer'd,
Nor will I quit her, till the rocks are clear'd. "

Allured and frighten'd, soften'd and afraid,
The widow doubted, ponder'd, and obey'd:
So were they wedded, and the careful man
His reformation instantly began;
Began his state with vigour to reform,
And made a calm by laughing at the storm.

Th' attendant-maiden he dismiss'd — for why?
She might on him and love like his rely;
She needed none to form her children's mind,
That duty nature to her care assign'd;
In vain she mourn'd, it was her health he prized,
And hence enforced the measures he advised:
She wanted air; and walking, she was told,
Was safe, was pleasant! — he the carriage sold;
He found a tenant who agreed to take
The boat and cottage on the useless lake;
The house itself had now superfluous room,
And a rich lodger was induced to come.

The lady wonder'd at the sudden change,
That yet was pleasant, that was very strange;
When every deed by her desire was done,
She had no day of comfort — no, not one;
When nothing moved or stopp'd at her request,
Her heart had comfort, and her temper rest;
For all was done with kindness, — most polite
Was her new lord, and she confess'd it right;
For now she found that she could gaily live
On what the chance of common life could give:
And her sick mind was cured of every ill,
By finding no compliance with her will;
For when she saw that her desires were vain,
She wisely thought it foolish to complain.

Born for her man, she gave a gentle sigh
To her lost power, and grieved not to comply;
Within, without, the face of things improved,
And all in order and subjection moved.

As wealth increased, ambition now began
To swell the soul of the aspiring man;
In some few years he thought to purchase land,
And build a seat that Hope and Fancy plann'd;
To this a name his youthful bride should give!
Harriet, of course, not many years would live;
Then he would farm, and every soil should show
The tree that best upon the place would grow:
He would, moreover, on the bench debate
On sundry questions — when a magistrate,
Would talk of all that to the state belongs,
The rich man's duties, and the poor man's wrongs;
He would with favourites of the people rank,
And him the weak and the oppress'd should thank.

'Tis true those children, orphans then! would need
Help in a world of trouble to succeed!
And they should have it — He should then possess
All that man needs for earthly happiness.

" Proud words, and vain! " said Doctor Young; and proud
They are; and vain, were by our clerk allow'd;
For, while he dream'd, there came both pain and cough,
And fever never tamed, and bore him off;
Young as he was, and planning schemes to live
With more delight than man's success can give;
Building a mansion in his fancy vast
Beyond the Gothic pride of ages past!
While this was plann'd, but ere a place was sought,
The timber season'd, or the quarry wrought,
Came Death's dread summons, and the man was laid
In the poor house the simple sexton made.

But he had time for thought when he was ill,
And made his lady an indulgent will:
'Tis said he gave, in parting, his advice,
" It is sufficient to be married twice; "
To which she answer'd, as 'tis said, again,
" There's none will have you if you're poor and plain,
And if you're rich and handsome there is none
Will take refusal — let the point alone. "

Be this or true or false, it is her praise
She mourn'd correctly all the mourning days;
But grieve she did not, for the canker grief
Soils the complexion, and is beauty's thief;
Nothing, indeed, so much will discompose
Our public mourning as our private woes;
When tender thoughts a widow's bosom probe,
She thinks not then how graceful sits the robe;
But our nice widow look'd to every fold,
And every eye its beauty might behold!
It was becoming; she composed her face,
She look'd serenely, and she mourn'd with grace.

Some months were pass'd, but yet there wanted three
Of the full time when widows wives may be;
One trying year, and then the mind is freed,
And man may to the vacant throne succeed.

There was a tenant — he, to wit, who hired
That cot and lake, that were so much admired;
A man of spirit, one who doubtless meant,
Though he delay'd awhile, to pay his rent;
The widow's riches gave her much delight,
And some her claims, and she resolved to write
" He knew her grievous loss, how every care
Devolved on her, who had indeed her share;
She had no doubt of him, — but was as sure
As that she breathed her money was secure;
But she had made a rash and idle vow
To claim her dues, and she must keep it now:
So, if it suited — — "
And for this there came
A civil answer to the gentle dame:
Within the letter were excuses, thanks,
And clean Bank paper from the best of banks;
There were condolence, consolation, praise,
With some slight hints of danger in delays;
With these good things were others from the lake,
Perch that were wish'd to salmon for her sake,
And compliment as sweet as new-born hope could make.

This led to friendly visits, social calls,
And much discourse of races, rambles, balls;
But all in proper bounds, and not a word,
Before its time, — the man was not absurd,
Nor was he cold; but when she might expect
A letter came, and one to this effect.

" That if his eyes had not his love convey'd,
They had their master shamefully betray'd;
But she must know the flame, that he was sure,
Nor she could doubt, would long as life endure:
Both were in widow'd state, and both possess'd
Of ample means to make their union bless'd;
That she had been confined he knew for truth,
And begg'd her to have pity on her youth;
Youth, he would say, and he desired his wife
To have the comforts of an easy life:
She loved a carriage, loved a decent seat
To which they might at certain times retreat;
Servants indeed were sorrows, — yet a few
They still must add, and do as others do:
She too would some attendant damsel need,
To hear, to speak, to travel, or to read: "
In short, the man his remedies assign'd
For his foreknown diseases in the mind: —
" First, " he presumed, " that in a nervous case
Nothing was better than a change of place: "
He added, too, " 'Twas well that he could prove
That his was pure, disinterested love;
Not as when lawyers couple house and land
In such a way as none can understand;
No! thanks to Him that every good supplied,
He had enough, and wanted nought beside!
Merit was all. "
" Well! now, she would protest,
This was a letter prettily express'd. "
To every female friend away she flew
To ask advice, and say, " What shall I do? "
She kiss'd her children, — and she said, with tears,
" I wonder what is best for you, my dears?
How can I, darlings, to your good attend
Without the help of some experienced friend,
Who will protect us all, or, injured, will defend? "

The widow then ask'd counsel of her heart,
In vain, for that had nothing to impart;
But yet with that, or something for her guide,
She to her swain thus guardedly replied.
" She must believe he was sincere, for why
Should one who needed nothing deign to lie?
But though she could and did his truth admit,
She could not praise him for his taste a bit;
And yet men's tastes were various, she confess'd,
And none could prove his own to be the best;
It was a vast concern, including all
That we can happiness or comfort call:
And yet she found that those who waited long
Before their choice, had often chosen wrong;
Nothing, indeed, could for her loss atone,
But 't was the greater that she lived alone;
She, too, had means, and therefore what the use
Of more, that still more trouble would produce?
And pleasure too she own'd, as well as care,
Of which, at present, she had not her share.

The things he offer'd, she must needs confess,
They were all women's wishes, more or less;
But were expensive; though a man of sense
Would by his prudence lighten the expense:
Prudent he was, but made a sad mistake
When he proposed her faded face to take;
And yet 't is said there's beauty that will last
When the rose withers and the bloom be past.

One thing displeased her, — that he could suppose
He might so soon his purposes disclose;
Yet had she hints of such intent before,
And would excuse him if he wrote no more;
What would the world? — and yet she judged them fools
Who let the world's suggestions be their rules;
What would her friends? — Yet in her own affairs
It was her business to decide, not theirs;
Adieu! then, sir, " she added; " thus you find
The changeless purpose of a steady mind,
In one now left alone, but to her fate resign'd. "

The marriage follow'd: and th' experienced dame
Consider'd what the conduct that became
A thrice-devoted lady — She confess'd
That when indulged she was but more distress'd;
And by her second husband when controll'd,
Her life was pleasant, though her love was cold;
" Then let me yield, " she said, and with a sigh,
" Let me to wrong submit, with right comply "

Alas! obedience may mistake, and they
Who reason not will err when they obey;
And fated was the gentle dame to find
Her duty wrong, and her obedience blind.

The man was kind, but would have no dispute,
His love and kindness both were absolute;
She needed not her wishes to express
To one who urged her on to happiness;
For this he took her to the lakes and seas,
To mines and mountains, nor allow'd her ease,
She must be pleased, he said, and he must live to please

He hurried north and south, and east and west;
When age required, they would have time to rest:
He in the richest dress her form array'd,
And cared not what he promised, what he paid;
She should share all his pleasures as her own,
And see whatever could be sought or shown.

This run of pleasure for a time she bore,
And then affirm'd that she could taste no more;
She loved it while its nature it retain'd,
But made a duty, it displeased and pain'd:
" Have we not means? " the joyous husband cried,
" But I am wearied out, " the wife replied;
" Wearied with pleasure! Thing till now unheard —
Are all that sweeten trouble to be fear'd?
'Tis but the sameness tires you, — cross the seas,
And let us taste the world's varieties.

'Tis said, in Paris that a man may live
In all the luxuries a world can give,
And in a space confined to narrow bound
All the enjoyments of our life are found;
There we may eat and drink, may dance and dress,
And in its very essence joy possess;
May see a moving crowd of lovely dames,
May win a fortune at your favourite games;
May hear the sounds that ravish human sense,
And all without receding foot from thence. "

The conquer'd wife, resistless and afraid,
To the strong call a sad obedience paid

As we an infant in its pain, with sweets
Loved once, now loath'd, torment him till he eats,
Who on the authors of his new distress
Looks trembling with disgusted weariness,
So Harriet felt, so look'd, and seem'd to say,
" O! for a day of rest, a holiday! "

At length her courage rising with her fear,
She said, " our pleasures may be bought too dear! "

To this he answer'd — " Dearest! from thy heart
Bid every fear of evil times depart;
I ever trusted in the trying hour
To my good stars; and felt the ruling power;
When want drew nigh, his threat'ning speed was stopp'd,
Some virgin aunt, some childless uncle dropp'd;
In all his threats I sought expedients new,
And my last, best resource was found in you. "

Silent and sad the wife beheld her doom,
And sat her down to see the ruin come;
And meet the ills that rise where money fails,
Debts, threats and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs and jails.

These was she spared; ere yet by want oppress'd,
Came one more fierce than bailiff in arrest;
Amid a scene where Pleasure never came,
Though never ceased the mention of his name,
The husband's heated blood received the breath
Of strong disease, that bore him to his death.

Her all collected, — whether great or small
The sum, I know not, but collected all; —
The widow'd lady to her cot retired,
And there she lives delighted and admired:
Civil to all, compliant and polite,
Disposed to think, " whatever is, is right; "
She wears the widow's weeds, she gives the widow's mite
At home awhile, she in the autumn finds
The sea an object for reflecting minds,
And change for tender spirits; there she reads,
And weeps in comfort in her graceful weeds.

What gives our tale its moral? Here we find
That wives like these are not for rule design'd,
Nor yet for blind submission; happy they,
Who while they feel it pleasant to obey,
Have yet a kind companion at their side
Who in their journey will his power divide,
Or yield the reins, and bid the lady guide;
Then points the wonders of the way, and makes
The duty pleasant that she undertakes;
He shows her objects as they move along,
And gently rules the movements that are wrong:
He tells her all the skilful diver's art,
And smiles to see how well she acts her part;
Nor praise denies to courage or to skill,
In using power that he resumes at will.