Classic Poem

THE FAMILY OF LOVE.

I N a large town, a wealthy thriving place,
Where hopes of gain excite an anxious race;
Which dark dense wreaths of cloudy volumes cloak,
And mark, for leagues around, the place of smoke;
Where fire to water lends its powerful aid,
And steam produces — strong ally to trade: —
Arrived a Stranger, whom no merchant knew,
Nor could conjecture what he came to do:
He came not there a fortune to amend,
He came not there a fortune made to spend;
His age not that which men in trade employ:
The place not that where men their wealth enjoy;
Yet there was something in his air that told
Of competency gain'd, before the man was old
He brought no servants with him: those he sought
Were soon his habits and his manners taught —
His manners easy, civil, kind, and free;
His habits such as aged men's will be;
To self indulgent; wealthy men like him
Plead for these failings — 't is their way, their whim.

His frank good-humour, his untroubled air,
His free address, and language bold but fair,
Soon made him friends — such friends as all may make,
Who take the way that he was pleased to take
He gave his dinners in a handsome style,
And met his neighbours with a social smile;
The wealthy all their easy friend approved,
Whom the more liberal for his bounty loved;
And even the cautious and reserv'd began
To speak with kindness of the frank old man,
Who, though associate with the rich and grave,
Laugh'd with the gay, and to the needy gave
What need requires. At church a seat was shown,
That he was kindly ask'd to think his own:
Thither he went, and neither cold nor heat,
Pains nor pretences, kept him from his seat.
This to his credit in the town was told,
And ladies said, " 'Tis pity he is old:
Yet, for his years, the Stranger moves like one
Who, of his race, has no small part to run. "
No envy he by ostentation raised,
And all his hospitable table praised.
His quiet life censorious talk suppress'd,
And numbers hail'd him as their welcome guest.

'T was thought a man so mild, and bounteous too,
A world of good within the town might do;
To vote him honours, therefore, they inclined;
But these he sought not, and with thanks resign'd;
His days of business he declared were past,
And he would wait in quiet for the last;
But for a dinner and a day of mirth
He was the readiest being upon earth.

Men call'd him Captain, and they found the name
By him accepted without pride or shame
Not in the Navy — that did not appear:
Not in the Army — that at least was clear —
" But as he speaks of sea-affairs, he made,
No doubt, his fortune in the way of trade;
He might, perhaps, an India-ship command —
We'll call him Captain , now he comes to land. "

The Stranger much of various life had seen,
Been poor, been rich, and in the state between;
Had much of kindness met, and much deceit,
And all that man who deals with men must meet.
Not much he read; but from his youth had thought,
And been by care and observation taught:
'Tis thus a man his own opinions makes;
He holds that fast, which he with trouble takes:
While one whose notions all from books arise,
Upon his authors, not himself, relies —
A borrow'd wisdom this, that does not make us wise.

Inured to scenes, where wealth and place command
Th' observant eye, and the obedient hand,
A tory-spirit his — he ever paid
Obedience due, and look'd to be obey'd.
" Man upon man depends, and, break the chain,
He soon returns to savage life again;
As of fair virgins dancing in a round,
Each binds another, and herself is bound,
On either hand a social tribe he sees,
By those assisted, and assisting these;
While to the general welfare all belong,
The high in power, the low in number strong. "

Such was the Stranger's creed — if not profound,
He judged it useful, and proclaim'd it sound;
And many liked it: invitations went
To Captain Elliot, and from him were sent —
These last so often, that his friends confess'd,
The Captain's cook had not a place of rest:
Still were they something at a loss to guess
What his profession was from his address;
For much he knew, and too correct was he
For a man train'd and nurtured on the sea;
Yet well he knew the seaman's words and ways, —
Seaman's his look, and nautical his phrase:
In fact, all ended just where they began,
With many a doubt of this amphibious man.

Though kind to all, he look'd with special grace
On a few members of an ancient race,
Long known, and well respected in the place;
Dyson their name; but how regard for these
Rose in his mind, or why they seem'd to please,
Or by what ways, what virtues — not a cause
Can we assign, for Fancy has no laws;
But, as the Captain show'd them such respect,
We will not treat the Dysons with neglect.

Their father died while yet engaged by trade
To make a fortune, that was never made,
But to his children taught; for he would say
" I place them — all I can — in Fortune's way. "

James was his first-born; when his father died,
He, in their large domain, the place supplied,
And found, as to the Dysons all appear'd,
Affairs less gloomy than their sire had fear'd;
But then if rich or poor, all now agree
Frugal and careful, James must wealthy be:
And wealth in wedlock sought, he married soon,
And ruled his Lady from the honey-moon:
Nor shall we wonder; for, his house beside,
He had a sturdy multitude to guide;
Who now his spirit vex'd, and now his temper tried;
Men who by labours live, and, day by day,
Work, weave, and spin their active lives away:
Like bees industrious, they for others strive,
With, now and then, some murmuring in the hive.

James was a churchman — 'twas his pride and boast;
Loyal his heart, and " Church and King " his toast;
He for Religion might not warmly feel,
But for the Church he had abounding zeal.

Yet no dissenting sect would he condemn,
" They're naught to us, " said he, " nor we to them;
'Tis innovation of our own I hate,
Whims and inventions of a modern date.

Why send you Bibles all the world about,
That men may read amiss, and learn to doubt?
Why teach the children of the poor to read,
That a new race of doubters may succeed?
Now can you scarcely rule the stubborn crew,
And what if they should know as much as you?
Will a man labour when to learning bred,
Or use his hands who can employ his head?
Will he a clerk or master's self obey,
Who thinks himself as well inform'd as they? "

These were his favourite subjects — these he chose,
And where he ruled no creature durst oppose.

" We're rich, " quoth James; " but if we thus proceed,
And give to all, we shall be poor indeed:
In war we subsidise the world — in peace
We christianise — our bounties never cease:
We learn each stranger's tongue, that they with ease
May read translated Scriptures, if they please;
We buy them presses, print them books, and then
Pay and export poor learned, pious men;
Vainly we strive a fortune now to get,
So tax'd by private claims, and public debt. "

Still he proceeds — " You make your prisons light,
Airy and clean, your robbers to invite;
And in such ways your pity show to vice,
That you the rogues encourage, and entice. "

For lenient measures James had no regard —
" Hardship, " he said, " must work upon the hard;
Labour and chains such desperate men require;
To soften iron you must use the fire. "

Active himself, he labour'd to express,
In his strong words, his scorn of idleness;
From him in vain the beggar sought relief —
" Who will not labour is an idle thief,
Stealing from those who will; " he knew not how
For the untaught and ill-taught to allow,
Children of want and vice, inured to ill,
Unchain'd the passions, and uncurb'd the will.

Alas! he look'd but to his own affairs,
Or to the rivals in his trade, and theirs:
Knew not the thousands who must all be fed,
Yet ne'er were taught to earn their daily bread;
Whom crimes, misfortunes, errors only teach,
To seek their food where'er within their reach,
Who for their parents' sins, or for their own,
Are now as vagrants, wanderers, beggars known,
Hunted and hunting through the world, to share
Alms and contempt, and shame and scorn to bear,
Whom Law condemns, and Justice, with a sigh,
Pursuing, shakes her sword and passes by —
If to the prison we should these commit,
They for the gallows will be render'd fit.

But James had virtues — was esteem'd as one
Whom men look'd up to, and relied upon
Kind to his equals, social when they met —
If out of spirits, always out of debt;
True to his promise, he a lie disdain'd,
And o'en when tempted in his trade, refrain'd,
Frugal he was, and loved the cash to spare,
Gain'd by much skill, and nursed by constant care
Yet liked the social board, and when he spoke,
Some hail'd his wisdom, some enjoy'd his joke
To him a Brother look'd as one to whom,
If fortune frown'd, he might in trouble come;
His Sisters view'd the important man with awe
As if a parent in his place they saw
All lived in Love; none sought their private ends;
The Dysons were a Family of Friends.

His brother David was a studious boy,
Yet could his sports as well as books enjoy
E'en when a boy, he was not quickly read,
If by the heart you judged him, or the head.
His father thought he was decreed to shine,
And be in time an eminent Divine;
But if he ever to the Church inclined,
It is too certain that he changed his mind.
He spoke of scruples, but who knew him best
Affirm'd, no scruples broke on David's rest
Physic and Law were each in turn proposed,
He weigh'd them nicely, and with Physic closed.

He had a serious air, a smooth address,
And a firm spirit that ensured success.
He watch'd his brethren of the time, how they
Rose into fame, that he might choose his way.

Some, he observed, a kind of roughness used,
And now their patients banter'd, now abused:
The awe-struck people were at once dismay'd,
As if they begg'd the advice for which they paid.

There are who hold that no disease is slight,
Who magnify the foe with whom they fight.
The sick was told that his was that disease
But rarely known on mortal frame to seize;
Which only skill profound, and full command
Of all the powers in nature could withstand.
Then, if he lived, what fame the conquest gave!
And if he died — " No human power could save! "

Mere fortune sometimes, and a lucky case,
Will make a man the idol of a place —
Who last, advice to some fair duchess gave,
Or snatch'd a widow's darling from the grave,
Him first she honours of the lucky tribe,
Fills him with praise, and wooes him to prescribe
In his own chariot soon he rattles on,
And half believes the lies that built him one.

But not of these was David: care and pain,
And studious toil prepared his way to gain
At first observed, then trusted, he became
At length respected, and acquired a name.
Keen, close, attentive, he could read mankind,
The feeble body, and the failing mind;
And if his heart remain'd untouch'd, his eyes,
His air, and tone, with all could sympathise.

This brought him fees, and not a man was he
In weak compassion to refuse a fee.
Yet though the Doctor's purse was well supplied,
Though patients came, and fees were multiplied,
Some secret drain, that none presumed to know,
And few e'en guess'd, for ever kept it low.
Some of a patient spake, a tender fair,
Of whom the doctor took peculiar care,
But not a fee: he rather largely gave,
Nor spared himself, 't was said, this gentle friend to save.
Her case consumptive, with perpetual need
Still to be fed, and still desire to feed;
An eager craving, seldom known to cease,
And gold alone brought temporary peace —

So, rich he was not; James some fear express'd,
Dear Doctor David would be yet distress'd;
For if now poor, when so repaid his skill,
What fate were his, if he himself were ill!

In his religion, Doctor Dyson sought
To teach himself — " A man should not be taught,
Should not, by forms or creeds, his mind debase,
That keep in awe an unreflecting race. "
He heeded not what Clarke and Paley say,
But thought himself as good a judge as they;
Yet to the Church profess'd himself a friend,
And would the rector for his hour attend;
Nay, praise the learn'd discourse, and learnedly defend.
For since the common herd of men are blind,
He judged it right that guides should be assign'd;
And that the few who could themselves direct
Should treat those guides with honour and respect.
He was from all contracted notions freed,
But gave his Brother credit for his creed;
And if in smaller matters he indulged,
'T was well, so long as they were not divulged.

Oft was the spirit of the Doctor tried,
When his grave Sister wish'd to be his guide.
She told him, " all his real friends were grieved
To hear it said, how little he believed:
Of all who bore the name she never knew
One to his pastor or his church untrue;
All have the truth with mutual zeal profess'd,
And why, dear Doctor, differ from the rest? "

" 'Tis my hard fate, " with serious looks replied
The man of doubt, " to err with such a guide. "
" Then why not turn from such a painful state? " —
The doubting man replied, " It is my fate. "

Strong in her zeal, by texts and reasons back'd,
In his grave mood the Doctor she attack'd:
Cull'd words from Scripture to announce his doom,
And bade him " think of dreadful things to come. "

" If such, " he answer'd, " be that state untried,
In peace, dear Martha, let me here abide;
Forbear to insult a man whose fate is known,
And leave to Heaven a matter all his own. "

In the same cause the Merchant, too, would strive;
He ask'd, " Did ever unbeliever thrive?
Had he respect? could he a fortune make?
And why not then such impious men forsake? "

" Thanks, my dear James, and be assured I feel,
If not your reason, yet at least your zeal;
And when those wicked thoughts, that keep me poor,
And bar respect, assail me as before
With force combined, you'll drive the fiend away,
For you shall reason, James, and Martha pray. "

But though the Doctor could reply with ease,
To all such trivial arguments as these, —
Though he could reason, or at least deride,
There was a power that would not be defied;
A closer reasoner, whom he could not shun,
Could not refute, from whom he could not run;
For Conscience lived within; she slept, 't is true,
But when she waked, her pangs awaken'd too.
She bade him think; and as he thought, a sigh
Of deep remorse precluded all reply.
No soft insulting smile, no bitter jest,
Could this commanding power of strength divest,
But with reluctant fear her terrors he confess'd
His weak advisers he could scorn or slight,
But not their cause; for, in their folly's spite,
They took the wiser part, and chose their way aright.

Such was the Doctor, upon whom for aid
Had some good ladies call'd, but were afraid —
Afraid of one who, if report were just,
The arm of flesh, and that alone would trust
But these were few — the many took no care
Of what they judged to be his own affair:
And if he them from their diseases freed,
They neither cared nor thought about his creed:
They said his merits would for much atone,
And only wonder'd that he lived alone.

The widow'd Sister near the Merchant dwelt,
And her late loss with lingering sorrow felt.
Small was her jointure, and o'er this she sigh'd,
That to her heart its bounteous wish denied,
Which yet all common wants, but not her all, supplied.
Sorrows like showers descend, and as the heart
For them prepares, they good or ill impart;
Some on the mind, as on the ocean rain,
Fall and disturb, but soon are lost again —
Some, as to fertile lands, a boon bestow,
And seed, that else had perish'd, live and grow;
Some fall on barren soil, and thence proceed
The idle blossom, and the useless weed;
But how her griefs the Widow's heart impress'd,
Must from the tenor of her life be guess'd.

Rigid she was, persisting in her grief,
Fond of complaint, and adverse to relief.
In her religion she was all severe,
And as she was, was anxious to appear
When sorrow died, restraint usurp'd the place,
And sate in solemn state upon her face,
Reading she loved not, nor would deign to waste
Her precious time on trifling works of taste;
Though what she did with all that precious time
We know not, but to waste it was a crime —
As oft she said, when with a serious friend
She spent the hours as duty bids us spend;
To read a novel was a kind of sin —
Albeit once Clarissa took her in;
And now of late she heard with much surprise,
Novels there were that made a compromise
Betwixt amusement and religion; these
Might charm the worldly, whom the stories please,
And please the serious, whom the sense would charm,
And thus indulging, be secured from harm —
A happy thought, when from the foe we take
His arms, and use them for religion's sake.

Her Bible she perused by day, by night;
It was her task — she said 't was her delight;
Found in her room, her chamber, and her pew,
For ever studied, yet for ever new —
All must be new that we cannot retain,
And new we find it when we read again.

The hardest texts she could with ease expound,
And meaning for the most mysterious found,
Knew which of dubious senses to prefer:
The want of Greek was not a want in her; —
Instinctive light no aid from Hebrew needs —
But full conviction without study breeds;
O'er mortal powers by inborn strength prevails,
Where Reason trembles, and where Learning fails.

To the Church strictly from her childhood bred,
She now her zeal with party-spirit fed:
For brother James she lively hopes express'd,
But for the Doctor's safety felt distress'd;
And her light Sister, poor, and deaf, and blind,
Fill'd her with fears of most tremendous kind.
But David mock'd her for the pains she took,
And Fanny gave resentment for rebuke;
While James approved the zeal, and praised the call,
" That brought, " he said, " a blessing on them all:
Goodness like this to all the House extends,
For were they not a Family of Friends? "

Their sister Frances, though her prime was past
Had beauty still — nay, beauty form'd to last;
'T was not the lily and the rose combined,
Nor must we say the beauty of the mind;
But feature, form, and that engaging air,
That lives when ladies are no longer fair
Lovers she had, and she remember'd yet,
For who the glories of their reign forget?
Some she rejected in her maiden pride,
And some in maiden hesitation tried,
Unwilling to renounce, unable to decide
One lost, another would her grace implore,
Till all were lost, and lovers came no more:
Nor had she that, in beauty's failing state,
Which will recall a lover, or create;
Hers was the slender portion that supplied
Her real wants, but all beyond denied.

When Fanny Dyson reach'd her fortieth year,
She would no more of love or lovers hear;
But one dear Friend she chose, her guide, her stay;
And to each other all the world were they;
For all the world had grown to them unkind,
One sex censorious, and the other blind.
The Friend of Frances longer time had known
The world's deceits, and from its follies flown.
With her dear Friend, life's sober joys to share
Was all that now became her wish and care.
They walk'd together, they conversed and read,
And tender tears for well-feign'd sorrows shed:
And were so happy in their quiet lives,
They pitied sighing maids, and weeping wives.

But Fortune to our state such change imparts,
That Pity stays not long in human hearts;
When sad for, others' woes our hearts are grown,
This soon gives place to sorrows of our own.

There was among our guardian Volunteers
A Major Bright — he reckon'd fifty years:
A reading man of peace, but call'd to take
His sword and musket for his country's sake
Not to go forth and fight, but here to stay,
Invaders, should they come, to chase or slay.

Him had the elder Lady long admired,
As one from vain and trivial things retired;
With him conversed; but to a Friend so dear,
Gave not that pleasure — Why? is not so clear;
But chance effected this: the Major now
Gave both the time his duties would allow;
In walks, in visits, when abroad, at home,
The friendly Major would to either come
He never spoke — for he was not a boy —
Of ladies' charms, or lover's grief and joy.
All his discourses were of serious kind,
The heart they touch'd not, but they fill'd the mind.
Yet — oh, the pity! from this grave good man
The cause of coolness in the Friends began.
The sage Sophronia — that the chosen name —
Now more polite, and more estranged became.
She could but feel that she had longer known
This valued friend — he was indeed her own;
But Frances Dyson, to confess the truth,
Had more of softness — yes, and more of youth;
And though he said such things had ceased to please,
The worthy Major was not blind to these:
So without thought, without intent, he paid
More frequent visits to the younger Maid.

Such the offence; and though the Major tried
To tie again the knot he thus untied,
His utmost efforts no kind looks repaid, —
He moved no more the inexorable maid.
The Friends too parted, and the elder told
Tales of false hearts, and friendships waxing cold;
And wonder'd what a man of sense could see
In the light airs of wither'd vanity.

'Tis said that Frances now the world reviews,
Unwilling all the little left to lose;
She and the Major on the walks are seen,
And all the world is wondering what they mean.

Such were the four whom Captain Elliot drew
To his own board, as the selected few.
For why? they seem'd each other to approve,
And call'd themselves a Family of Love.

These were not all: there was a youth beside,
Left to his uncles when his parents died:
A Girl, their sister, by a Boy was led.
To Scotland, where a boy and girl may wed —
And they returned to seek for pardon, peace, and bread.
Five years they lived to labour, weep, and pray,
When Death, in Mercy, took them both away.

Uncles and aunts received this lively child,
Grieved at his fate, and at his follies smiled;
But when the child to boy's estate grew on,
The smile was vanish'd, and the pity gone
Slight was the burden, but in time increased,
Until at length both love and pity ceased.
Then Tom was idle; he would find his way
To his aunt's stores, and make her sweets his prey:
By uncle Doctor on a message sent,
He stopp'd to play, and lost it as he went.
His grave aunt Martha, with a frown austere,
And a rough hand, produced a transient fear;
But Tom, to whom his rude companions taught
Language as rude, vindictive measures sought;
He used such words, that when she wish'd to speak
Of his offence, she had her words to seek.
The little wretch had call'd her — 't was a shame
To think such thought, and more to name such name.

Thus fed and beaten, Tom was taught to pray
For his true friends: " but who, " said he, are they? "
By nature kind, when kindly used, the Boy
Hail'd the strange good with tears of love and joy;
But, roughly used, he felt his bosom burn
With wrath he dared not on his uncles turn;
So with indignant spirit, still and strong,
He nursed the vengeance, and endured the wrong.

To a cheap school, far north, the boy was sent:
Without a tear of love or grief he went;
Where, doom'd to fast and study, fight and play,
He staid five years, and wish'd five more to stay.
He loved o'er plains to run, up hills to climb,
Without a thought of kindred, home, or time;
Till from the cabin of a coasting hoy,
Landed at last the thin and freckled boy,
With sharp keen eye, but pale and hollow cheek,
All made more sad from sickness of a week.
His aunts and uncles felt — nor strove to hide
From the poor boy, their pity and their pride:
He had been taught that he had not a friend,
Save these on earth, on whom he might depend;
And such dependence upon these he had,
As made him sometimes desperate, always sad.

" Awkward and weak, where can the lad be placed,
And we not troubled, censured, or disgraced?
Do, Brother James, th' unhappy boy enrol
Among your set: you only can-control. "
James sigh'd, and Thomas to the Factory went,
Who there his days in sundry duties spent.
He ran, he wrought, he wrote — to read or play
He had no time, nor much to feed or pray.
What pass'd without he heard not — or he heard
Without concern, what he nor wish'd nor fear'd;
Told of the Captain and his wealth, he sigh'd,
And said, " how well his table is supplied: "
But with the sigh it caused the sorrow fied;
He was not feasted, but he must be fed,
And he could sleep full sound, though not full soft his bed.

But still, ambitious thoughts his mind possess'd,
And dreams of joy broke in upon his rest.
Improved in person, and enlarged in mind,
The good he found not he could hope to find
Though now enslaved, he hail'd the approaching day,
When he should break his chains and fice away.

Such were the Dysons: they were first of those
Whom Captain Elliot as companions chose;
Them he invited, and the more approved,
As it appear'd that each the other loved.
Proud of their brothers were the sister pair,
And if not proud, yet kind the brothers were.
This pleased the Captain, who had never known,
Or he had loved, such kindred of his own:
Them he invited, save the Orphan lad,
Whose name was not the one his Uncles had;
No Dyson he, nor with the party came —
The worthy Captain never heard his name;
Uncles and Aunts forbore to name the boy,
For then, of course, must follow his employ.
Though all were silent, as with one consent,
None told another what his silence meant,
What hers; but each suppress'd the useless truth,
And not a word was mention'd of the youth.

Familiar grown, the Dysons saw their host,
With none beside them: it became their boast,
Their pride, their pleasure; but to some it seem'd
Beyond the worth their talents were esteem'd.
This wrought no change within the Captain's mind;
To all men courteous, he to them was kind.

One day with these he sat, and only these,
In a light humour, talking at his ease;
Familiar grown, he was disposed to tell
Of times long past, and what in them befell —
Not of his life their wonder to attract,
But the choice tale, or insulated fact.
Then, as it seem'd, he had acquired a right
To hear what they could from their stores recite.
Their lives, they said, were all of common kind;
He could no pleasure in such trifles find.

They had an uncle — 't is their father's tale —
Who in all seas had gone where ship can sail,
Who in all lands had been where men can live;
" He could indeed some strange relations give,
And many a bold adventure; but in vain
We look for him; he comes not home again. "

" And is it so? why then, if so it be, "
Said Captain Elliot, " you must look to me:
" I knew John Dyson " — — Instant every one
Was moved to wonder — " knew my Uncle John!
Can he be rich? be childless? he is old,
That is most certain — What! can more be told?
Will he return, who has so long been gone,
And lost to us? Oh! what of Uncle John? "

This was aside: their unobservant friend
Seem'd on their thoughts but little to attend;
A traveller speaking, he was more inclined
To tell his story than their thoughts to find.

" Although, my Friends, I love you well, 't is true,
'T was your relation turn'd my mind to you;
For we were friends of old, and friends like us are few;
And though from dearest friends a man will hide
His private vices in his native pride,
Yet such our friendship from its early rise,
We no reserve admitted, no disguise;
But 't is the story of my friend I tell,
And to all others let me bid farewell.

Take each your glass, and you shall hear how John,
My old companion, through the world has gone;
I can describe him to the very life,
Him and his ways, his ventures, and his wife. "

" Wife! " whisper'd all; " then what his life to us,
His ways and ventures if he ventured thus? "
This, too, apart; yet were they all intent,
And, gravely listening, sigh'd with one consent.

" My friend, your Uncle, was design'd for trade,
To make a fortune as his father made;
But early he perceived the house declined,
And his domestic views at once resign'd;
While stout of heart, with life in every limb,
He would to sea, and either sink or swim
No one forbad; his father shook his hand,
Within it leaving what he could command.

He left his home, but I will not relate
What storms he braved, and how he bore his fate,
Till his brave frigate was a Spanish prize,
And prison walls received his first-born sighs,
Sighs for the freedom that an English boy,
Or English man, is eager to enjoy.

Exchanged, he breathed in freedom, and aboard
An English ship, he found his peace restored;
War raged around, each British tar was press'd
To serve his king, and John among the rest;
Oft had he fought and bled, and 't was his fate
In that same ship to grow to man's estate.
Again 't was war: of France a ship appear'd
Of greater force, but neither shunn'd or fear'd;
'T was in the Indian Sea, the land was nigh,
When all prepared to fight, and some to die;
Man after man was in the ocean thrown,
Limb after limb was to the surgeon shown,
And John at length, poor John! held forth his own. —

A tedious case — the battle ceased with day,
And in the night the foe had slipp'd away.
Of many wounded were a part convey'd
To land, and he among the number laid;
Poor, suffering, friendless, who shall now impart
Life to his hope, or comfort to his heart?
A kind good priest among the English there
Selected him as his peculiar care;
And, when recover'd, to a powerful friend
Was pleased the lad he loved to recommend;
Who read your Uncle's mind, and, pleased to read,
Placed him where talents will in time succeed.

I will not tease you with details of trade,
But say he there a decent fortune made, —
Not such as gave him, if return'd, to buy
A Duke's estate, or principality,
But a fair fortune: years of peace he knew,
That were so happy, and that seem'd so few.

Then came a cloud; for who on earth has seen
A changeless fortune, and a life serene?
Ah! then how joyous were the hours we spent!
But joy is restless, joy is not content.

There one resided, who, to serve his friend,
Was pleased a gay fair lady to commend;
Was pleased t' invite the happy man to dine,
And introduced the subject o'er their wine;
Was pleased the lady his good friend should knew
And as a secret his regard would show:

A modest man lacks courage; but, thus train'd,
Your Uncle sought her favour and obtain'd:
To me he spake, enraptured with her face,
Her angel smile, her unaffected grace;
Her fortune small indeed; but " curse the pelf,
She is a glorious fortune in herself!"
" John!" answer'd I, " friend John, to be sincere,
These are fine things, but may be bought too dear
You are no stripling, and, it must be said,
Have not the form that charms a youthful maid
What you possess, and what you leave behind,
When you depart, may captivate her mind;
And I suspect she will rejoice at heart,
Your will once made, if you should soon depart."

Long our debate, and much we disagreed;
" You need no wife," I said, — said he, " I need;
I want a house, I want in all I see
To take an interest; what is mine to me?"
So spake the man, who to his word was just,
And took the words of others upon trust.
He could not think that friend in power so high,
So much esteem'd, could like a villain lie;
Nor, till the knot, the fatal knot was tied,
Had urged his wedding a dishonour'd bride.
The man he challenged, for his heart was rent
With rage and grief, and was to prison sent;
For men in power — and this, alas! was one —
Revenge on all, the wrongs themselves have done;
And he whose spirit bends not to the blow
The tyrants strike, shall no forgiveness know,
For 't is to slaves alone that tyrants favour show.

This cost him much; but that he did not heed;
The lady died, and my poor friend was freed.
" Enough of ladies!" then said he, and smiled;
" I've now no longings for a neighbour's child"
So patient he return'd, and not in vain,
To his late duties, and grew rich again.
He was no miser; but the man who takes
Care to be rich, will love the gain be makes:
Pursuing wealth, he soon forgot his woes,
No acts of his were bars to his repose.

Now John was rich, and old and weary grown,
Talk'd of the country that he calls his own,
And talk'd to me; for now, in fact, began
My better knowledge of the real man.
Though long estranged, he felt a strong desire,
That made him for his former friends inquire;
What Dysons yet remain'd, he long'd to know,
And doubtless meant some proofs of love to show.
His purpose known, our native land I sought,
And with the wishes of my Friend am fraught. "

Fix'd were all eyes, suspense each bosom shook,
And expectation hung on every look.

" " Go to my kindred seek them all around,
Find all you can, and tell me all that's found;
Seek them if prosperous seek them in distress,
Hear what they need, know what they all possess;
What minds, what hearts they have, how good they are,
How far from goodness — speak, and no one spare,
And no one slander: let me clearly see
What is in them, and what remains for me."

Such is my charge, and haply I shall send
Tidings of joy and comfort to my Friend.
Oft would he say, " If-of our race survive
Some two or three, to keep the name alive,
I will not ask if rich or great they be,
But if they live in love, like you and me"

'T was not my purpose yet awhile to speak
As I have spoken; but why further seek?
All that I heard I in my heart approve;
You are indeed a Family of Love:
And my old friend were happy in the sight
Of those, of whom I shall such tidings write. "

The Captain wrote not: he perhaps was slow,
Perhaps he wish'd a little more to know,
He wrote not yet, and while he thus delay'd,
Frances alone an early visit paid.
The maiden Lady braved the morning cold,
To tell her Friend what duty bade be told,
Yet not abruptly — she has first to say,
" How cold the morning, but how fine the day! —
I fear you slept but ill, we kept you long,
You made us all so happy, but 't was wrong —
So entertain'd, no wonder we forgot
How the time pass'd; I fear me you did not. "

In this fair way the Lady seldom fail'd
To steer her course, still sounding as she sail'd.

" Dear Captain Elliot, how your Friends you read!
We are a loving Family indeed;
Left in the world each other's aid to be,
And join to raise a fallen family.
Oh! little thought we there was one so near,
And one so distant, to us all so dear:
All, all alike; he cannot know, dear man!
Who needs him most, as one among us can —
One who can all our wants distinctly view,
And tell him fairly what were just to do:
But you, dear Captain Elliot, as his friend,
As ours, no doubt, will your assistance lend.
Not for the world would I my Brothers blame;
Good men they are: 't was not for that I came.
No! did they guess what shifts I make, the grief
That I sustain, they 'd fly to my relief;
But I am proud as poor; I cannot plead
My cause with them, nor show how much I need,
But to my Uncle's Friend it is no shame,
Nor have I fear to seem the thing I am;
My humble pittance life's mere need supplies,
But all indulgence, all beyond denies.
I aid no pauper, I myself am poor,
I cannot help the beggar at my door,
I from my scanty table send no meat;
Cook'd and recook'd is every joint I eat.
At Church a sermon begs our help, — I stop
And drop a tear; nought else have I to drop;
But pass the outstretch'd plate with sorrow by,
And my sad heart this kind relief deny.
My dress — I strive with all my maiden skill
To make it pass, but 't is disgraceful still;
Yet from all others I my wants conceal,
Oh! Captain Elliot, there are few that feel!
But did that rich and worthy Uncle know
What you, dear Sir, will in your kindness show,
He would his friendly aid with generous hand bestow.

Good men my Brothers both, and both are raised
Far above want — the Power that gave be praised!
My Sister's jointure, if not ample, gives
All she can need, who as a lady lives;
But I, unaided, may through all my years
Endure these ills — forgive these foolish tears.

Once, my dear Sir — I then was young and gay,
And men would talk — but I have had my day:
Now all I wish is so to live, that men
May not despise me whom they flatter'd then.
If you, kind Sir — — . "
Thus far the Captain heard,
Nor save by sign or look had interfered;
But now he spoke; to all she said agreed,
And she conceived it useless to proceed.
Something he promised, and the lady went
Half-pleased away, yet wondering what he meant;
Polite he was and kind, but she could trace
A smile, or something like it, in his face;
'T was not a look that gave her joy or pain — .
She tried to read it, but she tried in vain.

Then call'd the Doctor — 't was his usual way —
To ask " How fares my worthy friend to-day? "
To feel his pulse, and as a friend to give
Unfee'd advice how such a man should live;
And thus, digressing, he could soon contrive,
At his own purpose smoothly to arrive.

" My brother! yes, he lives without a care,
And, though he needs not, yet he loves to spare:
James I respect, and yet it must be told,
His speech is friendly, but his heart is cold.
His smile assumed has not the real glow
Of love! — a sunbeam shining on the snow.
Children he has; but are they causes why
He should our pleas resist, our claims deny?
Our Father left the means by which he thrives,
While we are labouring to support our lives
We, need I say? my widow'd sister lives
On a large jointure; nay, she largely gives; —
And Fanny sighs — for gold does Fanny sigh?
Or wants she that which money cannot buy —
Youth and young hopes? — Ah! could my kindred share
The liberal mind's distress, and daily care,
The painful toil to gain the petty fee,
They'd bless their stars, and join to pity me.
Hard is his fate, who would, with eager joy,
To save mankind his every power employ;
Yet in his walk unnumber'd insults meets,
And gains 'mid scorn the food that chokes him as he eats.

Oh! Captain Elliot, you who know mankind,
With all the anguish of the feeling mind,
Bear to our kind relation these the woes
That e'en to you 'tis misery to disclose.
You can describe what I but faintly trace —
A man of learning cannot bear disgrace;
Refinement sharpens woes that wants create,
And 't is fresh grief such grievous things to state;
Yet those so near me let me not reprove —
I love them well, and they deserve my love:
But want they know not — Oh! that I could say
I am in this as ignorant as they. "

The Doctor thus — the Captain grave and kind,
To the sad tale with serious looks inclined,
And promise made to keep th' important speech in mind.

James and the widow, how is yet unknown,
Heard of these visits, and would make their own.
All was not fair, they judged, and both agreed
To their good Friend together to proceed.
Forth then they went to see him, and persuade —
As warm a pair as ever Anger made.
The Widow lady must the speaker be:
So James agreed; for words at will had she;
And then her Brother, if she needed proof,
Should add, " 'Tis truth: " — it was for him enough.

" Oh! Sir, it grieves me " — for we need not dwell
On introduction: all was kind and well —
" Oh! Sir, it grieves, it shocks us both to hear
What has, with selfish purpose gain'd your ear —
Our very flesh and blood, and, as you know, how dear,
Doubtless they came your noble mind t' impress
With strange descriptions of their own distress;
But I would to the Doctor's face declare,
That he has more to spend and more to spare,
With all his craft, than we with all our care.

And for our Sister, all she has she spends
Upon herself; herself alone befriends.
She has the portion that our Father left,
While me of mine a careless wretch bereft,
Save a small part; yet I could joyful live,
Had I my mite — the widow's mite — to give
For this she cares not; Frances does not know
Their heartfelt joy, who largely can bestow.
You, Captain Elliot, feel the pure delight,
That our kind acts in tender hearts excite,
When to the poor we can our alms extend,
And make the Father of all Good our friend;
And, I repeat, I could with pleasure live,
Had I my mite — the widow's mite — to give.

We speak not thus, dear Sir, with vile intent,
Our nearest friends to wrong or circumvent;
But that our Uncle, worthy man! should know
How best his wealth, Heaven's blessing, to bestow
What widows need, and chiefly those who feel
For all the sufferings which they cannot heal;
And men in trade, with numbers in their pay,
Who must be ready for the reckoning-day,
Or gain or lose! " —
— " Thank Heaven, " said James, " as yet
I've not been troubled by a dun or debt. "
— The Widow sigh'd, convinced that men so weak
Will ever hurt the cause for which they speak;
However tempted to deceive, still they
Are ever blundering to the broad high-way
Of very truth: — But Martha pass'd it by
With a slight frown, and half-distinguish'd sigh.

" Say to our Uncle, sir, how much I long
To see him sit his kindred race among:
To hear his brave exploits, to nurse his age,
And cheer him in his evening's pilgrimage
How were I blest to guide him in the way
Where the religious poor in secret pray.
To be the humble means by which his heart
And liberal hand might peace and joy impart!
But now, farewell! " — and slowly, softly, fell
The tender accents as she said " farewell! "

The Merchant stretch'd his hand, his leave to take,
And gave the Captain's a familiar shake,
Yet seem'd to doubt if this was not too free,
But, gaining courage, said, " Remember me "

Some days elapsed, the Captain did not write,
But still was pleased the party to invite;
And, as he walk'd, his custom every day,
A tall pale stripling met him on his way,
Who made some efforts, but they proved too weak,
And only show'd he was inclin'd to speak.
" What wouldst thou, lad? " the Captain ask'd, and gave
The youth a power his purposed boon to crave,
Yet not in terms direct — " My name," quoth he,
Is Thomas Bethel; you have heard of me. " —
Not good nor evil, Thomas — had I need
Of so much knowledge: — but pray now proceed " —

" Dyson mother's name; but I have not
That interest with you, and the worse my lot.
I serve my Uncle James, and run and write,
And watch and work from morning until night;
Confin'd among the looms, and webs, and wheels,
You cannot think how like a slave one feels.
'Tis said you have a ship at your command, —
An' please you, sir, I'm weary of the land,
And I have read of foreign parts such things,
As make me sick of Uncle's wheels and springs. "

" But, Thomas, why to sea? you look too slim
For that rough work — and, Thomas, can you swim? "
That he could not, but still he scorn'd a lie,
And boldly answer'd, " No, but I can try. " —
" Well, my good lad, but tell me, can you read? "
Now, with some pride he answer'd, " Yes, indeed!
I construe Virgil, and our Usher said,
I might have been in Homer had I staid,
And he was sorry when I came away,
And so was I, but Uncle would not pay;
He told the master I had read enough,
And Greek was all unprofitable stuff;
So all my learning now is thrown away,
And I've no time for study or for play;
I'm order'd here and there, above, below,
And call'd a dunce for what I cannot know;
Oh, that I were but from this bondage free!
Do, please your honour, let me go to sea "

" But why to sea? they want no Latin there;
Hard is their work, and very hard their fare "

" But then, " said Thomas, " if on land, I doubt
My Uncle Dyson soon would find me out;
And though he tells me what I yearly cost,
'Tis my belief he'd miss me were I lost.
For he has said, that I can act as well
As he himself — but this you must not tell. "

" Tell, Thomas! no, I scorn the base design,
Give me your hand, I pledge my word with mine;
And if I cannot do thee good, my friend,
Thou may'st at least upon that word depend
And hark ye, lad, thy worthy name retain
To the last hour, or I shall help in vain;
And then the more severe and hard thy part,
Thine the more praise, and thine the happier art.
We meet again — farewell! " — and Thomas went
Forth to his tasks, half hungry, half content.

" I never ask'd for help, " thought he, " but twice,
And all they then would give me was advice;
My Uncle Doctor, when I begg'd his aid,
Bade me work on, and never be afraid,
But still be good; and I've been good so long,
I'm half persuaded that they tell me wrong.
And now this Captain still repeats the same,
But who can live upon a virtuous name,
Starving and praised? — " have patience — patience still!"
He said and smiled, " and, if I can, I will. "

So Thomas rested with a mind intent
On what the Captain by his kindness meant.

Again the invited party all attend,
These dear relations, on this generous Friend.
They ate, they drank, each striving to appear
Fond, frank, forgiving — above all, sincere.
Such kindred souls could not admit disguise,
Or envious fears, or painful jealousies;
So each declared, and all in turn replied,
" 'Tis just indeed, and cannot be denied. "

Now various subjects rose, — the country's cause,
The war, the allies, the lottery, and the laws.
The widow'd sister then advantage took
Of a short pause, and, smiling softly, spoke:
She judged what subject would his mind excite —
" Tell us, dear Captain, of that bloody fight,
When our brave Uncle, bleeding at his gun,
Gave a loud shout to see the Frenchmen run. "

" Another day, " — replied the modest host;
" One cannot always of one's battles boast.
Look not surprise — behold the man in me!
Another Uncle shall you never see.
No other Dyson to this place shall come,
Here end my travels, here I place my home;
Here to repose my shatter'd frame I mean,
Until the last long journey close the scene. "

The Ladies softly brush'd the tears away;
James look'd surprise, but knew not what to say;
But Doctor Dyson lifted up his voice,
And said, " Dear Uncle, how we all rejoice! "

" No question, Friends! and I your joy approve,
We are, you know, a Family of Love. "

So said the wary Uncle, but the while
Wore on his face a questionable smile,
That vanish'd, as he spake in grave and solemn style —

" Friends and relations! let us henceforth seem
Just as we are, nor of our virtues dream,
That with our waking vanish. — What we are
Full well we know — t' improve it be our care.
Forgive the trial I have made: 't is one
That has no more than I expected done.
If as frail mortals you, my Friends, appear,
I look'd for no angelic beings here,
For none that riches spurn'd as idle pelf,
Or served another as he served himself.
Deceived no longer, let us all forgive;
I'm old, but yet a tedious time may live.
This dark complexion India's suns bestow,
These shrivell'd looks to years of care I owe;
But no disease ensures my early doom, —
And I may live — forgive me — years to come.
But while I live, there may some good be done,
Perchance to many, but at least to One. " —

Here he arose, retired, return'd, and brought
The Orphan boy, whom he had train'd and taught
For this his purpose; and the happy boy,
Though bade to hide, could ill suppress, his joy. —

" This young relation, with your leave, I take,
That he his progress in the world may make —
Not in my house a slave or spy to be,
And first to flatter, then to govern me; —
He shall not nurse me when my senses sleep,
Nor shall the key of all my secrets keep,
And be so useful that a dread to part
Shall make him master of my easy heart; —
But to be placed where merit may be proved,
And all that now impedes his way removed.

And now no more on these affairs I dwell,
What I possess that I alone can tell,
And to that subject we will bid farewell.
As go I must, when Heaven is pleased to call,
What I shall leave will seem or large or small,
As you shall view it. When this pulse is still,
You may behold my wealth, and read my will.

And now, as Captain Elliot much has known,
That to your Uncle never had been shown,
From him one word of honest counsel hear —
And think it always gain to be sincere. "