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 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE, 
 
 ADDITIONAL POEM, 
 
 (VOW FIRST PVBLlSaSD) 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BT 
 
 THE REV. JAMES HURDTS, D.D. 
 \ 
 
 LATE FELLOW OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, AND PROFESSOR OF POETRY, 
 IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY C. WHlTTlXC;HA>i 
 
 Ooivcll-Strtet ; 
 
 FOR VEKNOR, HOOD, AND SHARPE, POULTRY ; LONGMAN, HURST, 
 REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-ROW; SHARPE AND HAILES, 
 PICCADILLY, AND TAYLOR AND HESSEY, FLEET-STREET. 
 
 1810.
 
 3' H-4^ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 00 
 
 The Favourite Village. Book I 
 
 Book II 
 
 Book lU .51 
 
 Book IV ins 
 
 The Relapse )."i3 
 
 Sir Thomas More, a Tragedy J75} 

 
 Lately published, 
 
 DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO THE OUEEN, 
 
 THE 
 
 VILLAGE CURATE, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS ; 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 SOME PIECES NOW FIRST PUBLISHED. 
 
 BT 
 
 THE REV. JAMES HURDIS, D. D. 
 
 I.-ITE FELLOW OF MAGDALEN COM-ECE, AND PROFESSOR OF POETRY 
 IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. 
 
 Uniformly printed with the pri\Hr7it Volume, and completing this 
 Author's Poetical li'orks.
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK I.
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST BOOK. 
 
 The subject proposed, viz. the pleasures of the Village Tlie Village 
 itself described The pleasure of rural spectacles The peasant's 
 funeral Description of the Author's house of the hilb near it and 
 of one lofty eminence in particular the prospect from it The plea- 
 sures of early Summer first described the sight of haymaking of the 
 bull of the close of the evening of the whirlwind of the tliunder- 
 itorm of the country after it The pleasure of looking over corn- 
 fields in July of bathing in the tea of beholding the sea in a storm 
 during a calm, &c.
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Place of my birth, O fondly let me sing 
 Thy pleasures multifarious, pass the sun 
 Through what fair sign it will. Around a pool 
 In a deep vale assemble thy warm huts, 
 All overhung by intermingling elms. 
 Save where the steep-ascending street (if street 
 May yon loose chain of tenements be deem'd) 
 Girds the contiguous hill, roof above roof. 
 And terminates above in farmer's close. 
 Or sawyer's pit with frequent boards beset. 
 Hard by, o'ertopping fair the nether elms, 
 But little showing of the verdant hill
 
 4 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 That underprops his columns, stands the Church. 
 A cheerful look athwart the vale he casts, 
 Smiles at the distant ocean half-eclips'd 
 Behind yon sudden intervening down, 
 And blesses the proud eminence, whose steep, 
 For ever flock-fed, shelters his lov'd elms 
 Scatter'd wherever in the vale below. 
 Fast by him stands, and not, like modern dome, 
 To the poor mansion of the Lord of Hosts 
 Abhors propinquity, the rural seat 
 Of one whom Britain haiPd erewhile her chief 
 Of princely ministers, Newcastle's Duke. 
 Pertains to Pelham still the rural spot, 
 Its pious site to his religious mind 
 Convenient, proper. Musing let me pass 
 Thy silent door and unfrequented walks. 
 Mansion deserted, and with pond'ring heart 
 Think, what is greatness in this world below I 
 Where is thy rich possessor, whose warm heart 
 Peopled the vale with his unnumberM guests ; 
 Who spread profusion round the hall within. 
 And to tiie border of the lawn without ?
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 All, all is hush'd. The airy vision's fled. 
 
 The mighty master and his hosts of friends 
 
 Are well nigh melted all into the grave. 
 
 A shadow are they, an expiring sound, 
 
 Reverberated oft from hill to hill, 
 
 Till now but seldom and but faintly heard. 
 
 Soon must the whole depart, and other names 
 
 Possess the echo, till their hour is spent. 
 
 And future tongues 'gin prate of future days. 
 
 So press we all into the yawning gulf 
 
 Of vast eternity. These leaning stones. 
 
 Which gird with cincture ruinous the church, 
 
 What preach they but of youth and age deceas'd, 
 
 And sexes mingled in the populous soil. 
 
 Till it o'erlooks with swoln and ridgy brow 
 
 The smoother croft below ? A little hour, 
 
 A moment, and the fretful miner Death 
 
 Shall delve again with implement severe 
 
 Into the bowels of this restless plot, 
 
 And bid a generation couch beneath. 
 
 Say, ancient edifice, thyself with years 
 Grown grey, how long upon the hill has stood
 
 6 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Thy weather-braving tower, and silent mark'd 
 
 The human leaf inconstant bud and fall ? 
 
 The generations of deciduous man 
 
 How often hast thou seen them pass away ? 
 
 How often has thy still surrounding sward 
 
 Yawn'd for the fathers of the peopled vale. 
 
 And clos'd upon them all ? Thy during fane, 
 
 How often has it shed the dew of grace 
 
 On the mute infant, and receiv'd him soon 
 
 A coffin'd elder silver-lock'd with age ? 
 
 O tell me, rev' rend structure, what events 
 
 Of awful import on the tide of time 
 
 Have floated by thee, as the bubble vain ? 
 
 What armies on that distant hill engag'd, 
 
 To leave those scars of war upon its brow ? 
 
 What blood was shed, and why ? and where sleep now 
 
 The wrathful combatants of either host ? 
 
 Saw'st thou the hill its hungry entrails ope 
 
 To swallow the pale dead, which reason deems 
 
 Beneath the still sward slumber of yon mounts ? 
 
 Princes and peoples, (would'st thou make report) 
 
 Armies and fleets, hast thou seen pass away,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILI.AGE. 
 
 Transient as vapour; and in thy esteem 
 
 All things are yesterday and recent change. 
 
 Speak, thou sage preacher, and, to make me wise, 
 
 Tell but that ancient secret, where sleeps now 
 
 He who thy aisles design'd, or they who built ? 
 
 * Deep, deep in earth, nor shall thy life suffice 
 
 The mingled generations to remove. 
 
 Whose bones and ashes have envelop'd their's. 
 
 These my profound and monitory bell 
 
 All to their still graves summon'd, as it calls 
 
 Now to his narrow, everlasting couch 
 
 Yon villager departed. Ask no more. 
 
 Ere long I toll for thee. Away, prepare.' 
 
 Lo the procession ! Let me pause intent. 
 And first drink pleasure at the peasant's grave. 
 Humane and christian is the muse, and fond 
 Of ev'ry object, cheerful or sedate, 
 Which rural scenes afford. She nor contemns 
 The nuptial holiday, nor views untouch'd 
 The sad solemnity of rustic woe. 
 What time the white-frock'd mourner slowly moves, 
 And brings with mute reluctance to the grave
 
 * THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The dear remains of some departed friend. 
 The decent sheet that overspreads ihe bier ! 
 How well becomes it sorrow neat as their's. 
 Pure, and unsullied by the shameless tear 
 Of wrung hypocrisy ! Steel were the heart 
 That could this passing spectacle survey, 
 Nor feel the touch of sympathy within. 
 Me it well pleases to the holy sward 
 To follow pitying, nor disowns my muse 
 The feminine sensations of a heart 
 That often vibrates at another's woe. 
 The tear that trickles down the manly cheek, 
 The burst of grief that braves control, the sigh 
 Which baffles interception, and escapes 
 Soon as the solemn pause bids lift the pall, 
 And ease the dead into his kindred earth. 
 Send many a tingling arrow through this breast, 
 Though the reluctant eye no gi ief betray, 
 And tearless silence in her deepest gloom 
 The decent pleasurable secret hide. 
 But often as my sated soul surveys 
 The suble funeral of city pomp.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Methinks life human is a play indeed, 
 
 And the poor player man, exhausted, spent. 
 
 Has made his exit, and now comes the farce. 
 
 'Tis pantomimic show the nodding plume. 
 
 The proud escutcheon'd hearse, and long parade 
 
 Of dry-eyed mourners clad in inky cloaks. 
 
 The streaming crape, and dismal aisle behung 
 
 With sable manufacture ill-applied. 
 
 To see such idle waste, and childish show, 
 
 I smile, and nothing grieve. Not so, when death 
 
 Calls for the hind, and undissembled grief 
 
 Of father, widow, offspring, to the grave 
 
 His decent corpse attends. Then through my soul 
 
 Exquisite sympathy's vibration thrills ; 
 
 It sorrows freely, breathes the grateful sigh. 
 
 Nor scorns to utter from a heart subdued 
 
 The mourner's luxury, the deep * alas I' 
 
 Enough of painful pleasure. Now alive. 
 Thee let me sing, still mansion of my birth. 
 The svvelUng instep of the mountain's foot 
 Above the vale just lifts thee. Thy trim gate, 
 Thy candid aspect and pale-chimney'd roof
 
 10 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Some eminence bespeak, and mark thee chief 
 Of the lone hamlet that behind thee squats. 
 Thou seem'st a bride, and this thy nuptial day, 
 And these thy mute attendants less attir'd. 
 Graceful to them thy fair ingenuous face 
 And bolder footstep, but not less to thee 
 Their modest air becoming, EvVy roof, 
 Or farm or cottage, ev'ry tree and shrub. 
 Pasture and garden-plot, which tread thy heel 
 Descending from the hill, thy charms improve. 
 I see where Flora her full lap of sweets 
 Has strew'd before thee, prodigally kind. 
 I mark the wreath laburnum without hand 
 Weaves for thy brow, the lilac tuft sublime 
 That shades thy temples, and the nodding flowers 
 Of rose and woodbine which his leaf o'ertop. 
 To screen thine eyelids from the western beam. 
 Beauty conceal'd is beauty thrice improv'd ; 
 And plainness self, if plainness be thy lot. 
 Is not to be reprov'd, when nature thus 
 Adorns deformity with flowery charm. 
 Welcome, dear mansion of repose and ease,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. It 
 
 Still nurse of letters. To the studious mind 
 
 The vale of solitude is world enough ; 
 
 A world of many pleasures, many friends, 
 
 Of bustle, and resort without fatigue. 
 
 E'en the slow-marching sabbath, by the gay 
 
 Devoted ill to frivolous excess. 
 
 Or dedicated fondly by the grave 
 
 To endless exercise of pious toil. 
 
 Has here no hurried and no loit'ring foot. 
 
 Abridg'd of levity, and indispos'd 
 
 To make salvation slavery, and yawn 
 
 Till latest midnight o'er the long discourse. 
 
 It interdicts not recreation sweet ; 
 
 But, holy worship and the preacher's saw 
 
 Duly attended, gives to sacred song. 
 
 To conversation, anthem, slight research. 
 
 Or loud perusal of ill-printed news. 
 
 The sacred residue of ambling day. 
 
 Alone, of men, dwells here the thoughtful bard. 
 Here, on the mountain station'd, to the deep, 
 That proudly thund'ring on his one hand foams. 
 The lyre's indignant chorus sweeps he now ;
 
 It THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Now to the peaceful variegated weald. 
 That underlies his other, tinkles soft 
 Descriptive admiration of her charms. 
 He sings her every steeple, farm and field. 
 Till, like the prospect, his expiring song, 
 Mellow'd and soften'd steak away from sense, 
 And ill-perceiv'd runs melting into air. 
 
 How awful this proud height, this brow of brows, 
 Which every steep surmounts, and awes sublime 
 The subject downs below ! Nature wears here 
 Her boldest countenance. The tumid earth 
 Seems as of yore it had the phrenzy fit 
 Of ocean caught, and its uplifted sward 
 Perform'd a billowy dance, to whose vast wave 
 The proudest surges of the bellowing deep 
 Are little, as to hb profounder swell 
 The shallow rippling of the wrinkled pool. 
 Enormous family, gigantic host, 
 Naiion of mountains, sublime people, say. 
 At what great festival did your high brows 
 And ample foreheads dignify the dance ? 
 When welcom'd ye, rebounding, the great God
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 13 
 
 In mercy present ? Or, if wrath came down, 
 When boil'd so furiously your molten sward, 
 Fus'd at the touch of his indignant foot ? 
 When did the God, departing, with a frown 
 Congeal and frost-fix your prodigious limbs, 
 Leaving remembrance, which no time shall 'rase, 
 Of ire omnipotent here dealt around ? 
 Or if at first with wonder-working hand 
 He form'd you thus, say where is the vast scoop. 
 By which these ample vales and combs profound 
 Were hollowM ? Where is the stupendous axe 
 Which cleft the shoulders of yon bulky cliffs ? 
 Who the vast host of precipices link'd. 
 To fetter frantic ocean to his seat ? 
 Where is the mighty delving tool that pil'd 
 High as the clouds this lofty mount supreme, 
 And yon his twin companion, way between 
 To the neat stream permitting, as she trips 
 To wed her sober spouse the tranquil Ouse ? 
 Where is the car that bore the hills away 
 To make yon ample basin, bowl immense. 
 Vast amphitheatre of sky-crown'd downs,
 
 14 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Where oft the hurried waters lose their way, 
 And spreading wide become an inland sea 
 Land-lock'd by mountains ? Where is the strong bar 
 Which loosen'd seaward the contiguous hills, 
 Hove them aside, and gave to Ouse between 
 Sufficient space for his meand'ring stream 
 To wind and wander, and to many a farm, 
 Village, and steeple, visitation pay. 
 Or e'er he pours into the distant deep. 
 Through the wide fauces of yon hiant cliffs, 
 Th' obsequious lake that urges him along ? 
 
 Here let me stand, and wonder at my God, 
 Nor look with insolent disdain on man ; 
 Since, feeble as his efforts are, his works 
 Puny and ill-distinguished, yet e'en they 
 Add grace and beauty to the noblest scene. 
 What were the deep, if his cerulean swath 
 Bound only, as a girdle, unadorn'd. 
 The hills that baffle his circumfluent wave ? 
 Owes he no beauty to the passing fleet 
 With swelling canvass o'er his steril void 
 Tilting triumphant, intercepted oft
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 15 
 
 By the white promontory's brow sublime, 
 And oft apparent where the cuhur'd vale 
 'Tween cliff and cliff with ample op'ning yawns ? 
 Owes he no majesty, when evening soothes 
 The tranquil waters, and dun quiet reigns, 
 To the stout convoy's peremptory flash. 
 Distinct precursor of a voice profound 
 Enforcing mandate not pronounc'd in vain, 
 But soon assembling her disparted fleet ; 
 As (if to great things small may be compar'd) 
 Troops to the partridge at her ev'ning call 
 Her scatter'd brood Septembrian, thunder-scar'd ? 
 Owes he no grandeur to the warrior bark, 
 With sail impetuous as the falcon's wing 
 Chasing her foe, and blazing from her side 
 The smoky thunder-peal, awhile sustain'd. 
 Awhile replied to, till her ensign couch'd 
 Implies submission and a foe subdu'd ? 
 Yes, these have dignity, and much delight, 
 And cheat of length and weariness the way. 
 As from this eminence my foot descends 
 Homeward to roam o'er intervenient hills.
 
 16 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Oft on the sunny upland let me pause, 
 That overlooks the hamlet, and, with tube 
 Improving vision to the brow applied, 
 Take my last farewel of the fleet remote, 
 Ere I descend into the vale beneath. 
 With sight still aided let me home survey. 
 Well pleas'd if Madam at her door appear 
 Watching her son's return with double eyes, 
 Twain supplemental striding o'er the nose. 
 And with affectionate extended arm 
 Clasping the temple and superior ear. 
 Pleased also, if but puss upon the sill 
 Be seen adorning, with assiduous tongue 
 Cleansing her taper shank, her dappled coat 
 And furry bosom, or with gentle paw 
 Laving her countenance and hindmost ear. 
 Thus, thou dear village, sometimes let me stand, 
 The ding-dong peal of thy twain bells remote 
 To hear and see thy Sunday cottager 
 In his white frock, thy scarlet mantled dame. 
 Thy lusty farmer in his brown surtout, 
 And all thy mingled people, well-attir'd.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 17 
 
 Church-ward repairing from their scatter'd homes. 
 
 Prudent assemblers, warmly shall the muse 
 
 Your piety applaud, and would to God 
 
 None ever linger'd in the haiints obscene 
 
 Of lewd ebriety, for ever lost 
 
 To tlie still voice of truth ; and would to God 
 
 Of you that hear the word ndne heard in vain, 
 
 But all obedient at the holy board 
 
 Assembled duly at their pastor's call. 
 
 Would too, that none, preferring draff to grain, 
 
 On the fond cobler's conventicle drawl 
 
 With admiration fed, and the full cup 
 
 Of barbarous intoxication swill'd. 
 
 My native vale, in loveliness array'd, 
 Now let me paint thee, while the mower's scythe 
 Thine herbage levels, harvest first conferr'd 
 And least solicited, spontaneous gift, 
 Abundance for the beast that toils for man. 
 Thick swarms the field with tedders, tossing high 
 And spreading thin upon the sunny sward 
 The lock dishevell'd. Frequent is the maid 
 That trails the rake, and he that builds the cock, 
 
 VOL. I/. c
 
 18 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Or, plunging deep his fork in every hill. 
 Bears it aloft uplifted to the load. 
 The team alternate to the peopled rick 
 Moves in procession, soon reliev'd, and soon 
 Alert returning to be fraught anew. 
 
 Now is it sometimes pleasure to steal forth 
 At sultry midnoon, when the busy fly 
 Swarms multitudinous, and the vex'd herd 
 Of milch-kine slumber in yon elm-grove shade, 
 Or unrecumbent exercise the cud 
 With milky mouths. 'Tis pleasure to approach, 
 And, by the strong fence shielded, view secure 
 Thy terrors, Nature, in the savage bull. 
 Soon as he marks me, be the tyrant fierce 
 To earth descend his head hard breathe his lungs 
 Upon the dusty sod a sulky leer 
 Give double horror to the frowning curls 
 Which wrap his forehead and ere long be heard 
 From the deep cavern of his lordly throat 
 The growl insufferable. Not more dread, 
 And not more sullen, the profoundest peal 
 Of the far-distant storm, wiiich o'er the deep,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 19 
 
 Cloth'd in the pall of midnight premature. 
 At ev'ning hangs, and Jars the solid earth 
 With its remote explosion. Tramples then 
 The surly brute, impatient of disdain. 
 And spurns the soil with irritated hoof, 
 Himself inhaler of the dusty cloud. 
 Himself insulted by the pebbly shower 
 Which his vain fury raises. Nothing fear'd, 
 Let him, incens'd, from agitated lungs 
 Blow his shrill trump acute, till echo ring, 
 And with a leer of malice steal away, 
 Assault and vengeance swearing ere be long. 
 When the bright orb of ruddy eve is sunk, 
 And the slow day-beam takes its last farewel, 
 Retiring leisurely, how sweet to mark 
 The watery scintillation of the star 
 That first dares penetrate its flimsy skirt. 
 And, as the subtil medium steals away 
 Refin'd to nothing, bright and brighter glows ! 
 How cheerful to behold the host of night, 
 Encourag'd by example, fast revive. 
 And splendid constellations long extinct
 
 so THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 In quick succession kindle ! Summer^s night 
 
 Yields many a pleasure to the poet's eye. 
 
 He loves to ramble when the vale is hush, 
 
 What time the preying owl with sleepy wing 
 
 Swims o'er the corn-field studious, unannoy'd 
 
 By the fleet swallow to his chimney slunk, 
 
 Or marten to his cave ; what time the bat 
 
 Hurries precipitous on leathern wing, 
 
 Brisk evolution in the dusky air 
 
 With sudden wheel performing. With delight 
 
 He sees the recent moon with horn acute 
 
 Fast by the star of ev'ning glow, to grace 
 
 The crimson exit of departing day ; 
 
 And ever with affection hails the beam, 
 
 Whether her kindled cheek apjiear on high, 
 
 As tranquil twilight dwindles, half illum'd, 
 
 And, westward tending, down the steep of heaven 
 
 The chariot of retreating day pursue, 
 
 Or full-fac'd meet him on yon eastern hill, 
 
 Veil'd if the sun be present, or with meek 
 
 Uncurtain'd aspect if his orb be sunk. 
 
 Or whether, with reverted horn, her bow
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 21 
 
 Look eastward as the break of morning dawns, 
 
 And hide its slender elegance, abash'd 
 
 At the bright egress of effulgent day. 
 
 Yes, the fond poet can with joy behold 
 
 Eve's dappled vesture in the rosy beam 
 
 Twice-dyed, and with the ruddier hues of light 
 
 In fold and border saturated well ; 
 
 A rich illuminated crimson stole 
 
 With sanguine furbelow of molten gold. 
 
 With equal transport views his cheerful eye 
 
 The cloud of morning shot with purple streaks ; 
 
 Nor void of ecstasy observes on high 
 
 The fleece of silver, in which decent night 
 
 Scarce veils her smiling orb, betraying oft 
 
 Through its dishevell'd border transient glimpse 
 
 Of the pure studded azure, or sweet day 
 
 Of moonbeam unrestrained. Some taste of bliss 
 
 May haply be deriv'd from lurid night, 
 
 In dismal weeds of saddest sorrow dress'd, 
 
 And shedding fast from her maternal eye 
 
 Afflicted widowhood's celestial tear. 
 
 If unexpected the rent cloud display
 
 22 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE, 
 
 The pure cerulean cupola of heaven, 
 
 With dewy gems serene of ev'ry size 
 
 And ev'ry lustre sow'd, not faint, nor few. 
 
 As when the horned moon shines clear, but bright 
 
 And numberless as the well-winnow'd grain 
 
 The ploughman scatters, or the silky fall 
 
 Of the soft vernal show'r that bids it spring, 
 
 Or dew-drops cherishing autumnal meads. 
 
 Sometimes the whirlwind's eddy let me see 
 The highway march, and with cylindric tube 
 The worried dust inhaling lift it high, 
 A turbid vortex, swelling as it mounts, 
 And soon dispers'd in the wide field of heaven. 
 
 Anon the candent thunderbolt delights, 
 That tears the bosom of the sultry cloud, 
 And from its watery lap prone deluge sheds. 
 Let the temj^estuous Angel quit his hold 
 Upon the swealing fork, and pour sublime 
 His thund'ring volley through the deep of heaven. 
 With vivid repetition gleam the flash. 
 And ever, as it kindles, sully forth, 
 Abrupt and ruinous, the rolling peal,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 23 
 
 As if, by lightning lash'd, at ev'ry blaze 
 Shot forth a chariot from the throne of heaven, 
 And headlong bounded o'er the cloudy waste- 
 The storm subsided, and fair day return'd. 
 Up to yon summit, that with haughty grace 
 Its wither'd turban wears of perish'd heath, 
 On its rude forehead, filleted around. 
 Bearing distinct the trench of ancient war, 
 With slow and painful footsteps let me climb. 
 At length ascended, on the central mount, 
 Erewhile perhaps the military throne 
 Of some proud monarch, and the spot rever'd 
 Whence the pavilion'd conqueror survey 'd 
 His tented host around him, lost awhile 
 And musing let me stand, to think, where now 
 The leader and his arm}^ ? prey alike 
 To the none-sparing appetite of time. 
 Then let me feed with never-sated eye 
 Upon the downy prospect wide outspread. 
 It shall not grieve me if the gust be free. 
 And to withstand its overbearing gale 
 I lean upon the tide of air unseen.
 
 24 THE FAVOURITE VILMGE. 
 
 For pleasant then across the vale below 
 Fleet the thin sbadows of the sever'd cloud, 
 Unwearied race performing. The blue deep 
 Wears wriqkled laughter, and exulting bounds 
 The shore along, with sycophantic air 
 Welcoming fashion to her lov'd retreat, 
 Yon distant steeple, where she sits and smiles, 
 And dips her foot into the wholesome wave. 
 Thus on the July down in summer's noon 
 Let me lounge often, when the whiffling breeze, 
 The sear hill sweeping, sings among the bents 
 That brush my footsteps, and make brighter still 
 The polish'd sandal and its slippery sole. 
 For then how beauteous lies the vale below, 
 Chcqucr'd with various harvest, light and shade, 
 As o'er it sails th' unnumber'd cloud of heaven ! 
 How whispers, as it stoops, the blooming ear 
 Of the tall wheat-field slenderly erect, 
 And bows obsequious to the passing gale ! 
 It seems a troubled sea, that swells, and rolls, 
 And pours its green wave merrily along, 
 Or up the steep, or down the smiling slope,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 25 
 
 Or o'er the plain, or through the valley's lap. 
 
 If noon be fervid, and no zephyr breathe. 
 What time the new-shorn flock stands here and there 
 With huddled head, impatient of the fly 
 What time the snaffling spaniel, as he runs. 
 Pants freely, and laps often at the brook, 
 To slake the fervour of his feverous tongue 
 What time the cow stands knee-deep in the pool, 
 Lashing her sides for anguish, scaring oft. 
 With sudden head reversed, the insect swarm 
 That basks and preys upon her sunny hide 
 Or when she flies with tufted tail erect 
 The breeze-fly's keen invasion, to the shade 
 Scampering madly let me wind my way 
 Tow'rd the still lip of ocean. Seated there. 
 Soon let me cast habiliment aside, 
 And to the cool wave give me. Transport sweet ! 
 Pleasure thrice-delicate ! Oh, let me plunge 
 Deep in the lucid element my head. 
 And, rising, sportful on its surface play. 
 Oh joy, to quit the fervid gleam of earth, 
 Leave a faint atmosphere, and soon recruit
 
 26 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Exhausted energy, suspended thus 
 
 Upon the bosom of a cooler world ! 
 
 Oh recreation exquisite, to feel 
 
 The wholesome waters trickle firora the head, 
 
 Oft as its saturated locks emerge ! 
 
 To feel them lick the hand, and lave the foot ! 
 
 And when the playful and luxurious limb 
 
 Is satiated with pastime, and the man 
 
 Rises refresh'd from the voluptuous flood, 
 
 How rich the pleasure to let Zephyr chill 
 
 And steal the dew-drops from his panting sides ! 
 
 Let e'en the saucy and loud Auster blow, 
 
 Be but his sea not fierce, nor, save at shore. 
 
 The frothy breaker of displeasure show, 
 
 Yet will I court the turbulent embrace 
 
 Of thee, thou roaring deep : yes, and will share 
 
 The bather's richest pleasure, when the foot 
 
 Of fear might hesitate, nor dare invade 
 
 The thund'ring downfal of the billowy surge. 
 
 How joys the bold intruder, then, at large 
 
 To flounder porpoise-like, wave after wave 
 
 Mounting triumphant, hoisted by the swell
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 27 
 
 How climbs with ease, descends, and climbs again 
 
 Th' uplifted summit, high as it may seem, 
 
 Of the sublimest wave ! What if lost earth 
 
 Each moment disappear, as the sunk head 
 
 Swims through the yawning hollow of the flood ; 
 
 As often shall it greet the watchful eye, 
 
 Seen from the wave-top eminent. And when 
 
 Landward with weary stroke the patient arm 
 
 Oars him again in safety, how alert 
 
 Shall the strand meet him, and his streaming limbs 
 
 Rescue from boist'rous Ocean's foamy jaws ; 
 
 Defiance bidding to his savage howl. 
 
 His ivory tooth unsheath'd, his sudden bark, 
 
 And fiery look delirious, symptoms all 
 
 Of madness imminent ! Lo ! as we speak, 
 
 The wolfish monster kindles into ras^e ! 
 
 Enormous mastiff, how he gnaws his chain. 
 
 And struggles to be free, fast bound by fate. 
 
 And never more to be let loose on man ! 
 
 Aloud he bellows, with indignant paw 
 
 Dances uprearVl, and menaces the foot 
 
 Of earth with trembling diffidence protruded.
 
 28 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Lo ! the saliva of his deafening tongue 
 Her pebbled instep stains ! his rugged coat 
 Is whiten'd o'er with foam, wasted araiss 
 In the vain effort of his hoarse assault ! 
 Chain'd tyrant, spare thy fury, or unfearM 
 Growl the long night away. To-morrow's sun 
 Shall find thee gentler, and a second dawn 
 Shall quell thy raving fit, and make thee calm, 
 Tame and obsequious as the fondest cur 
 That cringing fawns and licks the steps of man. 
 Not such thy frenzy, when the northern gale, 
 Borne softly seaward, the tyrannic surge 
 Here first assuaging, soothes into a smile 
 Thy frantic countenance, thy surly frown 
 Appeases, thy white tooth and snarling jaw 
 Foamy with vengeance closes, and thy tongue 
 Bids, spaniel-like, with parasitic kiss 
 Lave inoffensive the long peaceful shore. 
 How placid then beneath the midday sun 
 Shines thy pure azure level undisturb'd ! 
 How smooth and oily seems the path of Ouse, 
 As unmolested round the western cliff
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 2$ 
 
 He winds his way, nor mingles with the wave 1 
 How steady sails the bark, her every sheet 
 Fill'd with the breeze ! how fearless on the brink 
 Of the vast watery field, erewhile so rude. 
 Lets drop her anchor, furls her pliant sail. 
 And waits the hour when thy more lifted plain, 
 And Ouse retiring o'er the perilous bar, 
 Shall bear her smoothly up the brimful port 1 
 
 Nor such thy frenzy, when the breeze at east 
 Round yon tall promontories, yon vast chain 
 Of cliffs sublime that gird Britannia's breast. 
 Than which her stedfast rock-encircled waist 
 Owns none more lofty, to the Thames-bound fleet 
 Blows adverse. Safe beneath the muzzled mouths 
 Of yon twin parapets, whose weighty tubes 
 Menace the deep below, they moor secure, 
 And ride expectant of the prosp'rous gale. 
 Oft from yon hill superior let me see 
 The peaceful anchorage of this wide bay 
 Thus b}' the wind-bound mariner possess'd ; 
 And chiefl}^, when the natal hour of George 
 Revolves well welcome in the wheel of time.
 
 30 THE FAVOURITE VILLAfiE. 
 
 What pleasure then to number one by one, 
 Floating in honour of the regal day, 
 Their lifted ensigns ! to behold more near 
 On either parapet its furnish'd staff 
 Superbly waving ; on the western fort, 
 That from the cliffy precipice down looks. 
 And war-locks imminent the mouth of Ouse, 
 His standard flaming ; while the port beneath 
 On every stern a silken meteor shows ! 
 How marks exulting then th' impatient eye 
 Where blazes first the sulphur-breathing tube 
 Redundant cloud forth sending, unctuous smoke, 
 Ere long succeeded by explosion vast : 
 Earth-shaking gratitude, which bark to bark 
 Kindles in turn, till every deck is lost 
 In brief eclipse of its own thund'ring cloud !
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK II.
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 
 The pleasures of the favourite village during Aiituniii the sight of har- 
 vest and it toils of the shepherd diggiu):; bird-coops df gleaiiors of 
 barvet nflH protracted in the flat country of the midnight storm in 
 harvest-time of the harvest-moon rising. Tiie pitasHre of w alking 
 home late at night at this t>eaon of spending the evening at home of 
 walking out early in the morning of September of listening to the 
 drone of pitying the brood of hearing the ecjuinoctial gale by night 
 of climbing the cliff the following rooming of viewing the sea 
 troubled as well as calm. Contemplations on the full of the leaf.
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 Let Summer 'gin decline, yet pleasure still 
 Shall with the poet dwell. Be the field brown ; 
 No longer now stand smilingly erect 
 The bearded ear, or spike of nobler grain. 
 But, sear alike, droop both, and hang the head. 
 And stoop the shoulder, to their annual toil 
 The keen hook calling and voracious scythe. 
 How groans the soil with its incumbent load ! 
 Lo ! in my native vale the reaper's hand 
 Gathers the fruitful ear and binds the sheaf. 
 Betimes industrious, nor its endless task 
 Quits till the moon above the shadowy dovyn 
 
 VOL. II. D
 
 34 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Lifts her bright orb to Hght him to repose. 
 
 Let morning dawn, and ev'ry village-team 
 
 Comes forth to bear, or to the rick, or grange, 
 
 The shocks of plenty in arrangement meet 
 
 Along the bristly stubble-field dispos'd. 
 
 All hands are busy, and one common spring 
 
 Of lively intVest actuates the scene. 
 
 Rous'd by example, industry at home 
 
 The secret impulse of endeavour feels, 
 
 And toils alert. The very shepherd churl, 
 
 Accustom'd in the rear of his slow flock 
 
 To creep inert, or lean upon his crook 
 
 In vacant contemplation, or recline 
 
 And with his curs upon the mountain bask, 
 
 Puts on agility, digs his long line 
 
 Of turf-turn'd coops along the sunny brow, 
 
 Trims the slight springe of hair, and neatly hides 
 
 Beneath the hollowM sward his double noose. 
 
 So when the sever'd cloud of airy day 
 
 Flits through the blue expanse, and the bright orb 
 
 Wraps often in the veil of brief eclipse. 
 
 The tim'rous wheatear, fearful of the shade,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 3S 
 
 Trips to the hostile shelter of the clod, 
 
 And where she sought protection finds a snare. 
 
 Poor heedless simpleton ! to shun a foe 
 
 Void of annoyance, and destruction seek 
 
 Where danger least was fear'd. Seiz'd by the springe, 
 
 She flutters for lost liberty in vain, 
 
 A costly morsel, destined for the board 
 
 Of well-fed luxury, if no kind friend, 
 
 No gentle passenger, the noose dissolve. 
 
 And give her to the free-born wing again. 
 
 Incautious bird, such as thy lot is now. 
 
 Such once was mine. By his arch foe beguil'd, 
 
 Man slipt into the toil, and pitiless death 
 
 Had in its strong chain bound him. Yet found he 
 
 A kind Deliverer, who burst his bonds. 
 
 And the vast price of restoration paid. 
 
 Divine Preserver, thine immense desert 
 
 Shall my fond hand at distance imitate, 
 
 And to the feath'ry captive give release. 
 
 The pence of ransom placing in its st^ad. 
 
 Go, fool, be cheated of thy wing no more. 
 
 Freedom is thine, and pleasure lives with me-
 
 36 THE FAVOUUITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Yet, though it cheat the wheatear of its life, 
 Condemn not thou, my muse, the sullen cloud 
 Which often quenches in its gloomy folds 
 The sultry beam of day, assuaging shade, 
 To him that reaps, and him that wields the scythe, 
 Or plies the fork, or bnilds the load, or trails 
 The ling'ring rake embarrass'd, at high noon 
 Affording freely. Opportune the shield 
 His canopy bestows ; and shelter'd thus 
 Toil becomes nimble, industry alert, 
 And the wide field re-echoes with the sound 
 Of merriment indulgM, and not repress'd 
 By Autumn*s suffocating heat intense. 
 The treader of the mow enjoys within 
 The mitigated air, nor finds the grange 
 A melting oven, by the sultry load 
 Fresh from the field with double heat supplied. 
 Till Hell seem present, wanting but its flames, 
 And thirst insatiable his dusty lip 
 And strangled fauces without mercy parch. 
 
 Now let the reaper, tawny with his toil, 
 Cut with unwearied hook and eager grasp
 
 tHE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 37 
 
 The last unlevell'd acre, and enjoy 
 
 To see the village street pour forth its dames 
 
 And laughing little ones, to glean at large 
 
 Where'er the huddled sheaf once stood erect. 
 
 How glows the heart to dwell upon the scene, 
 
 When harvest thus enlivens every field 
 
 That girds the hamlet round, when sport and toH 
 
 Seem hand in hand, and pleasure lives with all ! 
 
 Thy early grain, my native valley, hous'd, 
 Still with protracted pleasure the fond bard 
 Surveys the weald, on whose more chilly lap 
 Brown harvest loiters. With recruited joy 
 Marks he the fervent bustle of the field^ 
 And greets anew the sickle, and the swain, 
 Who, to his fair shirt peel'd, from dusky dawn 
 To latest twilight gathers the full ear, 
 And reaping fills, or girding plants erect 
 The multitudinous sheaf. How full of cheer. 
 Joyous, devout, and grateful is the soul. 
 To see again its unexhausted God 
 Thus pile the table of a world with bread I 
 For what's the globe on which we all subsist f
 
 3 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The table f immortal bounty ^tis, 
 A feast perpetual, where umiumber'd sons 
 Sit down to banquet as their sires withdraw, 
 And in succession generations feed, 
 Contented rise, give thanks, and pass away. 
 
 Awful the pleasure now, if midnight storm 
 Illuminate with quick repeated flash 
 Valley and hill, to catch a sudden glimpse 
 Of tree and hedge-row, village, field and shock, 
 Dancing in lightning's transitory gleam : 
 To see the thunderbolt with fiery arm 
 Arrest the mountain top, and sweal his brow, 
 While round the sultry theatre of heaven 
 The peal impatient rides, and steeds of gloom 
 Whirl his benighted car from pole to pole. 
 
 Be night serene, and her fair moon replete, 
 And other pleasures shall the bard attend. 
 Planet of harvest, oft in the dun east 
 Thy full autumnal orb let me behold 
 As from a furnace rising red with heat, 
 And, while it mounts the purple steep of heaven. 
 Glowing more ardent, till it seem to reach
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 39 
 
 The point of fusion, and, suspended high, 
 A globe intense of molten bullion hang 
 Amid the gems of night. And let me hear, 
 As thy dim orb above th' horizon swells. 
 The shout of harvest-home, the loud huzza. 
 The natural hallelujah of the clown. 
 His chorus of thanksgiving for release. 
 
 Now let me mark civility's arrears 
 Where'er recorded, and repay at eve 
 The long-due visit to the distant friend, 
 That, by the full orb lighted, I may march 
 Mute and contemplative at leisure home. 
 Mild be the temp'rature of heav'n, serene 
 The silent atmosphere. Let fancy deem 
 She feels the moon-beam warm. Be nothing heard, 
 Save the far-distant murmur of the deep 
 Or the near grasshopper's incessant note. 
 That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits, 
 And chirping imitates the silvery chink 
 Of wages told into the ploughman's palm 
 Or gentle curlew bidding kind good night 
 To the spent villager, or e'er his hand
 
 40 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The cottage taper quench or grazing ox 
 His dewy supper from the savoury herb 
 Audibly gathering or cheerful hind 
 From the lov'd harvest feast returning home, 
 Whistling at mtervals some rustic air, 
 Or at due distance chanting in the vale 
 Exhilarated song. Such rural sounds, 
 If haply notic'd by the musing mind, 
 Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve 
 The solemn luxury of idle thought. 
 
 Oft at yon huddled town, that guards remote 
 The sounding ship-yard and contiguous port, 
 By sweet civility detained, the bridge, 
 At such late hour returning, let me pass ; 
 What time aloft the moon, no more rotund, 
 Shines gibbous o'er the pure and still expanse 
 Of tide-uplif'ted Ouse, and lends to Night 
 An ample mirror, where her sober eye. 
 Her twinkling jewelry and face serene. 
 Thrice placid and thrice beauteous, may behold. 
 
 If not abroad I sit, but sip at home 
 The cheering beverage of fading eve.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 41 
 
 By some fail- hand, or ere it reach the lip, 
 With miagled flavour tinctur'd of the cane 
 And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock, 
 As from the window studious looks mine eye, 
 Steal foldward nibbling o'er the shadowy down. 
 And take their farewel of the savoury turf. 
 Let the reluctant milch-kine of the farm 
 Wind slowly from the pasture to the pail. 
 Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field, 
 And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance stript, 
 Shake his enormous limbs with blund'ring speed, 
 Eager to gratify his famish'd lip 
 With taste of herbage, and the meadow brook. 
 To him who in the beam of morning walks. 
 How lovely blossoms the September rose. 
 Which, unexpected, mid his flow'rless shrubs 
 Unfolds its blushing solitary bud, 
 Humid with autumn's equinoctial tear. 
 And, bowing with the gale, the treasur'd dew 
 Sheds in abundance from its leaning cup ! 
 To him not pleasureless, as o'er the down 
 He roams contemplative, the mystic sipot
 
 42 THE FAVOURITE VU.LAGE. 
 
 Where fable dreams the midnight fairies dance, 
 
 A ring of deepest verdure, thick beset 
 
 With mushrooms rosy-gill'd and clothM in snow ; 
 
 Seats for the wearied fay perhaps, minute, 
 
 If ample, tables for the royal feast 
 
 Of Mab and Oberon. Such poor account 
 
 Gives baffled reason, in her childish mood, 
 
 Of the mysterious cause that wields unseen 
 
 The compasses of heaven, and circumscribes 
 
 The free fantastic circle of the hill. 
 
 Not without pleasure hears the bard the voice 
 Of drone inert, from the rich hive dismiss'd. 
 Seeking apartments in the riven wall 
 Of some old edifice, and sounding loud 
 His drowsy horn at the convenient mouth 
 Of auger-hole profound, his best retreat, 
 There long to sleep, and winter's storm defy. 
 Not such delight affords the senseless fowl, 
 Which now, with sedulous maternal care. 
 Her brood of twitt'ring little ones leads forth, 
 And fondly cautious. Grievous is the sight, 
 However welcome whuu soft spring prevails,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Now to behold her from the secret nest 
 The cheerful troop conducting. Silly bird ! 
 It is the sun of autumn, not of prime. 
 Whose fost'ring beam invigorates awhile 
 Thy happy race. 'Tis not the smile of May 
 But faint October flattery, soon fled. 
 Or ere to-morrow's sun in clouds descend, 
 The show'ry Occident's o'erwhelming gust 
 Thee and thy hover'd train shall almost drown, 
 Be shelter'd as thou wilt. And if thou 'scape 
 The deluge prone descending, the keen North 
 Shall pinch them bitterly ; for now the breeze 
 The morning blush provokes on beauty's cheek. 
 And nature's own inimitable rose 
 Gives to the human face angelic charms. 
 Unwelcome howls the equinoctial gale 
 To him who hears it on his orchard floor 
 Shower the midnight apple or the pear. 
 But not unwelcome to the pilfering boy 
 Blows the rude hurricane, who pockets snug 
 The batter'd windfal, whether pear or plum. 
 Apple or walnut, and in secret feasts ;
 
 44 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Nor to the swine, perchance, who shares his spoil, 
 
 Or finds beneath the oak a plenteous meal 
 
 Of acorns thrash'd and winnow'd by the gale. 
 
 Nor more unwelcome howls the storm to me. 
 
 Pleasant the hearth and converse snug within, 
 
 While the nocturnal tempest raves without, 
 
 For entrance buffeting the sash in vain ; 
 
 And while the sullen show'r from the drench'd eaves 
 
 Drips fast, and on the flooded pavement spanks. 
 
 In such a night, who feels not Heav'n his frierKl, 
 
 To bless him with a warm secure abode 
 
 Impervious to the blast and chilly show'r ? 
 
 Who feels it not vast privilege, to sit 
 
 And court the glowing embers of his hearth, 
 
 Till at his bidding their aspiring flames 
 
 Illuminate and cheer his furthest room ? 
 
 Who deems it not rich pleasure, then, to read 
 
 By the clear taper unannoy'd, or sweep 
 
 The strings of harmony unvexM, and hear 
 
 At ev'ry pause the persevering storm 
 
 Rave at his window, in his chimney howl ? 
 
 Who thinks his lot unhappy, then, to sup
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 45 
 
 At an ill-furnish'd board, whose only fare 
 Springs from the dairy and the winnow'd floor ? 
 Who deems not shelter and a crust a feast, 
 To the hard fate of him who plods without 
 Fatigued and weather-foil'd, or his more hard 
 Who wrestles with inclement skies above 
 And tossing seas beneath, nor dares retire, 
 Fearful of shipwreck, till the dawn returns ? 
 Is he not lapp'd in paradise, who thinks. 
 Ere slumber close his eyes, how others toil, 
 While peace and comfort curtain him around ? 
 
 If morn, attended by the storm, awake. 
 Glad let me mount the cloud-invading cliff, 
 Which from the hollow of the vale beneath 
 Suddenly springs, as if Britannia here 
 First rose insurgent on the tyrant deep, 
 And her vast limbs to his assault oppos'd. 
 There let me mark the conflict, from above, 
 When, by the tempest aided, Ocean sacks 
 And wears the precipice with giant war : 
 When the grim thunder-cloud assault upholds, 
 And with his forky bolt and roaring peal
 
 46 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 E'en to its base the cloven mountain shakes. 
 
 There also let me sometimes stand, when peace 
 
 Reigns in the vale below, and view well-pleasM 
 
 The quiet element that smiles beneath. 
 
 Image of patience, as the cygnet's down 
 
 Gentle and inoffensive. Far extends, 
 
 And far as it outstretches lies unmov'd, 
 
 The marble flood, a spacious pavement, smooth 
 
 And fairly polish'd. 'Tis the floor of heaven, 
 
 Which none but God's own foot presumes to tread. 
 
 Tide of the falling leaf, let others sing 
 Of thy ten thousand tints ; I love them not. 
 Oft as I mark upon the woody vale 
 The hue rubiginous of fast decline, 
 I sigh to think how soon the lovely scene 
 Shall pass away, how soon the whiffling gale 
 Shall strip its faded honours from the grove, 
 And whirl them in its tyrant mood aloft, 
 Or idly sweep and hurry them along 
 Through park awd paradise, or urge them fierce 
 Into the dank and solitary pit. 
 Yes, 1 could wail aloud, shed very tears,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 47 
 
 And stamp for anguish, at a scene like this. 
 
 Once only loves my soul to see the gale 
 
 Seize the dry leaf, and worry it along 
 
 When the dwarf oak, that all the winter through 
 
 Has stood tenacious of its witherM pride, 
 
 And the sear beech, of its old whisp'ring spoils 
 
 Alike retentive, sheds them to the breeze. 
 
 Erelong intending to be fsiirer cloth'd, 
 
 And with more lovely foliage grace the wood. 
 
 I could thy persecution then enjoy, 
 
 Thou playful gust, that hurries from my sight 
 
 The perish' d leaf of the departed year. 
 
 I could the ling'ring fugitive pursue. 
 
 Howl after him like thee, and bid him hide 
 
 His ugly aspect in the darksome cave. 
 
 But shall I join thee now, or praise the cry 
 
 Which hastens Autumn to an early fall, 
 
 Which ruins elegance, and rural pride. 
 
 And all the eye and all the heart adores 
 
 Of beauty that adorns the summer vale ? 
 
 No, let me mourn thy rapid tyranny, 
 
 That lays the prospect waste, and bid thee urge
 
 48 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 With more becoming zeal the loit'ring steps 
 Of uncouth Winter, shrugging at the blast, 
 And slow approaching with frost-bitten heel, 
 Step after step, from his cold Arctic cell.
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK. 
 
 Tlie pleasures of the favourite village during Winter Amusing presages 
 of stormy weather The winter tempest described, as a cause of 
 pleasure the agitated sea its invasion of the Parish-clerk The 
 pleasure of viewing the port and its mercantile labours Reflections 
 on tite sun and moon Pleasures of the Winter's morning of tlie 
 Winter's walk the rainbow, ic. Frost and its pleasures the clear 
 hining moon the rime, and its thaw boys sliding Reflections on 
 the power of frost The fail of snow its intermission its tinal ces- 
 sation the pleasure of walking out when it has subsided, and ob- 
 serving various animals Christmas and its pleasures the boys sing- 
 ing carols the return of fog and tliaw gradual disappearance of the 
 snow Pleasure of viewing tlie leafless wood Agreeable symptoms 
 of spring not far distant, seen in different flowers in the improving 
 warmth of the sun in the length of the days. The pleasure of vralk- 
 ing in the tuusbine aud observing the first bloom that begins t* 
 appear.
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Yet Winter has its pleasures. 'Tis delight 
 To mark the symptom of his frequent storm. 
 Not seldom, previous to the morrow's shower, 
 A flaky vapour the pure aether streaks ; 
 As if some painter of gigantic arm 
 Had dipp'd his brush into the foamy wave, 
 Charg'd it with colour from the cliff, and dash'd 
 With wanton levity a milky bow 
 Across the dome of heav'n. Nor sometimes seems 
 His saucy hand with single stroke content. 
 But daubs with quick return the azure arch, 
 Upon the blessed canopy sublime
 
 *2 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Vagaries flourishing, unsteady freaks, 
 
 Such, with her besom, round the morning hearth. 
 
 As giddy bar-maid fashions, trailing brisk 
 
 Her childish fancies o'er the sanded floor. 
 
 If yet the season to his race be kind, 
 
 Sharp stings the minor fly, chirurgeon keen, 
 
 With lancet petulant the manly shin 
 
 Provoking, oft repuls'd, nor slaking well 
 
 His thirst of blood, ere the vindictive hand 
 
 Of his vex'd patient fall, and with a frisk 
 
 The small phlebotomist indignant crush. 
 
 Forth from her haunt obscene, offensive sight ! 
 
 Wanders Arachne, sable, filthy, vast. 
 
 Forth creeps the ling'ring snail ; a silvery line, 
 
 Meand'ring devious o'er the plaister'd wall, 
 
 Marks his pituitous and slimy course. 
 
 With tardy shell and tender horn outstretch'd 
 
 He seeks the far-off leaf. Aloud and oft 
 
 The cock high-mounted with applauding wing 
 
 Sounds his clear trump, prophetic of the showV; 
 
 While the daw people numerous, with plumes 
 
 Rapid and audible, the valley skim
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 43 
 
 Or flock-fed down, or round the steeple sail. 
 Startling by fits the meditating ear 
 With mingled outcry of ten thousand throats. 
 Tight stretched, where'er suspended, or in croft. 
 Or sunny garden, or contiguous field, 
 Appears the cord the busy laundress strains. 
 Far off resounds the shore-assailing deep. 
 Sweeping with rude concussion the loose beach 
 Harshly sequacious of his refluent surge. 
 Sails landward, high uplifted, the grey host 
 Of wide-wing'd sea-mews, in their gyrous flight 
 Oft intermingling, and repeating oft 
 Sounds which the distant inexperienc'd ear 
 Might deem the cry of eager hounds remote. 
 Loud on the brink of her foul puddle quacks 
 The clam'rous duck, while her more silent lord, 
 With his green glossy nape, assiduous oils 
 His shining beak, and spreads the thin defence 
 With nice precision o'er his thirsty plumes. 
 So falls the shower in vain, and he secure 
 Stalks in the deluge, and defies it all, 
 The fine dew trickling from his sides unfelt ;
 
 54 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Nor needs, like chanticleer and his vex'd dames, 
 To hurrj- homeward when the flood descends, 
 To hang the tail, or seek the shed forlorn, 
 And shake the moisture from his madid wings. 
 Nothing impair'd, with clean and ruddy leg 
 Through ev'ry plash he wades, with chatt'ring beak 
 Fishes the miry shallow as he goes ; 
 Or strays at large upon the dewy mead 
 In quest of snail, or slug, and winding worm ; 
 Or, launching from the shore his feather'd fleet, 
 Pilots his dames along the flooded dyke. 
 
 As, when the daw throng on the steeple perch^ 
 Ambitious of its loftiest vane, and smoke 
 Shot upwards from the funnel mounts erect, 
 Fair day succeeds ; so when the turbid stream. 
 That issues from the chimney, falls depress'd, 
 And travels fog like o'er the dewy field. 
 While at a distance the loud western bell 
 Distinctly sings, day foul and pluvious comes. 
 Dim the nocturnal sky ; its feebler lights 
 Lost in the dense profound, its brighter gems 
 Obscurely visible. If chance the moon
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. ' 55 
 
 Cross the quench'd Empj^rean, her sad orb 
 
 Shines with abated beam, and seems to wear 
 
 A misty atmosphere. Far in the void 
 
 An ampler circle with capacious zone 
 
 Her central disc encloses. Spiritless 
 
 At his round table sits the farmer lord ; 
 
 A drow^sy yawn his pipe-inhaling jaws 
 
 Relaxes often. At his foot the cur 
 
 Sleeps on the hearth outstretch'd, and yelping dreams, 
 
 Or lifts his head, astonish'd at the dance 
 
 Of frisking puss, who on the sanded floor 
 
 Gambols excessive. Such ere close of day 
 
 Were the wild antics of the frantic herd, 
 
 (Alike pjophetic of the morrow storm). 
 
 Who leap'd and rac'd, and bellow'd in the mead. 
 
 And clash'd their horny foreheads, staring fierce. 
 
 Dim in the socket burns the sulky wick. 
 
 Nor heeds the trimming hand, which oft divides 
 
 The kindled fibres of its nape in vain. 
 
 And to the oil redundant, that would drown 
 
 Its fleeble flame, relieving sluice affords. 
 
 At length the long-expected tempest comes.
 
 56 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 His ancient phrenzy has the maniac deep 
 Seiz'cJ, and with loud reverberating foot 
 He dances rampant in his thund'ring hall. 
 His gloomy frown that darkens earth and heaven, 
 And foamy gnashing jaw, foretel ere long 
 Madness enormous to ensue. E'en now 
 He gnaws with keen exasperated tooth 
 The rock that holds him shorebound to his seat. 
 Buffets the pier and basis of the cliff. 
 Seizes the tilting triple-masted bark. 
 Light as a feather in his pow'rful grasp. 
 Kindles her sleeping thunder, and enjoys 
 Her frequent flashes of nocturnal woe. 
 Well nigh omnipotent, on the sunk reef. 
 Where roars the conflict of eternal storm, 
 And wave o'crtumbles wave in foamy fall. 
 He tosses furious her reluctant crew. 
 Snatches the quiver from the hand of heaven, 
 Scatters the glaring lightnings o'er their heads, 
 And pours the forceful thunder peal around. 
 Pleas'd at her fate, he aggravates the storm, 
 Hellows profound, roars horrible delight.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 57 
 
 And bids the billow oft repeat the blow. 
 
 Till with uncbainable gigantic arm 
 
 He thrusts her headlong to the deepmost Hell. 
 
 What greater pleasure, thou terrific deep. 
 Than when thy lifted tide proclaims aloud 
 The lunar orb renew'd, or at its hour 
 Of plenitude arriv'd, on thy bleak verge 
 To stand observant of the tumbling swell. 
 Enormous cataract from cliff to cliif 
 Thund'ring along indignant ! High in air 
 Flashes the plunging downfall as it flies. 
 Its foamy vengeance to the topmost shore 
 Impetuous rushes, but ere long recedes, 
 Raking with harsh recoil the pebbly steep. 
 And scarce submitting to the monstrous surge 
 That next uplifts its overtumbling swell, 
 And flound'ring hurries o'er the wave relaps'd. 
 Feel'st thou no pleasure that thou sitt'st aloof 
 To whine and shudder. Frisk ? There quake and pine. 
 Nor come obedient when thy master's lip 
 Kind invitation whistles, ill agreed 
 Sprawling aloft to meet the salient wave.
 
 ^ 
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAOK. 
 
 Not such thy spirit, when insulted puss 
 Scampers the garden path, and climbs alert 
 The high espalier, there to swell and swear, 
 Or, in close corner pent, upheaves her coat, 
 And blust'ring cuffs thee with vindictive claw. 
 Nor such thy spirit, when the nimble hare 
 Starts from her seat, and scuds along the down ; 
 Or when thy delicate and busy sense 
 Traces the covey in the morning dew. 
 Which sudden rises, and with whirring wing 
 And chuckling outcry hurries down the vale. 
 
 The winter sea's insufferable fall 
 Who not admires, and his surmounting wave, 
 Proudly rebellious, when the sable reef 
 Or foamy shallow intercepts his march ? 
 How wrestles with the rock the billowy tide ! 
 How storms with wanton fury the worn cliff ! 
 How on the solid everlasting shore 
 Pours its loud cataract of thunder down ! 
 Oft in that perilous and stormy hour, 
 Upon the furthest pier, whose daring pile 
 Strides far into the flood, and braves the surge
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 59 
 
 Of the wild ocean in its angriest mood, 
 In tremulous enjoyment let me stand ; 
 What time the gale with clamour-laden wing 
 Blows stiff and ill resisted, dashing fierce 
 The wave prodigious on his oaken breast, 
 Or smites oblique his everlasting side, 
 His chain of ribs enormous, show'r profuse. 
 Of the vex'd waters on his lofty chest 
 Heavily pouring. Then who stands to see 
 Must ill-defended shrink within the verge 
 Of the strong work that shudders at the blow, 
 And undercreep the cope high overblown 
 Of vaulting waters, or abide ill-pleas'd 
 Bath instantaneous in a drown'd surtout. 
 Thou awful element, my soul adores 
 Thy furious hour, and with excessive joy 
 Marks thine invasion, when the grasp of God 
 Quits its restraint upon the turbid swell, 
 And pours almighty to the topmost strand 
 In deluge mountainous the milky surge. 
 How hurries headlong the tumultuous tide. 
 At that dread moment, through his foamy jaws
 
 60 THE PAVOURITB VILLAGE. 
 
 Into the mouth of Ousc ! how spreads around 
 
 Its dying wave within the flooded port ! 
 
 Forlorn and waterlock'd stands the lone mill 
 
 In the mid-lake apparent, close besieg'd, 
 
 By fearful inundation girded round. 
 
 Then with what joy, thou proud uplifted deep. 
 
 Turn I to look upon thy glorious wave, 
 
 That tumbles, foams, and thunders round the bay ! 
 
 The mighty downfall, forcing from his seat 
 
 Th' incalculable pebble, piles it high, 
 
 Against it swells, and swelling upward heaves 
 
 With shoulder irreiistible the mound. 
 
 Till the controlling moon bids haste away, 
 
 And rage indignant upon other shores. 
 
 Then leisurely withdraws the flound'ring surge, 
 
 And a chaste cestus of unsullied beach. 
 
 Of ev'ry feculence and foulness purg'd. 
 
 The waiat of ocean girds. How battles then 
 
 The furious Ouse coniiiciiug with the wave ! 
 
 How rears his a\ aters, and the saucy swell 
 
 Insulting buflets, overpow'rs his wrath, ] 
 
 And headlong hurries the disordered flood !
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 61 
 
 The main retiring plays along the shore ; 
 
 As sports the giant whale with the salt wave, 
 
 Inhaling and again repelling quick 
 
 The life-supporting tide ; so sucks the deep 
 
 With repercussion harsh the pebbly beach 
 
 Into his foamy jaws, and so dispels. 
 
 By the strong action of his forceful lungs 
 
 The flint itself, made sleek, becomes rotund, 
 
 And silky to the touch : the very rock, 
 
 Hard-hearted though he seem, is smooth'd without ; 
 
 And the soft pebble, by collision worn, 
 
 No angular asperity betrays. 
 
 Not always innocent the stormy tide, 
 That thus, ascending from the chafd abyss, 
 Bellows tremendous. In the watery flat. 
 Under the shelter of the mill-pool wall. 
 Behold yon humble and succinct abode. 
 There dwelt of late response-pronouncing sage. 
 The village-clerk parochial, nothing rich. 
 Forty long years he delv'd into the soil ; 
 Threw up the crumbled bone and lipless scull, 
 Shap'd to the coffin his well-finished work^
 
 6* THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 And easM into the grave the silent corpse, 
 Commending dust to dust. Still sprang anew 
 The transient offspring of deciduous man, 
 And still by his all-overwhelming spade 
 Were shelter'd deep beneath the holy sward. 
 Thrice fell his pulpit lord, and he who sheds 
 Now on each infant cheek baptismal dew, 
 In his long recollection was a child 
 Borne but a day since to the font himself. 
 There liv'd the sage, there died. But ere he died. 
 Strong blew the southern gale ; the naked branch 
 Loud howUng wrestled with the pow'rful gust. 
 And ocean wroth his terrifying voice 
 Utter'd profound. The shore-assailing wave 
 Uplifted swell'd prodigious, and his bound 
 With foamy far -shot indignation sral'd. 
 The practicable breach, by lunar aid, 
 O'erflowing Ouse in his surmounted wall 
 Ere long effected, and the valley swam. 
 Distress acute the pious household seiz'd. 
 To see their gupellectile treasures float 
 In playful dance around, to see the flood
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 63 
 
 Yet rushing inward, and the hissing grate 
 Now quenching, filling now the mouth ' 
 Of oven seldom fed, and now the small 
 And lowly casement laving with its wave. 
 Despair of safety by ascent was there ; 
 For ah ! the low-roofd messuage above earth 
 No story blasted, and no stair-way own'd.-- 
 Drown'd was the tenement, and almost drown'd 
 The holy habitant. But wreck was none, 
 Save of domestic chattels, here and there 
 In culinary whirlpool swimming few. 
 So battled ocean with the tuneful sage. 
 Not such thine enterprize, indignant flood. 
 When, by the resolute shore-shaking God 
 To battle summon'd, thine imperious surge 
 With tow'ring deluge the victorious host 
 Of stone-stunn'd Hector to his Troy repuls'd. 
 
 The sight of Winter's superb ocean left, 
 Me pleases much the bustle of the port ; 
 The toil and clamour of the prosp'rous bark. 
 Safe anding on the wharf with brisk dispatch 
 Her sable cargo from the northern mine :
 
 64 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The neater vessel her capacious lap 
 Filling with grain, or (stowage ponderous) , 
 The mealy sack of the contiguous mill. 
 Welcome supply to the far-distant camp, 
 Or wind-bound fleet of war ; the slothful barge 
 Slug-like conveying from the sloop her deals, 
 Another from the sloven brig her load 
 Of nauseous grocery, abundant store 
 For ev'ry village on the banks of Ouse, 
 And chiefly for yon borough built in air. 
 Whose ancient castle lifts its brow sublime 
 To frown upon the flood they cross below. 
 
 Brief is the day, but, shorten'd as it is, 
 Sweet meditation to the muse affords. 
 Long on the sullen forehead of the morn 
 The frown of darkness dwells, prolonging night, 
 And gloomily reluctant breaks the dawn. 
 The cock, impatient, for the morning calls ; 
 And now the dismal orb of slumb'ring day 
 With melancholy visage through the gloom 
 Scarce penetrates, and sickly twilight sheds. 
 Feeble the splendour of his moody smile,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 65 
 
 And soon his race concludes. He seems at length,; 
 
 Fatigued by journeying six thousand years, 
 
 To ask his promis'd sabbath, pants for rest. 
 
 And early seeks his inn. Not such the speed 
 
 And nightly progress of his sister orb ; 
 
 She, cheerful and alert, soOn as his ray 
 
 Is quench'd in ocean, rises from her bed, 
 
 And with affectionate protracted beam 
 
 Strives to compensate for his absent light. 
 
 Round the cerulean firmament of heaven 
 
 She walks, an ample circuit, second day, 
 
 Inferior hardly to the shorter first, 
 
 Through the long night dispensing. He his head 
 
 Lifts from his maritime cloud-curtain'd couch, ., 
 
 Surveys, disdaining competition still. 
 
 Her amiable effort, droops again. 
 
 And longer sleeps inert. And some there are. 
 
 Who, dwelling far remote on Arctic plains 
 
 Buried in snow eternal, his pure orb 
 
 See never now, or see but half emerge, 
 
 Recumbent ere it rise, or share alone 
 
 The feeble twilight of his disc deprcss'd, 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 6B THE FAVOURITE ViLLAGllf. 
 
 Which once a day illuminates unseen 
 
 The horizontal verge of endless night. 
 
 To them the ntjoon, immeasurably kind, 
 
 Sinks never, but with everlasting march, 
 
 Waxing and waning *mid the stellar host, 
 
 The cynosure encircles. Heaven there 
 
 Seems a vast dome, whose change-performing orb 
 
 And brilliant host of ever-living gems, 
 
 Hung on the boreal star that shines alone 
 
 Fast-fix'd and vertical, swim round and round. 
 
 And never, weary of their whirling dance. 
 
 Quit the celestial cupola sublime. 
 
 To seek refreshment in the gelid wave : 
 
 Such vast benevolence, sweet orb, is thine. 
 
 Nor, trust me, can inferior love of man 
 
 Be to her brother orb imputed. Both 
 
 Are the sweet progeny of one above. 
 
 Whose name is Bounty, and inherit both. 
 
 Twin-born, the boundless goodness of their sire. 
 
 Their business here is to enlighten man, 
 
 Klse void of eyesiglit, and his needful bread 
 
 Cherish with kind invigorating beam.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 67 
 
 On this their gracious task intent toil both, 
 
 Incessant labourers, and never pause. 
 
 As fancy deems, o'erwearied with fatigue. 
 
 Or sleep, or ask relief. When he the zone. 
 
 That girds the waist of earth, with northward march' 
 
 Crosses refulgent and his sister meets, 
 
 He bids her with a smile this Arctic world 
 
 Quit, and illuminate the pole below. 
 
 Her day prolonging as he shortens his. 
 
 So when his blazing chariot flames on high 
 
 To rear the northern harvest, she depress'd 
 
 Lightens the frosty hemisphere beneath^ 
 
 To us apparent little, long withdrawn. 
 
 She knows that summer's night needs not her beam,' 
 
 Contracts her feeble day, and soon retires, 
 
 Because her ardent helpmate soon returns. 
 
 And when again with retrogressive car 
 
 He journeys southward, and the fancied belt 
 
 Of earth repasses, with fraternal kiss 
 
 He bids her hasten to the wint'ry north. 
 
 While he dispenses to Antarctic realms. 
 
 That will not mourn her absence, sweet return
 
 68 THE FAVOUKITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Of blossom, foliage, fruit, and food. Such now 
 
 His task benevolent. To us alone 
 
 He seems subdued by sloth. For while on high 
 
 Her everlasting lamp his sister hangs, 
 
 To light a frozen world he seems to scorn 
 
 And visit with reluctance, he below 
 
 Reigns bountiful, and with indulgent beam 
 
 Bids plenty flourish to the furthest pole. 
 
 Such are thy bounteous children, bounteous sire, 
 
 Such thy twaiu dutiful obedient orbs, 
 
 Which thus to all mankind, by night, by day, 
 
 Whatever season rules whatever clime, 
 
 Distribute equal portions of thy love. 
 
 Not pleasureless the morn, when dismal fog 
 Rolls o'er the dewy plain, or thin mist drives ; 
 When the lone timber's saturated branch 
 Drips freely, and with large redundant drop 
 The spread umbrella pelts, which the chill'd tooth 
 Screens, and o'ercanopies the languid lock. 
 Shorn of his glory, through the dim profound 
 With melancholy aspect looks the orb 
 Of stifled day, and while he strives to pierce
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 69 
 
 And dissipate the slow reluctant gloom, 
 Seems but a rayless globe, an autumn moon, 
 That gilds opaque the purple zone of eve, 
 Nor yet distributes of her thrifty beam. 
 Lo ! now he conquers ; now, subdued awhile. 
 Awhile subduing, the disparted mist 
 Yields us a brighter beam, or darker clouds 
 His crimson disc obscure. Through the thin veil 
 Of his foul mantle reads the bard, well-pleas'd, 
 A kindling glimpse of the pure azure field 
 Of heav'n's unbounded champaign, and the hour 
 Of winter's noon serene with inward joy 
 Greets ere it bless his sight. To him who walks 
 Now in the shelter'd mead, loud roars above 
 Among the naked branches of the elm, 
 Still fresh'ning as the hurried cloud departs, 
 The strong Atlantic gale. Not louder falls 
 The foamy lasher's cataract sujjerb 
 In fullest flood-time, when impatient Thames 
 Fights with the lock which chains him to his seat, 
 And strives to burst his manacles in vain. 
 Yet not devoid of pleasure is the field,
 
 ^0 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Howe'er the gale may buffet, nature still 
 
 Some grateful objects yielding to the sight. 
 
 Though brown the common with its wither'd ferp. 
 
 And sad the valley with its leafless wood, 
 
 Yet crimson haws, and hips of ruddy hue, 
 
 And cluster'd privet-berries, dark as jet, 
 
 The cheerful hedge-row sprinkle. Lo ! the plant, 
 
 Joy of the traveller yclep'd, or beard 
 
 Of old man seldom razor' d, lusty still. 
 
 Though neighbour'd by the prickly bramble, smiles, 
 
 The long lane whitening with its woolly tufts. 
 
 Beneath it mark a sear'd and cindery spot. 
 
 Which scatter'd straws encompass. There encamp'd 
 
 The last night's wearied vagrant, mumbled there 
 
 His mildew'd maintenance by whining eam'd ; 
 
 There quafFd the cup his tatter'd female brew'd. 
 
 And slept profound upon the musty truss. 
 
 Fool ! to prefer such execrable fare, 
 
 Such vile accommodation, to the bread 
 
 Of pious toil, and comfortable hut, 
 
 Where Industry around the glimm'ring heartlj 
 
 Her never-ailing progeny convenes,
 
 THE F4VOURITE VILLAGE. 11 
 
 And sober Labour, her well-wearied spouse. 
 His ev'ning meal enjoys, or sits refresh'd 
 And hums his rustic sonnet, as hp jogs 
 The laughing little-one on either knee. 
 Fool ! to be vagabond and xather beg, 
 While his loud hussey, in her cobbled suit 
 ^f sulphur redolent, and of the green 
 And sobbing ember of the smoky hearth. 
 Screams through the village miserable song, 
 Vendress of ballads and the bundled match. 
 Not distant far the river-swelling show'r, 
 If after blust'ring day come tranquil night, 
 And, ere the morning dawn, clothe marsh and mead 
 In the hoar coverlet of snowy frost. 
 /Clear though the glowing orb of day ascend^ 
 ^Pale watery radiance shall it shed around, 
 And soon be muffled by th,e creeping cloud. 
 That with it bears the tempest, wind and hail. 
 Or copious show'r aslant of pelting rain. 
 Oft though he smile, as often shall he frown ; 
 And when at last he takes a sweet farewell. 
 And sinks into the blue and billowy main,
 
 72 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The beauteous bow shall, by his beam impressM, 
 Glow on the bosom of the cloud that flies. 
 O beautiful display, rejoicing sight, 
 How elegant the pleasure drawn from thee 1 
 
 Soft be the breath of heav'n, and through the clear 
 Transparent atmosphere distinctly shine 
 The beauteous landscape, its remotest hill 
 Unveiling of the blue ethereal mist, 
 Which distance o*er the faded prospect draws ; 
 What surer symptom of approaching fall ? 
 Of rains to be renew'd ? But what if day 
 Should sob and whimper, and the sullen show'r 
 Draw its dense curtain o'er the dewy hill. 
 While glutted earth her quivering puddle shows 
 Vex'd by the pattering show'r ? While the soak'd thatch 
 Drips hasty from the barn, and while the shoot, 
 
 Gushing precipitous with bounding spout. 
 Its clinking reservoir the hollow pipe 
 
 Fills merrily, within from pen or page 
 
 Sweet satisfaction may the bard derive. 
 
 Meantime the hov'ring flood spreads wide his wings, 
 
 And, fix'd in firm array, with leafless heads.
 
 THE rAVOURITE VILLAGE. 73 
 
 In his mid-waters stand the root-bound files 
 Of wretched willow. Soon as morn returns, 
 The sportsman's tube, disglutted o'er the lake, 
 Pours a long echo, pealing as it flies. 
 
 Keen blows the wind, and frosty night ensues. 
 The hearth burns clear, and a blue lambent flame 
 plays round its glowing embers. Ill endures 
 The limb protruded its shin-piercing power, 
 And the scorch'd eyelid intervention asks 
 
 Of handkerchief uplifted, doubled news. 
 
 Hand ill at ease, or tipsey-footed screen. 
 
 The fev'rous kettle with internal coil , 
 
 And ebullition totters on the bars, 
 
 Forth sending: furious from its brazen lungs 
 
 Intense evaporation, fog and dew 
 
 Instinct with fire, to hand that dares approach 
 
 Intolerable as the parching gust 
 
 Sirocco, from the burning desert blown. 
 
 With folded feet inverted slumbers puss 
 
 The livelong ev'ning on the quilted hearth, 
 
 Or warmer knee, caress'd and often strok'd, 
 
 Till gratitude awakes and lulls the car
 
 74 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 With drowsy niurmurs of internal praise. 
 Look but abroad, and lo ! the cheerful moon, 
 Long since ascended from her cloudy couch, 
 High over head presides. Frost-loving Queen, 
 At winter's midnight how intense the grace 
 Which thy pure globe displays ! The sullen sun, 
 How fled he discontent, a little curve 
 His hasty march describing, a few hours 
 Quenching his feeble beam ! But thy clear orb 
 Delights to linger o'er a frozen world. 
 How sweetly rose it o'er yon woody hill. 
 How gaily smil'd upon the tranquil flood. 
 Seen from the bridge that overstrides the vale, 
 And now how glows it in the midst of heaven ! 
 Methinks, I feel thy beam. My heart at least 
 Is warm'd, is melted by thy sovereign ray. 
 And oh ! like thee, that cv'ry friend we own 
 Were most indulgent in an hour like this. 
 Beautiful art thou ; and if thou art fair, 
 How fair is He whose wonder-workinjj hand 
 Thy beauty fram'd ! If to thy lovely orb 
 I almost bow and hail thee as divine,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. ^^ 
 
 -What adoratiou would my soul overflow. 
 Might I the cloud that curtains Him around 
 Withdraw, and see him beauteous as he is ? 
 Fountain of elegance, unseen thyself, 
 What limit own^ THY beauty, when thy works 
 Seem to possess, to faculties like mhie. 
 Perfection infinite ? The merest speck 
 Of animated matter, to the eye 
 That studiously surveys the wise design, 
 Is a full volume of abundant art. 
 If to the spot invisible we strain 
 Our aching sight, and with microptic tube 
 Bring it at last within our feeble ken, 
 What beauty owns it not ? what crowded grace ? 
 No point to Thee so delicately fine 
 Can reason fancy, where thy curious hand 
 May not have couch'd innumerable charms. 
 Could we down stretch our slender faculty. 
 Our visual ray so feculent and dull. 
 And read the wonders microscopic eye 
 Has taught us never, and shall never learn. 
 Is it no pleasure, when prevailing frost
 
 76 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Has hardenM earth's dank surface, and the fool 
 Treads upon rock where erst it sank absorb'd 
 Is it no pleasure, ere the rising sun 
 Has drawn away the raw unwholesome fog 
 That dwells upon the vale, to venture forth 
 And mark the wonders of the midnight rime; 
 To pace it briskly o'er the plain, beset 
 With bents and rushes sear, erewhile erect 
 And little notic'd, nodding now, superb 
 As plumes upon the hearse, or rosy brow 
 Of beauty deck'd for conquest in the dance ? 
 Where are the treasuries of water now ? 
 Delicate element, wherever lodg'd, 
 How shuns the fearful fluid the keen touch 
 Of arrow-breathing frost, o'er ev'ry plash. 
 And ev'ry furrow of the ploughing wheel. 
 And ev'ry socket which the pastern left 
 Erewhile impedid, a transparent plate, 
 Studded with beads or crystal spikes serene, 
 Kelinquishing, and shrinking into earth ! 
 'I'he very flood, that but a fair day since 
 Spread wide his thin invasion, is constrain'd
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 11 
 
 Within his barrier. His arrested tide 
 
 In fragments hangs suspended o'er the dyke 
 
 Hollow beneath, and bursting with loud crash 
 
 Surprises oft both traveller and steed, 
 
 Startled alike at its immediate fall. 
 
 Touch'd by the genial orb, the scattered rime. 
 
 That whiten'd ev'ry meadow, steals away ; 
 
 Save where the molehill intercepts the beam, 
 
 Or steepy brow, or intervening hedge. 
 
 Or furrow westward tending. On each blade 
 
 Of the flock-nibbled field it hangs serene 
 
 In brilliant dew-drops, twinkling bright as stars, 
 
 Another heav'n, which the clear orb of day 
 
 Not quenches but illumes, a dazzling show 
 
 Of constellations kindled as we pass ; 
 
 Reflecting some his introverted beam 
 
 Pure as deriv'd, his hue of orange some 
 
 Presenting only, sparks of amber deem'd. 
 
 Again night passes, and severer frost 
 Binds fast impeded nature. Soon as morn 
 Kindles, the village younker tries his foot 
 Upon the frozen margin of the pool.
 
 78 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Fearful to venture on the slippery floor, 
 Lest, bursting with abrupt and hideous crash. 
 It drown his instep, and his naily shoe 
 Drench with the chilling element below. 
 Bold with success, he tries a daring stroke 
 Along its verge, and now magnanimous 
 Darts o'er the fragile centre of the flood 
 His long resounding slide. Safe borne to shore, 
 He turns impatient, and with rushing heel 
 Shapes o'er the pond his paralid return. 
 Then round and round he leads his gliding leant 
 Of school-mates well-assur'd, and panting sport 
 Glows with her effort, nor bestows a thought 
 Upon the lurking peril of her game. 
 
 Oft let me ponder on thy strong control. 
 Thou wonder-working frost, that in a night 
 The miry way, impassable at eve, 
 Converts to iron, which nor foot, nor wheel, 
 Nor tool can penetrate covers the lake. 
 E'en to the kicksey vulnerable erst, 
 With adamantine war-defying shield, 
 Which braves the pressure of a host unhurt
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE; 79 
 
 Arrests the rivulet the river binds- 
 
 Lays its imperious mandate on the gulph, 
 
 And fetters navigation to its shore 
 
 In resolute embrace the whaler locks 
 
 Amid sea anchot'd, fearless of surprise 
 
 And launches now a continent of ice 
 
 To vereck the vi^ar-ship in the midmost deep. 
 
 Wild flies the mid-day vapour dense and foul, 
 And soon shall come the fall. O'er the blue deep' 
 Of beauteous ether trails the lazy cloud, 
 A sable fleece, riepository dark 
 Of murky snows unwinnow'd, stooping low, 
 Lambent already of the topmost hill. 
 Few flakes of evVy size float through the air, 
 As undetermin'd or to rise or fall ; 
 Caught by the circling eddy of the breeze, 
 Lo ! now they mingle all in rapid dance, 
 And with a sweep descend. A feathery show'r 
 Of flakes enormous follows, 'lighting soft 
 As cygnet's down, or egret from the head 
 Of thistle ravish'd. Oft against the shower 
 Homeward returns the steeple-loving daw,
 
 80 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 But, blinded still, with agitated wing 
 Down drops, struggling in vain, and to the branch. 
 Which midway meets him in his worried flight. 
 Retires defeated. To hb early couch. 
 The golden lap of the vast western cloud 
 Which spreads beneath him its capacious bed, 
 Hastens the sun, or through the saffron skirt 
 Of the dark cloud that overtakes his orb 
 Snow-shedding, with dishevell'd beams aslant 
 Disorder'd smiles. In his pale watery ray 
 Glitters the distant vane and gilded clock. 
 Night follows, muffled in profoundest gloom. 
 The sullen gale howls in the dismal elm. 
 Or in the chimney groans, with sudden gust 
 Oft forcing downward a sulphureous puff 
 Noisome below. Against the window pelts. 
 Scarce heard, at intervals, the frozen show'r, 
 And, ev'ry crevice ent'ring, piles within 
 Drift unpercciv'd of its thrice-bolted flake. 
 
 How changM the day-break I The bright yester suw 
 Led forth a peerless morn, and sinilirii^ scal'd 
 The still meridian of hcav'n's ample dome,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 8 1 
 
 Cloudless, and linM with an unspotted vest 
 
 Of purest blue ; while laughing earth beneath 
 
 ShowM no reluctant verdure, well content, 
 
 However keen the season, to expand 
 
 Her vernal mantle o'er the humid field. 
 
 Now breaks, in vapour wrapt, the piercing dawn. 
 
 Unusual light upon the ceiling thrown 
 
 Wakes from its slumber the suspicious eye, 
 
 And bids it look abroad on hill, and dale. 
 
 Cottage, and steeple, in the niveous stole 
 
 Of Winter trimly dress'd. The silent show'r, 
 
 Precipitated still, no breeze disturbs, 
 
 While fine as dust it falls. Deep on the face 
 
 Of the wide landscape lies the spotless flood 
 
 Accumulating still, a vast expanse, 
 
 Save where the frowning wood without a leaf 
 
 Rears its dark branches on the distant hill. 
 
 Or hedge-row, ill-discern'd, with dreary length 
 
 Strides o'er the vale encumber'd, or lone church 
 
 Stands vested weatherward in snowy pall, 
 
 Conspicuous half, half not to be discern'd. 
 
 The yester wain, that thunder'd as it pass'd, 
 
 VOL. U. G
 
 82" THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Nor made impression on the rugged plain 
 With frozen sockets rough, now softly moves. 
 And labours silent through the feathery drift, 
 As if its every wheel and every hoof 
 Were shod with noiseless felt or stiller down. 
 How fair the deluge that enwraps the hill ! 
 Its whiteness shames the murky cloud above. 
 Makes ocean turbid seem and doubly foul, 
 And to the sullied aspect of the cliff 
 Allows no neatness. What if the clear orb 
 Of night or day from the pure vault of heaven 
 Look unimpeded down ! How glowing then 
 The thrice-bleach'd purity of earth beneath. 
 Wrapt like a spirit in a blaze of light ! 
 And how excels her splendour, well oppos'd 
 By the deep azure of the heav'n above ! 
 
 Short is the pleasure of the transient gleam. 
 The penetrating breeze, whose frozen gale, 
 Midway the seldom-breathing East between 
 And North of arrowy lungs, blows from a cave 
 Of everlastins: ice redundant cloud 
 And the strong current of perpetual snow,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 83 
 
 Sweeps from the hoary brow of shuddering earth 
 
 Her powder'd wreath, strips her broad shoulders bare, 
 
 And mingles with its fine and rapid shower 
 
 The flakes that settled on her breast in vain. 
 
 With insult riotous aloft in air 
 
 It lifts the deluge, from the summit swept, 
 
 And drifts it deep along the vale below. 
 
 How stings the gust, distressful to the face 
 
 And ill-defended ear, while o'er the plain, 
 
 Screen'd by no hedge-row, lies the bitter path ! 
 
 And how delights the persecuted cheek 
 
 To meet the glowing shelter of high wood, 
 
 Or garden wall prolix, or endless pale ! 
 
 Pure shines the flake we trample, crusted o'er 
 
 With icy plate, where'er the feeble ray 
 
 Of the short morning gleam dissolv'd awhile 
 
 Its dazzling treasures. Yet sustains it not 
 
 The tread of passenger alert, but, crush'd 
 
 And forcibly condens'd, complains aloud 
 
 Of the hard pressure of his froward foot. 
 
 Incessant frost prevails. In every nook. 
 
 Keyhole, and angle, howls the whiffling gust,
 
 84 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 And quaintly imitates man's wliisp'ring voice, 
 His sigh, and groan profound. Snow falls apace. 
 On either margin of the rippling brook 
 Appears a border of encroaching ice. 
 Which o'er its surface creeps. Under its wings, 
 Chastely transparent, merrily alive. 
 Glides unarrested still the living stream. 
 Fresh at the bottom, mindless of the storm. 
 Smiles the green cress aquatic, till at length, 
 Spike after spike advancing, in midstream 
 The furrowy surface closes. Iil-discern*d, 
 And all unheard, travels the brook beneath ; 
 Nor seldom, by the ceaseless drift o'erwhclm'd. 
 Lives unperceiv'd, and the deep-plunging foot 
 Wraps without notice in suffusion chill. 
 Slow moves the torpid river : flakes of ice 
 Stoop from the bank to kiss his shrinking stream, 
 Which, lazily advancing, yet appears 
 To reek with labour. On his surface float 
 Isles desolate and horrid, snow-besprent. 
 Of his own frozen waters. Change is near. 
 Slow falls the weary flake, and yon dun cloud
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 65 
 
 Briskly ascending from the cottage hearth, 
 Pillar voluminous of lofty smoke, 
 Foretels that soon their idle lapse shall cease. 
 Lo ! it subsides. The foul depending cloud 
 Draws ling'ring upward its apparent skirt. 
 And through its severed fleece shows ill-refin'd 
 The welcome azure. O'er the city swells 
 The cloud prodigious of uplifted smoke, 
 Wrapping her distant steeples in eclipse 
 Soon to be swept away. Yet ere the shut 
 Of evening comes, shall the departing beam 
 Of the low sun delight us, and the moon. 
 Soon as he disappears, in the fair east 
 Rise ample-orb'd upon a waste of snow. 
 
 Meantime what pleasure yields the rural walk ! 
 Delights it not to pass the thresher's close. 
 What time with instant wing from their scant meal 
 Of winnow'd draff the sparrow swarm upspring ? 
 The mingled hurry of their sounding plumes 
 How startles it the ear, v/hile they alert 
 Along the hedge-row show'r, or sit aloft, 
 And from the summit of the leafless cln^
 
 6 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Excessive chirpings pour ; fond parliament, 
 Where all are speakers, and none sits to hear ! 
 
 In thick and horrent coat, no longer sleek, 
 With heels unclipp'd, and shaggy mane promiss, 
 In his lone corner stands the leering colt, 
 At leisure relishing his scanty meal 
 Of tliin up-shaken forage. To the cow. 
 That with a wishful look his feast surveys 
 At fearful distance fix'd, from his white eye 
 Revers'd he flashes indignation strong 
 And peremptory menace, crouching close. 
 And trampling loose on his vindictive heel. 
 With sullen down-laid ear. Not far remote, 
 Round the sweet remnant of the hoarded rick 
 Slic'd to a core, or solitary wain 
 In the still bottom of the shelter'd vale 
 For their subsistence plac'd, convenes the flocl^ 
 Of their approaching meal-time duly aware. 
 B^gerly throng they, as of yore they troop'd 
 In the dry summer's eve, with hurried bell 
 And dust-provoking tread, to village poo!, 
 Or vulley trough from the near well supplied.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 37 
 
 Subdued by hunger, the poor feathery tribes 
 Small dread of man retain, though wounded oft, 
 Oft slain, or scar'd by his resounding tube. 
 The fieldfare grey, and he of ruddier wing, 
 Hop o'er the field unheeding, easy prey 
 To him whose heart has adamant enough 
 To level thunder at their humbled race. 
 The sable bird melodious from the bough 
 No longer springs, alert and clamorous. 
 Short flight and sudden with transparent wing 
 Along the dyke performing, fit by fit. 
 Shudd'ring he sits, in horrent coat outswoln. 
 Despair has made him silent, and he falls 
 From his lov'd hawthorn, of its berry spoiPd, 
 A wasted skeleton, shot through and through 
 By the near-aiming sportsman. Lovely bird. 
 So end thy sorrows, and so ends tliy song. 
 Never af^ain in the still summer's eve, 
 Or early dawn of purple-vested morn, 
 Shalt thou be heard, or solitary song 
 Whistle contented from the watery bough. 
 What time the sun flingrs o'er the dewv earth
 
 88 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 An unexpected beam, fringing with fianic 
 The cloud immense, whose shower-shedding folds 
 Have all day dwelt upon a delug'd world. 
 No, thy sweet pipe is mute, it sings no more. 
 
 High on the topmost branches of the elm 
 In sable conversation sits the flock 
 Of social starlings, the withdrawing beam 
 Enjoying, supperless, of hasty day. 
 
 Half-starv'd and petrified, the pigeon mopes 
 With bloated plumage on the dove-house tile, 
 And seems forgetful of his amorous bow 
 And note of love profound. No more he starts 
 With loud applauding wing from his hush'd cove, 
 Nor sweeps with swift career the snowy down. 
 
 But most of all subdued, or fearful least 
 Of man's society, with ruddy breast 
 Against the window beats, sagacious bird, 
 The robin. At the door, half open left 
 Or by the gale unlatch'd, or narrow pass 
 Of air-admitting casement, or (to him 
 Sufficient port) the splinter'd aperture 
 Of attic pane demolish'd, with a flirt
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 89 
 
 Enters the fledgM intruder. He has left 
 His haunt divine, the woodliouse and the barn> 
 A feathery mendicant made bold by want, 
 And ev'ry little action asks aloud 
 Alms the most indigent might well afford, 
 A drop of water and a crumb of bread. 
 Timid and sleek upon the floor he hops, 
 His ev'ry feather clutch'd, all ear, all eye, 
 And, springing swift at the first sound he hears, 
 Thumps for dismission on the healthy pane. 
 Sweet beggar, no. Impenetrable glass 
 Has clos'd around thee its transparent cage, 
 Escape denying. Satisfy thy need. 
 And, having fed, be free. Beneath my chair 
 Sit budge, a feathery bunch ; upon its staves 
 Polish thy clatt'ring beak ; with head revers'd 
 Dress ev'ry plume that decks thy plain surtout, 
 And either pinion of thy slender wing ; 
 With bridled bill thy ruddy bosom smooth. 
 And, all perform'd, delight me, if thou wilt. 
 With a faint sample of contented song, 
 Concise and sweet. Then flit around the room,
 
 90 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Cheerful though silent, seizing with an air 
 
 E^h crumb diminutive which the last meal 
 
 Dropt unperceiv'd, and the religious broom 
 
 Unconscious left upon the woven floor, 
 
 Or which the hand of charity lets fall 
 
 Not grudging. Banquet here, and sleep to-night, 
 
 And, when tliy morning meal is fmish'd, fly ; 
 
 Nothing unwelcome if thou dare return, 
 
 And daily seek the hospitable feast, 
 
 Strew'd to invite thee on the casement ledge. 
 
 Soon as eve closes, the loud-hooting owl, 
 That loves the turbulent and frosty night. 
 Perches aloft upon the rocking elm, 
 And hallooes to the moon. She mountiiiof slo\y 
 Steers her wild voyage through a troubled sea 
 Of dissipated scud, apparent oft, 
 Oft intercepted by the billowy skirt 
 Of the fleet vapour, oft in part o'ercome. 
 Yet still victorious, be the storm how rude, 
 And nothing later at the port she seeks. 
 Retarded by the tide of adverse cloud. 
 
 Come, cheerful season, when tiic villagc-clcrk
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 91 
 
 With slips of evergreen his long aisle decks, 
 When cottage maids alert their windows trim 
 With die red berry and the varnish'd leaf 
 Of holly never sear, and hang on high 
 The tufted misletoe. It wins me much ; 
 And, childish as the sage may deem the toil, 
 My hand shall help to decorate the pane. 
 The peasant female now, with finger nice 
 And curious scissar, fashions for her child 
 The paper ornament, and crowns his brow 
 And decorates his skirt with fair device. 
 Proud of iiis honours, at the pastor's door 
 He sings and shudders, chanting carol rude 
 Of comfort and of joy. His labour'd song 
 Humanity within hears with a smile. 
 Admires the casual tremor of its tones. 
 And the loose halfpenny with glad consent 
 Upon the frozen quaverer bestows. 
 
 Soon from the moist Antarctic breathes the gale, 
 And its ill-molten shower of arrowy sleet. 
 Storm fracture threat'ning of the pelted pane, 
 Scatters aslant and sloping to the breeze.
 
 92 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Awhile congealing on the trunk expos'd 
 
 Of the lone tree, or timber stretch'd at length, 
 
 Or stile unshelter'd, or storm-facing gate, 
 
 Or slippery surface of uncover'd rock, 
 
 An icy coat it spreads around serene. 
 
 With gelid welcome the protruded hand 
 
 Surprising unobserv'd, beguiling too 
 
 Ofttimes the foot unwary, and with fall 
 
 Disgraceful vexing the confounded man, 
 
 All overwhelm'd and flound'ring in the drift. 
 
 Partial and brief the shower ; for now a mist 
 
 Draws o'er the distant hill its dusky veil, 
 
 Now hovers in the valley, now involves 
 
 The total landscape, leaving to the eye 
 
 Small hemisphere and dark, a little world 
 
 Few yards encompassing, a cloudy coop. 
 
 That with the mover moves, and coops him still, 
 
 Touch'd by the trailing fog the mountain snows 
 
 Dissolve, and, hast'ning to the vale below, 
 
 Unite their waters, till combin'd in one 
 
 They fret the midway hill and gully deep 
 
 His flinty side. InsufTerably foul
 
 tHE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 93 
 
 The thicken'd torrent hurries down the vale, 
 
 And, every basin fiU'd that stay'd its march, 
 
 Steers for the deep with still-increasing tide, 
 
 Till from the precipice abrupt it pours, 
 
 A foamy cataract that roars aloud. 
 
 And tinctures far beneath the decent vest 
 
 Of ocean fretful at its wild embrace. 
 
 The snowy pall from hill and dale slow thaw 
 
 At length removes, save where the tardy drift, 
 
 In dissolution ling'ring, last expires. 
 
 Ten thousand currents, tinctur'd by the soil 
 
 From whence they issue, hurry to the main. 
 
 E'en Ouse her silver purity has lost 
 
 And feminine deportment. Full of shame, 
 
 And wroth at her adulterated stream. 
 
 She flounces seaward, and complains aloud 
 
 To parent ocean of the wrong she feels. 
 
 Turbid and brown into the greedy deep. 
 
 Sated with feculence, the chider falls. 
 
 Scarce disappears the deluge, v/hen the mole, 
 Close pris'ner long in subterraneous cell 
 Frost-bound, again the miner plays, and heaves
 
 94 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 With treble industry the mellow mound 
 Along the swarded vale. The shepherd's eye 
 With unforgiving enmity surveys 
 The long concatenated sweep of hills, 
 Whose soft and crumbling soil abridges more 
 The scanty pittance of his hungry fold. 
 Full in the pathway of his buried foe 
 The hollow engine of surprise he plants, 
 Portcullis treacherous, deceitful noose. 
 Which oft with sudden insult from its cave 
 Th' unwary toiler plucks, and hangs aloft 
 On dismal gibbet, swinging to the wind. 
 Behold ! where now he undersaps the sward, 
 And lifts the recent soil. The passing cur 
 His persevering industry detects, 
 And stands with prick'd-up ear and lifted paw 
 His labours watching. In the crumbled hill 
 He plunges sudden his impatient feet. 
 And far behind him showers the loose earth 
 Pluck'd hastily away. With nose deep-sunk 
 He sniffs inquisitive, but seizes not 
 The wily engineer, in time asvaif.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 95 
 
 Such pleasure, such amusement Winter yields. 
 To him who loves with nature to converse. 
 And paint her image in immortal song. 
 E'en from the naked February wood. 
 Assemblage multitudinous of boughs. 
 He plucks contentment. There the giant oak 
 Uprears contorted its Enormous arm, 
 Despoil'd of foliage, yet not unadorn'd 
 In the thin frippery of lichen dressM 
 E'en to its utmost finger. There the birch 
 With fine-spun branch and silvery rind appears ; 
 And there, retentive of its vvither'd leaf, 
 The beech smooth-bodied, decorated oft 
 With names uncouth carv'd on its sinewy trunk. 
 At its foot thrives the winter-loving moss. 
 Luxuriant most when the bare branch above 
 Retains no verdure. During summer's heat. 
 However shelter'd, it grew sear and died. 
 Or seem'd to die ; but, the dank hour arriv'd, 
 Lo ! how it wraps about the wreathen root 
 Its shaggy mantle, flourishing profuse. 
 What loom e'er furnish'd for imperial floor
 
 96 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE^ 
 
 Tapis more rich, or grateful to the foot ? 
 
 What hand e'er spread upon the smooth settee 
 
 Cushion more gentle, plushy pile more soft? 
 
 Nor only on the beech-root recent smiles. 
 
 Or wall of ancient edlBce or field, 
 
 Or thatch decay'd that clothes the peasant's cot, 
 
 But oft amid the lean and meager turf 
 
 Of the low lawn, or hill, looks sprightly forth 
 
 The prosp'rous moss ; there to the fond eye spreads 
 
 Its welcome carpet of refreshing green, 
 
 And freely blossoms in the piercing gust. 
 
 Bleak as it is, through day's severest gloom 
 Appears sweet promise of the milder year. 
 So testify the spurs ready to burst 
 And blossom gaily on the pear-tree bough ; 
 And proves especially the forked branch 
 Of lilac, bearing at its either point 
 Twin buds protuberant ; proves, too, beneath. 
 Not venturesome in vain, the pendulous flower. 
 That, drooping, dares unveil its modest charms 
 E'en to the kiss of blossom-killing frost. 
 Pleas'd with her beauty, the tyrannic storm
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 9^ 
 
 Not mars her elegance with surly touch, 
 
 But wraps his snows around her beauteous head, 
 
 And names her his forever. Lead the year. 
 
 Thou welcome harbinger of softer days, 
 
 Drop, which, more lovely than the winnovvM flake 
 
 Which strives to hide thy charms, in the cold ear 
 
 Of Winter beauteous hang'st, and sham'st the fall 
 
 Most pure that veils thee, and extends around 
 
 Its candid drift in competition vain. 
 
 White in the shrubbery, at every turn, 
 
 Thy verdant tuft its bevy delicate 
 
 Of fair tripetalous depending flowers 
 
 Displays, and dances in the froward breeze. 
 
 Protected snug beneath the southern fence, 
 Lily of Lent, with diadem superb. 
 The monarch daffodil uprears his head. 
 Nor dreads the guillotine of the keen gale. 
 Green at his side, with arrow-headed leaf. 
 Spring his attendant court, his train of peers 
 And peeresses superb, Ladies and Lords ; 
 So name the mral folk the speckled cowls 
 That sheath the tender arum, yet aliv 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 18 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 And yet abundant, though the sable bird 
 Of sweetest melody the winter long 
 Dwelt here, and still with persevering beak 
 Harrow'd the soil, soon as the mid-day sun 
 The chains of frost unbound ; keen democrat, 
 Making nobility his daily bread. 
 
 Sweet is the foretaste of returning Spring, 
 When, after dismal weeks of gloom and fog, 
 Reluctant February lifts at last 
 The cloudy turban from his sullen brow. 
 And cheers us with a short unwilling smile. 
 How pleasant then th' appearance here and there 
 Of the blue zenith through the muffled heaven ! 
 How welcome the sun's clear but transient beam ! 
 Its comfortable warmth the shoulder owns, 
 And the fond eye rejoices to survc}- 
 The shadow human, once again impress'd 
 Upon the bladeless turf. But soon departs 
 Th' invigorating gleam, and o'er the down. 
 Nothing retarded by intreaty, flits. 
 It visits now the lark, and wakes his song, 
 Now cheers the shepherd and his pregnant flock,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 99 
 
 Now climbs the mountain, and is seen no more. 
 
 If haply the dense curtain all withdraw. 
 And leave unclouded the pure vault of heaven, 
 How pleasant to behold the glowing sun 
 A more extended curve from rise to fall 
 Describing daily, from his billowy couch 
 Ascending earlier, later to his rest, 
 And better-pleas'd, retiring with a smile ! 
 How sweet a train of pleasurable days 
 Are beckon'd hither, and how soon shall dance 
 Each after other over down and dale ! 
 Soon shall the vanquish'd night her empire yield, 
 And share the sceptre with victorious day. 
 Darkness shall reign inferior ; heav'nly light 
 Upon her either boundary shall steal. 
 Shall gird her round with beams, and dart a ray 
 Through the sad mantle of her dunnest hour. 
 How cheerfully my heart the sweet return 
 Of bud and bloom presages, sees ere seen 
 The daisy-sprinkled mead, and flowery dell, 
 And coppice-shelter'd primrose yet unblown !
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK IV.
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE FOURTH BOOK. 
 
 Tlie pleasures of tlie favourite village during Spring the warm sun, and 
 first leaf and blossom of the year the fine uight and stormy day of 
 March the equinoctial sunrise general appearance of nature the 
 6ock. the ewe and land) the reptile basking in the sun the first 
 appearance of the flesh-fly the pleasure of travelling at this season 
 various v ild blossoms the pea and bean the plough-team the group 
 of weeders the clear mid-day sun the song of birds, especially the 
 lark the warmer day of spring, and its etfect upon the ploughman and 
 his team the appearance of the swallow of the butterfly of the 
 child pursuing it of the caterpillar general view of nature the first 
 of May the furze down the garden the hedge-row birds building 
 nests the evening walk agreeable vernal sounds of the favourite vil- 
 lage the walk at noon Tlie sight of cattle grazing of boys playing 
 at cricket of other rural sports of the mower of the bean field 
 the clear evening not expected, and it5 agreeable imagery the bee, 
 an emblem of the bard Concliuion.
 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 Say, when the northern gale of March blows keen, 
 
 Inducing ear-twitch, ague, pain acute 
 
 Of tooth decaying, pulmonary cough. 
 
 Or ache rheumatic of the shudd'ring limb. 
 
 Under the southern wall, yet unadorn'd. 
 
 Or hedge-row shelter of the rosy dyke. 
 
 Where blooms the pale-ey'd messenger of prime. 
 
 In the warm sunbeam of unclouded noon 
 
 Is it not heav'n to bask ? Is it not heav'n. 
 
 To walk beneath the high meridian wall, 
 
 Where the spruce apricot, a daring beau. 
 
 His leafless branches with advent' rous bloom
 
 104 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Sparingly powders, or their blushing gems 
 
 Unfold, more cautious, nectarine and peach ? 
 
 \a) ! the flushed almond tree, divinely fair ! 
 
 Why blush her ruddy blossoms, but for shame 
 
 Of the bare bloomless branch that round her lives, 
 
 And shows no flower, and no leaf unfolds ? 
 
 So redden'd erst the sacerdotal rod. 
 
 And droop'd its bloom, and deck'd its branch with fruit. 
 
 While not a bud the naked stems adorn'd 
 
 Of its unhallow'd rivals. Wond'rous God, 
 
 Tender and good to all which thou hast made. 
 
 Succour the blossom and the forward bud 
 
 The scarce and fearful daisy, ill disclos'd 
 
 And couching low, veiling its tender eye 
 
 With fingers dipp'd in crimson the fresh leaf 
 
 That decks the gooseberry's vindictive branch. 
 
 And elder's thornless bough the ruddy ear 
 
 Of woodbine eager to be gay, his flow'r 
 
 Determin'd soon about the lingVing oak 
 
 To wind in shame of the slow Spring's delay, 
 
 Succour the lilac, whose prolific bud 
 
 Betrays its purple symptom, promise; sweet
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 105 
 
 Of many a spike to be unfolded soon, 
 
 And nod majestic on the brow of May. 
 
 Thou fickle season, let thy morning smile 
 
 To noon continue, and from noon to night. 
 
 Let not the cloud that lifts its pillowy head 
 
 Above the blue horizon, and ere long 
 
 Shall show its sable waist and trailing skirt. 
 Curtain thy orb, and the protruded gem 
 Bruise with its dancing hailstone. If the show'r 
 Fall frequent, fall it kind, and not severe. 
 And fall to meliorate the thirsty soil 
 Of field and garden, that thy genial beam 
 May hatch the blade of evVy seed unseen. 
 So shall the farmer bless thee so, his dame. 
 Who spreads to bleach upon the village green 
 Her home-spun sheeting, recent from the loom 
 So, the blithe gard'ner, ofi;en with his spade 
 Seen early deep-upturning the rich soil. 
 Harrowing often and disposing smooth 
 Its mellow surface with the fine-tooth'd rake. 
 Often his scythe heard whetting ere the dawn. 
 And shaving smooth the sward, or seen at noon
 
 106 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Trampling his border with assiduous heel. 
 
 If show'r, attended by the gale, descend, 
 Grateful the contrast of imperious day 
 Chasing indignant the dishevell'd cloud. 
 And still transparent night, with peerless gems 
 Studding the tranquil canopy of heaven. 
 
 From yon uplifted summit, when the sun 
 Of March, high-mounted, wears a moody smile, 
 Indulgent only to these winnow'd brows. 
 What time the partial storm in sullen pomp 
 Sails o*er the prostrate weald, let me look down 
 And see the murky cloud prone deluge shed. 
 And ev'ry town and steeple, dim-discern'd, 
 Curtain in gloom terrific. At such time. 
 What if the lightning bolt, long laid aside, 
 Amid the grim procession chance to gleam, 
 And thunder, surly to be rous'd so soon. 
 Mutter reluctant from his stormy couch ? 
 It shall but solemn render the slow march 
 Of the dark tempest, through its gloomy brows 
 Frowning meridian night, and wake no dread. 
 No wish of flight, nor sense of peril here.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE". 107 
 
 No ! I shall eye it safely as it steals 
 
 In gloomy state away, and leaves behind 
 
 The freshen'd landscape leisurely dismiss'd. 
 
 Lo ! in the. glowing east the cloud sublime 
 
 Lifting its arduous and illumin'd head 
 
 High above highest earth, a pile superb 
 
 Of vapour, wrapping in its smoky skirts 
 
 Heav'n's everduring threshold, and the beam 
 
 Of day's clear orb resplendent from its folds 
 
 Reflecting glorious. With the falling sun 
 
 Slow sinks the pomp away, and while his orb 
 
 In flaky redness sets, and fills the west 
 
 With fiery fragments of disparted cloud, 
 
 The last apparent summit of the storm 
 
 The ruddy hue imbibes, and sanguine glows ; 
 
 Till, day withdrawn and the vex'd ether hush'd, 
 
 The tempest all subsides and dies away. 
 
 And the pure heav'n displays an ardent moon 
 
 Swimming self-balancM through the blue profound. 
 
 On this commanding summit let me stand, 
 To see the vernal equinoctial orb 
 Fresh from his chambers in the deep ascend.
 
 108 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Arise, bright leader of the beauteous year, 
 Sweep thy long fingers o'er the shadowy vale, 
 And smite the hill-tops. Nature at thy soft 
 Reviving touch with concord exquisite 
 Shall to her centre vibrate. Total earth 
 Shall ring sweet unison from hill and dale. 
 My bosom, like the fabled lyre of old 
 Memnonian, or the harp that wooes the breeze, 
 Shall sing with ecstasy, and pour around 
 Spontaneous sweet effusion, mellow verse. 
 Ode best expressive of the grateful soul. 
 Here let me stand, and o'er the level weald. 
 That, like a spacious chart, outstretch'd beneath 
 Lies chcquer'd, cast an aching eye, to mark 
 Each well-known object in the misty skirt 
 Of the long-drawn perspective. Seen from hence 
 The budding wood a russet hue assumes. 
 And, as the gem protrudes, the social group 
 Of elms and oaks that herd upon the lawn 
 (Shelter affording to the yeaning flock) 
 Seen pencil'd softer on the vale below. 
 The paintress Nature with reviving green
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 19 
 
 Colours her tender landscape, down and mead, 
 A deeper tinge upon the long-sown field 
 Spreading with equal hand, intending soon 
 Like grace and beauty for the tardier spot. 
 
 Now yields the flock to the bard's curious eye 
 Peculiar pleasures. Often let me mark 
 The sullen ewe's authoritative stamp 
 Where'er the sheep-dog passes. Let me smile 
 At her deluded sense, what time her lamb. 
 By the bleak season slain, his welted coat 
 Yields to the flayer, and the ravish' d twin 
 Of some fond mother in the coarse disguise 
 Appears loose-coated, and usurps his dug. 
 Dull fool, how ill perceives thy stupid eye 
 The palpable imposture ! Let me hear 
 The morning uproar of the fleecy folk. 
 What time, vociferous, their tardy march 
 With baying curs impatient their rude lord 
 To the green pasture urges. Loud enquires 
 The bleating mother for her sunder'd lamb, 
 As loud complaining for his mother lost. 
 With quick infallible perception, she,
 
 110 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Amid the mingle<l outcry, hears distinct 
 
 His slender shrill entreaty. He remote, 
 
 With nicety that shames our grosser sense. 
 
 Her voice acknowledges, and through the crowd 
 
 Winds his insulted way. She, provident, 
 
 Her milky treasures for his lip reserves, 
 
 Butting intruders with a frown away. 
 
 At length he finds her, and with bended knees, 
 
 Emblem of innocence and filial grace, 
 
 His plenteous meal receives, and bleats no more. 
 
 Now as I walk and slumber by the dyke, 
 Whene'er the mid-day sun with pow'rful beam 
 Plays full upon the bank, 'mid the fresh tops 
 Of nettle fast reviving, or green shoots 
 Of parsley welcome at the warren side. 
 Or sear grass unconsum'd, or prickly goss, 
 Wriggles the viper and the basking eft, 
 Or spotted snake innocuous, snapping short 
 The thread of meditation, as they glide, 
 With whisper not unwelcome. At the door 
 Enters the flesh-fly, and with cheerful hum 
 Travels the house interior. On the pane
 
 THE FAVOURITE YILLAGE. 1 1 1 
 
 Thumps he and buzzes, the resounding hall 
 Travels again, and with a bounce departs ; 
 Gratefiil remembrance leaving on the mind 
 Of still enjoyment in the musing hour 
 Of summer's drowsy noon, and pleasing thought 
 Oft interrupted by his brisk career. 
 
 If now I journey, often at my side 
 Let me the blue-beli'd hyacinth behold. 
 The silver anem6ne of the wood, 
 And golden primrose, intermingled well: 
 Let ev'ry bank with rosy tufts be fring'd ; 
 Be ev'ry corn-field carpeted anew 
 In recent herbage, ev'ry hillock crown'd, 
 And ev'ry valley gracefully besprent 
 With drooping cowslip, ev'ry marshy dell 
 With sumptuous caltha lin'd, and ev'ry down 
 Sow'd with innumerable daisy, white 
 Or ting'd with crimson at each finger's tip. 
 Let delicate archangel, white as snow. 
 In ev'ry nook appear, tempting the hand 
 Of city botanist, or village boy 
 Who plucks the leaf and blossom from its stem.
 
 112 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Fearless of smart, and the quadrangled tube 
 
 iDto a pipe monotonous converts ; 
 
 A wailing pipe, whose miserable note 
 
 Resembles most the viol's woeful scream 
 
 By the hard hand of inexperience scrapM, 
 
 Or hautboy's harsher squall, that racks the sense, 
 
 And tortures patience till she scarce endures. 
 
 Not such that awfuUer Archangel trump 
 
 Which sang at Sinai's mount, and shook the host 
 
 Of prostrate Israel with excessive awe : 
 
 Nor such that future tube, which death detliron'd 
 
 Shall hear ill-pleas'd, and harass man no more, 
 
 Pris'ner for ever in the seal'd abyss. 
 
 Neat lies the surface of the weedless field. 
 Where springs the bean-top martially dispos'd 
 File within file, a lusty brotherhood. 
 Or shoots more tender in continuous rank 
 The pea-plant ill-supported, soon to fall 
 And with weak elbow lean upon the ground. 
 Save where the gard'ner with indulgent hand 
 Plants in her neighbourhood the leafless stake : 
 There with grand tendril to the branchy stall
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAQE. 1 1 S 
 
 She clings, and wjth anjbitipus finger climbs 
 To wave her limber blossonfs high in air. 
 
 Now moves lagain, but wjfh a sluggard's pape, 
 Not well awake, the plough. The harness'd team 
 Moves slowly forward, ^nd i)ot sekloin stays, 
 Impeded sore by congregated clods. 
 The rooky tribe attend, and, prcli'd at hand, 
 Watch the moist furrow with superior eye, 
 And brisk alight, upon the worm to piey, 
 Or sweeter grub unhous'd. Frequently there 
 Loiters, a grey-coat pensioner, the mew, 
 (His treasury the main left far behind,) 
 And shares the spoil terrene, with outstretch'd wing 
 The ploughman's clodded heel pursuing close, 
 And settling timorous. At length arrives 
 The hour of rest long look'd for, and the team 
 Of wearied steers, from the bright share releas'd, 
 Leave in the midst of the fresh field upturn'd 
 The plough recumbent, and with hurried pace 
 March cheerful homeward. Expedition clanks 
 The heavy chain which knits them pair to pair, 
 And oft the forward ox, impatient, draga 
 
 VOL. ir. 1
 
 114 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The lingerer behind, his brawny neck 
 Straining with pressure of the cumbrous yoke. 
 
 Forth goes the weeding dame ; her daily task 
 To travel the green wheat-field, ancle-deep 
 In the fresh blade of harvest yet remote. 
 Now with exerted implement she checks 
 The growth of noisome weeds, to toil avei'se, 
 An animal gregarious, fond of talk. 
 Lo ! where the gossipping banditti stand 
 Amid field idle all, and all alike 
 With shrill voice prating, fluent as the pyc. 
 Far off let me the noisy group behold. 
 Nothing molested by their loud harangue, 
 And think it well to see the fertile field 
 By their red tunics peopled, and the frock 
 Of the white husbandman that ploughs hard by. 
 Or guides the harrow team, or flings the grain 
 At ev'ry footstep with exerted arm 
 Over the yawning furrow. Never more 
 Pleases the rural landscape, than when man. 
 Drawn by the vernal sunbeam from his cell, 
 The needful culture of the field renews.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 115 
 
 Still of the frozen drift it somewhere swept 
 Savours the breeze of morn, and makes the cheek 
 Of beauty kindle with its keen salute. 
 But grateful is the mild and genial noon, 
 Which, bursting unexpected from the cloud, 
 Dispels the sullen vapour that obscur'd 
 And quench'd the matin beam, and the sharp gale, 
 Which tasted of the ling'ring snows it pass'd 
 In some cold arctic realm remote, bids hush. 
 How delicate the foretaste yielded then 
 Of Summer yet withheld ! and how delights 
 The ravish'd ear to listen to the sound 
 Of warblers numberless ! Appears it not 
 As if harmonious exhalation sprung, 
 Soon as the cheering sunbeam smote the field, 
 From earth's transported bosom, and difFus'd 
 Its sweet vibrations through the trembling air ? 
 No longer now assembles as of late, 
 Gregaj-ious only in the winter hour. 
 Bird of the sky baptiz'd, the speckled lark. 
 Oft o'er the plain inert or fallow then 
 In flight circuitous the nimble flock
 
 1 16 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGK. 
 
 Swam eddying, or with sudden wheel revers'd 
 
 Show'd their transparent pinions to the sun. 
 
 Now earnest as of yore with devy plumes 
 
 To touch the roof of heav'n, in the first beam 
 
 Of the clear orb apparent, with a spring 
 
 Mounts the sweet warbler, and with upright llight, 
 
 And throat that struggles to make sweeter still 
 
 Exquisite anthem, to the clouds ascends. 
 
 The eye that sees him with strain'd vision soars 
 
 To mark him quiv'ring in the skies above ; 
 
 Nor seldom, his ascension not obsorv'd, 
 
 Looks with vain scrutiny the dappled air, 
 
 Nor finds, invisible, the vocal spirit 
 
 Which fills with ravishment the deep of heaven, 
 
 And chants aerial melody unseen. 
 
 Be still, thou chilly breeze, and let the beam 
 Of noon refulgent o'er the mellow field 
 Shed summer premature. Let the slow team 
 Of steers reluctant pressing on tiie yoke. 
 With down-sunk forehead and depending tongue, 
 With winding shoulders and slow-pacing foot, 
 Pant as it ploughs along the mountain side
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. ill 
 
 The furrow, turning and returning still. 
 
 Let him that steers the glittering share be warm, 
 
 And often pause at the transparent pool, 
 
 His dofTd brim dipping and the gelid lymph, 
 
 Which trickles round it to his thirsty lip, 
 
 Imbibing eagerly. Let him that stalks. 
 
 And from the seedlip scatters wide around 
 
 The fruitful grain, peel'd of his frock appear, 
 
 White o'er the furrows marching. White as he 
 
 Follow the pilot of the harrow-team. 
 
 Crumbling the surface, and conceahng well 
 
 Under its levell'd wave the buried seed. 
 
 Alike divested, o'er the finish'd field. 
 
 With sleeve expos'd and long resounding whip, 
 
 Let the rude boy, of his employment proud. 
 
 Guide the revolving axis. Gentle Heaven, 
 
 Yield meet indulgence to the yeaning flock 
 
 Which spreads the green enclosure, and the lamb 
 
 Cherish propitious, whether he repose, 
 
 Or feebly totter upon feet untried. 
 
 Or gambol sprightly round the grazing ewes, 
 
 Soon lost, and soon enquiring for his dam,
 
 118 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Who bleats and mumbles at his slender call. 
 Yield to the trembling calf, inactive yet, 
 And the ^nt mother lovvmg at his side 
 Internal fond concern, their due support. 
 
 How welcome to the sight, when first discerned 
 The vernal swallow, skimming with swift wing 
 The windy mead, or floating high in air 
 If noon be calm, or twitt'ring lonely song 
 Perch'd on the brink of chimney -throat profound ! 
 How sweetly falls it on th' attentive ear 
 Reviving memory of summers past, 
 And many a sweet and pleasurable thought 
 Of sultrj' days enjoy'd and mus'd away. 
 Beneath the garden shade, while thus she sang 
 And garbled freely from her household nest ! 
 
 Behold again with saifron wing superb 
 The giddy butterfly, lielcas'd at length 
 From his warm winter cell, he mounts on high. 
 No longer reptile, but endued with plumes, 
 And through the blue air wanders ; pert alights, 
 And seems to sleep, but from tiit; trcacirrous hand 
 Snatches his beauties suddenly away,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 119 
 
 And zig-zag dances o'er the flow'ry dell. 
 Across the lawn he flies. His sumptuous wing 
 Provokes attention in the playful child, 
 Who gallops brisk his not unruly cane 
 Over the daisies at his parent's door 
 Diverting and diverted. With fix'd eye 
 The settled bird he marks, with eager hand 
 Grasps at the prize, but covets it in vain, 
 Gives chace impetuous, but unable soon 
 To reach the golden flutterer, aloft 
 Flying still free, with final fond attempt 
 Tosses his cap in air, and strives no more. 
 So hunts the fast philosopher his fly, 
 The gilded fugitive o'er hedge and dyke 
 Insane pursuing with a child's career. 
 'Twere well if he too fail'd, and spread his net 
 And toss'd his cap in vain, and seldom doom'd 
 The beauteous captive to a ling'ring death. 
 But oft with base delight his murd'rous hand 
 Impales the sufferer, and heats the dart 
 Which pierc'd its mail with ineffectual wound, 
 By little and by little quenching life,
 
 120 THE FAVOURlTfe VILLAGE. 
 
 Lest the quick hand of tnercj discompose 
 And mar the beauty of its buriiish'd coat. 
 Lively abhorrence stigmatize the deed. 
 It is enough for pdfets to detain 
 The lovely stranger, till the curious eye 
 Has well surveyM its graces, and ador'd 
 The power that cloth'd it in attire so gay. 
 Such inquisition made, to the free wing 
 Give we the pris'ner, liberty restore, 
 Dismiss and thank him, and fenjoy the thought 
 That some remote similitude is our's 
 Of Him who all things made, and all preserves, 
 Sparing the meanest^ and oppressing none. 
 
 Hatch'd by the sunbeam from contiguous cells 
 Arouiui the slender apple-twig combin'd 
 In circuit orderly, egg glued to egg. 
 Issue the caterpillar swarm minute. 
 There left, oviparous, her half-born brood, 
 Kre summer clos'd, the parent ; leftj and died, 
 ^riierc have they still endur'd, and still silrviv'd 
 Sharp winter's tyranny ; the bitter frost, 
 That slew the myrtle and the lasting leaf
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 1 2 1 
 
 Of the screened laurel ehang'd, no death to them. 
 
 Now busily conven'd, Upon the bud 
 
 That crowns their gfenial branch they feast subliihe, 
 
 And spread their mdslin canopy aroutid, 
 
 Pavilion'd richer than the proudest kiilg. 
 
 The spinster caterpillar ties aloft, 
 
 Fine as the gossamer, his slender cord 
 
 To his lov'd cradle the recov'ring elm. 
 
 And, playfully suspended, rocks and whirls, 
 
 And, ere his wings are granted, lives in air. 
 
 So dangles o'er the brook, depending low. 
 
 The spider artist, till propitious breeze 
 
 Buoy him athwart the stream. From shore to shore 
 
 He fastens then his horizontal thread. 
 
 Sufficient bridge, and, traversing alert. 
 
 His fine-spun radii flings from side to side. 
 
 Shapes his concentric circles without art. 
 
 And, all accomplish'd, couches in the midst, 
 
 Himself the centre of his flimsy toils. 
 
 So spins the British mariner his shrouds. 
 
 Nor spins them with less art, what time he fits 
 
 To the vast thunder-bark her woven wincrs.
 
 12* THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Now let the painter poet walk abroad. 
 At ev'iy turn shall his attentive eye 
 Some lovely feature of reviving prime 
 Observe delighted. The green springing blade 
 Of wheat, impatient of the long control 
 Of lingering frost, spite of the prancing lamb 
 And mumbling ewe that check its prosp'rous growth, 
 Waves upon ev'ry hill. From ev'ry vale, 
 With verdure scarce inferior, smiles remote 
 The herb reserv'd, and not to be impair'd 
 By the voracious grazer's hungry toot4i. 
 Ere it has yielded to the herdsman's scythe 
 The precious burden of the fragrant rick. 
 The orchard floor, with sumptuous carpet spread, 
 Shames the slow branch that onl}' buds above. 
 The hedge-row feels the scandal of delay, 
 And, here and there, along the sunny dyke, 
 The pendent catkin hangs and flowery gull. 
 Provok'd at their reproach, the darker thorn 
 Awakes, and sprinkles his vindictive branch, 
 Not to be toucliM in vain, with i)loom of snow. 
 Their tender leaf the woodbine and the (juick
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILI^GE. 123 
 
 Put softly forth. The cerasus sublime 
 Decks with few blossoms cautiously display'd 
 The cottage garden-plot, while bold beneath 
 The gooseberry unfolds an ample leaf, 
 And hides in foliage her ten thousand swords. 
 
 Sweet holiday of nature, eldest born 
 Of the fair train of laughter-loving May, 
 Come with thy garland tripping debonair, 
 Dance to the music of the woodland choir. 
 And lead thy lovely sisterhood along 
 In flowery fantastic chase. Bear each. 
 Lightly depending from her careless arm, 
 The mingled basket of ten thousand hues, 
 Blossoms of ev'ry odour, and with hand 
 Profusely bounteous strew them in the vale. 
 Or crown the mountain with their fragrant wreath. 
 Come not, as once I met thee, wrapt in clouds 
 Down-stooping awful, and with no vain tin'eat 
 Charg'd, when thy furious sulphur-breathing steeds, 
 By lightning lash'd, gallop'd with thund'ring hoofs 
 The hollow amphitheatre of heav'n, 
 Till ether roar'd above, and earth beneath
 
 124 THE FAVOURlTfi VUXAOE. 
 
 Quak'd at the hurry of thy sultry wheels. 
 
 Yet come not showerless, but let thy brief 
 
 And transitory cloud oft intercept 
 
 The glowing day-beam, and with silken sound 
 
 Dispense its gentle fertilizing dews 
 
 Upon the thankful champain. Thus refresh'd, 
 
 Earth shall the bridal suit of youth jnit on, 
 
 And hill and valley, in the various hues 
 
 Of mingled verdure dress'd, seem to the sight 
 
 A lovely paradise, where all is fresh, 
 
 All fair and flourishing, and nothing fear. 
 
 How elegant yon fur/.e-liill cloth'd in gold ! 
 Though distant, the soft undulating breeze. 
 
 That sweeps its flow'rs and after laves the cheek. 
 
 Bears to the nostril of its faint perfume 
 
 SufHcient to subdue and drowse the sense, 
 
 Nor make it wish for more. Behold at hand 
 
 Presage delightful of ilic bcauieous year; 
 
 The bud, no longer cautious, from the bougii 
 
 Dro|)s its small winter tunic, and beslrews 
 
 With tlaky sliowV the gravcll'd patJj bencatii. 
 
 Now sends the garden all its glories forlli.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 125 
 
 With many a nodding pyramid of flowers, 
 
 Or pale or purple-hued, her varnish'd leaf 
 
 The lilac decks. Laburnum at her side 
 
 Weeps gold, sweet mourner ! From behind uprears. 
 
 And tosses high in air her frothy globes. 
 
 Her unsubstantial roses, light as foam 
 
 Of new milk bubbling in the cow-herd's pail, 
 
 The beauteous guelder shrub. Along the wall 
 
 Displays the fruit-tree its superbest bloom. 
 
 The glorious show fond appetite surveys. 
 
 And dreams of special apricots unborn. 
 
 Of the fine-flavour'd nect'rine, juicy gage, 
 
 Cherry delicious, plum with purple coat, 
 
 Sweet pear and mellow apple, luscious fig, 
 
 And the well-relish'd orb of autumn peach. 
 
 Which almost melts or e'er it reach the lip. 
 
 Where'er the cherry spreads its flowery tufts, 
 'Tis pleasure to survey the snowy pomp, 
 And pause in contemplation of the hum 
 Of mingled bees industrious, that invade 
 And rifle in succession ev'ry flow'r : 
 Some large, and gifted with the voice profound
 
 126 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Of mellow bass, some with the loftier pipe 
 Of tenor soft, of small soprano some, 
 That fancy oft may deem she hears distinct 
 The sweet coincidence of fellow tones 
 Producing harmony's full chord divine. 
 Where the meek sycamore, of nothing vain, 
 Covers with foliage its depending flowers, 
 The same harmonious murmur shall be heard ; 
 Which feeds delay and gratifies repose 
 Beneath his singing bough, from earliest morn 
 To sultry noon, from noon to latest eve. 
 What wonder that the hind his evening tube 
 Of sweet Virginian fragrance at his door 
 Delights to kindle, if thy drowsy branch 
 His bench o'ershadow ? Luxury it is 
 Here to be stationary, or where'er 
 Around the honied foliage of the linie 
 The bee by day and chafer hums at eve, 
 Roaring profound and buzzing as it Mights 
 To sup upon the dewy fragrant leaf. 
 
 O lovely season ! vviien on ev'ry l)ougli 
 The recent equipage of beauty glows
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILL^^GE. 12"! 
 
 Divine, and even in the bush appears 
 Tlie manifested God. How sweet to sense, 
 How delicate the breeze that lades its wings 
 With odours from the hawthorn ! To the spot 
 Where dwells the sweet allurer, decking late 
 Her crowded foliage with abundant flow'rs, 
 Turns the fond eye to gaze, and, smit with love, 
 Marks here the swelling bough's expanded bloom. 
 And there a host of beauties yet unborn. 
 Globules unnumber'd the prolific branch 
 Besetting thick around, ere long to unfold 
 Their milky petals to th' enamour'd bee. 
 
 Hard by, another peerless beauty blooms. 
 Behold the blushing crab, and view elate 
 Her sanguine blossoms intermingled well 
 With crimson buds unblown, and her red arm. 
 To the less rubicund espalier's branch 
 Or maiden's orchard's bough of snow, prefer. 
 Such is the rural apple ; emblem fair 
 Of nature's sweet uneducated maid. 
 Whose glovving cheek, by city air unbleach'd, 
 The bloom of health and lovehness retains.
 
 128 THE FAVOURITt VIJXAGF.. 
 
 No lily fairer in attire, no rose 
 
 More delicately blushing, lo ! s|ie comes, 
 
 From the religious altar just dismissed 
 
 With finger conscious of the ring it wea^rs, 
 
 A bride consorted. Native modesty 
 
 Down weighs her drooping eyelid to the ground, 
 
 And rich confusion glows upon her check. 
 
 The village spinsters shower on her head 
 
 And strew before her the full lap of flowers, 
 
 Not without caution cull'd, lest aught unfair, 
 
 Offensive aught, or aught of jealous hue. 
 
 Or unprolific, ill express the hope 
 
 Of joy and peace and fertile days to come. 
 
 Say now, which most excels, the sanguine flower 
 
 Of the wild apple that adorns its bough, 
 
 Or glowing rose of her disorder'd cheek? 
 
 And say, on which vyould thy transported heart 
 
 Bestow ill preference the smile or ki^s ? 
 
 Now ev'ry feather'd tenant of tlie grove 
 Labours his sweetest song, studious to cheer 
 His busy mate, a pensive architect, 
 That builds the woven wonder of the nest,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 129 
 
 Laps in a gentle cradle lin'd with down 
 Her future brood, or vigilant expects 
 Day after day the pregnant egg to live, 
 And supplicate provision, not in vain. 
 Such care maternal needs the sweet relief 
 Of labour'd song, and sometimes, parent Sir, 
 The free assistance of a silent beak. 
 Enamour'd songsters, grateful is the task. 
 While you from ev'ry brake the rising orb 
 With sweet hosanna welcome, to admire 
 And mark the several energies, that fill 
 Your morning anthem of spontaneous praise. 
 The sparrow couple with industrious bill 
 The scatter'd straw collect, contriving snug 
 Under the cottage eave or low roof 'd barn 
 Their genial couch. More than mere chirpers now, 
 They watch the floating feather as it flies, 
 Eye-serve the goose for his superfluous down, 
 Or dressing fowl, or self-adorning drake. 
 And bear triumphant the loose spoil away. 
 Nor these alone are busy. Feathery pairs. 
 Innumerable as the kindling bud, 
 VOL, n. K
 
 130 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Of wedded cares partake, and build the nest. 
 And hopes divide, with constancy that shame 
 Man's brittle contract and inhnn regard. 
 Lo ! to the steeple with alternate wing 
 Bears expeditious his long twig the daw, 
 Nor seldom struggles with his awkward freight. 
 And drops it, startled by the hooting boy 
 That shouts beneath. The solitary dove. 
 Which loves the still dilapidated tower 
 Of desert castle, or the time-cleft arch 
 Of ancient chantry, whose unsheltered shafts 
 Ivy in pity clothes, and verdant moss 
 Crowns in respect his weather-beaten head, 
 With frequent wing alighting in the field 
 Bears the loose stubbie thence, and builds on high 
 Her bed unseen, beyond the ])ilfiTCi's reach. 
 His airy nnrs'iy in the neiglib'ring elm 
 Constructs the social rook, and makes the grove 
 That girds the crumbling edifice around, 
 And ev'ry aiigk' of its ruin'd pile, 
 V\'ith the bass note of his harsh love resound. 
 Tell nie, philosopher, in what sage school
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 131 
 
 Of perfect wisdom were the feathery folk 
 Taught to diversify and labour each 
 The several nest of his peculiar race ? 
 Where learn'd the sloven sparrow, little wise 
 Or little studious to excel, his art 
 Inferior, the maternal cell to thatch ? 
 Whence drew the marten his superior skill 
 To knead and temper, mason-like, the slime 
 Of street or stagnant pool, and build aloft 
 Beneath the cornice brink or shady porch 
 His snug depending couch, on nothing hung, 
 Founded in air, and finish'd with a neat 
 Convenient aperture, from whence he bolts 
 Sudden, and whither brisk returns, with mouth 
 Fill'd for his hiant offspring ? Whence receiv'd 
 The daw his lesson, or the rook, the one 
 Within the lonely unfrequented tower 
 Weaving his basket of unnumber'd twigs, 
 The other on the topmost elm sublime 
 His wicker cradle fixing, to be rock'd 
 By the rude nurse adversity's strong gale ? 
 Whence knew the sprightly golden-pin i on' d finch,
 
 1S2 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Of ruddy countenance, and ivory beak. 
 And coat of sleekest umber, his fond art 
 To line with locks and pave with neatest love 
 The verdant nest of interwoven moss, 
 Fast to the blushing apple's forked branch 
 Amid the blossoms of the codlin tied ? 
 Thou prying school-boy, spare the neat design. 
 And think of Him whose all- protecting hand 
 Secretes the nestling with innumerous leaves, 
 And with abundant foliage makes obscure. 
 And to the sight impervious, branches erst 
 Easily pierc'd, or by the solar ray, 
 Or beam of human eye, or arrowy gale, 
 Dark and impenetrable now to all. 
 Think of His mercy that protects the nest ; 
 And, kind to all, with more especial love 
 The linnet spare and finch of crimson face, 
 That twitter each the none-offending song 
 Of quiet prettiness, and pluck the down 
 Of the prolific thistle for their bread. 
 Not to destroy be earnest, but to save. 
 Gentle thy heart, till it observe ill-plc.isM
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 133 
 
 Yon feathery spoils of the sweet songster slain, 
 And in the warm and sunny nook devour'd 
 By the swift falcon. Let thy curse reproye 
 The tyrant soaring in the clouds above 
 (An emblem apt of thy severer self) 
 With gyrous scrutiny the furze-clad hill 
 Closely surveying as he winds along, 
 Or in mid ether hovering, till his eye 
 Some fascinated warbler fix below, 
 And he to seize him from his airy watch 
 Drop sudden, and not always drop in vain. 
 
 What time the sun has from the west withdrawn 
 The various hues that grac'd his cloudy fall 
 When the recumbent ruminating fold 
 Greets with peculiar odour the fond sense 
 Of the lone wand'rer when the recent leaf 
 Of clover 'gins to sleep, and, white with dew, 
 Closes its tender triple-finger'd palm 
 Till morning dawn afresh when the moon wears 
 Nor hood nor veil, nor looks with cold regard 
 Through the fine lawn of intervening cloud. 
 But lifts a fair round visage o'er the vale,
 
 134 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 And smiles affection wiiich no bard can paint, 
 No painter with poetic pencil sing- 
 When the dark cloud that couches in the west 
 Seems to imbibe the last pale beam of eve, 
 Absorbing in its dun and gloomy folds 
 The feeble residue of dying day 
 Is it not pleasure, with unbended mind 
 To muse within or meditate abroad, 
 While either hand in the warm bosom sleeps. 
 And either foot falls feebly on the floor. 
 Or shaven sward, or stone that paves the path 
 Of village footway winding to the church ? 
 'Twere passing pleasure, if to man alone 
 That hour were grateful : but with like desire 
 The dusky holiday of thick'ning night 
 Enjoys the chuckling partridge, the still mouse. 
 The rabbit foraging, the feeding hare, 
 The nightingale that warbles from the thorn. 
 And twilight-loving solitary' owl, 
 That skims the meadow, hovers, drops, her prey 
 Seizes, and screeching to her tower returns, 
 Jier woollv little ones there hiss on high,
 
 THE TAVOURITE VILLAGE. 1 S5 
 
 And there who will may seek them, but who dares 
 
 Must 'bide the keen magnanimous rebuff 
 
 Of irritated love, and quick descend, 
 
 By the maternal talon not in vain 
 
 Insulted, baffled, scar'd, and put to flight. 
 
 'Tis pleasant in this peaceful serious hour 
 
 To tread the silent sward that wraps the dead, 
 
 Once our companions in the cheerful walks 
 
 Of acceptable life, the same ere long 
 
 In the dark chambers of profound repose. 
 
 All have their kindred here, and I have mine. 
 
 Yes, my sweet Isabel, and I have mine. 
 
 To die what is it but to sleep and sleep, 
 
 Nor feel the weariness of dark delay 
 
 Through the long night of time, and nothing know 
 
 Of intervening centuries elaps'd. 
 
 When thy sweet morn. Eternity, begins ? 
 
 Or else what is it but a welcome change 
 
 From worse to better, from a world of pain 
 
 To one where flesh at least can nothing feel. 
 
 And pain and pleasure have no equal sway ? 
 
 What is it but to meet ten thousand friends,
 
 136 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Whose earthly race was finishM ere our own. 
 
 And be well welcome, where the timorous foot 
 
 Fear'tl to intrude, and whence no foot returns ? 
 
 To me what were it but the happier lot 
 
 To find my long-lost Isabel, and shed 
 
 (If tears of joy are shed where tears of grief 
 
 Fall never, and immortal angels weep 
 
 At bliss excessive) joy's profusest show'r : 
 
 To tell her what was felt, and what was sung, 
 
 When cruel death unsparing from my sight 
 
 riuck'd her away, and wafted her pure spirit 
 
 Whither no soul could tell ? But hush ! my heart, 
 
 Lest sorrow burst her cicatrice anew. 
 
 And painful thought, which saddens my slow step, 
 
 Disperse ti)C pleasures of this tranquil hour. 
 
 Place of my birth, how many are the sounds. 
 Which, peaceful as thou art, thy vernal morn, 
 Krc yet I rise, improve ! Loud lows the calf, 
 Loud bleats the lamb, and the responsive cock 
 His kind atleiuions with transition quick 
 Duly performs his open -throated squall, 
 That bids his wives and little-ones beware,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 1 31 
 
 Oft as the falcon or the dove appears 
 His chuckle of affection to his dames 
 The shuffle of his wing, on this side now. 
 Now exercis'd on that, with low-bow'd head. 
 And eye attentive to the fair he courts~- 
 His croak of sage composure ^his brisk call. 
 That summons to the huswife's scatter'd grain 
 His sympathizing clamour o'er the nest 
 His loud what what of wonder and his shrill 
 Far-sounding challenge to his distant peer. 
 His feather'd concubine, meantime, aloud 
 Prates as she passes, or with silly pride 
 Citckles incontinent of new-laid eggs. 
 The sea-mew cries aloft with mingled tone ; 
 And, plausible and silver-tongued, below 
 The drake his chattering seraglio leads 
 At the near pool to bathe. Anon is heard 
 The turkey gabbling at the whistler boy 
 With hollow throat profound, as 'mid his dames 
 He struts with swelling plumes, erected fan. 
 Low-curtsied wing, and countenance inflam'd. 
 The croaking raven his profourider note,
 
 1 58 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Seated aioft upon the bending elm, 
 Harshly pronounces, or his sable mate 
 Hails as she soars on high with tenor soft. 
 Expressing well esteem and manly love. 
 How pleasant is it, as the break of day 
 Dawns, and the mountains lift their glowing heads 
 Into the golden sun-beam, to be rous'd 
 By the faint tinkling of the farmer's team, 
 His bells of ev'ry tone, a mingled peal 
 Remote and indistinct ! Swell'd by approach 
 They jingle loud, and louder as they pass. 
 Then softly sing again, and die away. 
 
 The voluntary toils of morning past, 
 How pleasant to allow the studious mind 
 Convenient pause, and, ev'ry thought dismiss'd. 
 To ramble heedless o'er the bleating down, 
 'Mid thousand thousand children of the flock 
 Yet from the dam unwean'd, and flowery tufts 
 Ten thousand thousand of rich furze, erewhile 
 By the fast fleecy nibbler neatly trimm'd, 
 And decorated now in robe superb, 
 Wrapping its branches in a blaze of gold,
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 1 39 
 
 As if the Deity himself were there. 
 Be this my Horeb, often as mine eye, 
 Fatigued with poring o'er the page divine, 
 Thirsts for the sweet amusements of the hill ; 
 Thirsts to survey the clear unbillowy deep, 
 Which lifts the distant vessel into heaven, 
 And the green vale, that, various in its hues. 
 E'en to the pebbly verge of the blue flood 
 Its cattle-sprent enclosures neatly spreads. 
 How delicate to bask upon the brink 
 Of yon high cliff, which overlooks the broad 
 And boundless ocean, at what time becalm'd 
 The war-ship near at hand with flaccid sail 
 Upon the polish'd bosom of the flood 
 Lies motionless ! How pleasant, while the sun 
 Upon the foster'd shoulder tepid plays. 
 Inducing lassitude and faint repose. 
 To plant the telescope, and view distinct. 
 Submitted to the clear and curious eye, 
 The thunder-laden monster ! Passing thence, 
 How sweet to cull from the meridian bank, 
 Which underlies the wood-invested hill,
 
 140 THE FAVOURITE VILLAOE. 
 
 The recent, vigorous, protected flower 
 Of cowslip, harebell, violet, or rose 
 Of prime peculiar, and with full-fiU'd hand 
 To steal upon the nightingale unseen. 
 Where'er she sings, invisible as wont, 
 And marvel at the wonder-working God, 
 Who in the compass of her slender breast 
 Such sweet exuberance of music lodg'd ; 
 Such melody of loveliest plaintive power, 
 Whatever mood she choose, whether to weep 
 In feeble lone acute, or trill profound 
 Song self-consoling, or jug sweet content. 
 Or by ten thousand varied notes express 
 Liquid complacency and melting love ! 
 
 No longer now stand dozing in the close 
 Or ruminate recumbent, tlie sad herd, 
 But scatter'd wide upon the pastur'd hill. 
 Meadow, and marsh, {people the rural scene. 
 And add new beauty wheresoe'er they graze. 
 Among them skips and races the wild calf, 
 And colt ingenuous, daring gentle touch, 
 And nothing conscious of his future toils.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 1 41 
 
 No grazer he, nor useful servant yet, 
 To help the team along, or bear his lord, 
 But time finds much to play, to frisk, to bound, 
 And gallop o'er the field, or idly bask 
 Stretch'd at his ease in the meridian beam. 
 How pleasant now upon the village stile 
 To rest well wearied, while the jovial boy, 
 From school dismiss'd, upon the sunny green 
 Pitches his wicket, a stone-steadied hat. 
 And bowls exulting ! Of encumbrance stript. 
 He for his maiden visage nothing fears. 
 But to the scorching day-beam, unconcern'd. 
 His cheek and bosom bares, nor aught regards 
 The freckled aspect, or the sun-burnt skin. 
 Piece of the nether millstone is his heart 
 Who marks ill-pleas'd the frolic of the child, 
 Or views the rural festival unmovM. 
 Me it delights to overhear the dance 
 Upon the winnow*d floor of the void grange, 
 To pause at hand, and listen to the sound 
 Of the brisk viol challenging the foot. 
 And of the foot respondent, and to sec
 
 142 THE rAVOURTTE VILLAGE, 
 
 The village maid and village hind alert 
 
 Pacing die giddy labyrinth of joy, 
 
 Each in the trim of holiday attir'd. 
 
 Nor pleases not, upon the social green, 
 
 The game laborious of the manly ball 
 
 AimM at the wicket, and its taper shanks 
 
 Levelling certain, but for hindrance quick 
 
 And resolute repulse of the strong blow. 
 
 That sends it thunder-struck aloft in air. 
 
 Or o'er the plain rebounding. Thou hast cliarms. 
 
 Rural festivity, not soon surpassed. 
 
 Compare thee, as we may, with sport polite. 
 
 The neat amusement fashion qualifies, 
 
 Till nice refinement sits without disdain 
 
 Spectatress of the scene. Never more keen 
 
 Their liveliest ecstasy, than when, for health 
 
 To George restored, illumination's lamp 
 
 Was freely kindled, and the rural throng 
 
 From ev'ry door convened, along the street 
 
 Mingled in loyalty's triumphant maze. 
 
 Then pipe and viol felt alone fatigue. 
 
 While, nothing wearied, they with foot alert
 
 THE PAVOURITE VILLAGE. 145 
 
 The blazing window's artificial day 
 Down danc'd, the fretted cupola of heaven 
 Their spacious ball-room, their assembler God. 
 
 'Tis sport itself to see the cheerful lamb 
 Skip in the field, and lead the wanton race 
 In the soft sunshine of departing day. 
 'Tis pleasure to survey the couching flock 
 When ev'ry mother ruminates apart. 
 Recumbent in the dusk, and ev'ry son, 
 Sportful no longer, and his bleating hush'd. 
 Reclines expectant of the dewy night 
 Fast by his chewing dam. And pleasure 'tis 
 To see the gracious moon prevail aloft, 
 While the nocturnal curlew greets the ear 
 With sweet contented pipe, foreboding calm. 
 
 What transport is it, when awaking day 
 Its rosy eyelid lifts to hear the sound 
 Of mower whetting his neglected scythe, 
 To hear his wide and double-handed sweep 
 Shear the reluctant herbage from the field. 
 Disposing well in swath succeeding swath 
 The fragrant burden, which his dewy blade
 
 144 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Severs M'ith ease and repetition keen 
 
 From the luxuriant mead ! How neat appears. 
 
 Shorn of its beard promiss, the tender sward ! 
 
 How sweet the bean-field now, in blossoms clothed. 
 
 With, here and there, a well-supported stem 
 
 Of pea that overtops the scene, and waves 
 
 The healtliy banner of its crimson flower 
 
 High in the liberal air ; with royal ease, 
 
 And condescension graceful, to the gale 
 
 Still bowing. The spent orchard's bough its bloom 
 
 Retains no longer. Ravish'd by the breeze, 
 
 Its drifted petal mounts and floats on high, 
 
 Or on the musing poet softly sheds 
 
 The grateful show'r of spring's peculiar snow ; 
 
 As, thoughtful, he surveys and strives to paint 
 
 Earth green beneath, and ether blue above. 
 
 And the progressive cloud that creeps between. 
 
 Trailing its fleece, to niveous fairness bleach'd, 
 
 'Cross the cerulean temple, the clear dome 
 
 Of heaven sublime ; where sits enthron'd on high 
 
 The worshipp'd Godhead, while all nations meet 
 
 And thinly people the vast aisle bolow.
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 145 
 
 How sweet the pleasure when the muffled orb 
 Unseen has journey'd all the livelong day, 
 And only here and there by chance displayed 
 A sloping sidelong beam, to see it sink 
 Into a clear horizon to observe 
 The cloud-skirt far inflam'd, till its bright disc, 
 At length apparent, swells into a drop 
 Of purest bullion, cooling ere it falls ! 
 Lo ! now, a globe complete, the crimson ball, 
 Shorn of its lustre, of the shadowy earth 
 Takes its last farewell. The marsh-loving gnat 
 Swarms in its mellow mitigated ray 
 Along the stagnant dyke, or bank of Ouse 
 Slow moving seaward, or more speedy brook, 
 Or dances o'er the maid who singing fills 
 Her brimmer pail from the cud-chewing cow, 
 Or o'er the musing loiterer aloft 
 Hums insignificant. Now with slow step 
 Long let me ramble in the fragrant shade 
 Of the dark winding lane, whose powder'd thorn 
 On either hand the hollow shadow'd way 
 
 VOL. 11. L
 
 I4fl THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 Borders impenetrable, save where gate, 
 
 Rude stile, or ill-heaPd gap, a transient glimpse 
 
 Yield of sweet landscape, village church and farm, 
 
 Or cottage snug beneath o'erhanging elms. 
 
 Or distant hill, or wood, or watery vale. 
 
 Or by the wood-side patient let me stand 
 
 While the mild orb of tranquil eve departs. 
 
 What time the moon, ascending as he sinks, 
 
 With aspect swoln and sickly scarce appears 
 
 In the dun-belted east, to hear the song 
 
 Of sylvan choristers, hosanna sweet, 
 
 Sweet hallelujah, to the King of kings 
 
 With free voice chanting. Above all delights 
 
 The wood-lark echoing, the nightingale 
 
 Gracing with plaintive pause her various strain, 
 
 Tlie wild dove cooing diapason soft. 
 
 Language of love with elegance expressed. 
 
 And ouzle fluting with melodious pipe. 
 
 Deem not tliey praise the Deity amiss. 
 
 Pleas'd he their evening sacrifice accepts, 
 
 Thanksgiving pure, nor scorns it that it flows
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 147 
 
 From hearts which know him not. Lo ! as they sing, 
 
 With grace and beauty kindles the pale cheek 
 
 Of his wan minister the orb of night ; 
 
 The smile of pleasure glows upon her brow ; 
 
 She thanks them. Down the village path, releasM 
 
 And pleas'd, I saunter homeward, and the hind 
 
 From distant toil returning pass rever'd ; 
 
 Or cross the fresh green field to see the herd 
 
 Or weary team, dismiss'd, with eager mouths 
 
 Crop the young herbage ; or attend the sound 
 
 Of village children playful, and the tone 
 
 Of pipe or viol, clumsily produc'd 
 
 By the mde finger of the self-taught clown. 
 
 To-morrow, with the bee of humble fame, 
 I rise to sing and trace the field anew. 
 He, ever busy, still from flow'r to flow'r, 
 Stooping their limber stems, the livelong day 
 Travels with audible melodious hum. 
 Though in ten thousand cells of varied shape 
 Her precious balm ingenious nature hides. 
 He knows them all, and readily unlocks
 
 148 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 
 
 The labiate blossom's close elastic lip, 
 To steal the dear ambrosia from within. 
 But why, sweet traveller, whose eager lip 
 Delights to visit the bloom-sprinkled branch, 
 And leave a kiss upon its ev'ry flower, 
 Why scorns it to salute the beauteous rose. 
 And greets his sweet bud never ? Partial bird, 
 Has May alone thy love ? and spreads in vain 
 June the sweet treasures of her flowery lap ? 
 Why else untouched upon its thorny stem 
 Hangs the pale rose unfolding, and the red ? 
 These I contemn not, every bud that blows 
 Visiting daily with a bee's desire, 
 And serenading with impartial praise. 
 Musical wanderer, where'er thou stray'st, 
 How well does thy free toil resemble mine ! 
 From flow'r to flow'r with unabated thirst 
 So roam 1 sedulous, hum as I pass, 
 And bear mellifluous treasure to my cell, 
 Song dropping honey, verse distilling balm. 
 Now still night silences both thee and me ;
 
 THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE. 149 
 
 And pleas'd that I have sung, place of my birth, 
 Thy pleasures multifarious, pass the sun 
 Through what fair sign it will, I drop the wing, 
 Hie to my grounded nest, and sing no more.
 
 THE 
 
 RELAPSE.
 
 ^'.
 
 THE 
 
 RELAPSE. 
 
 * What do we live for, but to serve mankind, 
 
 And win a way into the Heav'n of Heav'ns 
 
 By being gods below ?' I said, and rose, 
 
 I threw my crazy lyre in haste aside, 
 
 And vow'd I would attempt some nobler task, 
 
 And be no more a trifler. I would die 
 
 More than a tinkling poet, measure mad ; 
 
 The world should owe me something. I would give 
 
 An hour to pleasure, and a year to use. 
 
 But, false to mine own purpose, like a child 
 
 I trifle still, and once again begin. 
 
 Thou little warbling poet of the wood, 
 Leading performer in the sylvan choir. 
 Sweet Philomel, whose heav'nly-temper'd song,
 
 154 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 By day and night, my list'ning ear approves, 
 
 Whether in darkness or the moon-beam heard, 
 
 Or ev'ning's dying light, or indistinct 
 
 In morning's loud and universal song. 
 
 Thou art my tempter. Led astray by thee, 
 
 I leave my books and ramble, take my lyre 
 
 And vainly sing. To see the world so gay. 
 
 And Nature putting on her summer robe, 
 
 Disposes me to joy, as well as thee. 
 
 Sing we together ; not for victory. 
 
 For I have not ambition to overcome 
 
 And triumph, like the bard, on whose sweet lyre 
 
 Thy conquer'd brother fell, and died for grief. 
 
 I own thy song is not to be surpass'd. 
 
 Sing we together. Thou shalt be the chief, 
 
 And be my song like thine, to critic rules 
 
 Never obedient, warbled as I please. 
 
 Fancy and nature shall dance hand in hand, 
 
 While we our plaintive numbers, wild and sweet, 
 
 Irregularly sing. And let us smile 
 
 To see the world, as we indulge our mood, 
 
 Seem all in motion as if Orpheus sung.
 
 THE RELAPSE. ^55 
 
 To see the clouds of April float away, 
 Superbly mountainous, before the breeze, 
 And hang upon the horizon's utmost skirt, 
 Bright and voluminous. To see the skies. 
 Clad in pure azure, on the field and wood 
 Shed their warm influence, and apparel both 
 In recent liveries of shadowy green. 
 To see the garden send his glories forth. 
 The cherry and the pear-tree white with bloom. 
 The codling blushing with his load of flow'rs 
 Scarce yet unfolded to the searching bee ; 
 The border gaily deck'd in various hues. 
 Anemone and tulip. To behold 
 Laughter and beauty upon ev'ry bank, 
 In ev'ry meadow, and on ev'ry hill. 
 Who can be grave and comment upon words, 
 And give to dry research the cloudless May ? 
 Toiling philologer, abate thy zeal j 
 Presuming critic, throw aside thy books : 
 Be wise, and taste, while yet life's taper burns, 
 The harmless pleasures of the world we own. 
 Ye great and rich, where are ye ? See ye not
 
 156 THE RELAPSE 
 
 How beauty decks your villas ? Ah ! ye sleep 
 
 In streets and squares, where nature never smiles. 
 
 Leave, leave your capital and come away. 
 
 Why will ye lose a season sweet like this ? 
 
 Drink with me at the fountain of delight, 
 
 Nor deem me prejudiced and wanting taste. 
 
 If, unseduc'd, I love the country still. 
 
 And never quit it to be gay like you. 
 
 I thank my God he made me as I am. 
 
 And gave me not ambition to aspire 
 
 To more than rural honours. I was bom 
 
 Never to vote upon the grand debate, 
 
 A widow's only son, a maie-less boy. 
 
 Almost the eldest of a train of seven ; 
 
 Yon merry-hearted girl, scarce woman yet. 
 
 The youngest. Yes, yon merry-hearted girl. 
 
 For ever laughing, and her jest still good ; 
 
 Born on tlie day which saw her fatlier die : 
 
 Who, ever as I write, is with me still, 
 
 Tho' leagues remote, and floats across my mind, 
 
 Acting her thousand fancies, while I steal. 
 
 To decorate some passage of my song.
 
 THE RELAI'SE. 157 
 
 More than I dare acknowledge : she, who fills, 
 And wisely fills, the choicest hours of life 
 With hearty merriment, nor ever weeps. 
 Save when she welcomes her returning friend, 
 Or sees him with reluctance steal away ; 
 Or save when she reflects on time elaps'd, 
 And grieves to think how many years are fled, 
 And she and excellence have never met ; 
 Like the great hero, deeming nothing done 
 While aught remains to be with pain achiev'd, 
 Proceed, inquisitive and curious soul, 
 Nor think that excellence was ever found 
 Save in his works where thine attentive eye 
 Delights to read it. Follow nature still. 
 Find something lovely in the meanest flower, 
 And fill thy hand, and satisfy thy heart, 
 With all the graces of the field and grove. 
 I can admire them too ; and I could tell. 
 Might I the secret sentiment disclose 
 Which twines about my heart, that in no field 
 Blossoms a flower more lovely than thyself. 
 The last of seven was she ; almost the first
 
 158 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 This scribbling trifler whom I call myself; 
 
 A silent, shame-fac'd, hesitating boy, 
 
 Left on yon desert mountain, yet a child. 
 
 And there had he still dwelt, untaught and rude, 
 
 A clown at best, had not that Providence 
 
 Which took away his father sent him friends. 
 
 Methinks I see the Idler ill improv'd, 
 
 Trifling away the precious hours of youth 
 
 In saunt'ring ignorance ; his whole employ 
 
 To ramble on the hill, or bowl the flint 
 
 Down the reclining steep into the vale ; 
 
 To wander on the beach, and see the waves, 
 
 In flouncing grandeur, tumble on the shore ; 
 
 Climb the rude clifi^, and look abroad elate, 
 
 Or point the gun at the ascending mew. 
 
 Above the precipice's jutting edge 
 
 With her wide wings appearing, to be maiui'd 
 
 By wanton cruelty that eats her not. 
 
 Perhaps he had been now an awkward boor. 
 
 Steering the plough, or goading the slow team 
 
 Along the mountain side ; or partisan 
 
 In yon vile borough ; of whose menial ways,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 159 
 
 Oft as he thinks, he burns, from head to foot, 
 Unspeakable disgust. 
 
 He oft had seen, 
 While yet an infant, the embattled port, 
 Beheld her fleet, her iron walls perus'd, 
 And on her lofty rampart stood elate, 
 To see the battle-ship with bellying saiisi, 
 Fresh from the dock, come like a giant forth, 
 And leave the haven for some grand exploit 
 To be remember'd to the end of time. 
 In silent ecstasy he saw her pass. 
 Heavily pass upon the flOod below. 
 With thunder laden, till her draught was deep; 
 Observ'd her ardent multitude of souls 
 Swarming like bees upon her deck ; her guns 
 In threat' ning order at their gloomy ports 
 Stand ready for assault. But all that joy 
 Was little to the transports he then felt, 
 When, turning tri the deep, she hail'd her chief, 
 And flash'd from tier to tier her proud salute. 
 He almost danc'd to see the ruddy flame 
 Lighten alternately from side to side,
 
 160 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 To sec the tardy nitrous smoke ascend 
 In glorious volumes, and to feel the earth 
 Quake at the thunder of her deep address. 
 Under the flatt'ring prospects we adore 
 There often lurks a danger not perceiv'd ; 
 And were we never thwarted in our course, 
 Salvation must miscarry. Mercy, then, 
 Is the foundation and eflfectual spring 
 Of all events which seem the work of chance. 
 The man repuL'd, is but the child refus'd 
 The dangerous weapon which may wound himself. 
 Then, Curate, be contented. Preach and pray ; 
 Nor ever grieve that Fashion, too severe. 
 Muzzles the ox that treaderh out the corn. 
 FashwHy blind authoress of great abuse. 
 That starves the curate down to forty pounds, 
 Carpenter's wages * ; and anon in terms 
 Of loud invective rails against the Church, 
 
 * This degrading comparison might be correct, perhaps, when our 
 author wrote ; but, at the present day, there is scarcely any occupation, 
 however mean or servile, that does not procure for its followers a larger 
 income. publish eb.
 
 THE RELAPSE. 161 
 
 For Owning sons of ignorance and vice. 
 Who is to blame ? The needy Curate ? No. 
 How can he purchase knowledge ? He must live. 
 What can he learn then ? Kennicott alone 
 Would cost him eight weeks pay. What wonder, then. 
 He drops his learning, and becomes a dunce ? 
 He gossips all day long, from house to house, 
 Dines where he can, and cares not where he dines, 
 Forsakes divinity, and is at best 
 A walking colander, for news and wine ; 
 A travelling post who seldom sleeps at home, 
 Returning to his lodgings once a week, 
 Duly apparent with the Sunday sun^ 
 And with the Sunday sun again withdrawn. 
 Perhaps if in some lonely village plac'd, 
 Remote from balls, assemblies, cards, and routs, 
 He hires a farm, and with amazing zeal 
 Preaches one day in seven, and ploughs the rest. 
 Who blames him ? Destitute of pence and books, 
 How can he study ? To be misemploy'd 
 Becomes him better than to lounge abroad, 
 In yawning idleness, the source of vice, 
 VOL. IL M
 
 162 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 Which like a bur to ev'ry idler's coat 
 Closely adheres, and on the sable clerk 
 Is doubly visible. 
 
 But sable clerk 
 Perhaps he is not. He has found it cheap 
 To shine in colours, and denies his back 
 Its ancient honours to improve his bread. 
 Behold him clad in buck-skin. Blame him not, 
 His salary is fifty pounds a year. 
 He keeps a horse, to skip from cure to cure, 
 Combs him himself, and puzzles his own locks. 
 Yet all is scarce enough to keep him clear 
 From hungry creditors, howe'er he acts 
 The menial spunger for his daily bread. 
 What wonder then the Curate is despis'd, 
 And not regarded, preach what text he may ? 
 'Tis independence consecrates the priest, 
 And makes him awrful in the vulgar eye, 
 More than a world of learning. Who wants bread, 
 And grows familiar with the meanest clown 
 To be invited to his homely board, 
 Will want authority to humble vice,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 163 
 
 Encourage virtue, and enforce his word, 
 The' he preach Tillotson. Nay more, will want 
 That thing more prevalent on vulgar minds 
 Than all the printed sermons he can preach, 
 A good example. For the clerk is man, 
 Tho' an Apostle ; and if man with man 
 Promiscuously associates, man from man 
 Will catch infection, and contract disease. 
 Till one offensive plague involves them all. 
 Then give the labourer his proper hire ; 
 Make him respectable, and let him feed 
 As largely as he ought of lib'ral tithe, 
 Paid for the service which his hand performs. 
 Encourage him to learn, and give him means : 
 Put clogs on ignorance, and trammel vice. 
 Shepherd of God, thou president of flocks, 
 Look to the vineyard door. Beware the wolf, 
 And let none pass till thou hast search'd him well^ 
 Examine his credentials and himself, 
 And know him worthy. If the dunce appear, 
 Or man of worldly morals, shut the gate ; 
 Nor let the tongue of slander dare to say. 
 We take recruits, to make the corps complete,
 
 H4 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 From the vile refuse of all trades that are. 
 Let not the dissolute unletter'd boy, 
 Deserted from the counter or the plough, 
 Tradesman, or soldier, or attorney's clerk. 
 Meet with a last asylum in the desk. 
 
 If such succeed, well may yon vain divine, 
 Yon carving doctor with his a, b, c, 
 De grege porcuSy lustily presume 
 To sound the trumpet of abundant aid ; 
 Aid wanted, and, if decently applied, 
 Aid not to be refus'd. For how shall he. 
 Who spent in idleness his youth, and knows 
 As little of the Bible as the Koran, 
 Preach as he ought ? Where nothing is within. 
 Is it not plain without a diagram 
 That nothing can come out ? Give the poor fool 
 A good discourse, no matter whence it came. 
 Let it be any writer's, not his own, 
 His flock shall profit, and himself improve. 
 Should he l)ecome a scribbler, and obey 
 The doctrine of yon hurdy-gurdy knight. 
 Prolix biographer, whose motley tale 
 Stains the good character he meant to praise,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 165 
 
 He will be dull, and may perhaps be wrong. 
 
 Blind guides must lead amiss, or condescend 
 
 To be themselves directed. He who thinks 
 
 Sudden transition to a sable suit, 
 
 Commission granted to go forth and preach, 
 
 A church obtain'd, and holy looks put on, 
 
 Enough to constitute the good divine, 
 
 And meet instructor of a christian ilock, 
 
 Thinks much amiss. Let the close-reading boy 
 
 Fix his attention on this book alone, 
 
 This great foundation of the faith we preach. 
 
 And search no other, from the earliest days 
 
 Of lisping childhood, till sufficient age 
 
 Makes him a priest, yet shall he scarce have learn'd 
 
 Enough to fit him for the dang'rous task 
 
 Of playing the Apostle withoui: stilts. 
 
 How shall he preach then with the skill he ought. 
 
 Who serves no long apprenticeship to learn, 
 
 But like the sudden bubble of the pool 
 
 Springs up at once, and comments upon texts 
 
 Drawn from a volume which he never read ? 
 
 Should we not laugh to see a bungHng clown
 
 166 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 Assume the grave physician, play the judge, 
 
 The surgeon, or the painter, and pretend 
 
 To give lis lectures upon wand'ring stars, 
 
 And virtual properties in all we see ? 
 
 And is divinity an art so poor. 
 
 It may be fathom'd with an inch of line, 
 
 It may be borrow'd at a moment's glance. 
 
 And practised with applause ? Read, and read on. 
 
 That God who fram'd the Bible, fram'd the world ; 
 
 And he has wrapp'd in both a thousand truths, 
 
 Which none but the researching eye shall see ; 
 
 And there are some perhaps wliich utmost zeal, 
 
 Divine or philosophic, shall not reach 
 
 And happily explain. For we are blind : 
 
 Yet have we feeble eyes, and if we please 
 
 May sec a little, and be learning still. 
 
 There is no region on the earth we tread, 
 
 Nor section of this Volume old or new. 
 
 So closely travelPd and so well observed, 
 
 But he who journeys may still bring us home 
 
 Recent discovery. Then search it well. 
 
 Nor dare to preach till thou hast coolly scan'd
 
 THE RELAPSE. 167 
 
 These fertile pages for the words of truth. 
 
 Booted Apostle, lay aside thy whip, 
 
 Thy trav'ling trunk, thy fiddle, flute, and gun, 
 
 Forego the feast, the horse-race, and the rout. 
 
 Read less thy cards, and study more thy books. 
 
 Where is thy ancient glorious panoply ? 
 
 In exemplary virtue clothe thy breast. 
 
 Be girt with truth, and let the shield of faith 
 
 Blaze on thine arm. Take thy tremendous svt\)vdij 
 
 Thy spear invincible, the word of God, 
 
 And issue forth to war. Fight, and be brave. 
 
 Ah me ! thine armour is laid by and lost ; 
 
 Thy slighted breastplate is consum'd with rust ; 
 
 Thy girdle is decay 'd ; and thy weak arm. 
 
 Enervated with long inglorious ease, 
 
 Can scarce uphold the shield, or draw the sword, 
 
 Or lift the pond' reus spear. For shame ! for shame ! 
 
 Enough of curates, a prolific theme, 
 But theme unsavory to idle clerks. 
 Who will not work, and therefore should not eat. 
 Proceed our childish and vainglorious tale. 
 Of one who grew upon the mountain's brow
 
 168 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 A shamefac'd boy, and was transported thence 
 
 Into the woody valley, to become 
 
 A poor Apostle in a country church. 
 
 Though poor, yet vain, and of his function proud, 
 
 Esteeming none more worthy. See him now 
 
 A scribbler and a poet ; not from want. 
 
 Not for the empty bubble of renown, 
 
 Bu t sJ( -A'-^itk^ment and the hope of good. 
 
 He valces little what the world may say, 
 
 Careless of fame and universal praise. 
 
 Careless of censure, coveting alone 
 
 The approbation of himself and Hcav'n, 
 
 Who buys him, does him kindness and is tliank'd. 
 
 He might h:ive pnrchas'd a less worthy bard : 
 
 For nine in ten are pleasure's ministers, 
 
 Plavingthe prostitute for daily bread. 
 
 Whence comes it. Genius, that thy glowing thought, 
 
 Which flics the page and burns along the line, 
 
 So oft misleads us, like the wand'ring light 
 
 Seen by the midnight vagiant, to the fen 
 
 Unfaithful to the foot, or river's brink 
 
 Which overhimgs a deep and silent flood,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 169 
 
 Where he that plunges is for ever lost ? 
 O shame ! to act the strumpet with an art 
 Which God's own messengers have prov'd divine ! 
 Soon as the holy Seer receiv'd the word 
 He was a poet, and in ardent style 
 And lofty numbers pour'd his message forth. 
 The Prophets and Apostles were all bards, 
 And fill'd the holy page with thought so great, 
 That he who construes is with phrensy seiz'd, 
 And the magnificent command he reads 
 Propounds in language as sublime as theirs. 
 So find we God in our own native tongue 
 Array 'd in grandeur, and may deem this Book, 
 This ancient version, painfully obtain'd, 
 The lesser light of Heav'n, the full-orbM moon, 
 Which in the absence of the parent San 
 Shines with no feeble glory. Nor alone 
 Made God his Prophets bards. His only Son 
 In sweet poetic lesson taught the world ; 
 Now breathing mercy and eternal love 
 In melting parable ; denouncing now 
 Terrible vengeance and consuming wrath
 
 170 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 In lofty prophecy. Yea, God himself 
 Despises not to use the Poet's art. 
 For what is all the springing scene we see 
 But heav'nly poetry, enchanting ode, 
 Fresh from the hand of God ? What are the Heav'ns, 
 And those revolving fires, but living song 
 Which God's own finger wrote ? Then let that art 
 Which Heav'n so freely owns be sacred here, 
 And make it not the vehicle of vice, 
 But chaste improvement. Innocent at least 
 Be all thy song ; and if thy wit be poor, 
 And cannot please without obscene alhision. 
 Sing not at all. For me, if to live long 
 To be esteem'd, and honour'd, I must write 
 The fulsome tale unworthy to be read, 
 I dare to perish ; and will only live 
 While truth and virtue can the line embahi). 
 Nor shall my Muse turn sycophant to win 
 A wish'd-for Patron ; steadfastly rcsolv'd 
 To buy promotion with not pence nor praise. 
 True, she has need, and she has hope to rise ; 
 But here she signs her absolute protest.
 
 THE RELAPSE. Ill 
 
 To rise with honesty, or not at all. 
 Patron not venal, (if perchance the eye 
 Of such a patron may my page regard) 
 These are my wishes : A good parsonage house, 
 A spacious garden, ample and rich glebe, 
 Pasture and wood. Emolument, withal. 
 Enough to satisfy all decent wants, 
 Enough to let me, if I please, be good. 
 And still leave something to be laid aside 
 For those who follow me. And be my house 
 Plac'd on some wholesome spot, a rising ground. 
 Commanding hills and valleys, woods and spires, 
 Thick-scatter' d oaks and legible enclosures ; 
 With here and there, perhaps, a distinct view 
 Of lake and winding river, ancient bridge, 
 Blue mountains far remote, or azure sea 
 Above the green tops of a woody vale 
 With frequent sails appearing. Be it far 
 From noise and bustle, and far, very far 
 From boroughs ev^er squabbling, bought or free. 
 And be my income in the hands of few. 
 Soon and with ease collected, both well pleas'd,
 
 172 THE RBLAPSE. 
 
 Who pays, and who receives. Law I abhor. 
 Give nie much leisure, and domestic ease, 
 And sooner than contend and deal in strife, 
 Y\\ be content with something less than due ; 
 For we are messengers of peace to man, 
 And ought to sacrifice a pound or two, 
 Rather than quarrel for our utmost right. 
 Where disagreement, and none-sparing wrath, 
 Between the pastor and his flock prevail, 
 Improvement never thrives, truth prospers not. 
 And virtue, which abhors to share her seat 
 With vice and malice, gradually expires. 
 
 Apostle, be not hasty to be rich. 
 There was a man some centuries ago. 
 Two, three, or four Mark me, the tale is true. 
 Two livings had iie, and an only child, 
 A buxoiu daugiiLcr, and he would be rich. 
 He pincird his tenants for their utmost tithe, 
 And made his curate fast on forty pounds ; 
 Bolted his door, and harbour'd no desire 
 To entertain an Angel unawares. 
 Hungry he was for an immense estate,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 175 
 
 And, not affording even a parlour fire, 
 
 Dwelt in his kitchen with his man and maid. 
 
 But mark how avarice defeats itself. 
 
 He sav'd a fortune ; but his wanton child 
 
 Brought him an heir to his ill-gotten gold, 
 
 By his own nauseous footboy. So thrives wealth 
 
 Basely accumulated. A few pounds 
 
 Gather'd without oppression, or the want 
 
 Of hospitality and christian love, 
 
 Had prosper'd. He had gone to Heav'n in peace. 
 
 And left so sweet a memory behind, 
 
 His name had liv'd like a divine perfume, 
 
 Still lov'd and cberish'd, though its od'rous cause 
 
 Had been for years remov'd. Such be my lot ! 
 
 Alas for Mede !^ A little donative 
 
 Was all he wish'd for, and he died without it; 
 
 A little donative to keep a steed 
 
 And ride into the country to hii. friends ; 
 
 And yet he died at lifiy-two ' ithout it.
 
 i14 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 My lords, who sat upon the British bench, 
 
 And saw this noble luminary pass, 
 
 Look down from Heaven, and tell us what the cause 
 
 So great a churchman had so small regard. 
 
 Was he not learned ? Was he not devout ? 
 
 And yet he died witiiout his donative. 
 
 And almost died alone, at fifty-two. 
 
 His utmost gain a little fellowship. 
 
 Nor died he discontent. A college square 
 
 Was world enough for him, and daily bread 
 
 The feast of plenty. 'Tis the modest mind, 
 
 And sense of benefits already given, 
 
 Which constitutes the happiness of life. 
 
 Think not him happy, whose ins;itiato heart 
 
 Perceives no plenitude, but ever longs, 
 
 Gain what he will, and need it how he may, 
 
 Still to rise one step higher. Shall the man 
 
 Who felt no want, and had no child to serve, 
 
 Yet sold the friend that made him for a bribe. 
 
 Feel the down pillo'v of preferment soft ? 
 
 Let Judas answer. Was the treasure sweet. 
 
 When he betray'd his Master to liis foe ?
 
 THE RELAPSE. 175 
 
 Why was it cast away ? why was he sad ? 
 Why did he bitterly repent and die ? 
 Alas ! he found there was no peace on earth, 
 When gratitude and honour were no more. 
 
 Curate ! abhor preferment bought and sold. 
 Be conscientious, and let straitest want 
 Never compel thee to infringe an oath. 
 What is a Bishopric, obtain'd amiss ? 
 The short preferments of this changeful stage 
 All pass away. The minister that gives. 
 And all the friends that prosper in his smile. 
 Must one day fall, and mingle with the dust. 
 The grave will swallow all ; and 'tis but' wise 
 To think how we shall meet that serious hour, 
 Laden with recollection how we rose. 
 And martyr'd conscience for the love of gain. 
 'Tis but respect and justice to ourselves, 
 That we remember how the foamy deep 
 And hungry fish threw up again to life 
 The disobedient prophet, tho' he seem'd 
 To be gone down for ever. And 'twere well, 
 If we survive the terrible assault
 
 178 THE RELAPSE. 
 
 Of pain and dissolution, and must wakp, 
 When we have slept a crazy world away, 
 To make excuses for our conduct here 
 'Twere well to rise with no uneasy hearts, 
 And meet no frowning catalogue of crimes. 
 Which even Mercy iti her mildest mood 
 Cannot exculpate to her sister Justice. 
 
 O ye ! who stand upon the giddy heights 
 Of ill-obtain'd preferment, and look back 
 With just abhorrence on the venal arts 
 And base enormities by which ye rose 
 Ye who have sold your master, and provok'd 
 The viper slander to be fierce indeed, 
 And fix her pois'nous fangs upon the church, 
 Condemning all for the abuse of some ; 
 1 envy not the little peace ye feel, 
 Assur'd that bread dishonestly obtain'd 
 Is never sweet. Eats it not bitter now, 
 Mingled with sorrow, ^;elf-rep^oach, and shame ? 
 Then rather than be base, and rise like you, 
 Be it my lot to play the Curate still. 
 
 Who lias enough to be remov'd from need,
 
 THE RELAPSE. 177 
 
 Is rich, and ought to be content at least. 
 
 Say, that the will of Providence is such, 
 
 This trifling scribbler must no higher rise, 
 
 Are not the pleasures of retirement his? 
 
 Leisure, and freedom, and a mind at ease, 
 
 Books, and the shady vale, and evening's walk, 
 
 Cheerful companions, and the sweet return 
 
 Of Music ever various ? Who needs more ? 
 
 These are thei sweetest luxuries of life, 
 
 Innocent luxuries that never cloy. 
 
 The best enjoyments to be found below : 
 
 And these are mine. Continue these, good God, 
 
 And give me health to use them as I please ; 
 
 And, be the resf or granted me or not, 
 
 ril pass through life with no unthankful heart. 
 
 And give a good report of human bliss, 
 
 To those who ask me at the gates of Heav'n. 
 
 VOL. 11.
 
 ^
 
 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 A TRAGEDY.
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Henry VHI. 
 
 Sir John More, Father to 
 Sir Thomas. 
 
 TUNSTALL, Bishop of Dur- 
 ham. 
 
 Duke of Norfolk. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Sir Thomas More. 
 
 Roper. 
 
 Dancy. 
 
 Heron. 
 
 Lady More. 
 Margaret. 
 Eliza. 
 Cecilia. 
 Anne Bullen.
 
 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE rAe Thames. 
 Enter Bonvise and Heron. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Here we take water, but must wait awhile, 
 The boatman is not come, 
 
 HERON. 
 
 A lucky pause. 
 Let us resume the story we hail dropp'd, 
 And More be all the subject of discourse. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Aye More alone, with now and then a glance 
 Toward his youngest daughter her I mean
 
 184 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Whose sprightly wit has almost won the heart 
 Of a young Oxford scholar, just return'd 
 From schools and tutors with his first degree, 
 To steal a smile from sweet Cecilia's brow, 
 And dine with Bonvise. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Meaning me, I think. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Yes, Sir, and much commending yotir discernment. 
 
 HERON, 
 
 Why to be honest, in my secret heart 
 
 I long have lock'd a more than due regard 
 
 To sweet Cecilia. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Sir, not more than due. 
 Were it unbounded, it were all deser\''d. 
 There is in that sweet maid such easy mirth. 
 Such sensible good-humour, such an eye, 
 For ever laughing, and a heart so good. 
 That could I from these siioulders, with a wish. 
 Shake off some thirty years, I should become 
 Once more a wooer, and, to win her love,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 185 
 
 Be my friend Heron's rival. But since Time 
 
 Is such a sharp and cautious creditor, 
 
 He steals a grace for every year he gives, 
 
 I must have other thoughts and leave the task 
 
 Of siege and conquest to the nerves of youth. 
 
 Pursue her then. If Bonvise can assist, 
 
 And help you to her love, command my service. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 I thank you, Sir : but we have far digress'd. 
 More was the theme. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 I knew him from a child, 
 A meny, generous, and active boy, 
 Courted by all his mates, and made the judge 
 Of ev'ry difference. I knew him too, 
 When, by the int'rest of his worthy father. 
 He was appointed to a place of trust, 
 Under the eye and in the house itself 
 Of Card'nal Morton. Highly pleas'd was he 
 With his new office, and as pleas*d with him 
 The gracious Card'nal. Often M'ould he say, 
 Who liv'd to see it, More would one day shine
 
 186 SIK THOMAS MORE, 
 
 The ornament and honour of his country. 
 And so he lov'd him for his ready parts, 
 That shortly after, from his private purse, 
 He enter'd him at Oxford. 
 
 HERON. 
 I have drunk 
 
 Many a glass upon that very floor 
 
 Where More imbib'd his learning. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 He who drank 
 One glass of wine within his chamber door. 
 Drank more than he did all the years he dwelt there. 
 For he was ever sparing, and so strict 
 In his refusal of the grape's pure blood, 
 That he was styl'd the sober Rechabite 
 And wine-abhorring Mussulman. He ate 
 Not much, and car'd not what. And so intent 
 Was his whole mind upon the books he read, 
 That he was always plain, and little art 
 Appear'd without to grace the man within. 
 Harris his servant bought him all he wore, 
 His total suit, and he approv'd in all
 
 A TRAGEDY. 1S7 
 
 What colour and what fashion Harris pleasM. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 YoQ make me smile but do not pause proceed. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 I hasten to the time, when, terms expir'd, 
 
 He laid aside the boy, and 'gan perform 
 
 The able barrister, and worthy man. 
 
 Soon as he rose, fame took him by the hand, 
 
 And trumpeted his praise, that all might hear 
 
 In ev'ry nook of this sea-compass'd isle. 
 
 So on he went, mounted from step to step. 
 
 And gather'd greatness like a ball of snow 
 
 RoU'd from the mountains. He was wise and just, 
 
 Ready and eloquent. He spar'd no pains 
 
 To win his cause ; and if the cause was good, 
 
 Upheld it like a lion. For the fee 
 
 He little car'd, and where the man was poor 
 
 Labour'd for nothing. To relieve distress, 
 
 And humble arrogance, was all his wish ! 
 
 Not to grow rich upon the spoils of both. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 A noble disposition.
 
 188 SIR THOMAS MORF, 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 *Twas for this 
 All who had suits pursuM him. To his house 
 Resorted great and little, rich and poor. 
 The city chose him for their sheriff's court, 
 The Still-yard merchants made him twice their agent, 
 And he was all-victorious. Hence it was 
 Wealth flow'd into his coffers, like the tide 
 Push'd by the wind into the mouth of Thames. 
 He was retum'd to serve in Parliament ; 
 And shortly after, that usurious king. 
 Our late exacting sovereign, made demand 
 Of a large subsidy and three fifteenths. 
 To dow'r his daughter tp the king of Scots. 
 The sullen commons wish'd to shun the grant. 
 But hardly dar'd ; and they had surely passM 
 An act to yield it, but that More arose. 
 And dealt about such manly argument 
 As rous'd them to withstand the king's request, 
 And grant him nothing. When the house dispersed, 
 'Twas told his majesty, a beardless boy 
 Had thwarted all his purpose. In great wrath
 
 A TRAGEDY. 189 
 
 He vowM revenge, and to the tower sent, 
 For some fictitious fault, the good old judge, 
 His innocent father. 
 
 HERON. 
 With his hoary locks 
 
 The mild Sir John, who at his son's still lives, 
 
 And, circled by his beauteous progeny, 
 
 Towards his exit like the evening sun 
 
 Sinks smiling ! 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Yes, that venerable man. 
 And tho* no crime was ever urg'd against him, 
 He gave him not release till he had rais'd 
 A heavy fine upon him. Griev'd at heart 
 Was More, to see the old and waspish king 
 Pillage the father for the son's offence ; 
 And well he knew, soon as occasion serv'd, 
 His harpy talons would be fix'd on him. 
 So to the continent he purpos'd flight. 
 But, ere his steed was ready, news arriv'd 
 The king was dead, and all the land at rest. 
 He was not sorry to be so reliev'd,
 
 190 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And once more with his wife and little ones 
 Sat down in peace. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 What did the present king ? 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 The fame of More soon reach'd him, and he sent 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey, then an humble priest, 
 
 To give him invitation to his court. 
 
 He modestly excused his want of parts, 
 
 And hop'd his majesty would seek advice 
 
 From those that more deserv'd. The king forbore 
 
 To urge him further ; so he liv'd retir'd, 
 
 Tho' warm in his profession, and his hours 
 
 Fill'd all with labour of the pen and head. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Then came the weighty cause which call'd him forth 
 To public service. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Yes, the forfeiture 
 Of the Pope's ship, for which he was retain'd 
 To plead in the Star-Chamber, and so shone 
 Before the chancellor and alL^he bench,
 
 A TRAGEDY. ^01 
 
 That the king press'd him for his eloquence, 
 And made him of his council 'gainst his wiil. 
 But this you know ; and my tale, too minute, 
 Vexes your ear. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Not so. I hear with pleasure. 
 What follow'd as Sir Thomas rose at court ? 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 For many years he was so much belov'd, 
 
 Both by the king and his unhappy queen. 
 
 From whom he now solicits a divorce, 
 
 That they detain'd him days and weeks, yea months, 
 
 To feed upon the music of his tongue. 
 
 And when with difficulty he obtainM 
 
 Leave to be gone, to kiss his little ones, 
 
 And spend an interval of speedy love 
 
 With the deserving partner of his cares, 
 
 The king would often to his house repair, 
 
 Where he now lives, upon the river's brink, 
 
 At Chelsea walk into his garden talk 
 
 Of learning, politics, and news of state 
 
 Lean on his shoulder in familiar chat
 
 IU2 SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 And sometimes at his table, poorly spread, 
 Dine uninvited. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 I have heard as much. 
 
 BNVISE. 
 
 Then was he chosen speaker to the commons, 
 And shortly after the boUi Cardinal 
 Came to the house with a few other lords, 
 Preceded by hb poleaxes and cross. 
 His pillars, maces, his great seal and hat. 
 To countenance a bill depending then, 
 And little relish'd, to allow the king. 
 Upon demand, an ample subsidy. 
 He came, and out of season made a speech. 
 To tell the commons, what the monarch askM 
 'Tvvas theirs, as duteous subjects, to bestow. 
 But this was doctrine that no ear approv'd. 
 So when he finish'd, and with threat'ning eye 
 Look'd round for their consent, seeming to say, 
 * Deny me if you dare,' the house was still. 
 And not a single member op'd his lips. 
 Stung with vexation he could ill conceal.
 
 A TRAGEDY. ' 193 
 
 He call'd on one, another, and a third, 
 To make reply, or second his demand. 
 But none obey'd him, for 'twas predetermin'd 
 *The house would answer by their speaker More. 
 The speaker rose, and in an able speecli 
 Excus'd their silence ; said, the house abash'd 
 At sight of one so learned and so^ise, 
 So great and noble, deigning to appear 
 Within their doors, could not collect their pow'rs 
 To make him due reply. Then with warm words. 
 That made his heart's blood mount into his face. 
 Bold but respectful, pointed but polite, 
 He told him that his coming to that house 
 Was inexpedient, contrary to form. 
 And not agreeable to ancient right. 
 Then Wolsey rose, and with his face on fire 
 Departed muttering. / 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Hence sprang, it seems, 
 That jealousy his looks so oft betray 
 Toward Sir Thomas. 
 
 YOL. II. o
 
 194 SIR THOMAS MOUE, 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 From this very cause. 
 For in his heart he hid a world of spite, 
 And has attempted oft to ruin More 
 In the king's estimation, but in vain. 
 The king still loves him may he love him long. 
 He was his orator on Adres plain, 
 At Cambridge and at Oxford. Here I pause. 
 For why should 1 relate what all must know, 
 That More and Tunstall are but now return'd 
 From treating at Cambray, and bring us home 
 The welcome olive and long-wish'd for peace. 
 I hear the king is above measure pleas' d 
 At the good terms on which we sheathe the sword. 
 If so, the Cardinal may strive in vain. 
 More will not fall thro' him. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 When comes he home ? 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 I met Cecilia in my morning's walk. 
 
 She show*d me then a letter, where he said. 
 
 If nothing hinder'd he should sleep to-night
 
 A TRAGEDY. 1 96 
 
 in his own house at Chelsea. Lo ! the boat. 
 
 Come, and I'll show you all the wealth he owns. 
 
 Blooming Eliza shall delight your ear 
 
 With her soft flowing song, and you shall see 
 
 The humble Margaret, her father's pride, 
 
 The pattern of a mother gone to heav'n. 
 
 But look, and love not, for the raflid is won. 
 
 And wedded. Happy Roper ! Neither hope 
 
 Charming Eliza shall be ever thine. 
 
 Her heart is Dancy's, and his heart is her's. 
 
 Cecilia yet loves none, reserv'd perhaps 
 
 For my friend Heron. And believe me. Sir, 
 
 Heron is surely happy if he wins her. 
 
 Nature has made them all to be admir'd. 
 
 To be belov'd And each subduing grace 
 
 Which nature gave, the father has improv'd, 
 
 Gently conducting their obedient minds 
 
 Into the paths of virtue, truth, and knowledge. 
 
 Come, let's away ; we make the boatman wait. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 19& SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SCENE changes to Sir Thomas More's Library. Mar- 
 garet is discovered reading,* Eliza at work, Cecilia 
 looking on. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Better and better. Suite we shall at last 
 
 Paint nature as she is. That rosebud there 
 
 Tempts me to smell to it. That snowdrop smiles 
 
 Like Christmas bounty and that jasmine sprig, 
 
 I long to pluck it with the bunch of pinks 
 
 *T\vould make a nosegay worthy of the queen. 
 
 Indeed, Eliza, we shall soon excel. 
 
 Practice has won us half the painter's art. 
 
 I think within a day or two, at most, 
 
 To paint my father's picture with my needle 
 
 As well as Holbein with his brush and pallet. 
 
 Heav'ns, how you frown ! Since Dancy left the room, 
 
 1 have not seen one smile upon your cheek, 
 
 Nor heard one syllable escape your lips. 
 
 Be not so grave and serious. One would think 
 
 There was as much devotion in your work
 
 A TRAGEDY. 1 97 
 
 As Marg'ret's book ; and half her page, I'll swear, 
 
 Is not observ'd. Her thoughts are all abroad 
 
 Dancing attendance at her husband's heels. 
 
 Pray, what's the subject, Marg'ret ? See, she's dead. 
 
 She's fast asleep, and all her dream is Roper. 
 
 Well, if you will be grave, I'll walk alone, 
 
 And get a sweetheart to be dull as you. 
 
 Dear Ladies, fare ye well. How strong is love. 
 
 To bind in fetters e'en a woman's tongue ! 
 
 I wish my father may come home to-night. 
 
 So, so, my Lady Alice, are you there ? 
 
 Ladies I leave you to your step-mamma. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lady More. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 What, reading still, my daughters, still at work ? 
 
 So much confinement will impair your health. 
 
 I was all action when as young as you. 
 
 What will your father think, if he returns 
 
 And finds us all so idle, and our house 
 
 So ill prepar'd ? Come, lay aside your book. 
 
 And meet me in the hall without delay. {Exit.
 
 198 SIR THOMAS MOIIE, 
 
 ELIZA, rising. 
 O my dear Marg'ret, how tormenting 'tis 
 
 Thus to forsake the happy thoughts we feed, 
 
 And wander by compulsion ! All your mind 
 
 Has been employ'd on Roper and my father ; 
 
 All mine 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 On Dancy. 
 
 EIJZA. 
 
 Yes, and I desire, 
 Ere we are sunder'd, and my father comes, 
 To ask you one short question. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Let me hear it. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Answer me truly ; and if ought be done 
 That needs correction, let thy gentle tongue 
 Sparc not to censure me. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Why fears thy heart ? 
 
 Disburthen all thy soul. Its secret hopes 
 
 Shall be as safely lock'd in Marg'rct's breast
 
 A TRAGEDY. 199 
 
 As Margaret's once in thine. We were as twins 
 E'en from the cradle, and Eliza's tongue 
 Never till now was backward to reveal 
 The secret passion of her longing heart 
 To my attentive ear. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Nor will she now, 
 Tho' willing to conceal what all perceive. 
 Her love for Dancy. Will my father, think yon, 
 Will he approve ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Thy love for Dancy ? Yes. 
 There is in Dancy such a lib'ral mind, 
 Such knowledge and such virtue, such regard 
 To outward decency and inward worth, 
 How can he but approve ? I've heard him speak 
 In terms of ecstasy of that good youth, 
 And tell our brother John to copy him. 
 There is but one thing can prevent thy wish : 
 He is a younger son, and fortune's hand 
 Bestow'd no ample means upon his father^
 
 200 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Ay, there's my fear. The want of wealth alone 
 May prove a barrier to Eliza's love, 
 And make her ask in vain her father's leave. 
 Ah ! she will not obtain it. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Be not sad. 
 Ask it at least. Our father is most kind, 
 And often has remov'd the thing we fear'd, 
 To help us to our wish. So will he now. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 I wish 'twere possible. But such a rock 
 Is want of money, in the way of love, 
 I fear to ask it. It would jjrieve his heart 
 Not to remove the obstacle we dread. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 Then let me ask it ; for my own success 
 
 Was due to intercession made by thee. 
 
 When I was lov'd as thou art. I will ask, 
 
 And may my prayer earn the meed we wish. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Thanks, mv dear friend. I ow'd vou much before.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 201 
 
 Do this, and I shall owe yon all. Succeed, 
 And how shall I requite you ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Say no more. 
 
 [Ereunl. 
 
 SCENE changes to Sir Thomas More's Garden. Sir 
 John More is discovered sitting on a Garden seat. To 
 him enters Cecilia. 
 
 sir JOHN. 
 Who's there ? Cecilia ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Yes, Sir. 
 
 sir JOHN. 
 
 Where's your tongue ? 
 It is not us'd to make such short replies. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 No, Sir, but I am busy. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 What d'ye look at f 
 
 cecilu. 
 A little animal, that round my glove,
 
 203 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And up and down to every finger's tip, 
 Has travellM merrily, and travels still, 
 Tho' it has wings to fly. What its name is 
 With learned men J know not. Simple folks 
 Call it the lady-bird. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Poor harmless thing, 
 Save it. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 I would not hurt it for the world. 
 
 Its prettiness says, spare me, and it bears 
 
 Armour so beautiful upon its back, 
 
 I could not injure it to be a queen. 
 
 Look, Sir, its coat is scarlet dropp'd with jet. 
 
 Its eyes pure ivory. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Child, I am blind 
 To objects so minute. I know it well. 
 'Tis the companion of the waning year, 
 And lives among the blossoms of the hop. 
 It has fine silken wings enfolded close 
 Under that coat of mail.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 2Qi 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I see them, Sir, 
 For it unfurls them now. 'Tis up and gone. 
 But here, Sir, in my left hand I have lock'd 
 A pris'ner still more beauteous. 'Tis a moth. 
 I found it on a rose-leaf. It has wings 
 Dappled with grey and jet, and underneath 
 Sleeps in a suit of scarlet. No, it wakes ; 
 I feel it move. 'Tis eager to be gone. 
 Shall I dismiss it ? 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 By all means. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 'Tis gone, 
 
 And has left half the beauties of its wing 
 
 In dust upon my glove. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Ay, beauty's wreck 
 
 Is soon accomplish'd. Of created things 
 
 Nothing was finish'd with a tool so nice 
 
 As the moth's wing. 'Tis cover'd with fine art. 
 
 'Tis cloth'd in feathers to the quickest eye
 
 J04 SIR THOMAS MOUK, 
 
 Hardly perceptible. Yet one slight touch 
 Defaces all. So woman's beauty flies, 
 Brush'd by the hand of sorrow or mischance. 
 Escapes it these ? Age will not let it pass. 
 It falls a victim to the thefts of time ; 
 And there is nothing permanent on earth 
 But goodness. I have liv'd, Cecilia, long. 
 'Tis almost ten years since I saw fourscore. 
 Experience tells me beauty is a shade, 
 And all the pride of youth a morning cloud. 
 Will you be taught to be for ever fair. 
 Spite of old age and wrinkles ? then be good. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Dear Sir, I will, if you'll instruct me how / 
 For nature made me with a sloven's hand. 
 And sent me to the world so ill-endow'd. 
 The eve of man o'erlooks me. None I win. 
 Because I want Eliza's lively bloom, 
 And Marg'ret's modesty. Will goodness. Sir, 
 Atone the loss of these ? 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Ay, three times these
 
 A TRAGEDY. 205 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Then, Sir, if I live longest, leave me your's. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Thou wilt not want it, were it more than 'tis. 
 Besides, our virtues are not ouv's to give. 
 Estates and chattels may from sire to son 
 Descend by will, but goodness none inherits. 
 'Tis the peculiar beauty of the soul. 
 And with it flies to heav'n. It must be won, 
 Or never worn. Thy own industrious hancT 
 Must earn it with much labour. 'Tis the meed 
 And golden wages of habitual merit, 
 Which rises early to an endless task. 
 And leaves it late at night. 
 
 CECILLA. 
 
 What task, dear Sir ? 
 Tell me, and I'll begin it. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 'Tis begun. 
 
 Do as thy father bids thee, 'twill proceed, 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 I wish he was at home. Sir, will you walk.
 
 206 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And look out for him at the garden gate ? 
 I think he'll come by water. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Go before. 
 
 ril follow after with what speed I can. 
 
 CECIUA, 
 
 No, Sir, we'll go together. Here's your staff. 
 
 The other hand shall rest upon my arm. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE changes to a rural Prospect. Enter Ladt 
 More, Margaret, arul Eliza. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Where did you leave Cecilia ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 She left us, 
 And may, no doubt, be in the garden found 
 Conversing with Sir John. She loves to talk, 
 And he her ready judgment loves to hear. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Well, stay awhile, and there we will go seek her. 
 
 I must a moment leave you. [Exit.
 
 A TRAGEDY. SOT 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Many thanks 
 I owe thee, Marg'ret, for thy kind concern, 
 And friendly consolation. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Name it not. 
 Some one approaches. Is not this the road 
 Most usual with our father ? 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 So I think. 
 And, if my eyes are good, I see him now. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Surely 'tis he let's meet him ^yes 'tis he. 
 
 Lo ! he has spied us, and dismounts to meet us. 
 
 [They go out, and return again imynediately with 
 Sir Thomas. 
 
 sir thomas. 
 What ! still together ? Ere I went from horn* 
 
 I gave this hand to Roper ; yet it hangs 
 
 Still on its old support, Eliza's arm. 
 
 How does my Marg'ret ? Child, thy fruitful eye 
 
 Wept much at my departure ; weeps it now ?
 
 208 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Sorrow alone should with the Naiads dwell, 
 Joy should be far away. I need not ask 
 If health be thine, Eliza, for thy cheek 
 Speaks warm assurance that no latent ill 
 Lurks in the life within. The plenteous shower, 
 That water'd these gay roses as I went. 
 Has made them fresh as morning, sweet as May. 
 And yet methinks the remnant of a cloud 
 Hangs on thy brow, and that reluctant smile 
 Is summer scarce return'd, an April sun. 
 That shines in tears, and in a moment fades. 
 Cecilia's well ? your brother, and Sir John ? 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 All well, Sir, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 And niy Lady Alice well ? 
 And Roper r all my house and all my friends ? 
 
 MARGARtT. 
 
 All well, Sir. 
 
 SIR THOM.\S. 
 Why then let's be merry, girlu, 
 
 For all the land rejoices. Where's my Lady ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 209 
 
 And where Sir John, Cecilia, and my son ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Your son and Mr. Roper are from home. 
 Sir John is with Cecilia in the garden. 
 My Lady Alice is this moment gone 
 Into the house before us. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Softly then. 
 We'll first salute my lady by the way, 
 Then steal a silent entrance to the ^rarden. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE changes to the Garden-gate lookiyig out upon the 
 Thames. Cecilia and Sir John standing in expec~ 
 tation. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Indeed I think he's coming, Sir. The boat 
 Is with her head this way. The boatman too 
 Seems to row faster at the sight of us. 
 Can you not hear his oars ? 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 But there are two. 
 Who should the second be ? 
 
 VOL. H. P
 
 210 Sm THOMAS MORE, 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Harris, perhaps. 
 
 Enter Sir Thom;\s, Lady More, Margaret, and 
 
 Eliza, unperceived. 
 
 I'm certain 'tis my fether. See his hand, 
 
 He waves it to us. Sir, I know 'tis he. 
 
 
 
 sir THOMAS. 
 
 Your spectacles deceive you, Madam. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 A ghost ! Look, Sir, my father. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 'Tis indeed. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 It is, good Sir, and it delights me luucli 
 To find you able still. Cecilia's eyes 
 As yet less quick than your's. She doubts me still. 
 An honest kiss may serve to undeceive her. 
 Now tell me. Madam, am I but a ghost, 
 Or flesh and blood, as tbou art ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Flesh and blood,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 211 
 
 I think, Sir, and you're truly welcome home. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Yes, she has daily pray'd for your return, 
 And greets it heartily as well as I, 
 Glad to receive you ever, never more 
 Than when the blessed messenger of peace. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 In truth, good Sir, I feel it is an office 
 An angel might be proud of. What a show'r 
 Of hearty welcomes has pursued my steps 
 E'en to my door at Chelsea ! Ever thus 
 Smile peace upon us, and the weary sword 
 Rust in the scabbard. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 I rejoice to hear 
 Your female counsellors Avere both for peace. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 The French King's mother and the Emp'ror's aunt, 
 Our sister-plenipos ? Yes, both for peace, 
 And 'twas a message that gave second youth 
 To their time-faded cheeks. A woman's tongue 
 Sings sweetly, when the burden of her son<>-
 
 212 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Is lovely peace. The angry sounds of war, 
 Denounc'd by her, deprive her of all grace. 
 Her weapon is the curt'sy of obedience. 
 She conquers like the Parthian by retreat, 
 Wounds as she flies, and as she yields subdues. 
 Ha! who comes here ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 *Tis Mr. Bon vise, Sir, 
 The person we mistook for you, I think ; 
 And with him Mr. Heron. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Welcome, Sir. 
 Enter Bonvise and Heron. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Sir Thomas, welcome welcome to your own. 
 And welcome to your country. To myself 
 Welcome as plenty with a crowded lap 
 Diffusing general good. I owe to you, 
 That my adventures once more plough the deep 
 Without a foe in man. The lurking rock. 
 The fatal quicksand, war, at your command 
 No more annoys me, but my prosperous sails
 
 A TRAGEDY. 213 
 
 Brave the wild ocean in what course they please. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Let me have room to thank you, worthy Sir, 
 And welcome this your friend. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Young Mr. Heron. 
 Had my o'erflowing heart been loaded less 
 With thanks for my own welfare, I iiad said 
 Much in his commendation. Sir, he's young, 
 But graces youth with merit 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Spare me, Sir ; 
 
 Much recommending injures the good name, 
 
 And he who seems an angel in report 
 
 Is often found deficient in the trial. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Modest at least, good Sir ; and modesty 
 Makes us applaud the moon with borrow'd beams. 
 While from the real glories of the sun. 
 Proudly display'd, we turn our eyes away. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 If, Sir, to wish that excellence we want.
 
 214 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Be to <lesen'e a little, then that little 
 In its full measure is the worth I own. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Modest again. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Sir Thomas, by your leave. 
 You make your worthy father stand too long. 
 
 sill THOMAS. 
 
 I think so, Lady More ; therefore proceed, 
 And sliow the way to chairs. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Sir Thomas and Bonvise. 
 
 SHI THOMAS. 
 
 A pleasant youth. 
 
 I like him much, for his ingenuous mind 
 
 Is like a beauty veiPd, that hides her face. 
 
 Not like the gen'ral world to be thought fair. 
 
 But that she deems it plain, and ill perceives 
 
 Her own perfection. Did you mark Cecilia ? 
 
 Methought her eye show'd singular regard 
 
 To our young friend. If he approves her tongue 
 
 As much as she his person, I may vouch 
 
 They'll soon approach me with a lover's prayer,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 215 
 
 Sigh'd from an aching bosom, Sir ^ your leave. 
 I am not certain I should disapprove. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Sir Thomas, to be bold, his heart's desire 
 Is to obtain her ; and my sedulous eye 
 Was much delighted at the gracious looks 
 Cecilia gave him. When he saw her first. 
 There was in her discourse a cheerful power 
 That won his ear, and with his ear his heart. 
 He own'd he lov'd. And should he chance to win 
 The honest heart of your most worthy daughter, 
 I dare affirm his father will be pleas'd, 
 And crown th' abundant honour he pursues 
 With hearty approbation. And perhaps, 
 When I have told you how that youth deserves, 
 And what he may expect hereafter 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Stay. 
 I do not wish to fix my daughter's price 
 At more than maintenance. All else I ask 
 Is the good heart and cultivated mind. 
 Young men who these possess shall have approach,
 
 216 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And all success their virtues can obtain them. 
 Be it still provided, merit what they will, 
 They win my daughters with their own consent. 
 Free from all bias. Therefore seal thy lips, 
 And never let this secret thence escape. 
 That I approve of Heron. Her good heart 
 Is pliant and complying, and 'twould yield. 
 Spite of her judgment, to her fether's wish. 
 In choice of husbands they shall please themselves. 
 
 Enter Roper and Dancy. 
 
 Son Roper, I rejoice to see your looks. 
 
 And your's, friend Dancy, of a hue so healthy. 
 
 Learning and solitude have seldom brows 
 
 That look so fresh. 
 
 roper. 
 Except at Chelsea, Sir, 
 
 Under your mild protection. Study here 
 
 Impairs not beauty. Nature has her friend. 
 
 As well as wit and knowledge. Hand in hand 
 
 Dance the sweet graces of the polish'd mind 
 
 And healthy constitution.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 2 11 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Sir, no more. 
 I know you'll ring us changes in that key 
 Till we forget our supper. Lead the way. [Exeunt.
 
 218 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE the Banks of the Thames^ 
 Enter Cecilia. 
 Nobody up yet ? I have walk'd an hour, 
 And not a soul has met me, tho' the sun 
 Had left his bed before I quitted mine. 
 I thought young Heron would be sure to rise. 
 I told him I should walk. Well, let him sleep. 
 He lores not me, but I love him a little. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Siii Thomas and Bonvise. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Now let me ask you, while occasion smiles, 
 What hear you of the king's divorce ? 
 
 bonvise. 
 
 Not much. 
 The pope still hesitates. The card'iial halts, 
 And with his friend Campeggio dreams and sleeps, 
 Cold as a statue. Our impatient king, 
 'Tis said, is angry ;it tlieir long delay.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 219 
 
 And VOWS, if things are not determin'd soon, 
 
 He will be judge himself. He made a tour 
 
 Some weeks ago, low-spirited forsooth, 
 
 And said he did it to disperse the clouds 
 
 Of care and melancholy. He return'd 
 
 Much benefited by the country air. 
 
 But more by a physician of the church. 
 
 One Doctor Cranmer, by whose shrewd advice 
 
 He trusts his conscience will be soon at ease, 
 
 And his divorce effected. The sage priest 
 
 Counsels an application to be made 
 
 To all the Universities in Europe, 
 
 Whether the former dispensation of Pope Juhus 
 
 Be valid, or invalid. If the first, 
 
 ' Why then,' says he, ' your majesty's own mind 
 
 May rest contented that your present queen 
 
 Is lawfully your wife. But if the last. 
 
 The pope will be constrain'd to grant your suit. 
 
 Or pass a sentence which sljall seem t' oppose 
 
 The joint opinions of all Christendom.' 
 
 But wliy should I relate a thing you know, 
 
 Just come from Hampton Court ?
 
 tSO SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 I knew it not. 
 
 The king said nothing, and my scrupulous mind 
 
 So little relishes the queen's divorce, 
 
 I held my peace, and shunn'd it as a theme 
 
 Not to be mention'd. Ere I went abroad 
 
 He came himself in person to my house. 
 
 Told me his scruples, laid the Bible open. 
 
 And show'd me where 'twas written in the law. 
 
 That no man should affect his brother's wife. 
 
 On pain of being childless. Then he turn'd, 
 
 And pointed where the Baptist chid the Tetrarch, 
 
 Declaring it unlawful that he kept 
 
 His brother Philip's wife. I read the places. 
 
 But told his majesty I humbly thought 
 
 He misconceiv'd the sense. The brother's wife 
 
 Was but forbidden while the brother liv'd. 
 
 Immediately I show'd him in the law. 
 
 Where 'twas commanded, the one brother dead, 
 
 The other who surviv'd should take his wife ; 
 
 And quoted from Josephus and Eusebius, 
 
 That when the Baptist, for his brother's wife,
 
 A TRAGEDY. J 2 I 
 
 Rebuk'd the Tetrarch, Philip was alive. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 But still your argument could not prevail. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 I was not then aware what secret cause 
 Had mov'd his majesty to wish divorc'd 
 His exemplary queen ; else had I said 
 Much less concerning her. But I was warm, 
 And the sweet memory of poor Cath'rine's virtues. 
 Which I have often witnessed, and much strove 
 To plant among my daughters here at home, 
 Made me protect her with an earnest tongue. 
 O Bonvise ! virtue in a queen is rare. 
 When it appears, we should with ardent zeal 
 Approve and cherish it. Royal example 
 Makes it the fashion to be good. All eyes 
 Regard her motions, and what she performs 
 All imitate. So are her private deeds, 
 Her conjugal affection, piety, 
 Motherly care, humility, and patience, 
 The source of general merit. Who removes. 
 Or wishes to unsettle, such a queen.
 
 222 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Consults not private neither public good. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Agreed : and never may we see the day 
 When Bullen 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Softly, we presume too far. 
 Say nothing, here at least ; for in this walk 
 As I have sat to read, or stood to muse. 
 The king has often, unpereeiv'd, approach'd 
 And touch'd my shoulder. Listen, for methinks 
 Some one is near us now. We'll step aside. 
 
 [Exeunt- 
 Enter Cecilia, and immediatelj/ after Heron. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Ah ! here he comes. I hope he'll not perceive 
 I'm out of humour. Hem ! Good morning, Sir. 
 
 HERON. 
 Who calls ? Good morning. We are met at last j 
 
 But, plague upon my memory, I forgot 
 
 Whether you bade me turn to right or left. 
 
 And have been waiurriiig for an hour and half, 
 
 In hopes to meet you on the river's bank
 
 A TRAGEDY. 223 
 
 Beyond the house. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 I told you to the left. 
 And here have I been walking long alone, 
 Commending your attention. Sir, perhaps 
 You Overslept yourself. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Not I, indeed. 
 The sun was scarce so early. I was up 
 Ere he had shot one beam across the Thames, 
 And having stood awhile to see his orb 
 Slowly emerge, and his red morning rays 
 Dance on the ruffled svater, left my room. 
 And have been seeking till this very moment 
 Thee my companion. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Had the charming maid, 
 You blush'd to think of as we talk'd last night, . 
 
 Commanded you to rise at break of day 
 To be her morning beau, you'd not have slept 
 Till you had made of ev'ry word she spoke 
 A faithful memorandum in your heart ;
 
 224 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Till you had thought so often what was said. 
 It had been all engrav'd upon your mind, 
 As lastingly as elegant inscription 
 Upon a royal tomb. 
 
 HERON. 
 And so I thought 
 
 Should your kind invitation : but my care 
 
 Not to forget, made me scarce half remember. 
 
 Like an ill-treated boy, who fears correction, 
 
 I learn'd my lesson surely ; but my dread 
 
 Not to be perfect, made me hit the fault 
 
 I studied to avoid. Forgive it then. 
 
 And let not much severity defeat 
 
 My hopeful progress. Bid me come again. 
 
 And mercy once experienc'd shall prevent 
 
 The innocent errors of a tim'rous mind. 
 
 And make me true for ever. 
 
 CECIUA. 
 
 True for ever ! 
 What if your charmer had been by to hear ! 
 Those words had little pleas'd her. But, good Sir, 
 Since \vc are met, give nie live minutes praise
 
 A TRAGEDY. 225 
 
 Of this your nameless fair one. Now begin. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Indeed you lay a task most hard upon me. 
 For who has language worthy to relate 
 The charms of her whom I adore and love ? 
 She is not beauteous, it is true, but good. 
 Her voice is pleasant as the mellow flute, 
 Heard at a distance in the winding vale, 
 As summer's ev'ning closes ; as the horn 
 Blown on the mountains, its melodious tones 
 Falling so faintly on the list'ner's ear, 
 He holds his breath to hear them. All her words 
 Are laden with the treasures of good sense. 
 Which she imparts to all, and spares to none ; 
 Yielding her bounties with a grace so free, 
 'Twould make a boor enamour'd of politeness. 
 Her mind abounds in knowledge, but her tongue 
 Betrays it never. With effectual care 
 She hides her excellence, and has so long 
 Studiously wink'd upon her own perfections. 
 She seems to have o'erlook'd her great desert ; 
 And is indeed most modest, praying still 
 VOL. n. u
 
 226 SIR THOMAS MOUli, 
 
 For winning graces which she owns already. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Poor worthy girl ! I hope yoii love her truh*. 
 
 IIPRON. 
 
 Most truly she deserves it. But, alas ! 
 I never yet could find that she loves me. 
 
 CFXIl.IA. 
 
 Has she declar'd she does not r But what then ? 
 Had she declar'd it, it might not be true. 
 Sir, woman is deceitful. She delights 
 To hide her passion ; sometimes to torment, 
 Sometimes because her poor misgiving heart 
 Cannot find words to own it. Honest lovx? 
 Is ever silent, and wc then love n)o>t 
 When you the least suspect it. 
 
 HKRON. 
 
 On that hope 
 I build my hapi^iness. 1 live upon it, 
 Like the camelcon on his proper food, 
 The insubstantial air. Since you have own'd 
 Woman may love and yet that love conceal, 
 I feel more confident. And let nic ask,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 227 
 
 Wiience learn'd Cecilia that most welcome truth r 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 You question me too closely. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Come, be bold 
 Requite my tale with one of equal length, 
 And tell me the perfections of that youth 
 Who sits upon the throne of your regard. 
 
 CECILIA, {in surprise.) 
 My Lady Alice and my father here ? 
 What shall we do ? Away, they see us not. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter Sir Thomas and Lady More. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Now let me whisper in your private ear 
 A word or two of family concerns. 
 I must apprise you of a circumstance 
 Which gives me much uneasiness. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 What is't .? ^ 
 
 Be brief and tell it me.
 
 228 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Some days ago 
 I overheard a thoughtless child of your's, 
 Your own Eliza, in the garden bower 
 Talking with Dancy. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Did she tell her love ? 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Yes, she confessM she lov'd him, and the youth 
 Made warm professions of his love for her. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Then can the secret passion of her heart 
 No longer be denied. Poor silent girl, 
 I thought the joy that sat upon her brow 
 Was awkwardly put on. Long has she hid, 
 Fearing to make it known, this innocent love. 
 She thinks, perhaps, that I shall discommend her. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Will you bestow her on a man so poor ? 
 Roper has expectations ; but this youth 
 Is but a second son, whose elder brother 
 Were scarce a match sufficient.
 
 A TRACfiDY. 22 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Lady More, 
 I tell you not what my intention is. 
 But be advis'd to cast an eye more kind 
 On merit without fortune. Frugal nature 
 Often denies her talents to the rich, 
 Giving them largely to the man who needs. 
 And has no other portion. Noble souls 
 Daily emerge from darkness and retreat, 
 From unknown families and scanty means, 
 To sit with princes. So the ardent youth. 
 Born to no titles, no estates or friends, 
 Outsoars the great and rich, and looking down 
 From the high summit of true dignity, 
 Pities their littleness, whose scornful eyes 
 Once laugh'd at him below. 
 
 LADY MOKE. 
 
 Some may be such. 
 But Dancy is an awkward shame-fac'd boy. 
 Who makes no promise ; and I think. Sir Thomas, 
 Your daughter, if she weds him, is undone
 
 230 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 Fear not, my Lady. I have studied man 
 
 Longer than you have. I have learn'd to fear 
 
 The blossom that is early, and its leaves 
 
 Too soon exposes to the chilly spring. 
 
 But much I hope from the more modest bud, 
 
 That hides its head, and gathers secret strength, 
 
 Scarce blown at midsummer. An awkward gait, 
 
 Unpolish'd manners, and a fetter'd tongue, 
 
 A sheepish countenance, and burning cheek. 
 
 Are clouds in which true genius loves to rise. 
 
 And thus obscur'd, like a November sun, 
 
 She makes her heav'nly progress unobserv'd. 
 
 Till softly thro' the gloom she steals her way 
 
 In full meridian glory. 
 
 LAPY MORE. 
 
 As you please. 
 
 Were she my daughter, I should still oppose you. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Well, well, proceed. I have not yet consented. 
 
 [Exit Lady More. 
 But I will shortly, for that youth deserves
 
 A TilAGEDY. 231 
 
 Lib'ral encouragement. If Heron thrives 
 
 And takes Cecilia, I'll make up a purse 
 
 For Dancy and Eliza. My son John 
 
 May spare for one, the other two provided. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Heuon and Cecilia. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 1 fear you iiave transgress'd the bounds of truth. 
 
 * HERON. 
 
 I'll summon my friend Bonvise to attest it. 
 Yourself shall ask him, while I stand aloof, 
 If all the purpose of my coming hither 
 Was not to own my love, and yield a heart 
 Entirely your's. Indeed the peerless fair one, 
 Whom I have prais'd so warmly, and not nam'd, 
 Was none but thou, Cecilia. And I think. 
 Would but Cecilia's tongue the trulh reveal, 
 The favour'd youth, whom her reluctant lips 
 So fairly pictur'd, was indeed none else 
 But my unworthy self. Come, come, be bold. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Tis true, I much esteem you. Make me sure
 
 232 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 You have not wrong'd another, all my heart 
 Is only your's. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 Most generous confession ! 
 I swear I have not wrong'd a sout alive. 
 And here I give my bond, and with a kiss 
 Seal it most surely, I will look no farther, 
 But, satisfied to own a pearl so fair, 
 A gem so bright, be with my wealth content. 
 This hand Cecilia shall bestow once more 
 Before the altar, then we fly away 
 To solitude and |>eace. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 A moment's pause. 
 You are too sanguine. Hide we love a while. 
 'Twill grow in secret like the hopeful plant, 
 Whose sheltered infancy defies the storm. 
 Think it not much to wait ; for time has wings 
 Swift as the eagle's, and cay i\y as soon 
 From earth to heav'n. When Jacob was in love, 
 We read he serv'd for Rachel seven years ;
 
 A TRAGEDY. 23S 
 
 Yet so he lov'd her, that a task so long 
 
 Seem'd but a few short days. Be your's as true 
 
 As his love was, and you shall feel as little 
 
 The torment of delay. Come, look not sad, 
 
 For sadness is infectious. If your brow 
 
 Seems melancholy, mine will gather from it 
 
 The hue of discontent. Be brisk and gay. 
 
 As if the secret of Cecilia's love 
 
 Had not escap'd her. Oh ! you're wondrous grave. 
 
 Hide, hide it, or away. My father comes. 
 
 [Ex'it Heron. 
 I'm glad he's gone. His looks would have betray'd us. 
 What shall I do ? I feci my face on fire. 
 My father may not mark it, for my glass 
 Tells me I blush, like the dark Ethiop, 
 Invisibly. I hope it is so. Hem. 
 Good morning, Sir. 
 
 Enter Sir Thomas. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Good morning to Cecilia. 
 You rise betimes. I heard your chamber door 
 Creak to the orient sun some hours ago.
 
 234 SIB THOMAS MORE, 
 
 What, has my daughter walk'd so long alone ? 
 Something disturbs her j)eace. Her mind is vex'd 
 With care or love. Perhaps the rhjming fit 
 Makes prisoner her attention. Poet like, 
 She could not sleep for thinking, but stole out 
 To ring the chimes of fancy undisturb'd 
 In the still ear of morning. Else perhaps 
 She would have tapp'd her father's door as wont, 
 And waited till he met her. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sir, I thought 
 You might be wearied, and in want of rest 
 After your journey. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Why in want of rest ? 
 
 I rode no farther than from Hampton Court. 
 
 Was that a journey for a summer's day ? 
 
 'Twas hardly exercise. No, no, Cecilia, 
 
 I see the reason. An old father's arm 
 
 Is not so welcome as a younger man's. 
 
 Who left you and withdrew this moment r
 
 A TRAGEDY. 235 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sir! 
 
 Was it not Heron ? 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Yes, Sir. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Then his arm 
 Supported your's to-day, and 'twas for him 
 You rose so early and forgot your father. 
 Well, well, let youth associate with the young, 
 And leave the grey head to his sober task 
 Of contemplation. Met )^ou by appointment ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sir! 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Met you by appointment ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 With much shame 
 
 I own we did, Sir. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 See, the truth will out.
 
 236 sill THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And what have you convers'd of ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Nothing, Sir 
 Worth your attention, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 But perhaps it was. 
 I love to hearken to the simple chat 
 Of prattling infants. From the lip of youth 
 I draw a sweeter pleasure to remark 
 How reason dawns toward her perfect day, 
 How passion kindles and impels tlie soul 
 To all the useful purposes of life. 
 Come, be no longer secret. Make a friend 
 Of him who most regards you. Tell your father 
 What was your conversation. Was it love ? 
 Be not asham'd to own it. He lov'd once, 
 And still remembers with a lover's sigh 
 Your poor departed mother. She lov'd him, 
 And had a brow as full of woe as your's. 
 Till by entreaty he extorted from her 
 The secret you conceal. What said the youth ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 237 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 He told me of a maid he long had lov'd 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 And told you 'twas yourself. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 He did, Sir. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Well, 
 And what said you ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 I told him of a youth 
 Whom I regarded ' 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 And that youth was Heron. 
 Honest confession ! Was it true, Cecilia ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Most true, Sir. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 What said he ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 He took my hand, 
 And said I should be his.
 
 238 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 And did your heart 
 
 Warmly consent ? 
 
 CECILIA, 
 
 As warmly as it could, Sir, 
 
 My father's leave not ask'd. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Suppose that leave 
 
 Withheld for ever ; could you shun the youth, 
 
 And stifle love, your father disapproving ? 
 
 Tell me the truth. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sir, 'twere an arduous task. 
 I'd try and be obedient, tho' I died. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 I know it well. It ever was your care 
 To be obedient. I will not withhold 
 Leave so deserv'd. I give you free consent, 
 And am most happy you have won a youth 
 Worthy your love. When daughters make a choice 
 Wise as Cecilia's, 'tis the father's pride 
 To crown it with success.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 239 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Dear Sir, I thank you. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Be cheerful then. You may, if Heron pleases, 
 
 To-day be wedded. There will be at church 
 
 A couple not unknown to you or hinrt. 
 
 I say to-day, because this afternoon 
 
 I must away to Greenwich to the king, 
 
 And know not when I shall return. What say you ? 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sir, I am much perplexVl. If I consent, 
 Must I forsake your house ? 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Heron, perhaps. 
 Will not dislike to live with you and me. 
 My house is roomy, and will hold us all. 
 Make him proposals. When your father dies, 
 You must have other homes but while he lives, 
 He is content to lodge and feed you all, 
 And all your husbands, 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sir, I'll go directly.
 
 240 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Go. If my Lady tells you breakfast waits, 
 
 Tell her I come. [Exit Cecilia.] Poor girl, ho\T 
 
 large a load 
 Of secret trouble has thy mind escapM 
 In a few moments ! When I met her here, 
 She could no more have tripp'd so gaily home, 
 Than the tir'd traveller, whose weary limbs 
 A feather almost crushes. A light heart 
 Q.uicken>> the pace, and makes the foot alert ; 
 It teaches it to mock the poet's art. 
 To move in numbers, and express the mind 
 In measur'd dance, which has a tongue to sing 
 Almost as sweetly as the lyre itself. 
 Well, one is happy, and but one remains 
 Who needs my consolation. She, dear heart, 
 Imagines that her secret love is hid. 
 And fears to tell it, lest her father frown. 
 I would indeed young Dancy had been rich 
 It) money as in virtue. Hut 'tis well 
 His only want is wealth. Better my child 
 Love worth and poverty than wealth and vicf
 
 A TRAGEDY. 241 
 
 A daughter that o'erlooks the proud parade 
 And silver'd equipage of affluent guilt, 
 To smile at modesty that makes no show, 
 But meets her unattended, all his train 
 Virtue and learning, has discerning eyes. 
 Who bids her mend her choice, deserves to die 
 Without a daughter to lament his end. 
 But Dancy comes 
 
 Enter Dancy. 
 
 DANCY. 
 
 Good morning to Sir Thomas. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 What is it breakfast time ? 
 
 DANCY. 
 
 1 think it is, Sir, 
 Or I had not returnM so soon. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Alone ? 
 Where is Eliza ? Is slie gone before ? 
 Or is she yet behind ? 
 
 DANCY. 
 
 She has not walk'd 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 S42 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Some days, Sir Thomas. She has spent her hours 
 Chiefly vn music, singing plaintive airs 
 And fing'ring lessons of a serious mood 
 In her own chamber. If my ear be just, 
 She's playing now. 1 hear a tinkling sound, 
 Which seems to come from yonder open casement, 
 Her chamber window. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Let us both draw near 
 And listen. Music has a potent charm, 
 Join'd with the graces of the morning. Hark ! 
 
 [Eliza singi. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 How sweet that little air ! Is it all sung ? 
 'Twas like the love-note of the nightingale. 
 
 DANCY. 
 
 And, like that note, the sweeter, from the bough 
 Heard unexpected, and no songster seen. 
 The sweeter that the bird was passing shy. 
 And had not warbled with a strain so free^ 
 Conscious who stood to hear. The sweeter too 
 That we enjoy'd a pleasure won by stealth,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 243 
 
 By mute approach and unobserv'd attention. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Ay, Sir, we should find nothing sweet on earth, 
 
 But for the pains we use in the pursuit. 
 
 Soon won is soon despis'd. Where the heart pants 
 
 With fear one moment and with hope the next, 
 
 Accomphshing its purpose thro' despair, 
 
 A toy obtain'd is like the victor's crown. 
 
 Which gives him joy for ever. Who comes here ? 
 
 EUza? 'Tisso. 
 
 Enter Euza. 
 
 EUZA. 
 
 Sir, the breakfast waits. 
 
 My Lady is impatient. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 Let it wait ; 
 
 For now we're met, we must proceed to business. 
 
 Eliza, thee I question. Is there, child. 
 
 One in the world thy honest heart esteems. 
 
 And can for ever love ? go, bring him hither, 
 
 I will not see another day elapse 
 
 Till I have made you happy in your choice.
 
 t4f SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 EUZA. 
 
 Sir, you confound me. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Dancy, take this hand. 
 Ask her to whom she gives it. If the youth 
 Be leagues remote, fly Hke an arrow to him, 
 And tell him nothing hinders, I consent. 
 
 DANCY. 
 
 Sir, I presume, if I may speak the truth, 
 The poor unworthy youth, who would obtain 
 Eliza's hand, and whom she would reward 
 With nothing less, had she a tongue to ^wn it. 
 Need not be sought beyond the narrow bound* 
 Of this your garden. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 Then be quick and find him ; 
 
 Unlink those hands, and let Kliza's self 
 
 Look for the man she honours. Is he here ? 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 Sir, I perceive too well, my forward love 
 Has not escap'd you. With a face of shame 
 I own this youth has lov'd mc, and my heart,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 245 
 
 Not proof to his attractions, has lov'd him. 
 
 I strove to curb affection, till at least 
 
 Your countenance should bid it live and prosper, 
 
 But had not power. So with gi*aceless freedom 
 
 I have presum'd to centre all my hopes 
 
 On Dancy. Yet if you, Sir, disapprove, 
 
 I will endeavour to repeal my fault. 
 
 By bidding him who loves me, no hard task, 
 
 To find a wife more worthy. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Let him seek 
 Ages, and ages, he shall never find 
 
 DANCY. 
 
 One whom he more desires and less deserves. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Take her, and be ye happy. For the means 
 Of present maintenance, look up to me. 
 Live in my house. I'll take you by the hand, 
 Open the way before you, point the steps 
 Which lead to affluence and good preferment. 
 And be it your's to follow without fear. 
 Dismiss some little of this awkward shame,
 
 246 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And own assurance worthy your deserts. 
 Great is the man who studies to be good, 
 And conscious dignity becomes him well. 
 Come, follow me. The curate has had notice. 
 We'll take a hasty breakfast, and to church. 
 
 [ExeutU. 
 
 Enter Sir John, Cecilia, and Heron. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 And so you wish to leave me ? Well, well, well. 
 Nurs'd by my hand from helpless infancy, 
 Till now a woman, you foi^et your friend. 
 And, in the wise extravagance of nature. 
 Prefer the sapling, which you never tried, 
 To the old faithful prop, yet sound and strong, 
 And never known untrue. You wish to go. 
 And leave me at my setting. 'Twas my hope 
 You would attend me to the eve of life. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 She shall, Sir ; faithful as the splendid star. 
 Betimes apparent in the softenM beam 
 Of still withdrawing day, and found so true, 
 It ever follows the departing sun,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 24'7 
 
 Tho' first and fairest of the host of night. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Well, well, do as you please. I'll walk to church, 
 And give the bride away. I want no crutch, 
 Tho' almost ninety. With my staff alone 
 I shall be able yet to reach the verge 
 Of life's unequal journey. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sir, my arm 
 Shall still support you. Live the life of man 
 Twice and thrice over, I will not desert you J 
 Ready to own your goodness, and repay 
 All I am able to my latest hour. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Well, I believe you ; for that honest tongue 
 Has never yet deceiv'd me. It was wont. 
 On all occasions, to be plain and true, 
 Tho' speedy as the race-horse or the swallow. 
 Come, lead me in, for I am almost spent. 
 As soon as we have breakfasted and rested. 
 We'll ask your father's leave, and go to church. 
 
 \^Exeunt.
 
 248 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 SCENE^'zr Thomas's Library, 
 Sir Thomas, and all his Family ^ at dinner. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Proceed we with dispatch, or I must fly 
 Ere we have toasted these our wedded friends. 
 Fleet as the hare is Time, when happy man 
 Entreats him to retard his rapid hours ; 
 But, when in woe he prays him to be gone, 
 More tardy than the slow-worm or the snail. 
 Come, happiness to all whose hearts are one, 
 To wives and husbands. May ye never jar, 
 But live to the remotest hours of life 
 Concordant as the notes of fellow pipes 
 That sound for ever charming unison. 
 Cecilia, mark my lesson. 
 
 CECIUA. 
 
 Sir, I do, 
 And hope my husband will have never cause
 
 A TRAGEDY. 249 
 
 To wish undone the fortune of to-day. 
 
 But women, let me tell him, are deceitful. 
 
 They wear a gentle aspect till they wed, 
 
 And ever after domineer. So puss 
 
 Fondles the mouse her pris'ner, with light paw 
 
 Touching his velvet coat, and purring loud 
 
 Her treach'rous promise to be ever kind. 
 
 She shuts her eyes, and seems almost asleep, 
 
 Hiding the tigress in a patient smile. 
 
 But short the respite mercy soon expires 
 
 She springs with savage fierceness on her prey, 
 
 Fixes her teeth and talons, swears his death. 
 
 And eats him up in anger. Sir, I'll tell you 
 
 To whom the man who seeks a faultless wife 
 
 May be compar'd. He's like the foolish boy 
 
 Who thrust his hand intj a bag of vipers '^ 
 
 To find a single eel, and thought it hard 
 
 The reptile bit him, and the fish escap'd. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 See, Sir, how bold and talkative a wife 
 
 You have to bear withal. 'Twas nature's mind 
 
 To make a lawyer of my youngest daughter,
 
 250 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Had fashifon been her friend. She has a tongue 
 That never rests. 'Tis a perpetual clock 
 That needs no winding up. She was a prattler 
 E'en from her cradle. She would talk and laugh 
 From dawn to sunset, and was scarce content 
 To let her active wit lie still, and rest 
 E*en in her sleep. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Yes, Sir, she has a tongue 
 That never halts for want of argument. 
 She can dispute, and reason, and tell tales. 
 As endless as the coward's vain account 
 Of bloody battles and heroic acts, 
 Or Lady Faddle's tedious history 
 Of her grave ancestors of Faddle Hall. 
 
 SIR THOM.\S. 
 
 Come, come, no scandal. Madam. Lash the vice^ 
 
 But ever spare the person. Of offence 
 
 Speak boldly to the ear of him who errs, 
 
 But never tell him that himself offends. 
 
 1 know a lady who finds fault with others, 
 
 Yet li.is some little foibles in herself^
 
 A TRAGEDY. 251 
 
 She takes of liberty too much herself, 
 Giving to others not enough. She loves 
 To laugh, and sing, and ramble o'er the field^ 
 But prisons the poor butterfly and bird, 
 
 CECILIA, rising. 
 Sir, I perceive that lady is Cecilia, 
 
 Let me acquit myself. You have been looking^ 
 
 Into the little boxes on my shelf. 
 
 You found in most a butterfly or moth. 
 
 I had not cheated them of one small link 
 
 Of native liberty. I found them all 
 
 Just at the close of autumn ; travelling some, 
 
 Mere harmless caterpillars, to find shelter 
 
 From the keen breath of all-consuming winter ; 
 
 Some cradled in a warm ingenious shell. 
 
 And fastened to the windows. To them all 
 
 I lent a fost'ring hand, made them warm beds 
 
 Of wool and cotton, found them each a house, 
 
 And, pleas'd as Pharaoh's daughter to preserve 
 
 The little friendless Hebrew, day by day 
 
 Watch'd the return of scarce-apparent life, 
 
 Sustained for months by nothing. At the last.
 
 252 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Each from his tomb arose, suf>erbly cloth'd, 
 
 And mounting on a pair of beauteous wings 
 
 Left me rejoicing. For the prisonM bird, 
 
 'Tis a poor goldfinch that I bought by chance 
 
 Of cruel boys who stole it from the nest. 
 
 It could not fly, and I had much to do 
 
 To find the food it likM. I fed it long. 
 
 And, when I thought it.fledg'd, unlock'd the cagey 
 
 And bade it fly away. It flew indeed, 
 
 But had not heart to leave me, perching still 
 
 Upon my head, my shoulder, or my hand, 
 
 And oft returning to the cage it left. 
 
 It had been cruel to have foi cM it out. 
 
 So when the day is clear, and puss withdrawn, 
 
 I open all my windows and my cage. 
 
 Fasten my door, and bid it go or stay. 
 
 E'en as it pleases. While I read within 
 
 It never leaves me. When I stray abroad, 
 
 1 often find it in the garden walk. 
 
 Hopping from branch to branch, happy to twit 
 
 Close at my side. And still at my return 
 
 I meet it in my chamber, or alone,
 
 A TRAGEDY. ^53 
 
 Or by a friend attended, whom its tongue 
 Advises to be bold, but pleads in vain, 
 For yet it lives unnjated. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 Brave defence '. 
 Let me be judge, and be the verdict found 
 For the defendant. She has won her cause. 
 The daughter triumphs, and the father fails. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Sir, I confess it. She has well explain'd 
 
 The motives of her conduct. Had we all 
 
 Intentions good and generous as her's, 
 
 Law were a muzzled bear that could not bite. 
 
 And lawyers beggars. Let me pay the costs. 
 
 And more, I promise ere the week expires 
 
 To yield her damages shall thrice requite 
 
 The wrong I've done her. Let it now subside. 
 
 Time hurries. I can drink but one glass more, 
 
 And hark a moment to Eliza's song, 
 
 Then I must leave you, and away to court. 
 
 Come, Sir, the King. {.They all drink the King.
 
 254 SIR THOMAS MOUE, 
 
 Enter the Kino. 
 
 KING. 
 
 The King is here to thank you. 
 LadieS) be seated, for we come to hear, 
 Not to disturb you. Here's a vacant chair. 
 Deem us still absent, and let mirth proceed. 
 The song, the song. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Sir, give us leave to breathe. 
 Your unexpected presence has surpris'd us. 
 Our songstress is but young, and seldom dares 
 Her simple strain before the public ear. 
 Your majesty's attention has, I see. 
 Quite oyeraw'd her. Let us pause a while. 
 And first apologize for our rude song. 
 To your judicious ear it cannot give 
 Exquisite pleasure. 'Tis but a modest air, 
 Embcllish'd with no learning, made to please 
 The herd of hearers, not to win applause 
 From stubborn critics and fastidious taste. 
 Like the grave compositions of our King.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 25$ 
 
 KING. 
 
 Ay, ay, my masses they are grave indeed, 
 
 And tolerably happy. I thank God, 
 
 He gave me talents, tho' he made me great. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Without a doubt, Sir, to your ready pen 
 
 Divinity and music have ow'd much. 
 
 We must intreat you to be partly deaf. 
 
 And let your judgment sleep, while we perform, 
 
 To give it no offence. Come, we'll begin. 
 
 [Eliza sings, and is followed by Cecilia. During 
 the song Sir Thomas whispers to his father. Sir 
 John makes signs to the rest, and as soon as it 
 is ended they all retire, leaving the King and Sir 
 Thomas together. 
 
 king. 
 Sweet music, Sir, sweet music. But why fly 
 
 Our fair conpanions ? Is the concert done ? 
 sir THOMAS. 
 
 Sir, they have apprehensions that you come 
 Not to be wearied with their poor performance, 
 Put to consult their father. I had sought.
 
 256 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Obedient to your majesty's command. 
 Your court at Greenwich, just about to rise 
 When you appear'd amongst us ; but your visit 
 Seem'd to repeal your order, and methought. 
 More active tlian myself, you came to Chelsea 
 To hasten business which had else been stay'd. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Such was my purpose. I am come. Sir Thomas, 
 Knowing your great integrity and learning. 
 Once more to question you of my divorce. 
 You know the painful scruples I once urg'd 
 Relating to my conscience. They exist, 
 And still disturb me ; but I know your mind. 
 And mention -them no more. I bring you now 
 Reasons of state, v/hich, I beseech you, weigh 
 With great deliberation, and unfold 
 Your whole opinion of them, not abashed, 
 Lest the thing spoken should oflend our ear. 
 Suppose my former scruples done away, 
 Suppose me of salvation not despairing, 
 Tho' wedded to my brother Arthur's wife. 
 I have one daughter. Should her father die,
 
 A TRAGtOy. 257 
 
 What are the perils that await my kingdom 1 
 You know the emp'ror and the king of France 
 Have both refus'd her, urging for excuse 
 She was not born in wedlock. When my father 
 Espous'd me to the widow of my brother, 
 You know the old Archbishop Warham told him 
 'Twas inconsistent with the law of God, 
 Which popes could not dispense with. Mov'd to doubt, 
 You know he made me, on that very day 
 I reach'd the period of my thirteenth year. 
 Enter a private protest 'gainst my marriage. 
 Again, you know he gave me solemn charge 
 Upon his death-bed, never to consummate 
 A marriage so prepost'rous. His advice. 
 Misled by Winchester, I disobey'd. 
 And see the consequence two princes dead 
 Only my daughter Mary left alive. 
 And Catharine my wife no longer fruitful. 
 Suppose I die. My sister Marg'ret's son. 
 The king of Scotland, will put in a claim 
 To England's crown, declaring this my daughter 
 Not lawful heir. My sister Mary too, 
 VOL. ii. s
 
 258 SIR THOMAS MOUK, 
 
 Queen dowager of France, will urge pretensions. 
 Alleging the young king of Scots a stranger, 
 My daughter illegitimate. And thus, 
 
 horrible to think of ! this whole land 
 Will be again expos'd to civil broils, 
 Worse than the wars of Lancaster and York. 
 Three pow'rful parties will let loose their rage, 
 And my poor people be consum'd in vain, 
 
 As in the days of Warwick and foul Richard. 
 Now, let me ask you, is it not a deed 
 
 1 owe my kingdom, to divorce a wife, 
 Whose issue are attended by God's curse, 
 And wed another which may bring me sons. 
 Whose solid title cannot be disputed ? 
 Speak to this argument, and nothing fear. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Sir, 'tis a matter so profound and deep, 
 I have no judgment in it. 
 
 KIMJ. 
 
 Well, think of it. 
 
 I know your cautious mind is always late 
 
 And tardy to determine. Weigh it well,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 259 
 
 And meet me presently at Hampton Court. 
 
 Tliink of my kingdom, and my hapless self, 
 
 A prey to scruples that disturb my rest, 
 
 And eat away the pith of life and health. 
 
 Be my physician, give me good advice, 
 
 Remove my malady, and ease my heart, 
 
 I'll give you good preferment for your pains. [Exit. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Ay, so it is. Lust will have no denial. 
 
 Wliat specious argument, what neat excuse, 
 
 Cannot the hungry libertine invent. 
 
 To show the folly of wise abstinence, 
 
 The wisdom of indulgence ? Ah ! poor queen ! 
 
 I see it is thy fortune to come down. 
 
 And fall a victim to contempt and wrong. 
 
 Yet shalt thou find a friend, whose hand and heart 
 
 Shall dare sustain thee, tho' he lose his head. 
 
 I'll hence this moment, open my whole mind, 
 
 Convince the King how much he is bewitch'd. 
 
 And plead thy cause again. Cath'rine perhaps 
 
 May yet prevail, give her an advocate 
 
 Whose warm defence shall clothe in e(jual term*
 
 i60 SIK THOMAS MORE, 
 
 The silent agonies of injur'd worth. 
 
 I'll go and bid my family adieu, 
 
 And follow after him without delay. [Aai/. 
 
 SCENE Hampton Cotirt. 
 Enter the King and Anne Bullen, 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Your majesty is speedy. 
 
 KINO. 
 
 My dear Anne, 
 How could I loiter when I thought of you ? 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 What says Sir Thomas, Sir ? 
 
 KING. 
 
 Why, nothing yet. 
 I left him to consider. But I think 
 He may as well sustain the joint assault 
 Of winds and waters in one current rushing, 
 As conquer argument so strong and pithy. 
 Dear girl, I shall my purpose yet accomplish, 
 And make thee partner of my bed and throne. 
 If we can win the suffrage of Sir Tliomas,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 261 
 
 I care not for a host of angry popes, 
 Legates, and cardinals. His countenance, 
 Fam*d as he is for learning, wit, and worth, 
 Will warp the multitude to deem our marriage 
 Judicious and expedient. Should he yield, 
 None can dispute our justice. The divorce 
 Shall be effected, and my gentle Anne 
 Be rais'd to honour shall become her beauty, 
 A jewel set in gold. Kiss me, you rogue. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Allure me not. You are another's husband. 
 When death or dispensation has unlock'd 
 The chain that binds you, and we both are one, 
 I may consent. But ah ! 'tis not for Anne, 
 Tho' she adores you, to be made your queen. 
 Less she will nevef be. No, she will shun 
 Courts and the smile of kings, to die in peace 
 An honest wife. She knows a noble youth, 
 Who will receive her with extended arms. 
 And gladly make her mistress of liis house. 
 Him will she seek, content with humble means, 
 And not ambitious to be seen at Court.
 
 262 - SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 KING. 
 
 Fie, fie, you sHall not leave me. You shall reifrii 
 The queen of England, and her monarch's glory. 
 I'll send Campeggio instantly away. 
 And bid my officers insult him. Rome 
 Shall never more have footing in this isle. 
 rU rule the church myself. I'll play the son 
 Of Macedonian Philip ; and if art 
 Cannot untie this everlasting knot, 
 I'll draw my sword and cut it. 
 
 Enter Norfolk. 
 
 Well, what now ? 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Sir Thomas More waits on your majesty. [Exif. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Oh, is he come ? Dear Anne, retire awhile. 
 I trust he brings us comfort by his speed. 
 rH seek thee presently, and tell the news. 
 
 [Exit Anne. 
 
 Enter Sir Thomas. 
 Welcome, Sir Thomas, welcome. You have wings 
 
 Swift as the falcon's, before which the flight
 
 A TRAGEDY. 263 
 
 Of doves themselves is tardy. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Sir, I came 
 Impeird by duty, which has equal power 
 To the sulphureous grain, that ushers home, 
 Speedy as lightning or immediate thought, 
 Its deadly messenger. 
 
 KING. 
 
 What news d'ye bring ? 
 Am I to thank you for content and ease ? 
 Or come you, like your own destructive ball, 
 To kill, and not to cure ? Why stand you silent ? 
 If there was aught amiss in what I urg'd, 
 Boldly condemn it ; but if aught appear'd, 
 And sure it was so, just and reasonable. 
 Be not unwilhng to compose my soul. 
 And feed it with the milk of kind advice. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Sir, I would gladly serve you if I could. 
 I would as freely give you my advice 
 To do the thing you wish, as satisfy 
 Innocent longing in an only child.
 
 SC^ SIR THOMAS MORP, 
 
 Could it be done with honour, and no loss 
 To your own credit. But, as in my child, 
 The more I lov'd it, I should strive the more 
 To conquer wishes that might undermine 
 Life's little h^lppiness ; so. Sir, to you 
 I show a fro ward and ungentle mood. 
 Daring your anger by discreet denial. 
 Rather than gratifying dang'rous hopes 
 By evil counsel and undue compliance. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Well, well, I am not angry. Let me hear. 
 What's your opinion ? 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 'Tis a perilous case. 
 Your majesty has taught me to fear much, 
 Should Heaven bless you with no other issue 
 Than the young Princess Mary. 
 
 KING, 
 
 Ay, herce wars. 
 Wars that may make my kingdom swim in blood ; 
 More fiery and consumptive than the wrath 
 Of Turks and Saracens, or wand' ring Arabs,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 265 
 
 That drop their quarrel never. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Yet, dread Sir, 
 I must acquaint you, were the cause my own, 
 I'd trust to Providence. The clouded dawn L. 
 
 Has often brighten'd, and a frowning morn 
 Been the rude prologue of a placid day. 
 What Heav'n intends no mortal can avert. 
 We may appease, but by no art evade 
 The blow it threatens. If we still offend, 
 Our ingenuity defeats itself, 
 Our labour j^ields us nothing, but we sink 
 The more we struggle in the gulf we shun. 
 Sir, give me audience. Cath'rine is your wife, 
 As lawfully as wife was ever wedded. 
 Consider, if to 'scape a future evil 
 You do a present wrong, shall not Grod's curse 
 Be doubled ? Is it likely you shall thrive 
 By being too ungentle to a widow. 
 The widow of your brother, your own wife, 
 And what is more, a widow that for worth 
 Was never equall'd ! Question your own heart.
 
 206 SIR THONfAS MORE, 
 
 It will assure you that the piteous moan 
 Of injur'd innocence, when thus oppress'd 
 Alone and helpless, has a friend above, 
 Who will require avengement of her wrongs 
 'Gainst all the kings on earth. Forgive me. Sir ; 
 I am too bold. My sov'reign lady's virtues 
 Make me forget my manners. Would to God 
 Your majesty would once more look upon her, 
 Restore her to your ikvour, and live happy, 
 As I have found you many and many a day 
 With her alone. Think of the pleasant hours 
 When she, all gentleness, sat by your side, 
 Acting the patient wife and pious mother, 
 Her infant daughter sleeping in her arms. 
 Her eyes fast fix'd on you, and beaming forth 
 Affection inexpressible, the while 
 Her tongue in gentle whispers told her heart. 
 
 KINO. 
 
 No more, no more. She was a queen of queens. 
 I lov'd her truly. She has ever liv'd 
 An unexampled wife. I'll go and walk. 
 I'll think of what you say, and, if my mind
 
 A TRAGEDY. 267 
 
 Finds nothing to disturb it, come again 
 
 And act as you advise me. [Exit. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Have I quench'd 
 The furious flame ? May it be quench'd for ever ! 
 I'll stay and watch it. If it mount again, 
 'Twill be more vehement for this repulse ; 
 Like the smithes forge, that glows with double heat 
 Upon its sooty master, often dash'd 
 With watery allayment. Let it mount. 
 Vigorous reason may again subdue it. 
 Hush ! some one enters. 
 
 Enter Norfolk. 
 Seeks your grace the king ? 
 He's just withdrawn. 
 
 JSrORFOLK. 
 
 No, Sir, I come to you, 
 Sent by my Lady More, who waits without, 
 And begs admittance to you, out of breath. 
 And almost spent from her abundant haste 
 To bring you evil news. See where she comes. 
 
 \^Exit Norfolk.
 
 36S SIR THOMAS MORiS 
 
 Enter Lady More. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 My Lady, what disturbs you ? 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Give me leave 
 To pause one moment, and expect to hear 
 News that will make your heart ache. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Speak it quickly. 
 Are all my daughters well ? how does my son ? 
 Who's ill? Sir John? Margaret? 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 A sudden fire 
 Has burnt down all your barns, and half your house. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 God's will be done. And is there nothing left ? 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 No, not a straw. Your corn is all consumed. 
 There's not provision for another day. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Part of my house too burnt ? Say not the room 
 In which I kept my papers.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 269 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Yes, that room. 
 And the two rooms adjoining. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Worse and worse. 
 No lives were lost ? 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 No, none. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 And no one hurt ? 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 None that I hear of. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 "^Vhere did it begin r 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 In one of your own barns. 
 
 SIR THOMAS, 
 
 And from what cause r 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 The negligence of your next neighbour's servant, 
 As is suppos'd ; who came to borrow straw, 
 And was too little careful of his light.
 
 210 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 His master's barns were burnt as well as your's. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Poor man ! he could but ill afford the loss. 
 He has eight children and a heavy rent. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 What shall we do ? The workmen must be sent for. 
 Our house is open both to thieves and weather. 
 We must be saving, and procure a purse 
 To reinstate ourselves. Shall I dismiss 
 Some of the servants ? Tell me. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Let them find 
 New masters if they can. If they return 
 Still unprovided, I'll maintain them all. 
 Discharge none suddenly. 'Tis a hard lot 
 To be turn'd loose upon a vicious world 
 With neither oars nor anchor. Such a sea 
 Might shipwreck honesty tho' built of oak. 
 Go to your neighbour, and inquire his loss. 
 Give him all comfort, tell him not to fear ; 
 I will repair his fortunes to the full.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 31 1 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 Surely, Sir Thomas, you forget yourself. 
 Remember, Charity first feeds her own. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 My Lady, I'm resolv'd that no poor neighbour 
 
 Shall suft'er for the loss that humbles me, 
 
 Tho' it reduce me to a crust of bread. 
 
 Do as I bid you. Make the poor man happy, 
 
 And be yourselves contented. Go to church. 
 
 You and your femily. Be truly thankful 
 
 Life is still left us, and enough to live on. 
 
 We shall be richer when it pleases God. 
 
 Go and be cheerful. I am nothing sad. 
 
 As soon as I have begg'd the King's permission, 
 
 I'll come and give thanks tvith you. 
 
 [Exit Lady More. 
 Such is life. 
 Full of strange casualties, which overset 
 E'en in an instant the proud work of years. 
 Now, could I argue with the atheist's skill. 
 And lie to my own mind, till it believ'd 
 All things that happen are the work of chance.
 
 f 72 SIR THOMAS MOKE , 
 
 I should apply the pistol to my ear, 
 
 And die the dupe of cowardly persuasion ; 
 
 For I am poor indeed. My papers burnt 
 
 Rob me of more than human heart can think, 
 
 More than my fiaunily shall ever know. 
 
 What have I but my places, which depend 
 
 Upon the favour of a fickle King, 
 
 Whom I this moment anger ? Let it be. 
 
 If I must fall, the will of Heav'n be done. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE changes to the Gardens. 
 Enter Anne Bullen alone. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 I wonder if Sir Thomas and the King 
 Be parted yet. It was a knotty point 
 That needed such discussion. Oh, I see. 
 Sir Thomas at this moment takes his leave. 
 The King has spied me, and is hither coming. 
 Now must I urge him, bring what news he will, 
 To put a sudden period to my cause. 
 And make me fjueen, or leave me as I am.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 273 
 
 Enter the Ki^-G. 
 Your majesty looks sad. I fear Sir Thomas 
 
 Brought you no welcome counsel. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Welcome counsel I 
 No, he has strain'd the sinews of his wit 
 Fighting against mc. For the wretched widow 
 He pour'd out all the honey of pers-aasion 
 And 'faith she was an angel. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Sir, adieu. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Nay, nay, be patient, Tho' he mov'd me much, 
 I am not conquer'd. I have scruples still. 
 Now let me hear my lovely Bulleii plead. 
 Tell me, dear Anne, what course shall I pursue, 
 To give content to my distracted mind ? 
 
 ANNE. 
 What have kings done before you ? Hannibal, 
 
 When the strong Alp oppos'd him, hcw'd his way ; 
 
 He fought with and subdu'd the stubborn rock, 
 
 And tumbled his proud head iuto the vale. 
 
 VOL. II. T
 
 274 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 KING. 
 
 What mean you, Anne ? Speak plain. 
 
 AfJNE. 
 
 Were I a king, 
 And my desires as laudable as your's. 
 My kingdom's safety, my domestic peace, 
 All on one wise and proper act depending, 
 rd do that act, tbo' to accomplish it 
 I pav'd my way with twenty thousand heads. 
 
 KING. 
 
 And so will I 'sblood, girl ! thou hast a spirit 
 Stout as an Amazon's. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Our ancient kings, 
 When did they halt and quit the great design, 
 Aw'd by remonstrance ? Had a subject dar'd 
 To rule your ancestors as some rule you, 
 What had he paid ? 
 
 KING. 
 
 The forfeit of his head. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 And not the forfeit of his head alone,
 
 A TRAGEDY* 275 
 
 But his estates. O, Sir, you are too cool, 
 
 Too calm and patient with these meddling fools. 
 
 And, tho' it is an office of much hazard, 
 
 I must inform you, you are much deceived 
 
 In those who counsel you remove them from you. 
 
 KING. 
 
 What ! shall I part with More ? 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 And part for ever. 
 Send him to heav*n. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Sweet Anne, you counsel ill. 
 It were a blot that would for ever stain 
 The page of story, to be so severe 
 To one so excellent. He has a name 
 III ev'ry corner of the globe, at home 
 Lov'd fi)r his virtues, and esteem'd abroad 
 For bis great learning, judgment, and politeness. 
 Besides, the anger of an English King 
 Is fenc'd about with forty thousand checks. 
 He cannot sacrifice his bitterest foe 
 Without attainder and a bill of wrongs,
 
 2T6 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 To be allow'd him by the jealous lords 
 And ever factious commons. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Let such bill 
 Be mov'd and pass'd. It cannot be rejected. 
 The houses both look up with longing eyes 
 Eager to serve you. Are there not in each 
 Of Protestants and Papists equal halves ; 
 Fearful the one lest you desert the Pope, 
 The other hopeful of a speedy change, 
 And therefore both obsequious ? Trust me, Sir, 
 The Bey or Sultan has not now a will 
 More absolute than your's. 
 
 KINO. 
 
 Ay, but, sweet Anne, 
 More is an angel in my people's eyes. 
 And to oppress him in the adverse hour 
 Were doubly odious. He has lost by fire 
 All he possess'd. His buildings are all burnt. 
 His papers and the profits of his land. 
 Nor e'en his house itself presen'M entire.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 277 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Then win him with a bribe : for he has wants, 
 Whose threat'ning aspect would the stoutest virtue 
 Stare out of countenance. His family 
 He loves and feeds, and keeps no sparing house, 
 Lib'ral to all who seek him, friends and foes. 
 Besides, he has a hand for ever open 
 To whining beggary, and alms on alms 
 Lavishly squanders. 
 
 KING. 
 
 But what bribe so great 
 Shall buy lym to our purpose ? 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Honour, honour, 
 And with that honour its appendage, wealth. 
 Advance him to the steeple top of favour, 
 And tell him for that favour he must speak 
 The courtier's language, and read nought aniss. 
 There is a man that serves your majesty, 
 Whose place he well might fill a hauglity priest, 
 Hated by all your people, and averse 
 Now at the last to Ins cjood master's jjlcasure,
 
 278 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Tho* be has fed him with a libVal hand 
 For almost twenty years. 
 
 KING. 
 
 What, Wolsey ? 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 He who torments 3'our people with exactions, 
 Screwing the pence from the lean peasant's han^i, 
 But yielding nothing from his proper purse, 
 Tho' richly able. He who like a gulf 
 Swallows preferment, and still thirsts for more. 
 Prime minister, lord chancellor, of York 
 Archbishop, bishop of Winchester and Durham, 
 Legate and cardinal, administrator 
 Of Bath and Wells, large pensioner withal 
 Of Charles and Francis. He who like a leech 
 Sucks from the houses of religious monks 
 Their wliole subsistence, with tlie modest plea 
 To fount! you colleges for wit and learning, 
 The rather building fur himself alive 
 Imperial palaces, and when deceased 
 Eternal mommientb.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 279 
 
 KING. 
 
 I do believe it 
 Yet in the will he open'd when I chid him, 
 He show'd me that to me he had bequeath'd 
 All his possessions. To confirm his word, 
 He gave me instantly this Hampton Court, 
 Built, as he said, on purpose to present me. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 So when the thief has stol'n into the house, 
 He pats the quiet mastiff on the head, 
 And feeds him bountifully from his wallet. 
 He, by the bribe seduc'd, stands by and fawns, 
 And suffers the sly villain undisturb'd 
 To reimburse him with his master's gold. 
 Think you he means to make the King his heir ? 
 1 dare be sworn he glories in his heart 
 To see you so unwary, while he strips 
 Your family, the kingdom, of its fleece. 
 What is liis view but to secure liis children, 
 Born out of wedlock, maintenance and homes ; 
 To have a thousand scholars chanting mass 
 And singing requiems to his guilty soul ?
 
 280 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 KING. ' 
 
 *Faitli you have hit it. Tell me more, my girl. 
 
 I do beheve that overweening priest 
 
 Abuses my protection. I remember 
 
 Many unwarrantable acts he did. 
 
 Not long ago he sent away dispatches 
 
 Without my knowledge to the court of Spain, 
 
 Commanding Clarenceux my herald there 
 
 To threaten Charles with war nay, to declare it. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 'Twas one of many his audacious deeds 
 
 That call for chastisement. He plays the prince 
 
 In word and purpose, with amazing pride 
 
 Treating your subjects as if he were king, 
 
 And you his minister. The house of lords 
 
 Abhor him as the plague, because they saw 
 
 The rights of peerage almost crush'd to death 
 
 In the destruction of poor Buckingham. 
 
 The commons hate him for his forward tongue, 
 
 Officiously presuming in their house 
 
 To dictate their proceedings ; and because. 
 
 Too pvoud to ask thch* leave to lor} SMoney,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 281 
 
 He has oppress'd the nation more than once 
 With warrants of exaction. 
 
 KING. 
 
 I remember, 
 He rais'd an insurrection in the city, 
 Not long ago, by such illegal means. 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 And laid the blame upon your royal self. 
 He has the art of soothing, and transfers 
 At least one half of the vex'd people's hate 
 Upon your majesty. 
 
 KFNG. 
 
 Ungrateful cur ! 
 I'll strip him of his lionours, turn him out 
 As naked as he came, and whip him home. 
 To play the tyrant in his native Ipswich. 
 
 ANNE. 
 Believe me, Sir, you cannot find the deed 
 
 Would raise you higher in your people's love. 
 
 He has long liv'd by slaughter of your flock. 
 
 To you their shepherd they look up with hope. 
 
 It' you protc-ct thcui from his bkxKly knife
 
 282 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And ever busy shears, about your throne 
 They will assemble with unfeigu'd attachment, 
 Crowding to serve you with their lives and fleeces. 
 Protect them not, but let him still prevail. 
 And they shall hate you with supreme disgust. 
 As they hate him. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Thou speakest reason, Anne. 
 Would all my counsellors were wise as thou art ! 
 
 ANNE. 
 Suppose then you dismiss this money'd priest. 
 
 Observe how coldly your divorce proceeds. 
 
 Is it not Wolsey's fault ? His lips are shut 
 
 He countenances nothing, but resolves 
 
 To cross by silence what he dares not thwart 
 
 By open opposition. He has hate, 
 
 How kindled I know not, to nie and mine. 
 
 He envies me your majesty's regard, 
 
 And tm-ls he can oppoie su!)stantial bars 
 
 To all your hopes and mine. 
 
 Ki.Nr;. 
 
 Hut bv the Lord
 
 A TRAGEDY. 283 
 
 We'll disappoint him. Shall he out to-day ? 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 Mark its expedience. The gi*eat seal revok'd 
 May purchase More. He cannot be your foe, 
 And plead against you, bought at such a price. 
 Send the proud Cardinal to die at York, 
 Stript of preferment ; or if cause appear, 
 Arrest him of high treason. Such an act 
 Will make your people love you, and, besides. 
 Fill your drain'd coffers with the Card'nal's wealth. 
 More will be satisfied, your queen divorc'd. 
 And all run smoothly as your heart can wish. 
 As for the Pope, his menaces are wmd. 
 Regard him not. Your kingdom is your own. 
 And you the head supreme of church and state. 
 Your people curse the tyranny of Rome, 
 Made wise by study. They will gladly join you, 
 Defy the usurpation of the church. 
 And cast away its yoke. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Dear, lovely girl, 
 
 Tliou art an angel, and hast f\\\\\ tny car
 
 2S4 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 With doctrine sweeter than the poet's song. 
 
 Be thou my privy couiici). From thy lips 
 
 Give me sweet kisses for my daily fere, 
 
 And make me wise and happy. Come, you rogue, 
 
 Indulge me once again. Now I am ready. 
 
 ril send this instant, and command that priest 
 
 To yield me the great seal, and hence for York. 
 
 I will not see him, for his artful tongue 
 
 May move me to compassion. He shall down, 
 
 I swear he shall, and More shall be exalted- 
 
 [Exeuiii. 
 
 SCENE changes to Sir Thomas's Library. 
 Sir Thomas and Lady Moke alone at the Table. 
 
 LADY MOilE. 
 
 Well, so much for repairs, so much for grain, 
 So much for the provision of your house, 
 And all together will amount to so much. 
 Look at the sum. I think it now exceeds 
 All we can raise. And will you still persist 
 Your neighbour shall lose nothing ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 285 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Not a doit. 
 My Lady, if I live upon a heath, 
 That honest man shall be no loser by me. 
 I'll first repair his loss, and then my own. 
 He has no friend at court, nor any place 
 Whose profits may redeem him out of want. 
 He has work'd hard, and yet could barely live, 
 Feeding so many little mouths at home, 
 And forc'd to pay a more than equal rent 
 To an unthrifty and oppressive landlord. 
 He never ask'd, for all the pains he takes, 
 More than his wants might challenge, food and raiment, 
 And those he shall have. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 Sir, the Duke of Norfolk 
 Wishes to see you. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Pray him to walk in. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 My Lady, take the papers and ,be gone. 
 
 [Exit Lady More.
 
 286 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Enter Norfolk- 
 Your grace is welcome. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Sir, I trust I am, 
 For I ara come the messenger of news 
 Grateful to all who hear it. It has pleas'd 
 Our gracious 80v*reign to remove at last 
 His odious minister the Cardinal. 
 Myself was one of those commission'd by hun 
 To make demand of the great seal, from which 
 He parted with reluctance ; not like me, 
 Who thus resign it with a cheerful heart, 
 To one who merits like Sir Thomas More ; 
 Happy to hail him, at the King's command, 
 England's Lord Chancellor. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Your grace mistakes. 
 
 Is Woisey fall'n ? 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 He is, and boist'rous joy 
 
 Is .shouting at his ruin. All the streets 
 
 Re-echo with huzzas. God save the King, 
 
 And may he live for ever. Not a soul,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 281 
 
 IBut bellows ecstasy from leathern lungs, 
 And with exertion sets his face on fire. 
 At sight of me they paus'd and stood to hear, 
 Till I had told them what my message was 
 To their good friend Sir Thomas. At your name 
 Again they bellow'd, lifted high their hands, 
 And wav'd their hats ; with such a thund'ring shout 
 Assailing my poor ears, as made them ring 
 Even to Chelsea, and has so confus'd them, 
 They are scarce yet recover'd. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Sure your grace 
 Has, in your hurry thro' the public streets, 
 Misconstru'd what his majesty commanded. 
 It cannot be to me he gives the seal. 
 I am a layman, of no noble house. 
 Impeded with a family of children. 
 'Tis usual to bestow it on divines 
 And men of learning. Let me pray your grace 
 To pause awhile, and recollect yourself. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Sir Thomas, I have harbour'd no mistake.
 
 288 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 You are the man to whom the King dispatch'd me. 
 
 To you he order'd me to give this seal, 
 
 And say withal, it was no other cause 
 
 Mov'd him to grant it but your well-known worth 
 
 And great sufficiency, which overtops 
 
 All that himself could wish, his people hope. 
 
 You must repair as quickly as you can 
 
 To Westminster, and meet us in the Hall ; 
 
 Thence to be led by Suffolk and myself 
 
 Into the Star-chamber to take your seat. 
 
 [Exit Norfolk. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 I will obey your grace. So, Wolsey's down, 
 
 And on the ruiii of his ancient foe 
 
 More is compell'd to rise. He was a man 
 
 Of vast abilities, and made his king 
 
 The dread and envy of the farthest world. 
 
 How shall 1 fill his seat ? My little light 
 
 Will be to his but as the taper's ray. 
 
 Which, while the sun was up, was scarce discem'd. 
 
 And had but fi,eble glory when it sunk. 
 
 I would his majesty had sought elsewhere,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 289 
 
 And found an abler man. But since on me 
 
 He piles the load of honour, I receive it, 
 
 Grateful to Providence, which thus supports 
 
 My almost luin'd house. I'll see the man 
 
 Restor'd to all he lost, tell the good news 
 
 To old Sir John and my dejected children, 
 
 And then away for Westminster with speed. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE changes to Hampton Court. 
 Enter the King meeting Anne Bullen. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Ah ! my sweet Anne, where have you hid yourself? 
 You rogue, I bring you news will make your heart 
 Grow riotous with joy. 
 
 ANNE. 
 What news, dread Sir ? 
 
 KING. 
 
 The Cardinals are routed. I've sent one 
 Smarting with insult to my lord the Pope. 
 The other is depriv'd, and gone to Esher 
 Till further orders reach him, then to York. 
 The peers have found him guilty. Here, you rogue, 
 VOL. II. u
 
 290 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Here is an invent'ry of all he had, 
 The total sum of his ill-gotten wealth, 
 And 'tis all naine. I've sent the seal to Morev 
 More has accepted it. Within the hour 
 I shall expect him here to give me thanks, 
 And then I'll urge him to approve my cause : 
 And sure he will approve it ; for, look here, 
 Look here, my jewel ; here are the opinions, 
 Of all the Universities in Europe, 
 And all are in my favour. I shall yet 
 Defeat the arts of that o'erbearing Pope, 
 Live like a Christian blameless, and enjoy 
 Peace and my lovely BuUen. Come, a kiss. 
 My news deserves it. Hark ! what noise was that ? 
 Enter Norfolk. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Sir Thomas More waits on your majesty. 
 
 KING. 
 
 He's welcome. Show him in. Dear Anne, retire. 
 
 [Exeunt Norfolk one way^ and Anne another. 
 
 Enter Sir Thomas. 
 Sir Thomas, I have long'd to see you.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 291 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 And I too 
 Have long'd to see the gracious king I serve, 
 To thank him for his goodness. With warm heart 
 I bless him for this instance of his love. 
 Which once more lifts me from distress and want 
 To wealth and plenty. I could only wish 
 Your majesty had found an abler servant 
 In him whom you thus honour. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Abler servants 
 We do not search for, and we cannot find. 
 Sir Thomas, I have done what I approve. 
 And what your merits and domestic wants 
 Demanded at my hands. All that I ask, 
 In recompense of the regard I show you, 
 Is your advice. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Which I am bound to give, 
 Poor as it is, with willingness and truth, 
 Whenever ask'd.
 
 J}92 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 KING. 
 
 Ay, give it me with truth, 
 No\T I consult you. Have you thought at all 
 Of me and my divorce ? What must I do ? 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Pread Sir, excuse me. *Tis a subtle point. 
 
 I have been all in all engag'd at home, 
 
 Since I departed, in my own concerns. 
 
 I have not weigh'd the matter, much disturbed 
 
 By my late sudden losses. Let me pray you, 
 
 Consult your other counsellors. My mind 
 
 Is all derang'd ; and I had never wit 
 
 To comprehend the question you propose 
 
 With clearness and precision. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Look you here, 
 flere are the testimonies of the Church, 
 Of all the Universities in Europe, 
 Of Oxford, Cambridge, Angiers, Bourges, Orleans, 
 Thoulouse, Bologna, Padua, and Ferrara ; 
 And all agree 'twas contrary to law 
 To marry Cath'rine, and the dispensation
 
 A TRAGEDY. ^29$ 
 
 Granted by Julius must be deem'd invalid. 
 What think you of all this ? 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 The Church is wise. 
 The Church is learned. The Church may be rightk 
 Perhaps it is so. Leaning on the Church, 
 Your majesty proceeds on firm support. 
 Why need you urge an individual voice ? 
 
 KING. 
 
 Because you have a name in Church and State 
 
 And all my people and the world at large 
 
 Look up to you, deeming your judgment truth 
 
 And candid equity. I cannot thrive, 
 
 And be divorc'd with that applause I wish, 
 
 While you oppose me* To your books again. 
 
 Read with attention, and a hearty wish 
 
 To serve your king. I must not be denied 
 
 Your vote and countenance, when the joint voice 
 
 Of total Christendom confirms my scruples. 
 
 Go, and be busy, and, your mind convinc'd, 
 
 Seek us again, and be the man we love. [EJrit.
 
 ^* SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 [Sir Thomas stands awhile in astonishment.] 
 Enter Norfolk. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Sir Thomas, an express is just arriv'd. 
 Who brings intelligence that old Sir John, 
 Your worthy father, is 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Not dead ? 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Yes, dead. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Peace to his soul; he could not have expir'd 
 At a more happy season. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 So I think. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Where is the messenger ? Conduct me to him. 
 
 {Exeunt,
 
 A TRAGEDY, 2ii$ 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 TVie Funeral Procession of Sir John MonE,/ollowed by 
 Sir Thomas and all his Family, /h they proceed. 
 Sir Thomas steps aside, and Mk^QARWS Jollows him. 
 The rest go out and leave them. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Ay, come, my child. We will not to the grave ; 
 
 For 'tis a painful thing to see interr'd 
 
 Those we have lov'd, tho' they depart in years. 
 
 I wish Cecilia too had stept aside. 
 
 She knows not what it is to see the earth 
 
 Close on the friend we must no more behold. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 ^Twill grieve her most acutely. I was present 
 
 When he expir'd, and 'twas a moving sight 
 
 To see with what solicitude she cheer'd 
 
 His sensible departure. On her brow 
 
 Sat anxious pity and assiduous hope, 
 
 And almost charm'd the gradual death away
 
 296 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 With silent soft persuasion. At her looks 
 Sir John himself was pleas'd, and with a smile, 
 As if to die were easy as to sleep, 
 Expir'd approving in his elbow chair. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 May all our exits be as smooth as his ! 
 See, what a blessing 'tis to die in peace ; 
 To leave the world, and feel no secret stings 
 From a reproving conscience. What is death 
 To him who meets it with an upright heart ? 
 A quiet haven, where his shattered bark 
 Harbours secure, till the rude storm is past. 
 Perhaps a passage, overhung with clouds 
 But at its entrance, a few leagues beyond 
 Op'ning to kinder skies and milder suns, 
 And seas pacific as the soul that seeks them. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 And what is death. Sir, if the little peace 
 Of life's tumultuous eve be chas'd away 
 By recollection of improper deeds, 
 And duties not perform'd ? Awful its frown 
 To him who views it ev'ry day he lives 

 
 A TRAGEDY. 297 
 
 With growuig apprehension. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Yes, my child ; 
 Therefore will you and I be honest still, 
 Tho' we die beggars. For no word or deed 
 Shall our good hearts accuse us. We will live 
 No man's oppressors, but the friends of all ; 
 And do our duty tho' we die in straw. 
 They come from church. Let's step aside awhile. 
 Soon as the aisles are clear'd, we'll enter them. 
 I wish to see where my good father sleeps. [Exeunl. 
 
 SCENE changes to the inside of the Church. 
 Re-enter Sir Thomas and Margaret. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 See where he lies. The race of life is run, 
 
 And here he sleeps for ages. Ninety years 
 
 Alive and active was the silent corpse 
 
 That rests within this grave. How wonderful 
 
 That the resulting heart for so long time 
 
 Should dance unwearied, and forbear at last 
 
 With visible reluctance that the blood,
 
 298 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 RefrainM by temperance, should up and down 
 
 Travel so merrily, and hardly pause 
 
 E*en in a cent'ry ! Pause it will at last. 
 
 And we must all lie down and kiss the dust. 
 
 As well as this good man who slumbers here. 
 
 Simple or noble, indigent or rich, 
 
 Thb is our home. Ay, there thy mother sleeps. 
 
 She was the most deserving of her sex. 
 
 Thy foolish father shed a world of tears 
 
 When he there plac'd her. Marg'ret, when I die, 
 
 As I am sickly in estate and health, 
 
 Lay me beside her. I would rest my bones 
 
 Under this very spot Mark it with care ; 
 
 And, when I'm buried, let a stone be plac'd 
 
 Just here, upon your mother's grave and mine, 
 
 That here at least we may be undisturb'd : 
 
 A plain smooth stone without embellishment, 
 
 And not disfigur'd with a vain account 
 
 Of virtues more than mortal e'er possess'd. 
 
 Let it tell truth, and tell it in few words. 
 
 Better to say too little than too much. 
 
 I have a short inscription in my desk ;
 
 A TRAGEDY. 299 
 
 WJien we go home, I'll search and give it you. 
 Why weeps my daughter ? Child, if I am sad, 
 Let it not grieve you. I have many cares 
 You have not heard o 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Let me know them, Sir ; 
 Trouble is ever ligliten'd by complaint. 
 Reveal the grief that preys upon your heart, 
 And it shall half expire. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Why should I tell it ? 
 'Twill make thee wretched, tho' it eases me. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Not more so than I am, when thus assur'd 
 Something afflicts you, and I know not what. 
 Perhaps I shall enhance the latent ill, 
 And be more wretched while it lies conceal'd, 
 Than when it is made known. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Child, I must falL 
 I cannot with integrity support 
 My ruin'd fortunes. To escape from want
 
 300 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 I must be cruel to a virtuous soul, 
 To a deserted widow without friends, 
 Tho' all-deserving. 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 Sooner let us want 
 
 Life's necessary blessings, bread to eat, 
 
 A house to live in, clothes to cover us, 
 
 And beds to sleep on. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 There my daughter spoke 
 I will defy the hardest lot of life. 
 Can'st thou believe it, Marg'ret, that the King 
 Gave me the noble office which I hold 
 Only to bribe me, to procure my voice 
 Against poor Catharine ? And shall I give iti? 
 No ; tho' it rouse his anger mountain high, 
 And for my loyalty I lose my head. 
 There is but one thing that withholds my hand, 
 Making me cautious how I give offence, 
 And 'tis indeed a circumstance that grieves me : 
 'Tis, that our fortunes are so interwoven. 
 The blow that ruins me will ruin you;
 
 A TRAGEDY. 301 
 
 Will sensibly affect my innocent house, 
 And make my children beggars like myself. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Sir, let it not disturb you. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 I would fall, 
 God knows how willingly, and beg my bread, 
 Rather than trespass as the King desires. 
 But how shall I requite it to my children ? 
 Dancy depends upon me. My own son 
 Has nothing yet to live on ; thou hast little. 
 My father could not help us. All he had 
 Goes to his widow ere it comes to us. 
 My Lady Alice will have no support. 
 We shall be scatter'd like the worried flock, 
 And each must seek for shelter with her own. 
 Thou must retire with Roper to his farm. 
 Cecilia must with Heron to his father's. 
 The little I have left must be bestow'd 
 On Lady Alice, Dancy, and Eliza. 
 John and mj-self must starve, or be content 
 To earn by labour ev'ry meal we eat.
 
 SOS SIR THOMAS MOKE, 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Dear Sir, you break my heart. Be more composed. 
 Our little fortunes will be wealth enough. 
 Send Dancy to his father's. You, and John, 
 And Lady Alice, come and live with us. 
 Or let us hire adjoining houses, small, 
 And suited to our incomes. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 So we will. 
 I will not part from my whole happiness. 
 Tho' cruel fortune scatter all the rest, 
 Marg'ret shall be my hope and comfort still. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 We will be modest in our wants, discharge 
 All but one servant each, live on plain diet, 
 And nicely manage our exhausted means. 
 We will shun pleasure and expensive dress, 
 And live secluded from the public eye. 
 Contented tho' reduc'd. We will not ask 
 The neighbour or the stranger to our board. 
 But steal away to solitude and books; 
 Pleas'd with the mem'ry of triumphant virtue,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 305 
 
 And poverty preferr'd to vicious wealth. 
 
 If yet our wants are more than we can feed, 
 
 We will be unattended. My own hand 
 
 Shall do the housewife's work, sliall spin and knit, 
 
 And earn by industry sufficient bread. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 My most deserving daughter ! Thou wast bom 
 To teach thy father virtue. I was sad ; 
 But the sweet patience of thy pious heart 
 Revives and gives me comfort. Yes, I'll go. 
 And gladly bid farewel to courts and princes. 
 Poor we must be, but we will still be just. 
 And live upon the hope of better days. 
 We will presume the Author of events 
 Approves of our endeavours, and perhaps 
 Yet, ere we come to sorrow and the grave. 
 Will bless our patience with an easier lot. 
 Come, we will hence contented. For my father, 
 Let us esteem him happy that he died. 
 He saw our glory, and withdrew in peace. 
 Go to my Lady. Tell her my intent. 
 Reveal it to your sisters. Honest girls,
 
 304 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 They will be griev'd to hear how soon we parf. 
 
 Tell thy unwelcome story by degrees, 
 
 And mingle comfort with it. I'll to court, 
 
 And wliQn we meet again, meet me with joy, 
 
 Tho' I return as poor as I was bom. 
 
 I shall not be long absent. Wolsey's gone. 
 
 His master was his heir before he died, 
 
 And I expect to find him at York Place. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE the Counfry between Cfielsea and London. 
 Enter Sir Thomas More, meeting Tunstall. 
 
 TUNSTALL. 
 
 Well met, Sir Thomas ; 'tis to you I come. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 I'm glad to see your Lordship look so well. 
 Preferment does you good. You were but thin, 
 When we retum'd together from Cambray. 
 
 TUNSTALL. 
 
 Ay, thin from application, want of rest, 
 And unabated travel. Now I pause 
 And take my time, no longer yok'd with you, 
 A steed of ardent spirit, never tir'd,
 
 A TRAGEDY. SO 5 
 
 That jaded me to nothing. By your office 
 You should improve in looks as well as I. 
 Plenty pursues you, yet your brow is sad^ 
 And your cheek pale. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Ay, pale as your's was thin^ 
 From constant application, want of rest, 
 And unabated travel. Pack-horse like, 
 Still I am plodding on, and find no rest 
 To gather flesh like you, worn to the bone 
 By everlasting toil. My Lord, fine gowns 
 May hide uneasy hearts, and so does mine. 
 
 TUNSTALL. 
 
 Then let me comfort you. I know your cares, 
 I know your wants, Sir Thomas. You are poor ; 
 Your family is large, and 'tis your wish 
 You had in hand to serve them. Hear me then. 
 I come deputed from the convocation, 
 In name of all the bishops and the clergy, 
 To thank you for the pains you have bestow"d 
 In writing volumes of so great desert 
 In vindication of th' estublish'd church. 
 VOL. IT. X
 
 306 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 My Lord, they do me honour ; but their praise 
 Was not a fee I wish'd for. 
 
 TUNSTALL. 
 
 No, Sir Thomas ; 
 Nor is it all they offer. Well aware 
 How much your fortunes have of late been hurt, 
 They grant you readily four thousand pounds, 
 As a free gift to recompense your toils. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 My Lord, they show a spirit which becomes them ; 
 It makes me happy that the church I serv'd 
 Have prov'd themselves so worthy of defence. 
 I beg your Lordship to assure the house 
 I'm heartily oblig'd. 'Tis comfort to me 
 To have my simple doings so approv'd. 
 But for the money they are pleas'd to tender, 
 I shall not take a penny. 
 
 TUNSTALL. 
 
 Surely, Sir! 
 Was it not well deservM ? If deeds like these 
 Must not be recompeni-'d, virtue must starve,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 807 
 
 And worth, in spite of talents, be a beggar. 
 Consider coolly. 'Tis but a small gift. 
 I was commission'd to make some excuse, 
 That it so little merited acceptance. 
 
 SHt THOMAS. 
 
 My Lord, I am determin'd, not a penny. 
 What, will you have it said in the wide world. 
 The church were so deficient, that they brib'd 
 Sir Thomas More, a layman, to write for them ? 
 
 TUNSTALL. 
 I cannot think, Sir Thomas, the wide world, 
 
 So well assur'd of your contempt for moneyj 
 
 Will ever be suspicious that you wrote 
 
 With prospect of reward. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 They never shall. 
 Therefore I shun your gift, and never hope 
 To be one farthing richer by the church. 
 
 TUNSTALL. 
 
 Suppose then we proceed on other terms. 
 Let us bestow it on your family. 
 Your wife and children.
 
 308 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Not a doit, my Lord. 
 Who gives my family enriches me. 
 If I look on, another shedding blood. 
 And tacitly approve of what he does. 
 Falls not the guilt of murder upon me, 
 As much as if myself had push'd the knife ? 
 So then if I refuse a proffer'd bribe, 
 But wink at him who puts it in my purse, 
 I may be still esteem'd corrupt and venal. 
 No, Tunstall, they must not accept the gift. 
 I thank ydu for your zeal to me and mine. 
 I love and honour you Out of your gown 
 You are a christian friend and honest man. 
 I know it gave you pleasure, to be sent 
 With this good news to me. Accept my thanks. 
 'Tis almost all Sir Thomas has to give you. 
 Pray let me not detain you. Norfolk comes, 
 And has perhaps state business for my ear. 
 Use all your eloquence in convocation, 
 And tell the clergy I am much their friend. 
 
 [Exit Tunstall.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 309 
 
 Enter Norfolk. 
 Your grace, or I'm mistaken, seeks for me. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 Yes, Sir, and bring his majesty's command, 
 
 Tliat you this afternoon explain his cause 
 
 Before the lower House that you unfold 
 
 Thf opinions of the Universities, 
 
 Beyond sea and at home ; as much as may be 
 
 His marriage furthering, and his just doubts 
 
 Approving and commending. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Ay indeed ? 
 Intends his majesty beyond all doubt 
 To marry Bullen ? 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 Sir, beyond all doubt. 
 
 I've heard it said, the nuptials are already 
 
 Consummated in private. This I know, 
 
 They live as man and wife. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Returns your grace 
 To meet his majesty ?
 
 310 SIR THOMAS MOIIE, 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 This moment, Sir. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Then, I beseech you, hear my Httle prayer. 
 
 And when you've heard it, bear it to the King. 
 
 I grow inhrm and sickly, and my mind 
 
 Loses its wonted vigour. My request 
 
 Is, that his majesty would give me leave 
 
 To quit his service ere I misbecome it. 
 
 It may surprise your grace I would resign. 
 
 Soon as I think you have made known my prayer, 
 
 I'll be at the King's feet myself, and yield 
 
 The seal in person. Do not ask me why. 
 
 My reasons I conceal. I pray your grace. 
 
 How docs your noble son } Is he abroad, 
 
 Or does he ornament his native isle .' 
 
 I do not think a more accomplished man 
 
 Lives in the world. He manages the pen 
 
 As bravely as the truncheon. With the one * 
 
 He overthrew the Scot at Flod<len-iicld, 
 
 And with the other tiiumi)hs evVy where 
 
 Uc wins the laurel twice, and should be crown d
 
 A TRAGEDY. 311 
 
 Victor in arms and song. Where is he now ? 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 At Florence, Sir, maintaining Geraldine. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Tiie beauteous servant of our hapless queen. 
 Pray, Sir, commend me to him. If I Uve 
 Till he returns, I shall rejoice to see him. 
 
 [Exit Sir Thomas. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 So then, the King must lose his chancellor. 
 I see. More will not serve him under BuUen. 
 Well, honesty becomes us ; but I fear 
 'Twill make Sir Thomas shorter by the head. 
 
 [Exii. 
 
 SCENE changes to Sir Thomas's Library. 
 Enter Margaret, Eliza, and Cecilia. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Well then, my sisters, we are all agreed. 
 Our father has done wisely to resign. 
 It shall not grieve us to be quite reduced, 
 Rather than urge him to the thing he loathes.
 
 312 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 ELIZA. 
 It only urieves me we must be divorc'd 
 From tliis our lovM and long-rememher'd home, 
 And from each other : we, whose hapjiy days 
 Have all been spent beneath the same kind roof, 
 And who, in our whole lives, have scarcely known 
 A fortnight's separation. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Ay, my girls, 
 'Twill make your hearts ache when our husbands come 
 And tell us they are ready to be gone. 
 For my own part, I am almost resolv'd 
 Not to be jxitient till I see my father 
 And take a formal leave, but quit his house 
 Silent and unobserv'd. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 No, no, Cecilia. 
 
 'Twill seem as if we wanted just respect 
 
 And filial duty. Let us show esteem 
 
 And due a'.leiuion in the hour of need. 
 
 'Tis the best comfort of the humbled miiKl 
 
 To find, tho' fortune fails ii, friends remain.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 313 
 
 No, let US meet with c^,urage the sad hour 
 That parts us ever from the roof we love. 
 Let us be resolute, and, if we can. 
 Go from our father with unweeping eyes. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Yes, be content and cheerful . Let no cloud 
 Hang on your brows, and no remorseful tear 
 Steal from your eyelids. Stifle grief within, 
 Nor give it sweet indulgence, till your feet 
 Have pass'd the threshold of your father's house. 
 'Twill give him ease to find your steady minds 
 Repine so little at the sudden change. 
 Come, let's assume at least the face of mirth, 
 Tho' sorrow preys upon the heart within. 
 Our father will return before we think. 
 And find us grieving. Let him find us gay. 
 'Tvvas his desire. Eliza, try a song. 
 I've often heard you say, when the mind's sad 
 'Tis luxury to sing. 
 
 ELIZA, 
 
 Yes, plaintive airs, 
 Diro^es, and fun'ral anthems. Serious sounds
 
 314 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Are the sweet banquet melanchoi/ loves. 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Sing us that little air you made yourself. 
 It suits the solemn temper of my mind. 
 Begin, and leave the second part to me. 
 
 Eliza and Cecilia sing. Just as the song closes 
 enter Sir Thomas. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Thank you, my little friends. To hear you sing 
 Makes my heart dance with pleasure. Have you told 
 
 them 
 What I requested, Marg'ret ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Yes, I have, Sir. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 Why, then I thank them twice. And would to God 
 
 I liad substantial blessings for you all. 
 
 But we must part, Eliza, we must part. 
 
 Cecilia, we must laugh at scv'ral homes : 
 
 We disaj^rce so much, we must be sunder'd. 
 
 And measure swords but seldom. I anj poor, 
 
 AtkI must bo thankful to your sister Marg'ret
 
 A TRAGEDY. 3 15 
 
 For my own food and lodging ; nothing now 
 
 But plain Sir Thomas in a fustian coat, 
 
 With neither robes nor office. Ring the bell. 
 
 I wish to see my butler. Here he comes. 
 
 Enter Butleu. 
 Harris, to-morrow I keep house no more. 
 
 Your master is grown poor, and can't support you. 
 
 Here, take these letters. They are all replies 
 
 To applications which I made for you, 
 
 And for your fellow-servants. Read them all. 
 
 The oldest chooses first, the youngest last. 
 
 You must all leave me ; but I'm glad to tell you. 
 
 There are much better places for you all. 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 Sir, I have never wish'd a better place. 
 I will attend you still, or rich or poor, 
 And be content with nothing. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 My good friend, 
 If I feed you, I cannot live myself. 
 No, you must leave me. Go, and go in peace. 
 You've serv'd mc truly. I may serve myself
 
 3.16 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Before I die. If so, I'll learn from yoa 
 To serve with honesty from year to year, 
 Be satisfied with wages never high, 
 And quit my master's service with reluctance. 
 What would'st thou say ? 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 Ladies, the horses wait. 
 
 STR THOMAS. 
 
 What, must we part so soon ? Go, bid them wait. 
 
 [Exil Butler. 
 My daughters, I had ho[)es we should have diii'd 
 Once more together. But I'll not detain you. 
 Since we must part, 'tis better to part now. 
 God bless you both. Be cheerful and content, 
 And let not my misfortunes vex your hearts. 
 I'll come and see you soon perhaps this month. 
 Thank God, my limbs are lusty. I can walk 
 Some distance in a day, the' I grow old. 
 John shall attend me, and we'll come on foot, 
 Staves in our hands, and wallets at our backs, 
 The poor man's equipage. Farewell, my dears. 
 
 [Exeunt Euza ami Cecillv.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 317 
 
 Now, Marg'ret, let us settle our accounts, 
 Dispose of all we have, and leave the house. 
 Child, dost thou weep ? Let not thy courage fail. 
 Mine will soon follow it. Look up and smile. 
 Come, we have pass'd the hour I dreaded most. 
 My daughters are both gone, and I have brav'd. 
 And they have brav'd, the pain of separation. 
 Where is my Lady ? She will not commend 
 The deed which makes a beggar of her husband. 
 Who comes? Norfolk! What business brings him 
 hither ? 
 
 Enter Norfolk. 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Sic Thomas, I must once more trouble you. 
 'Tis the King's pleasure you repair with speed 
 To Lambeth Palace ; there to take the oaths 
 Requir'd by the late statute, to maintain 
 None but the King supreme, to hold Queen Anne 
 Our sov'reign's lawful consort, and her issue 
 Heirs of the crown ; and tlie young Lady Mary, 
 Daughter of Arthur's widow, Prince of ^Vales, 
 Unlawfully begotten.
 
 318 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Has an act 
 Of such a purport passM thro' both the houses ? 
 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 It has ; and more, Sir, Cath'rine is divorc'd, 
 
 The King is married, and Queen Anne is crown'd. 
 
 I must return in haste, and have but time 
 
 To tell Sir Thomas 'tis my warmest hope 
 
 He will incline to favour the King's pleasure. 
 
 The indignation of a prinCe is death. 
 
 [Exit Norfolk. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Herodias has prevail'd, Herod is pleas'd. 
 And I must be the martyr. Yes, I come. 
 Marg'ret, my child, why are thy looks so sad ? 
 Smil#at the shadowy troubles we have pass'd, 
 For we have pains to come shall treble these. 
 And make them hardly worthy of a sigh. 
 I must be gone to Lambeth. I may go, 
 And never more return : for thy poor father 
 Has enemies that long to shed his blood, 
 And will prevail. Go to my Lady Alice.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 5 1 
 
 Support and comfort her. Give me one kiss, 
 And grieve not 
 God bless vou. 
 
 And grieve not if we never meet again. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Sir, let me intreat you, stay. 
 Stay, and let Roper cross the water with you. 
 Let 77ie attend you. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 No, I'll go alone. 
 Hang not upon me, for I must and will. 
 
 [Exit disordered. 
 
 MARGARET, {at the door.) 
 He has made fast the door. What, Roper, Roper ! 
 Some accident may happen. Where's the key ? 
 'Tis bolted. Roper, Roper ! 
 
 Eriter Ropkk. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Why d'ye call ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 My father is gone out in great disorder. 
 I would have foUow'd, but he shut the door, 
 And bolted it. Pursue him with all speed.
 
 320 SIR THOMAS MORF,> 
 
 And overtake him. D j not be denied, 
 
 But keep him compa?jy. He goes to Lambeth. 
 
 You'll surely find him at the water side. 
 
 [Exit Roper hastilj/, and Margaret after him. 
 
 SCENE chaiigts to the Hall of Sir Thomas's House, 
 lie-enter M-KKGhVi^T followed by Lady More, 
 lady more. 
 Where are you going thus attir'd ? Abroad ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Madam, not far. I'll presently return. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 Let me walk with you. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 I must go alone. 
 
 'Tis (Private business, and requires dispatch. [Exit. 
 
 LADY MORE. 
 
 And I may find companions where I can. 
 Time was, when he who liv'd within these walls 
 Could not liave mov'd a pace, but he hatl met 
 Crowds of gay visitants. Now all is hush'd 
 And silent as a church. Wit is expir'd,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 321 
 
 Laughter is gone, and music is no more. 
 
 Too well I see, the poor are never priz'd. 
 
 Wealth is the magnet which attracts us all. 
 
 And be our virtues brighter than the sun, 
 
 Be we possess'd of angels' excellence, 
 
 If fortune leaves us, not a friend remains. \^Exit. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 322 SIR THOMAS MOKE, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE ^ Street. 
 Roper crosses the Stage. Makgaret/o//oW5 him, 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Is it not Roper ? Roper ! Yes it is. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 "Who calls me? Marg'ret, why came you to Lambeth ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 How can you ask me ? Have I not a father ? ^ 
 And is he not this moment wanting aid ? 
 Where is he ? 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 I was coming home to tell you, 
 And wish my tale was cheering. I o'ertook 
 And crossM the water with him to the palace. 
 We found the clergy waiting, great and small. 
 To take the oaths. The only layman there 
 Was poor Sir Thomas. He was first call'd in. 
 The oaths were giv'n him. He perus'd them both
 
 A TRAGEDY. 323 
 
 With Strict attention, but refus'd to swear. 
 His reasons he conceal'd, and for his silence 
 Was shortly after (let it not alarm you) 
 Sent to the Tower. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 To the Tower ? 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 But the worst evil that attends him there, 
 I trust, is short confinement. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Let me lean 
 One moment on your shoulder. I am faint. 
 Your story has surpris'd me. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Gentle heart, 
 Take courage. Try and walk a little on. 
 The air will give you strength. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Perhaps it will. 
 
 ROPER. 
 Now rest a little. Do you feel refrcsh'd ?
 
 824 SIR THOMAS MORF, 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Better. 
 
 ROPER. 
 But still you tremble, and your lips 
 
 Are paler than your cheek. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Regard it not. 
 I am rccover'd. I can stand alone. 
 That sigh has done me good. One moment more, 
 And you may leave me. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 What, shall I begone, 
 And leave you fainting in the public street ? 
 How can you think I have a heart so liard ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 I must be left. My strength is ai! return'd. 
 And I will travel, ere I eat or drink. 
 To see my father. 
 
 [Exit '^\\\{GM\^i followed by Roper.
 
 A TRAGEDY. S25 
 
 SCENE changes io a Room in the Tower. 
 SIR THOMAS, alone. 
 Such is my home a gloomy tenement, 
 And solitary as the peasant's hot 
 Upon the barren mountain. Not a soul 
 Deigns me a visit. All my company 
 Are toiling spiders, who consume the day 
 In spreading nets to catch the harmless fly, 
 An emblem of myself. For what am T, 
 But a poor, helpless, weather-beaten insect, 
 That sought for shelter in the lonely shed, 
 And found within the spider tyranny ? 
 Sometimes a mouse attends me for my crumbs. 
 I bid him welcome, but the whisker'd fool 
 Is still suspicious that I mean him wrong. 
 How kind was nature, when she made the brute. 
 To make him cautious how he trusted man ! 
 For such a tyrant is he, that he whets 
 Tlic murd'rous dagi^er often for himself, 
 And ever for his brother ; sparing none. 
 His neighbour, or his kinsman, or his friend.
 
 3f 6 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 'Tis all his business to destroy himself, 
 
 And all hb sport to trample on the brute. 
 
 Track him in all his ways, in war, in peace, 
 
 Seeking renown upon the battle's edge. 
 
 Amusement in the closet or the field. 
 
 His footsteps are all marked wit& savage bloodshed^ 
 
 Philosophy and Faith have each their sword. 
 
 And murder, one for wisdom, one for truth. 
 
 The paths of glory are the paths of blood ; 
 
 And what are heroes and aspiring kings 
 
 But butchers ? Has not ev'ry prince his knife. 
 
 His slaughter-house, and victim ? What am I, 
 
 But a poor lamb selected from the flock. 
 
 To be the next that bleeds, where many a lamb, 
 
 As innocent and guiltless as myself, 
 
 Has bled before me ? On this floor perhaps 
 
 The persecuted Harry breath'd his last 
 
 Under the sword of Gloster. Clarence here 
 
 Drank his la^it draught of Malmsey ; and his son, 
 
 Poor ha )Iess boy ! pin'd infancy away ; 
 
 All his acquaintance, sorrow and himself; 
 
 And all the world he knew, this little room.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 327 
 
 Yes, here he sat, and long'd for liberty. 
 Which never found liini ; ending his sad youth 
 Under the tyrant's axe. And here perhaps 
 Assassination, at the dead of night. 
 With silent footstep, and extended arm, 
 FeeHng her way to the remember'd bed, 
 Found the two breathing princes fast asleep, 
 And did her bloody work without remorse. 
 
 horrible to think of! Such is man. 
 No beast, whose appetite is ever blood, 
 Wants mercy more. Shall I escape him ? No. 
 No, Ma'g'ret, no my daughter ; no, Eliza ; 
 No, my good girl, Cecilia. I must die. 
 
 And leave my widow and my house to mourn. 
 Sorrow will overtake you, grievous loss. 
 Plunder, and beggary. Would that my eyes 
 Might once more see you all before I go ! 
 Ha ! what art thou ? Have I obtaiu'd my prayer? 
 'Tis my dear Marg'ret. 
 
 Enter Margaret. 
 
 Welcome, my good child, 
 
 1 bid you welcome with a father's tears.
 
 32S SIR THOMAS MORF, 
 
 I know you love me now ; for nought but love 
 Could have prevail'd against the thousand bars 
 That shut your prison'd fatlier from the world. 
 How didst thou gain admittance ? Hast thou gold ? 
 I left thee poor, and do not think thou hast. 
 Tell me, was filial tenderness enough. 
 And did the keeper's iron heart relent 
 At the good daughter's pray'r ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 I bought my way, 
 
 But not with money, Sir ; for I have none. 
 
 By much entreaty I obtain'd at last 
 
 An order from the secretary Cromwell, 
 
 To be admitted to my father's sight. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Good man ! I love him. He seems much concern'd 
 
 To see me in such danger. May he live, 
 
 And be as great an honour to his prince 
 
 As, once, his master Wolsey. How does Roper ? 
 
 How does my Lady, Jolin, and both your sisters ? 
 
 Have you heard from them ?
 
 A TRAGEDY. 329 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Yes, and all are well 
 As sorrow and continual care permit. 
 Griev'd all at your imprisonment, yet all 
 A better fortune hoping. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Hope it not. 
 
 Expect the worst that malice can iniiict, 
 
 And man can suffer. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 No, we look for days 
 When our good father shall again be free. 
 We hope his majesty will yet be pleas'd, 
 Finding Sir Thomas an obedient subject. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 What ! would ye have me take the oaths ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 We would, 
 And come again to Chelsea and your friends. 
 Consider, Sir, how many learned men. 
 All wise and conscientious, have complied. 
 'Twill hurt your character to stand alone.
 
 330 SIR THOMAS MOKE, 
 
 Is it repugnant to the law of God ? 
 Who can believe it, when the church itself 
 With readiness submits ? None disobeys, 
 Of the whole bench, but Fisher. And is 't wise 
 In you, a layman, to think Fisher right. 
 And all the rest deceiv'd ? Were it not safer 
 To judge that what the parliament allows. 
 And the whole church approves, is surely good, 
 And must be couutenanc'd, and not repulsM 
 With vain reliance on our private thoughts ? 
 Sir, take the oaths. F.scape from calumny. 
 The world condemns you for a haughty mind. 
 'Tis said that you are rash and obstinate. 
 And want consideration. 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Say no more. 
 Poor Adam ! I not wonder that he fell. 
 And ate the fatal fruit, his wife rcouiiing. 
 My daugbrr * npts me, and I scarce refrain. 
 Urge it no ni-i e. I cannot change my mind, 
 AmI, conu viiat will, I am resolvM to die 
 With an uniufflcd conscience. For my king,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 331 
 
 I love him, and would serve him if I could ; 
 
 But will not serve him, and offend my God. 
 
 For Fishei;, think not that I follow him. 
 
 The oaths were offer'd me, and were refus'd. 
 
 Before his mind was known. I shape my faith ( 
 
 By no man's fcishion, judging for myself; 
 
 Nor care I what the world may think or say. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Sir, I mean not that you should take the oaths, 
 Because the servile multitude has sworn ; 
 I only press you to consider well 
 Th' example of the good and conscientious. 
 Is not some defrence to those great men due, 
 Who scruple not ? and ought we not to think 
 Our judgments may be faulty, and their's good ? 
 If they can swear with safety, so may we. 
 The law commands it. If we disobey, 
 We are obnoxious to the public peace. 
 Better conform, and deem that we are wrong. 
 Wanting sagacity to see the truth. 
 
 SIR THOMA^. 
 
 Thou subtle Eve, I charge thee, say no more.
 
 332 SIR THOMAS MOKE, 
 
 Tliou'lt make me angry, as I never was, 
 
 With my good daughter Marg'iet. Child, be gone. 
 
 Thou art much alter'd. Leave me to myself. 
 
 I never wish'd thee absent till to-day. 
 
 Ay, now you weep. Well, well, I can forgive. 
 
 Be patient with me. I grow old and hasty. 
 
 I have been almost dying more than once 
 
 Since I came hither. Would that I had died. 
 
 There is no comfort for me upon earth. 
 
 Swear I will not, nor will I tell thee why. 
 
 I do not say, others have done amiss. 
 
 There are in our opinions, as in states. 
 
 Continual revolutions. Man is blind. 
 
 He sees but little, and must often err. 
 
 'Tis prudent to believe we may be wrong, 
 
 But not to alter till wc feel convinc'd. 
 
 Mine is a stout opinion ; 'twill not yield. 
 
 And, come what will, I must maintain it still. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Sir, Cromwell bade me tell yoii, as your friend, 
 The parliament still lastx.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 333 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 I take the hint, 
 And thank him heartily. Yes, it still lasts, 
 And ere it rises will a law be made 
 Which shall deprive your father of his life. 
 But let not even death disturb thy peace, 
 Mine own good daughter. Trouble not thy mind, 
 Whatever happens. If I lose my lieud, 
 My life is little shortened. I am ill, 
 And if I die not by the king to-day, 
 Shall die to-morrow in the course of nature. 
 Go from me, and be happy. When I'm gone, 
 Think that I lov'd thee, but lament me not. 
 Yes, I have lov'd you all, but chiefly thee ; 
 For thou wast ever in thy father's eye. 
 Attentively regarding all he said. 
 And soothing all his pains with sweet concern. 
 I bless thee for it, and, while life remains. 
 Will strive to comfort thee. Write to me often. 
 I'll answer ev'ry letter, tho' depriv'd 
 Of pens and ink, and all my books remov'd. 
 A coal shall serve me, and I'll write on leavcu
 
 334 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Which chance or charity shall throw before me. 
 
 Hast thou no scraps of paper in thy pocket ? 
 
 O yes, thou hast. I'll put them in my bosom, 
 
 And use them sparingly as gold. Now go ; 
 
 And grieve not that I chid thee ; for distress 
 
 Had sour'd my temper. Bear my truest love 
 
 To both your sisters, and to all my sons. 
 
 Be good to the poor widow for my sake ; 
 
 She will have need. Come, now our farewell kiss. 
 
 Leave me with fortitude, and be assur'd 
 
 In a few years we meet again in heav'n. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE changes to a Room in Bonvise's ]iouse. 
 
 Enter Bon vise. 
 How good a daughter ! Were they all like her. 
 
 Earth would be heav'n, and angels would descend 
 
 To live with men. Her unexampled love 
 
 Remov'd the strongest barriers, won the hearts. 
 
 Of her invet'rate foes, and made a way 
 
 Thro' bolts and locks, portcullises and bars. 
 
 Into her father's presence. Such a child 
 
 Who has, is rich indeed. Here comes her husband.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 335 
 
 Enter Roper. 
 Well, Sir, what news d* ye bring ? You seem surpris'd. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Surpris'd I am indeed. Where is my wife ? 
 
 Have you not beard the parliament has pass'd, 
 
 At the King's instance, a malicious act, 
 
 Which makes Sir Thomas gutlty of high treason ? 
 
 His ruin is determin'd. He was charg'd. 
 
 In full debate, with studying to sow 
 
 And propagate sedition thro' the land, 
 
 By his refusal of the proffer'd oaths. 
 
 'Twas urg'd, if he was suffer'd to escape, 
 
 His great authority would sway the people. 
 
 And make them disaffected to their king. 
 
 Archbishop Cranmer was against the bill. 
 
 And told the King in private, 'twas his hope 
 
 That More and Fisher might be both excus'd ; 
 
 Swearing, as they had promis'd, the one oath. 
 
 And not the other. But the angry King 
 
 Admits no composition, fully bent 
 
 To have the blood of both. The act was pass'd. 
 
 And as I came I met the officers
 
 336 SIH THOMAS MOKE, 
 
 Goinj; to bring Sir Thomas to his trial. 
 BONVISE. 
 
 You have astonish'd me. But see your wife. 
 
 Husli for the present. Tell her by degrees 
 
 The fortune that awaits her injur'd father. 
 
 ril leave you, and attend upon the trial. 
 
 When I return, expect to hear the worst. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Margaret. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Well, love, how does my father ? Will he swear ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 No, he is deafer than the marble rock. 
 
 He will not hear me. He is sick and hasty. 
 
 And, wouldst thou think it ? chid me for my pains. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Chid you, dear heart ? Perhaps he did not know 
 How much and painfully his Marg'ret strove 
 For that short interview. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Yes, yes, he did. 
 I told him something of it, but not all. 
 I told him also what the world had said.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 337 
 
 What Cromwell hinted, and what we advis'd. 
 And then it was he chid me, bade me leave hiin, 
 Said I was strangely alter'd, and declar'd 
 He wish'd me absent, 
 
 ROPER. 
 'Twiis a hard return. 
 
 And didst thou leave him angry as he was ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 No ; for he saw I griev'd at my repulse, 
 Accus'd himself for being old and peevish, 
 Said he was ill, and bade me not regard 
 The hasty words distress extorted from him. 
 He comforted and kiss'd me, bade me go 
 With fatherly affection and concern. 
 And promised to write often, tho' the king. 
 Canst thou believe it ? has denied him pens, 
 Paper, and ink. He has not suffer'd him 
 Even a book to read ; but there he sits 
 Alone and ill at ease, feeding his mind 
 With melancholy thoughts ; or with a coal 
 Writing on scraps of paper and old leaves, 
 Pick'd from the dusty corners of the gaol. 
 VOL. II. '/'
 
 3S8 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 He ask'd me for the refuse of my pocket. 
 
 And all the letter-cases I could find 
 
 I gave him. With a countenance of joy 
 
 He put them in his bosom, and seemM pleas'd 
 
 As if he had receiv'd a purse of gold. * 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Poor man, how much he suffers ! yet I fear 
 He has much more to bear with. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Fear it not, 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 I partly know it. I have watch'd the storm. 
 I wish he may escape, but must assure thee 
 I think he is encompass' d with such danger, 
 'Twill be impossible. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 What hast thou heard } 
 Tell it me all. He said enough himself 
 To make me fear designs against his life, 
 And told me we should meet again in heavei>. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Ay, so I think, but never more on earth.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 339 
 
 The parliament has pass'd a cruel act, 
 Which makes him guilty of high treason. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Well, 
 Go on, and say the King has giv'n assent. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 He has he urg'd it and, be thou but brave, 
 I'll tell thee more. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 . Ay, tell me all you know. 
 I'll hear it all with patience. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 The vex'd King, 
 Provok'd by Anne, is thirsty for his blood. 
 And is in .heart determin'd he shall die. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Come with me. I will once again implore 
 A passage to him, fall upon my knees. 
 And earnestly beseech him to obey. 
 
 ROPEK. 
 
 Love, 'tis too late.
 
 s40 sir thomas mok, 
 
 Margaret. 
 What, is he dead ? 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Dead? No. 
 
 MAHGARET. 
 
 Then I will see him. I will seek again 
 The gen'rous secretary, pray his leave 
 To be admitted once more to his sight ; 
 And if his ear is deaf, and I speed not, 
 I'll make my prayer to the King himself. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Stay, stay, I have not told thee all. Attend. 
 Thy father is this moment on his trial. 
 I met the officers who went to fetch him. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Go then, and learn his fate. I'll go myself. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Be patient, gentle heart. We shall know all 
 Too soon. Bonvise is there. The sight of n.s 
 May damp his fortitude, and make him faint 
 Under the labour of defence. Be patient. 
 Let us prepare to hear the worst we may,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 341 
 
 Aud bear it bravely. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 What ! shall I stand here 
 While ray poor father struggles at the bar. 
 Sick with confinement ? No, I will be there. 
 
 lExeunf. 
 
 SCENE changes to a Street. 
 Re-enter Roper and Margaret. 
 
 ROPEU. 
 My love, consider. We have far to walk. 
 
 Your strength will fail you. Let us turn again. 
 
 You are already heated, and appear 
 
 Wild and distracted. Let us rest awhile. 
 
 Bonvise is coming, and will tell us all. 
 
 Enter Bonvise. 
 
 Now, Sir, how does he ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Tell me speedily. 
 Lives he, or must he die ? Say that he lives ; 
 4nd yet I know he would not take the oaths^
 
 342 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 BON VISE. 
 
 Nor has he. 
 
 MARGARFT. 
 
 Then he dies. Come, speak the truth. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Nor let it grieve thj- heart. There was no hope. 
 He is condemn'd. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 And is there no escape ? 
 Is there no mercy, think you, in the King ? 
 He us'd to love him. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 I will not deceive you : 
 T think his execution is determin'd. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 Oh ! unrelenting tyrant. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Softly, softly. 
 
 Remember we arc speaking in the street, 
 
 Where ev'ry door and window has an ear. 
 
 Be patient and withdraw. Your father comes, 
 
 Returning from his trial to the Tower.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 343 
 
 Avoid him, for the sudden sight of you 
 May ruffle and disturb his constant mind, 
 Which seems more placid than the summer sky. 
 When not a vapour clouds it. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 No, I will 
 
 I will behold him. Which way is he led ? 
 
 I'll once more see him, and obtain his blessing. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Lo ! where he comes, preceded by the axe. 
 There is a crowd and officers about him, 
 *Twill be impossible to gain access. 
 Distress him not. You will be crush'd and hurt, 
 Perhaps iil-us'd and angrily repuls'd. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 Stand by, stand by. I will not move a pace. 
 
 [Enter Sir Thomas guarded, and with a composed 
 
 countenance. As soon as he sees his daughter, he 
 
 pauses, and looks compassionatelij upon her. She 
 
 bursts into tears, makes her -day through the crowd, 
 
 and, throwing her arms about hii neck, exclaims. 
 
 My father ! O my f;ither !
 
 344 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 The Guard interfere. Sir Thomas speaks. 
 Touch her not ; 
 She is my daughter. 
 Sir Thomas sheds teavsj and they endeavour to part them, 
 
 SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Ay, take me away. 
 God bless tliee, my good child. Come, lead me hence. 
 My worthy friends, take care of that poor woman. 
 
 [Exeunt several ways. 
 
 SCENE changes to a Boom in Bonvise's House, 
 Enter Bonvise with a Servant. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 A letter from Sir Thomas ! Let me see. 
 Ha ! how ! to-day ! within the hour ! at nine ! 
 Send Roper hither. This adult'rous King 
 Is greedy for his blood. I never heard 
 Of haste so unbecoming. 'Tis the spite 
 Of Bullen urges him, and go he must. 
 
 Enter Roper. 
 O Sir, sad news I Sir Thomas dies to-day.
 
 A TRAGEDY. 345 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 To-day, Sir ? 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Yes, to-day. Approach and hear. 
 I have a letter from him. Come this way. 
 I'll read it to you, and I'll read it softly, 
 Lest your wife overhear. 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Read it aloud. 
 She's gone, hy my persuasion, to her chamber. 
 And Lady More is with her. 
 
 BONVISE reads. 
 
 Worthy Sir, 
 
 Sir Thomas Pope has been this morning with me, 
 
 And brings me news that I must die to-day 
 
 Within the hour at nine.' 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Within the hour ! 
 At nine too ! Then he suffers now. Hark, hark ! 
 My ear deceives me, or I hear the chimes. 
 Listen and count the clock six* sev'n eight ninc 
 That monster Bullen has obtain'd her wish,
 
 346 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 And my poor pining wife will die for grief. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Hush, hush ! 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 rii take her instantly away : 
 She shall not hear her father is no more. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 She must, she shall. It is his own request 
 
 She may attend him to the grave. Come, come. 
 
 Think of some gentle method to reveal it. 
 
 Hear the remainder of her father's letter. 
 
 * I pray'd my daughter Marg'ret might be present 
 
 At my interment, and my pray'r was heard. 
 
 My wife and children may all follow mc. 
 
 And I entreat them not to be o'ercomc 
 
 By unavailing sorrow. I am happy. 
 
 Tell my good daughter Marg'ret, I am pleas'd 
 
 To recollect the sweet regard she shew'd mc 
 
 At our la.st interview. We meet again, 
 
 Not many summers hence, where gates and walls 
 
 Shall no more sever us. The handkerchief 
 
 I gave Sir Thomas Pope is for Cecilia,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 347 
 
 The picture for Eliza, to be kept 
 As poor memorials of their father*s love. 
 My blessing to them all. To thee, my friend, 
 I give my warmest thanks for all thy kindness. 
 Few are the men who feed a duteous child, 
 As thou hast fed and benefited me, 
 Since want o'ertook me, and I came to pine 
 Here in a grated prison. Love my children.' 
 I will, I will. Margaret shall with me, 
 And I will be her father. Ha ! who comes ? 
 Dancy and Heron. 
 
 Enter Dancy and Heron. 
 
 My good friends, sad news. 
 Are you appriz'd that at this very moment 
 Sir Thomas may be kneeling at the block ? 
 
 HERON. 
 He is in heav'n. We met Sir Thomas Pope, 
 
 Who sav/ him die. And it reviv'd us much, 
 
 To hear he bore his sentence with a heart 
 
 So patient and heroic. Undisturb'd 
 
 At the grim apparatus of the scaffold. 
 
 He mounted cheerfully, and met his end
 
 348 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 With such composure as the peaceful mind 
 Brings ever to its duty. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 ^ Still the same 
 
 In lifers most arduous hour. I never saw 
 A face more cheerful at a wedding-feast. 
 Than his when he appeared upon his trial. 
 Yet was he feeble, and came slowly forth, 
 Leaning upon his stafT. His cheek was pale, 
 And underneath it seem'd to harbour pain 
 Not quite conceal'd. He was allow'd a chair, 
 And, after he was seated, sigh'd. But these 
 Were all the marks he shew'd of discontent, 
 Distress, or sickness. E'lntthe dreadful sentence, 
 Which fill'd with horror ev'ry face beside, 
 Mov'd not the cheerful constancy of his. 
 How does Cecilia, Sir ? 
 
 HERON. 
 
 I cannot say. 
 Well, I believe. But her good father's fate 
 So much afflicts her, that she never speaks ; 
 And, when I question her of her own health,
 
 A TRAGEDY. 349 
 
 Answers me only with a look of thanks, 
 From eyes that ever swim with silent grief. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 And how does poor Eliza ? 
 
 DANCY. 
 
 Sad indeed. 
 She never ceases to lament and sigh 
 B}' night or day. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 They will be both in town 
 This afternoon, to follow to the grave 
 Their injur'd father, and condole his loss 
 With Marg'ret. Is she well ? How does she, Sir ? 
 
 ROPER. 
 
 Approach and see. Soon as your wives arrive, 
 She shall have notice of her father's death. 
 May she survive it ! 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 Let it be convey'd 
 By distant hints, and our own sad deportment. 
 She has a tender heart, and freely grieves 
 For sorrows not her own. I hope her sisters
 
 350 SIR THOMAS MORE, 
 
 Intend to seek her at my house. 
 
 HERON. 
 
 They do, Sir. 
 
 BONVISE. 
 
 They shall be welcome. With an honest heart 
 I lov'd their father, and shall still love them. 
 Whatever ills pursue them, bring them hither, 
 And here they shall experience a warm friend, 
 Happy to serve them in the hour of need. 
 Live with me, if you please, I have enough, 
 And know not how I could bestow it better, 
 Or more to my own pleasure, than to feed 
 And keep for life the children of my friend. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 C. WniTTINOUAM, Printer, OojwellStreet, London.
 
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