Classic Poem

WILLIAM BAILEY.

The letters Richard in a morning read
To quiet and domestic comforts led;
And George, who thought the world could not supply
Comfort so pure, reflected with a sigh;
Then would pursue the subject, half in play,
Half earnest, till the sadness wore away.

They spoke of Passion's errors, Love's disease,
His pains, afflictions, wrongs, and jealousies;
Of Herod's vile commandment — that his wife
Should live no more, when he no more had life,
He could not bear that royal Herod's spouse
Should, as a widow, make her second vows;
Or that a mortal with his queen should wed,
Or be the rival of the mighty dead

" Herods, " said Richard, " doubtless may be found.
But haply do not in the world abound:
Ladies, indeed, a dreadful lot would have,
If jealousy could act beyond the grave:
No doubt Othellos every place supply,
Though every Desdemona does not die;
But there are lovers in the world, who live
Slaves to the sex, and every fault forgive. "

" I know, " said George, " a happy man and kind,
Who finds his wife is all he wish'd to find,
A mild, good man, who, if he nothing sees,
Will suffer nothing to disturb his ease;
Who, ever yielding both to smiles and sighs,
Admits no story that a wife denies, —
She guides his mind, and she directs his eyes.

Richard, there dwells within a mile a pair
Of good examples, — I will guide you there:
Such man is William Bailey, — but his spouse
Is virtue's self since she had made her vows:
I speak' of ancient stories, long worn out,
That honest William would not talk about;
BuThe will sometimes check her starting tear
And call her self-correction too severe.

In their own inn the gentle pair are placed,
Where you behold the marks of William's taste;
They dwell in plenty, in respect; and peace,
Landlord and lady of the Golden Fleece:
Public indeed their calling, — but there come
No brawl, no revel to that decent room;
All there is still, and comely to behold,
Mild as the fleece, and pleasant as the gold;
But mild and pleasant as they now appear,
They first experienced many a troubled year;
And that, if known, might not command our praise,
Like the smooth tenor of their present days.

Our hostess, now so grave and steady grown,
Has had some awkward trials of her own:
She was not always so resign'd and meek, —
Yet can I little of her failings speak;
Those she herself will her misfortunes deem,
And slides discreetly from the dubious theme;
But you shall hear the tale that I will tell,
When we have seen the mansion where they dwell.

They saw the mansion, — and the couple made
Obeisance due, and not without parade:
" His honour, still 'obliging, took delight
To make them pleasant in each other's sight;
It was their duty — they were very sure
It was their pleasure. "
This they could endure,
Nor turn'd impatient — — in the room around
Were care and neatness: instruments were found
For sacred music, books with prints and notes
By learned men and good, whom William quotes
In mode familiar — Beveridge, Dodderidge, Hall,
Pyle, Whitby, Hammond — he refers to all
Next they beheld his garden, fruitful, nice,
And, as he said, his little paradise

In man and wife appear'd some signs of pride,
Which they perceiv'd not, or they would not hide, —
" Their honest saving, their good name, their skill,
His honour's land, which they had grace to till;
And more his favour shown, with all their friends good will. "

This past, the visit was with kindness closed,
And George was ask'd to do as he proposed.

" Richard, " said he, " though I myself explore
With no distaste the annals of the poor,
And may with safety to a brother show
What of my humble friends I chance to know,
Richard, there are who call the subjects low.

The host and hostess of the Fleece — 't is base —
Would I could cast some glory round the place!

The lively heroine once adorn'd a farm, —
And William's virtue has a kind of charm:
Nor shall we, in our apprehension, need
Riches or rank — — I think I may proceed:
Virtue and worth there are who will not see
In humble dress, but low they cannot be "

The youth's addresses pleased his favourite maid, —
They wish'd for union, but were both afraid;
They saw the wedded poor, — and fear the bliss delay'd:
Yet they appear'd a happier lass and swain
Than those who will not reason or refrain.

William was honest, simple, gentle, kind,
Laborious, studious, and to thrift inclined;
More neat than youthful peasant in his dress,
And yet so careful, that it cost him less:
He kept from inns, though doom'd an inn to keep,
And all his pleasures and pursuits were cheap. "
Yet would the youth perform a generous deed,
When reason saw or pity felt the need;
He of his labour and his skill would lend,
Nay, of his money, to a suffering friend.

William had manual arts, — his room was graced
With carving quaint, that spoke the master's taste;
But if that taste admitted some dispute,
He charm'd the nymphs with flageolet and flute.

Constant at church, and there, a little proud,
He sang with boldness, and he read aloud;
Self-taught to write, he his example took
And form'd his letters from a printed book.

I've heard of ladies who profess'd to see
In a man's writing what his mind must be;
As Doctor Spurzheim's pupils; when they look
Upon a skull, will read it as a book —
Our talents, tendencies, and likings trace,
And find for all the measure and the place:
Strange times! when thus we are completely read
By man or woman, by the hand or head!
Believe who can, — but William's even mind
All who beheld might in his writing find;
His not the scratches where we try in vain
Meanings and words to construe or explain.

But with our village hero to proceed, —
He read as learned clerks are wont to read;
Solemn he was in tone, and slow in pace,
By nature gifted both with strength and grace

Black parted locks his polish'd forehead press'd:
His placid looks an easy mind confess'd;
His smile content, and seldom more, convey'd;
Not like the smile of fair illusive maid,
When what she feels is hid, and what she wills betray'd

The lighter damsels call'd his manner prim,
And laugh'd at virtue so array'd in him;
But they were wanton, as he well replied,
And hoped their own would not be strongly tried;
Yet was he full of glee, and had his strokes
Of rustic wit, his repartees and jokes;
Nor was averse, ere yeThe pledged his love,
To stray with damsels in the shady grove;
When he would tell them, as they walk'd along,
How the birds sang, and imitate their song:
In fact, our rustic had his proper taste,
Was with peculiar arts and manners graced —
And Absalom had been, had Absalom been chaste

Frances, like William, felTher heart incline
To neat attire — but Frances would be fine:
Though small the farm, the farmer's daughter knew
Her rank in life, and she would have it too:
This, and this only, gave the lover pain,
He thought it needless, and he judged it vain:
Advice in hints he to the fault applied,
And talk'd of sin, of vanity, and pride.

" And what is proud, " said Frances, " but to stand
Singing at church, and sawing thus your hand?
Looking aTheaven above, as if to bring
The holy angels down'to hear you sing?
And when you write, you try with all your skill,
And cry, no wonder that you wrote so ill!
For you were ever to yourself a rule,
And humbly add, you never were at school —
Is that not proud? — And I have heard beside,
The proudest creatures have the humblest pride:
If you had read the volumes I have hired,
You'd see your fault, nor try to be admired;
For they who read such books can always tell
The fault within, and read the mind as well. "

William had heard of hiring books before,
He knew she read, and he inquired no more;
On him the subject was completely lost,
WhaThe regarded was the time and cost:
Yet that was trifling — just a present whim,
" Novels and stories! what were they to him? "

With such slight quarrels, or with those as slight,
They lived in love, and dream'd of its delight
Her duties Fanny knew, both great and small,
And she with diligence observed, them all;
If e'er she fail'd a duty to fulfil,
'T was childish error, not rebellious will;
For her much reading, though it touch'd her heart,
Could neither vice nor indolence impart
Yet, when from William and her friends retired,
She found her reading had her mind inspired
With hopes and thoughts of high mysterious things,
Such as the early dreams of kindness brings;
And then she wept, and wonder'd as she read,
And new emotions in her heart were bred.
She sometimes fancied that when love was true
'T was more than she and William ever knew;
More than the shady lane in summer-eve,
More than the sighing when he took his leave;
More than his preference when the lads advance
And choose their partners for the evening dance:
Nay, more than midnight thoughts and morning dreams,
Or talk when love and marriage are the themes;
In fact, a something not to be defined,
Of all subduing, all commanding kind,
That fills the fondesTheart, that-rules the proudest mind.

But on her lover Fanny still relied,
Her best companion, her sincerest guide,
On whom she could rely, on whom she would confide.

All jealous fits were past; in either now
Were tender wishes for the binding vow;
There was no secret one alone possess'd,
There was no hope that warm'd a single breast;
Both felt the same concerns their thoughts employ;
And neither knew one solitary joy.

Then why so easy, William? why consent
To wait so long? thou wilt at last repent;
" Within a month, " does Care and Prudence say,
If all be ready, linger not a day;
Ere yet the choice be made, on choice debate,
But having chosen, dally not with fate.

While yet to wait the pair were half content,
And half disposed their purpose to repent,
A spinster-aunt, in some great baron's place,
Would see a damsel, pride of all her race:
And Fanny, flatter'd by the matron's call,
Obey'd her aunt, and long'd to see the Hall;
For halls and castles in her fancy wrought,
And she accounts of love and wonder sought;
There she expected strange events to learn,
And take in tender secrets fond concern;
There she expected lovely nymphs to view,
Perhaps to hear and meet their lovers too;
The Julias, tender souls! the Henrys kind and true:
There she expected plottings to detect,
And — but I know not what she might expect —
All she was taught in books to be her guide,
And all that nature taught the nymph beside.

Now that good dame had in the castle dwelt
So long that she for all its people felt;
She kepTher sundry keys and ruled o'er all,
Female and male, domestics in the hall;
By her lord trusted, worthy of her trust,
Proud but obedient, bountiful but just.

She praised her lucky stars, that in her place
She never found neglect, nor felt disgrace;
To do her duty was her soul's delight,
This her inferiors would to theirs excite,
This her superiors notice and requite;
To either class she gave the praises due,
And still more grateful as more favour'd grew:
Her lord and lady were of peerless worth,
In power unmatch'd, in glory and in birth;
And such the virtue of the noble race,
It reach'd the meanest servant in the place;
All, from the chief attendant on my lord
To the groom's helper, had her civil word;
From Miss Montregor, who the ladies taught,
To the rude lad who in the garden wrought;
From the first favourite to the meanest drudge,
Were no such women, heaven should be her judge,
Whatever stains were theirs; let them reside
In that pure place, and they were mundified;
The sun of favour on their vileness shone,
And all their faults like morning mists were gone.

There was Lord Robert! could she have her choice,
From the world's masters he should have her voice;
So kind and gracious in his noble ways,
It was a pleasure speaking in his praise:
And Lady Catharine, — O! a prince's pride
Might by one smile of hers be gratified;
With her would monarchs all their glory share,
And in her presence banish all their care.

Such was the matron, and to her the maid
Was by her lover carefully convey'd.

When William first, the invitation read
It some displeasure in his spirit bred,
Not that one jealous thought the man possess'd,
He was by fondness, not by fear distress'd;
But when his Fanny to his mind convey'd
The growing treasures of the ancient maid,
The thirty years, come June, of service past,
Her lasting love, her life that would not last;
Her power! her place! what interest! what respect
She had acquired — and shall we her neglect?

" No, Frances, no! " he answer'd, " you are right;
But things appear in such a different light! "

Her parents blesTher, and as well became
Their love, advised her, that they might not blame
They said, " If she should earl or countess meet
She should be humble, cautious, and discreet:
Humble, but not abased, remembering all
Are kindred sinners, — children of the fall;
That from the earth our being we receive,
And all are equal when the earth we leave. "

They then advised her in a modest way
To make replies to what the lord might say;
Her aunt would aid her, who was now become
With nobles noble, and with lords at home.

So went the pair; and William told at night
Of a reception gracious and polite;
He spake of galleries long and pictures tall,
The handsome parlours, the prodigious hall;
The busts, the statues, and the floors of stone,
The storied arras, and the vast saloon,
In which was placed an Indian chest and screen
With figures such as he had never seen:
He told of these as men enraptured tell,
And gave to all their praise, and all was well.
Left by the lover, the desponding maid
Was of the matron's ridicule afraid;
But when she heard a welcome frank and kind,
The wonted firmness repossess'd her mind;
Pleased by the looks of love her aunt display'd,
Her fond professions, and her kind parade

In her own room; and with her niece apart,
She gave up all the secrets of her heart;
And, grown familiar, bid her Fanny come,
Partake her cheer, and make herself at home

Shut in that room, upon its cheerful board
She laid the comforts of no vulgar hoard;
Then press'd the damsel both with love and pride,
For both she felt — and would not be denied.

Grace she pronounced before and after meat,
And bless'd her God that she could talk and eat;
Then with new glee she sang her patron's praise —
" He had no paltry arts, no pimping ways;
She had the roast and boil'd of every day,
That sent the poor with grateful hearts away;
And she was grateful — Come, my darling, think
Of them you love the best, and let us drink. "

And now she drank the healths of those above,
Her noble friends, whom she must ever love;
But not together; not the young and old,
But one by one, the number duly told;
And told their merits too — there was not one
Who had not said a gracious thing or done;
Nor could she praise alone, but she would take
A cheerful glass for every favourite's sake,
And all were favourites — till the rosy cheek
Spoke for the tongue that nearly ceased to speak;
That rosy cheek that now began to shine,
And show the progress of the rosy wine:
But there she ended — felt the singing head,
Then pray'd as custom will'd, and so to bed.

The morn was pleasant, and the ancient maid
With her fair niece about the mansion stray'd;
There was no room without th' appropriate tale
Of blood and murder, female sprite or male;
There was no picture that th' historic dame
Pass'd by and gave not its peculiar fame;
The births, the visits, weddings, burials, all
That chanced for ages at the noble Hall.

These and each revolution she could state,
And give strange anecdotes of love and hate;
This was her first delight, her pride, her boast,
She told of many an heiress, many a toast,
Of Lady Ellen's flight, of Lord Orlando's ghost;
The maid turn'd pale, and what should then ensue
But wine and cake — then dame was frighten'd too.

The aunt and niece now walk'd about the grounds,
And sometimes met the gentry in their rounds;
" Do let us turn! " the timid girl exclaim'd —
" Turn! " said the aunt, " of what are you ashamed?
What is there frightful in such looks as those?
What is it, child, you fancy or suppose?
Look at Lord Robert, see if you can trace
More than true honour in that handsome face!
What! you must think, by blushing in that way,
My lord has something about love to say;
But I assure you thaThe never spoke
Such things to me in earnest or in joke,
And yet I meet him in all sorts of times,
When wicked men are thinking of their crimes.

There! let them pass — — Why, yes, indeed 'tis true
That was a look, and was design'd for you;
But what the wonder when the sight is new?
For my lord's virtue you may take my word,
He would not do a thing that was absurd. "

A month had pass'd; " And when will Fanny come? "
The lover ask'd, and found the parents dumb;
They had noTheard for more than half the space,
And the poor maiden was in much disgrace;
Silence so long they could not understand,
And this of one who wrote so neat a hand;
Their sister sure would send were aught amiss,
But youth is thoughtless — there is hope in this

As time elapsed, their wonder changed to wo,
William would lose another day, and go;
Yet if she should be wilful and remain,
He had no power to take her home again:
BuThe would go: — He went, and he return'd,
And in his look the pair his tale discern'd;
Stupid in grief, it seem'd not thaThe knew
How he came home, or whaThe should pursue
Fanny was gone! — her aunt was sick in bed,
Dying, she said — none cared if she were dead,
Her charge, his darling, was decoy'd, was fled!
But at what time, and whither, and with whom,
None seem'd to know — all surly, shy, or dumb.

Each blamed himself, all blamed the erring maid
They vow'd revenge; they cursed their fate, and pray'd.
Moved by his grief, the father sought the place,
Ask'd for his girl, and talk'd of her disgrace;
Spoke of the villain, on whose cursed head
He pray'd that vengeance might be amply shed;
Then sought his sister, and beheld her grief,
Her pain, her danger, — this was no relief.

" Where is my daughter? bring her to my sight! " —
" Brother, I'm rack'd and tortured day and night " —
" Talk not to me! What grief have you to tell,
Is your soul rack'd, or is your bosom hell?
Where is my daughter? " — " She would take her oath
For their right doing, for she knew them both,
And my young lord was honour. " — " Woman, cease!
And give your guilty conscience no such peace —
You've sold the wretched girl, and have betray'd your niece. " —
" The Lord be good! and O! the pains that come
In limb and body — Brother, get you home!
Your voice runs through me, — every angry word,
If he should hear it, would offend my lord. "

" Has he a daughter? leTher run away
With a poor dog, and hear whaThe will say!
No matter what, I'll ask him for his son " —
" And so offend? Now, brother, pray be gone! "

My lord appear'd, perhaps by pity moved.
And kindly said he no such things approved
Nay, he was angry with the foolish boy,
Who might his pleasures at his ease enjoy;
The thing was wrong — he hoped the farm did well, —
The angry father doom'd the farm to hell;
He then desired to see the villain-son,
Though my lord warn'd him such excess to shun;
Told him he pardon'd, though he blamed such rage,
And bade him think upon his state and age.

" Think! yes, my lord! but thinking drives me mad —
Give me my child! — Where is she to be had!
I'm old and poor, but I with both can feel,
And so shall he that could a daughter steal!
Think you, my lord, I can be so bereft
And feel no vengeance for the villain's theft?
Old if I am, could I the robber meet
I'd lay his breathless body at my feet —
Was that a smile, my lord? think you your boy
Will both the father and the child destroy? "

My lord replied — " I'm sorry from my soul!
But boys are boys, and there is no control. "

" So, for your great ones Justice slumbers then!
If men are poor they must not feel as men —
Will your son marry? " — " Marry! " said my lord?
Your daughter? — marry — no, upon my word! "

" What, then, our stations differ! — but your son
Thought not of that — his crime has made them one,
In guilt united — She shall be his wife,
Or I th' avenger that will take his life! "

" Old man, I pity and forgive you; rest
In hope and comfort, — be not so distress'd,
Things that seem bad oft happen for the best;
The girl has done no more than thousands do,
Nor had the boy — they laugh at me and you " —
" And this my vengeance — curse him! " — " Nay, forbear;
I spare your frenzy; in compassion spare. "

" Spare me, my lord! and what have I to dread!
O! spare not, heaven, the thunder o'er his head —
The bolThe merits! " — —
Such was his redress;
And he return'd to brood upon distress.

And what of William? — William from the time
Appear'd partaker both of grief, and crime;
He cared for nothing, nothing he pursued,
But walk'd about in melancholy mood;
He ceased to labour, — all he loved before
He now neglected, and would see no more;
He said his flute brought only to his mind
When he was happy, and his Fanny kind;
And his loved walks, and every object near,
And every evening-sound she loved to hear,
The shady lane, broad heath, and stairy sky,
Brought home reflections, and he wish'd to die:
Yet there he stray'd, because he wish'd to shun
The world he hated, where his part was done;
As if, though lingering on the earth, he there
Had neither hope nor calling, tie nor care.

At length a letter from the daughter came,
" Frances" subscribed, and that the only name;
She " pitied much her parents, spoke of fate,
And begg'd them to forgeTher, not to hate;
Said she had with her all the world could give,
And only pray'd that they in peace should live, —
That which is done, is that we're born to do,
This she was taught, and she believed it true;
True, that she lived in pleasure and delight,
But often dream'd and saw the farm by night;
The boarded room that she had kept so neat,
And all her roses in the window-seat;
The pear-tree shade, the jasmine's lovely gloom,
With its long twigs that blossom'd in the room;
But she was happy, and the tears that fell
As she was writing had no grief to tell;
We weep when we are glad, we sigh when we are well. "

A bill inclosed, that they beheld with pain
And indignation, they return'd again;
There was no mention made of William's name,
Check'd as she was by pity, love, and shame.

William who wrought for bread and never sought
More than the day demanded when he wrought,
Was to a sister call'd, of all his race
The last, and dying in a distant place;
In tender terror he approach'd her bed,
Beheld her sick, and buried her when dead:
He was her heir, and what she left was more
Than he required, who was content before.

With their minds' sufferings, and growing pain,
That ancient couple could not long remain,
Nor long remain'd; and in their dying groan
The suffering youth perceived himself alone;
For of his health or sickness, peace or care,
He knew not one in all the world to share;
Now every scene would sad reflections give,
And most his home, and there he could not live;
There every walk would now distressing prove,
And of his loss remind him, and his love.

With the small portion by his sister left
He roved about as one of peace bereft,
And by the body's movements hoped to find
A kind of wearied stillness in the mind,
And sooner bring it to a sleepy state,
As rocking infants will their pains abate.

Thus careless, lost, unheeding where he went,
Nine weary years the wandering lover spent.

His sole employment, all that could amuse,
Was his companions on the road to choose;
With such he travell'd through the passing day,
Friends of the hour, and walkers by the way;
And from the sick, the poor, the halt, the blind,
He learn'd the sorrows of his suffering kind.

He learn'd of many how unjust their fate,
For their connexions dwelt in better state;
They had relations famous, great or rich,
Learned or wise, they never scrupled which;
But while they cursed these kindred churls, would try
To build their fame, and for their glory lie.

Others delighted in misfortunes strange,
The sports of fortune in her love for change.
Some spoke of wonders they before had seen,
When on their travels they had wandering been;
How they had sail'd the world about, and found
The sailing plain, although the world was round;
How they beheld for months th' unsetting sun,
What deeds they saw! what they themselves had done! —
What leaps at Rhodes! — what glory then they won!

There were who spoke in terms of high disdain
Of their contending against power in vain,
Suffering from tyranny of law long borne,
And life's best spirits in contentions worn!
Happy in this, th' oppressors soon will die,
Each with the vex'd and suffering man to lie —
And thus consoled exclaim, " And is not sorrow dry? "

But vice offended: when he met with those
Who could a deed of violence propose,
And cry, " Should they what we desire possess?
Should they deprive us, and their laws oppress? "
William would answer, " Ours is not redress: " —
" Would you oppression then for ever feel? "
" 'Tis not my choice; but yet I must not steal: " —
" So, first they cheat us, and then make their laws
To guard their treasures and to back their cause:
What call you then, my friend, the rights of man? "
" To get his bread, " said William, " if he can;
And if he cannot, he must then depend
Upon a Being he may make his friend: " —
" Make! " they replied; and conference had end.

But female vagrants would at times express
A new-born pleasure at the mild address;
His modest wish, clothed in accent meek,
That they would comfort in religion seek.

" I am a sinful being! " William cried;
" Then what am I? " the conscious heart replied:
And oft-times ponder'd in a pensive way,
" He is not happy, yeThe loves to pray. "

But some would freely on his thoughts intrude,
And thrust themselves 'twixt him and solitude:
They would his faith and of its strength demand,
And all his soul's prime motions understand:
How! they would say, such wo and such belief,
Such trust in heaven, and yet on earth such grief!
Thou art almost, my friend, — thou art not all,
Thou hast not yet the self-destroying call;
Thou hast a carnal wish, perhaps a will
Not yet subdued, — the root is growing, still:
There is the strong man yet that keeps his own,
Who by a stronger must be overthrown;
There is the burden that must yet be gone,
And then the pilgrim may go singing on.

William to this would seriously incline,
And to their comforts would his heart resign;
It soothed, it raised him, — he began to feel
Th' enlivening warmth of methodistic zeal;
He learn'd to know the brethren by their looks —
He sought their meetings, he perused their books;
But yet was not within the pale and yoke,
And as a novice of experience spoke;
But felt the comfort, and began to pray
For such companions on the king's highway.
William had now across the kingdom sped,
To th' Eastern ocean from St. David's head;
And wandering late, with various thoughts oppress'd,
'Twas midnight ere he reach'd his place of rest, —
A village inn, that one wayfaring friend
Could from experience safely recommend,
Where the kind hostess would be more intent
On whaThe needed than on whaThe spent;
Her husband, once a heathen, she subdued,
And with religious fear his mind imbued;
Though his conviction came too late to save
An erring creature from an early grave.

Since that event, the cheerful widow grew
In size and substance, — her the brethren knew —
And many friends were hers, and lovers not a few;
But either love no more could warm her heart,
Or no man came who could the warmth impart.

William drew near, and saw the comely look
Of the good lady, bending o'er her book;
Hymns it appear'd — for now a pleasing sound
Seem'd as a welcome in his wanderings found.
He enter'd softly, not as they who think
That they may act the ruffian if they drink,
And who conceive, that for their paltry pence
They may with rules of decency dispense;
Far unlike these was William, — he was kind,
Exacting nothing, and to all resign'd.

He saw the hostess, reading, — and their eyes
Met in good will, and something like surprise:
It was not beauty William saw, but more,
Something like that which he had loved before —
Something that brought his Fanny to his view,
In the dear time when she was good and true;
And his, it seem'd, were features that were seen
With some emotion — she was not serene:
And both were moved to ask what looks like those could mean.
At first she colour'd to the deepest red,
That burried off, till all the rose was fled;
She call'd a servant, whom she sent to rest,
Then made excuse to her attentive guest;
She own'd the thoughts confused, — 'twas very true,
He brought a dear departed friend in view:
Then, as he listen'd, bade him welcome there
With livelier looks and more engaging air,
And stirr'd the fire of ling, and brush'd the wicker chair,
Waiting his order with the cheerful look,
That proved how pleasant were the pains she took.

He was refresh'd — — They spake on various themes —
Our early pleasures, Reason's first-drawn schemes,
Youth's strong illusions, Love's delirious dreams:
Then from her book he would presume to ask
A song of praise, and she perform'd the task:
The clock struck twelve — He started — " must I go?
His looks spoke plainly, and the lady's " No:"
So down he sat, — and when the clock struck one
There was no start, no effort to be gone:
Nor stay'd discourse — —
" And so your loves were cross a,
And the loved object to your wishes lost?
But was she faithless, or were you to blame?
I wish I knew her — Will you tell her name? "

" Excuse me — that would hurTher if alive;
And, if no more, why should her fault survive? "

" But love you still? " —
" Alas! I feel I do,
When I behold her very looks in you! "

" Yet, if the frail one's name must not be known,
My friendly guest may trust me with his own. "

This done, the lady paused, and then replied —
" It grieves me much to see your spirit tried; —
But she was like me, — how I came to know
The lamb that stray'd I will hereafter show; —
We were indeed as sisters — — Should I state
Her quiet end, you would no longer hate:
I see your heart, — and I shall quickly prove,
Though she deserved not, yet she prized your love:
Long as she breathed was heard her William's name —
And such affection half absolves her shame.

Weep not, buThear me, how I came to know
Thee and thy Frances — this to heaven I owe;
And thou shalt view the pledge, the very ring,
The birth-day token — well you know the thing;
" This," if I ever — thus I was to speak,
As she had spoken — but I see you weak:
She was not worthy — — "
" O! you cannot tell
By what accursed means my Fanny fell!
What bane, compulsion, threats — for she was pure:
But from such toils what being is secure?
Force, not persuasion, robb'd me — — "
" You are right;
So has she told me, in her Maker's sight:
She loved not vice — — "
" O! no; — her heart approved
All thaTher God commanded to be loved;
And she is gone — — "
" Consider! death alone
Could for the errors of her life atone. "

" Speak not of them! I would she knew how dear
I hold her yet! — But dost thou give the tear
To my loved Frances? — No! I cannot part
With one who has her face, who has her heart;
With looks so pleasing, when I thee behold,
She lives — that bosom is no longer cold —
Then tell me — Art thou not — in pity speak —
One whom I sought, while living meant to seek —
Art thou my Fanny? — Let me not offend —
Be something to me — be a sufferer's friend —
Be more — Be all! — — The precious truth confess —
Art thou not Frances? " — —
" O, my William! yes!
But spare me, spare thyself, and suffer less:
In my best days, the spring-time of my life,
I was not worthy to be William's wife;
A widow now — not poor, indeed — not cast
In outer darkness — sorrowing for the past,
And for the future hoping — but no more —
Let me the pledges of thy love restore,
And give the ring thou gavest — let it be
A token still of my regard for thee, —
But only that, — and to a worthier now
Consign the gift " — —
" The only worthy thou! "
Replied the lover; and what more express'd
May be omitted — here our tale shall rest.

This pair, our host and hostess of the Fleece,
Command some wealth, and smile at its increase;
Saving and civil, cautious and discreet,
All sects and parties in their mansion meet;
There from their chapels teachers go to share
The creature-comforts, — mockery grins not there;
There meet the wardens at their annual feast,
With annual pun — " the parish must be fleeced; "
There traders find a parlour cleanly swept
For their reception, and in order kept;
And there the sons of labour, poor, but free,
Sit and enjoy their hour of liberty.

So live the pair, — and life's disasters seem
In their unruffled calm a troubled dream;
In comfort runs the remnant of their life —
He the fond husband, she the faithful wife.