Master William; or, Lad's Love

MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD'S LOVE .

[ Farewell and Return ]

I.

I HAVE remembrance of a Boy , whose mind
Was weak: he seem'd not for the world design'd,
Seem'd not as one who in that world could strive,
And keep his spirits even and alive—
A feeling Boy , and happy, though the less,
From that fine feeling, form'd for happiness
His mother left him to his favourite ways,
And what he made his pleasure brought him praise.

 Romantic, tender, visionary, mild,
Affectionate, reflecting when a child,
With fear instinctive he from harshness fled,
And gentle tears for all who suffer'd shed;
Tales of misfortune touch'd his generous heart,
Of maidens left, and lovers forced to part.

 In spite of all that weak indulgence wrought,
That love permitted, or that flattery taught,
In spite of teachers who no fault would find,
The Boy was neither selfish nor unkind.
Justice and truth his honest heart approved,
And all things lovely he admired and loved.
Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales, he read,
And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed.
The long Romances, wild Adventures fired
His stirring thoughts: he felt like Boy inspired.
The cruel fight, the constant love, the art
Of vile magicians, thrill'd his inmost heart:
An early Quixote, dreaming dreadful sights
Of warring dragons, and victorious knights:
In every dream some beauteous Princess shone,
The pride of thousands, and the prize of one.

 Not yet he read, nor reading, would approve,
The Novel's hero, or its ladies' love.
He would Sophia for a wanton take,
Jones for a wicked, nay a vulgar rake.
He would no time on Smollett's page bestow;
Such men he knew not, would disdain to know:
And if he read, he travell'd slowly on,
Teased by the tame and faultless Grandison.
He in that hero's deeds could not delight—
“He loved two ladies, and he would not fight”
The minor works of this prolific kind
Presented beings he could never find;
Beings, he thought, that no man should describe,
A vile, intriguing, lying, perjured tribe,
With impious habits, and dishonest views;
The men he knew, had souls they fear'd to lose;
These had no views that could their sins control,
With them nor fears nor hopes disturb'd the soul

 To dear Romance with fresh delight he turn'd,
And vicious men, like recreant cowards, spurn'd.

 The Scripture Stories he with reverence read,
And duly took his Bible to his bed.
Yet Joshua, Samson, David, were a race
He dared not with his favourite heroes place.
Young as he was, the difference well he knew
Between the Truth, and what we fancy true
He was with these entranced, of those afraid,
With Guy he triumph'd, but with David pray'd.

II.

P .—S UCH was the Boy , and what the man would be,
I might conjecture, but could not foresee.

  F .—He has his trials met, his troubles seen,
And now deluded, now deserted, been
His easy nature has been oft assail'd
By grief assumed, scorn hid, and flattery veil'd.

  P .—But has he, safe and cautious, shunn'd the snares
That life presents?—I ask not of its cares

  F .—Your gentle Boy a course of life began,
That made him what he is, the gentle-man,
A man of business. He in courts presides
Among their Worships, whom his judgment guides
He in the Temple studied, and came down
A very lawyer, though without a gown;
Still he is kind, but prudent, steady, just,
And takes but little what he hears on trust;
He has no visions now, no boyish plans;
All his designs and prospects are the man's,
The man of sound discretion—?

P —How so made?
What could his mind to change like this persuade—
What first awaken'd our romantic friend—
For such he is—

F .—If you would know, attend.

 In those gay years, when boys their manhood prove,
Because they talk of girls, and dream of love,
In William's way there came a maiden fair,
With soft, meek look, and sweet retiring air;
With just the rosy tint upon her cheek,
With sparkling eye, and tongue unused to speak
With manner decent, quiet, chaste, that one,
Modest himself, might love to look upon,
As William look'd; and thus the gentle Squire
Began the Nymph, albeit poor, t' admire
She was, to wit, the gardener's niece; her place
Gave to her care the Lady's silks and lace,
With other duties of an easy kind;
And left her time, as much she felt inclined,
T' adorn her graceful form, and fill her craving mind;
Nay, left her leisure to employ some hours
Of the long day, among her uncle's flowers—
Myrtle and rose, of which she took the care,
And was as sweet as pinks and lilies are.

 Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld
With passion unencouraged, unrepell'd:
For how encourage what was not in view?
Or how repel what strove not to pursue?

 What books inspired, or glowing fancy wrought,
What dreams suggested, or reflection taught,
Whate'er of love was to the mind convey'd,
Was all directed to his darling maid.
He saw his damsel with a lover's eyes,
As pliant fancy wove the fair disguise;
A Quixote he, who in his nymph could trace
The high-born beauty, changed and—out of place.
That William loved, mamma, with easy smile,
Would jesting say; but love might grow the while;
The damsel's self, with unassuming pride,
With love so led by fear was gratified.

 What cause for censure? Could a man reprove
A child for fondness, or miscall it love?
Not William's self; yet well informed was he,
That love it was, and endless love would be.
Month after month the sweet delusion bred
Wild feverish hopes, that flourish'd, and then fled,
Like Fanny's sweetest flower, and that was lost
In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost.

 In some soft evenings, 'mid the garden's bloom,
Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come;
And Fanny came, by chance it may be; still,
There was a gentle bias of the will,
Such as the soundest minds may act upon,
When motives of superior kind are gone.
There then they met, and Master William's look
Was the less timid, for he held a book;
And when the sweetness of the evening hours,
The fresh soft air, the beauty of the flowers,
The night-bird's note, the gently falling dew,
Were all discuss'd, and silence would ensue,
There were some lovely Lines—if she could stay—
And Fanny rises not to go away.

“Young Paris was the shepherd's pride,
 As well the fair Ænone knew;
They sat the mountain's stream beside,
 And o'er the bank a poplar grew.

Upon its bark this verse he traced,—
 Bear witness to the vow I make;
Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste,
 Ere I my matchless maid forsake.

No prince or peasant lad am I,
 Nor crown nor crook to me belong;
But I will love thee till I die,
 And die before I do thee wrong.

Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run,
 Paris is now a prince of Troy:
He leaves the Fair his flattery won,
 Himself and country to destroy.

He seizes on a sovereign's wife,
 The pride of Greece, and with her flies,
He causes thus a ten years' strife,
 And with his dying parent dies.

Oh! think me not this Shepherd's Boy,
 Who from the Maid he loves would run
Oh! think me not a Prince of Troy,
 By whom such treacherous deeds are done.”

 The Lines were read, and many an idle word
Pronounced with emphasis, and underscored,
As if the writer had resolved that all
His nouns and verbs should be emphatical.
But what they were the damsel little thought,
The sense escaped her, but the voice, she caught;
Soft, tender, trembling, and the gipsy felt
As if by listening she unfairly dealt:
For she, if not mamma, had rightly guess'd,
That William's bosom was no seat of rest.

 But Love's young hope must die.—There was a day,
When nature smiled, and all around was gay;
The Boy o'ertook the damsel as she went
The village road—unknown was her intent;
He, happy hour, when lock'd in Fanny's arm,
Walk'd on enamour'd, every look a charm;
Yet her soft looks were but her heart's disguise,
There was no answering love in Fanny's eyes:
But, or by prudence or by pity moved,
She thought it time his folly was reproved;
Then took her measures, not perchance without
Some conscious pride in what she was about.

 Along the brook, with gentle pace they go,
The Youth unconscious of th' impending wo;
And oft he urged the absent Maid to talk,
As she was wont in many a former walk;
And still she slowly walk'd beside the brook,
Or look'd around—for what could Fanny look?
Something there must be! What, did not appear;
But William's eye betray'd the anxious fear;
The cause unseen!——

But who, with giant-stride,
Bounds o'er the brook, and is at Fanny's side?
Who takes her arm? and oh! what villain dares
To press those lips? Not even her lips he spares!
Nay, she herself, the Fanny, the divine,
Lip to his lip can wickedly incline?
The lad, unnerved by horror, with an air
Of wonder quits her arm and looks despair;
Nor will proceed. Oh no! he must return,
Though his drown'd sight cannot the path discern.

 “Come, Master William! come, Sir, let us on.
What can you fear? You're not afraid of John?”

 “What ails our youngster?” 'quoth the burly swain,
Six feet in height—but he inquires in vain.
William, in deep resentment, scans the frame
Of the fond giant, and abhors his name;
Thinks him a demon of th' infernal brood,
And longs to shed his most pernicious blood.

 Again the monster spake in thoughtless joy,—
“We shall be married soon, my pretty Boy!
And dwell in Madam's cottage, where you'll see
The strawberry-beds, and cherries on the tree.”

 Back to his home in silent scorn return'd
Th' indignant Boy, and all endearment spurn'd
Fanny perforce with Master takes her way,
But finds him to th' o'erwhelming grief a prey,
Wrapt in resentful silence, till he came
Where he might vent his woes, and hide his shame.

 Fierce was his strife, but with success he strove,
And freed his troubled breast from fruitless love;
Or what of love his reason fail'd to cool
Was lost and perish'd in a public school,—
Those seats and sources both of good and ill,
By what they cure in Boys, and what they kill.
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