n 
 
 B 3 S^b LflE 
 
' i/ -^^^iCi-'^ i-if^ 
 
 ''e*-^*^ t. 
 
VILLAGE CURATE, 
 


 '^-y e /■^ o^ 
 
 Y A-y t ^» 
 
 THE 
 
 VILLAGE CURATE, 
 
 OTHER POEMS; 
 
 INCLfDINO 
 
 SOME PIECES NOW FIRST PUBUSHED. 
 
 THE REV. JAMES HURDTS, D.D. 
 
 I.ATE FELLOW OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, AND PROFESSOR OF POETRY, 
 IN THE VNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM, 
 
 CosvtU-Strttt i 
 
 FOR VEKNOR, HOOD, AND SHARPE, POULTRY ; LONGMAN, 
 HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-ROW; TAYLOR 
 AND HESSEY, FLEET-STREET, AND SHARPE AND HAILES, 
 PICCADILLY. 
 
 1810. 
 

 '^ 
 
 X' 
 
TO THE 
 
 QUEEN'S 
 
 MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY. 
 
 The permission to inscribe these Poems to Your 
 MajkstYj an honour which we could not have pre- 
 sumed to sohcit, is rendered yet more honourable 
 and more gratifying to us by the spontaneous offer 
 of it. The benevolent and gracious condescen- 
 sion which suggested that offer inspires us with 
 grateful feelings, which it is not in our power to 
 express. Our regard to the memor}' of a brother, 
 to whose affectionate protection and instruction 
 we owe so much, renders it a peculiar felicity to 
 us, that his poems .should be presented to the 
 public graced with the patronage of so high and 
 so revered a name ; and we humbly hope that 
 they may be found not unworthy of their august 
 Patroness. This we may be allowed to say, that 
 his uniform endeavour was to promote by his 
 writings the improvement of intellectual and 
 moral excellence, which Your Majesty has so 
 
 ivii50547 
 
VI DEDICATION. 
 
 eminently attained, and by your example so pow- 
 erfully recommended J to place in the fullest light 
 the happiness attainable ifi ajl stations, where the 
 various duties of domestic life are duly fulfilled; 
 to cherish the tender affections on which those 
 duties depend ; and to enforce on all occasions 
 the purest lessons of Christian virtue. 
 
 That Your Majesty may long enjoy the heart- 
 felt delight, inseparable from the pract ice of every 
 thing truly good and great, is the fervent prayer 
 of 
 
 Your Majesty's 
 most dutiful 
 
 and most grateful Servants, 
 
 THE AUTHORS SISTERS. 
 
'y^/Ar/yy ■./Z./'i' 
 
 ir/'/T'/y-^/r/y/y 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 As an extreme tenderness and liberality of bro- 
 therly affection formed the most striking i'eatnre 
 in the character of the departed Author whose 
 poems are here presented to the Reader, it is hoped 
 that the Public will receive with indulgence a 
 brief memorial of his life from the hand of a sur- 
 viving Sister, who ventures to speak, not only for 
 herself, but for three of her fellow-sufferers by his 
 death. It is our united wish to render all the 
 little honour in our power to his memory; for 
 all of us have had abundant reason to contem- 
 plate the endearing character of the protector 
 we have lost, with indelible gratitude and vene- 
 ration. But it is not my intention to indulge 
 myself in such praises of the deceased, as might 
 appear likely to arise from the partiality of a 
 Sister. I shall merely endeavour to record, as 
 briefly as I can, the principal incidents of his life, 
 and to illustrate his feelings, and his virtues, by 
 selected passages from a few of his letters to the 
 
Viii ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 illustrious object of his esteem and imitation, the 
 
 Aiillwr of the Task. 
 
 The Rev. James Hurdis was born at Bishop- 
 stone in the county of Sussex, in the year 1763. 
 He was the third child, and only son, of James 
 Hurdis, Gent, by his second wife, whom he mar- 
 ried in the year 1759- His father dying, and 
 leaving his mother in no affluent circurnstances, 
 with seven children, our Author was at her ex- 
 pense sent to school in the city of Chichester, at 
 the age of eight years, first under the tuition of 
 the Rev. Richard Tireman, an instructor whom 
 he sincerely respected ; and afterwards under the 
 Rev. John Atkinson, for whose memory and lite- 
 rary abilities he had the highest veneration. And 
 as a mark of Mr. Atkinson's esteem for his pupil, 
 he bequeathed to him at his death a handsome 
 legacy of valuable books. Here our Author also 
 experienced the protection of his affectionate 
 uncle, the Rev. Thomas Hurdis, D. D. Canon Re- 
 sidentiary of Chichester, and Canon of Windsor. 
 
 Being of a delicate frame and constitution, our 
 Author seldom partook in the juvenile sports of 
 his school-companions ; but generally employed 
 bis hours of leisure in reading such books as are 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. IX 
 
 more attractive to a youth who has an early pas- 
 sion for literature. His inclination to poetry soon 
 made its appearance in many poetical composi- 
 tions ; among which was a tragedy of five acts, 
 entitled Panlliea, founded on the story in Xeno- 
 phon's Cyropaedia. This was afterwards trans- 
 formed into a poem, a juvenile work, so long, that, 
 with two other efforts which his partiality for his 
 early productions afterwards induced him to pub- 
 lish, it has been thought prudent should be omitted 
 in this collection. 
 
 Music was the only amusement which could in- 
 duce him to relax from his study of books : the 
 love of that enchanting science seems to have 
 been naturally united with his disposition, even 
 from an infant. As he advanced in life, he be- 
 came a proficient upon almost every musical in- 
 strument : but the organ appears to have been his 
 favourite; and during the time of his being at 
 school, he nearly completed the building of a 
 small one: a work interrupted by his quitting 
 school for Oxford. 
 
 In J 780 he was entered a Commoner of St. 
 Mary Hall, Oxford: and at the election in 1782 
 he was chosen a Demy of St. Mary Magdalen 
 
X ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 t 
 
 College. Now finding himself freed from the re- 
 strictions of a school-boy, and a more ample field 
 opening to tiie encouragement of iiis poetical 
 taste, his application to books and poesy became 
 almost unlimited. 
 
 His friends in Oxford were few and select, and 
 only such as were endeared to him by good-na- 
 ture, conformity of opinion, and fellowship in 
 study. Among those who contributed to his sup- 
 port and encouragement, we must not omit to 
 mention, with much respect, the Right Rev. 
 George Home, D. D. late Bishop of Norwich, and 
 President of Magdalen College; the Rev. Dr. 
 Routh, President of the same College ; the Rev. 
 Dr. Sheppard, of Amport and Basingstoke; and 
 his esteemed friend and tutor at St. Mary Hall, 
 the Rev. Dr. Rathbone, of Buckland. 
 
 At the commencement of every vacation, he re- 
 turned to his mother at Bishopstone, and devoted 
 this interval of relaxation from his own studies, to 
 the assiduous instruction of his four younger sisters 
 in those brandies of literature which he thought 
 might be most beneficial to them. To his applica- 
 tion and industry they owe all which they have 
 ever acquired. 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. XI 
 
 About the year 1 784 he went to Stanmer in 
 Sussex, where he resided for some considerable 
 time, as tutor to the late Earl of Chichester's 
 youngest son, Mr. George Pelham, now the Right 
 Rev. Lord Bishop of Bristol ; of whose literary 
 attainments, and good qualities, I cannot more 
 justly express his opinion, than by making the 
 following extract from one of his letters, written 
 to William Cowper, Esq. dated 1792. ' Mr. 
 George Pelham is preferred to the valuable living 
 of Bexhill, about twelve miles from Burwash. He 
 is just turned of five and twenty, and is already in 
 possession of two livings. If he mount with such 
 rapidity, it cannot be long before he obtains, what 
 his good qualities cannot fail to adorn, a iniire. 
 Whatever his fortune, I am satisfied I shall never 
 feel myself less than proud to own he was once my 
 pupil. Indeed, of the whole family I could draw 
 a picture, which even the most cynical judgment 
 would allow had traits of the truest nobility ' 
 
 In May 1785, having obtained the degree of 
 Bachelor of Arts, he retired to the curacy of Bur- 
 wash in Sussex ; his Rector being the Rev. John 
 Courtail, Archdeacon of Lewes. In this situation 
 he resided six years. 
 
3C11 ACCOUNT OF TIIK AUTHOR. 
 
 In 1786, he was elected Probationer Fellow of 
 Magdalen College; and the following year took 
 his Master of Arts degree. Now finding himself 
 sufficiently enabled to assist his mother in the 
 support of her family, he hired a small house, and 
 took three of his sisters to reside with him. 
 
 It is the general custom of those who describe 
 the life of an Author, to deliver a critical opinion 
 upon each of his works. Many reasons induce me 
 not to attempt what I trust 1 may with propriety 
 decline. Yet in my zeal to promote the reputa- 
 tion of a dear departed brother, I hope it may not 
 be improper for me to cite in this memoir a most 
 respectable authority in his favour. I mean those 
 expressions of friendly praise on several of his pub- 
 lications, which I have selected from the letters 
 addressed to him by his favourite friend, the late 
 Mr. Cowper; because he himself used to consider 
 the praise of tliat excellent person, as the most de- 
 lightful reward of his literary labour. 
 
 It was at this time that our Author first appeared 
 before the public as a poet. In 1788 he publish- 
 ed his Village Curate, the reception of which far 
 exceeded his expectations ; a second edition being 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. XIU 
 
 called for the following year, and afterwards a third, 
 and a fourth, which last he considerably improved. 
 
 I shall here quote a passage from a letter which 
 he afterwards received from Mr. Cowper. 
 
 ' I have always entertained, and have occasion- 
 ally avowed, a great degree of respect for the 
 abilities of the unknown author of the Village Cu- 
 rate, unknown at that time, but now well known, 
 and not to me only, but to many. You will per- 
 ceive, therefore, that you are no longer an Author 
 incognito : the writer, indeed, of many passages 
 which have fallen from your pen could not long 
 continue so. Let genius, true genius, conceal 
 itself where it may, we may say of it, as the young 
 man in Terence of his beautiful mistress, diu la- 
 tere non potest.' 
 
 His second production was, a Poem entitled 
 Adriano s or, thejirstof June j which was followed 
 in a short time by the three other Poems already 
 alluded to, Panthea, Elmer and Ophelia, and the 
 Orphan Txvins. He next proceeded on a biblical 
 research, in comparing the Hebrew with the Eng- 
 lish version of the Bible, and published in 1790 
 A critical Dissertation on the true Meaning of the 
 Hebrew Word CD'yin, found in Genesis i. 21. 
 
XIV ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 In 1701, througli the interest of the Earl of 
 Chichester, he was appointed to the living of 
 Bisliopstone. In this year lie wrote the Tragedy 
 of Sir Thomas More ; and his select critical 
 Remarks upon the English Version of the first 
 ten Chapters of Genesis. 
 
 I shall here again cite a short passage found 
 in a letter from Mr. Cow per to Lady Hesketh, 
 relative to this tragedy. 
 
 ♦ To Mr. Hurdis I return Sir Thomas More to- 
 morrow, having revised it a second time. He is now 
 a very respectable figure, and will do my friend, 
 who gives him to the public, considerable credit.' 
 
 But here a sudden and melancholy incident oc- 
 curred, which for a time entirely abstracted the 
 mind of our Author from every literary pursuit. 
 In 1792 he was deprived by death of his favourite 
 sister Catharine, whose elegancies of mind are so 
 frequently, and justly, pourtrayed in his works, 
 under the different appellations of Margaret and 
 Isabel. 
 
 And here I think I may, with much propriety, 
 and justness to the affection which the Author al- 
 ways testified for his sister Catharine, transcribe a 
 
ACCOUNT or THE AUTHOR. XV 
 
 letter, vvhicli was since found in the possession of 
 Mr. Cowper, relative to her death. 
 
 ' DEAR SIR, 
 
 * Could I have found a moment free from anx- 
 iety, I should certainly have spent it in writing to 
 you. But my mind has been totally absorbed in 
 attention to my poor little girl, whom I have at 
 last been unable to save. I watched by her nine 
 and thirty nights : I neglected nothing which 
 might have proved a source of relief: but all my 
 endeavours were ineffectual, and I have been ob- 
 liged to seek her a grave, where I may rest beside 
 her. How painful an interval has passed since I 
 last wrote to you, you will be able to judge from 
 your own feelings. My eye has been fixed day 
 and night upon a little sufferer, who was better to 
 me than the best of daughters ; and I have marked 
 the slow but certain progress of death, prevailing 
 over a life, which was ever dearer to me than my 
 own. If expressions of impatience have escaped 
 me while contemplating a prospect so distressing, 
 I hope God will forgive me. It has been his plea- 
 sure to wound me where I was most sensible, and 
 my reason has not always been able to support it. 
 I have seen my amiable and affectionate Catharine 
 gradually put to death by a disease at once pain- 
 
XVI ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 fill and lingering. I have lived to behold the hour 
 in which her existence was grievous to me : nay, I 
 have lived to look upon her in the hour of death, 
 without shedding tears at her dissolution. Indeed 
 her departure was a relief to me. She had suffered 
 extremely, and, for nearly a week before her death, 
 had only short intervals of sense, in which she was 
 unable to articulate her wants. In the evening on 
 which she died, her senses returned, and she ac- 
 knowledged us all, rewarding us with many thanks 
 for our attention to her. She was then seized with 
 a difficulty of breathing and slight convulsion, 
 which did not appear very alarming to me, be- 
 cause I had seen her recover from the same symp- 
 toms before. I was the only person in the room 
 when these began to abate, and she seemed to fall 
 into a sound sleep, breathing without difficulty. 
 I sat beside her, looking in her face ; and the ease 
 with which she slept soon inclined me to nod. I 
 almost fell from my chair more than once; and 
 being apprehensive that I might disturb her if I 
 persisted, I went into the next room, to lie down 
 upon a mattress which was on the floor. I met 
 my eldest sister at the door, and desired her to 
 give me notice when I was wanted. 1 had scarce 
 laid myself down, when she came and informed me 
 that her breath had ceased. I returned imme- 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE ALTHOR. XVII 
 
 diately into the room, and was witness to two slight 
 eftbrts made by nature to recover the action of 
 the lungs ; which not being attended with success, 
 she gave up the contest without deranging a single 
 feature. The eyelid was still closed, the hand re- 
 clined upon the side of the easy-chair, into which 
 she had been partly raised from the bed, and not 
 one attitude of the composure in which I left her 
 had been disturbed. If I had thought myself for- 
 saken by my Maker in the former stages of my 
 calamity, here I became sensible of his goodness. 
 I saw in the strongest light the peculiar blessing 
 of a peaceful end, and I saw that end bestowed 
 upon a little girl, for \Vhom I should more earnestly 
 have petitioned it than for myself. 
 
 ' Thus, Sir, was I deprived of a gem, which has 
 literally hung about my neck all the days of my 
 life, and never lost its lustre. Thus did I bid 
 adieu to a little motherly comforter, who has ever 
 been as a part of myself, and without whom I 
 know not how 1 shall exist. I pray that my days, 
 if they are not few, may at least be speedy, that I 
 may make haste to meet her in the grave. I have 
 promised her that she shall sleep beside me, and 
 have appointed her a place at my riglit hand, a 
 situation she always loved, and from wliich, God 
 
 VOL, I. a 
 
XVIIl ACCOUNT OF THIi AUTHOR. 
 
 knows, I never wished her to depart. Yes, my 
 gentle Isabel, my invaluable Margaret, thou who 
 hast been always in my eye, 
 
 ' Attentively regarding all I said, 
 
 And sootliing all my pains with sweet concern, 
 
 thou shalt rest beside me in the grave, as well as in 
 the cradle. I will come to lltee, though thou art 
 not able to return to me. I will endeavour to de- 
 serve, as well as thou iiast done, and trust to God's 
 mercy that I shall find thee again. And I pray 
 him most devoutly, that wherever thou art, the 
 sense of my unhappiness may not reach thee. 
 
 ' When I write again, I will give you some ac. 
 count of my little girl's natural endowments and 
 of her attainments.' 
 
 The subject of which letter being closely con- 
 nected with the one already transcribed, I shall 
 present it also to the reader. 
 
 ' I promised to give you some account of my 
 little girl's natural endowments, and of her attain- 
 ments. As to the former, you will perhaps be 
 surprised to learn, that she was the plainest of all 
 my family. Her figure was good, her action was 
 graceful ; but in her countenance there were many 
 
ACCOUNT OK THR AUTHOU. XIX 
 
 defects. She was sensible of it, and would never 
 give me her profile. I was therefore driven to 
 the painful neccssit}'' of stealing it after siie was 
 dead. But for her carelessness without, Nature 
 had made ample amends by her liberality within. 
 Her disposition was so friendly, humane, and gen- 
 tle, that it was impossible to know her and not es- 
 teem her. She was always attended by good-hu- 
 mour, compassion, and pleasantry. Her genius 
 was capable of the greatest undertakings, and she 
 never lost an hour in improving it. Reading was 
 her delight from her childhood ; and you will scarce 
 believe that at four and twenty she could have ob- 
 tained the knowledge of which I know she was 
 possessed. Of historical, biographical, and moral 
 writers, she read every thing she could lay her 
 hands on, and retained facts and dates with the 
 nicest accuracy. In any chronological doubt, in 
 any family anecdote, in any connection formed 
 among great men, whether princes or scholars, I 
 know of no person who was better qualified to 
 pass an immediate decision. In her earlier years 
 she was extremely fond of figures. I observed the 
 propensity, and encouraged it. She followed me 
 with the greatest ease through the most arduous 
 rules of arithmetic, through fractions, through de- 
 cimals, through algebra, and the first rudiments of 
 
XX ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 geometry. I then turned her aside to astrono- 
 mical calculations j and when she was taken ill, 
 she was upon the point of framing an almanack 
 for the year 1793, upon a new construction, which 
 was to be presented to Mr. Cowper, and to be call- 
 ed the Poet's Almanack. The new and full moons, 
 as well as the eclipses, were all to have been cal- 
 culated, and the latter delineated by herself. In 
 matters of this kind she had long since been ex- 
 pert, and could be certain of predicting any eclipse, 
 however distant, without an error in time of more 
 than two minutes. Her facility in music Justly 
 entitled her to the name which I gave her, the 
 leader of viy band. It was her office to play the 
 organ, while her two sisters * sung, and I accompa- 
 nied on the violoncello. I have often envied her 
 the ease with wiiich she acquired whatever she 
 would. I practised much more than she did, but 
 found she could always overtake me. If she chose, 
 she could be rapid ; but she wished rather to be 
 scientific and expressive. She once entertained a 
 desire to engage in the pursuit of languages. I 
 told her I did not think it the province of a woman. 
 It could never be useful or ornamental ; for the 
 
 • Our Author had five sbters at this time ; but three only 
 were resident with him. 
 
 PUBLISHER. 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. XXI 
 
 graces of a linguist are masculine. iVt my request 
 she refrained, but not altogether; for some time 
 after I had become a student of Hebrew, 1 found 
 she had followed me through all my grammatical 
 memoranda, and was able to read and to construe 
 the original Scriptures as well as myself. She was 
 at the same time the most expert botanist, save 
 one, of all my sisters, and a considerable proficient 
 in physic. 
 
 ' I should weary you with my story, was I to 
 detail every little accomplishment and every good 
 quality for which I esteemed her. Indeed, I believe 
 that to some parts of her character I am still a 
 stranger. She was extremely shy, and hid every 
 thing she could. In her last illness, I often read 
 to her sermons at her request. I was surprised to 
 find that few were unknown to her. I asked one 
 of her Sisters the reason. She told me, it had 
 always been her custom, when left at home on a 
 Sunday, (as she often was) to read the Psalms, the 
 Lessons, and two or three Sermons. This, Sir, 
 was a voluntary exercise : I was not the occasion 
 of it ; for I think it an employment of more gravity 
 than youth can generally relish. I deem it the 
 consequence of a well-grounded assurance of the 
 truth of Christianity, which I have never failed to 
 
XXll ACCOUNT OF THK AUTHOR. 
 
 inculcate, by recommending sucli writers as have 
 been most lively and entertaining in the support 
 ofil. 
 
 ' I will say no more. She is gone, and I must 
 forget her. I am happy that I have been her 
 friend, and that she has met with no calamity like 
 this in passing through life. Death has not visited 
 us before, since the death of my father. Had 
 she buried a sister, I know not who could have 
 comforted her : had she lived to see me in danger, 
 I believe she would have died of apprehension. 
 It is all well. She told me that she was satisfied, 
 and wh}- should I complain ? She wished she could 
 have carried me away with her to heaven ; but 
 comforted herself, that if we were parted, we could 
 none of us stay long behind her. 
 
 ' Such was the esteem which she had won of her 
 whole family, that they have all been desirous of a 
 place beside her, and I have enlarged the dimen- 
 sions of my vault till it will hold seven. I have 
 also been amusing myself in drawing up an inscrip- 
 tion, to be placed over her. I send it to you, that 
 you may correct it at your leisure.' 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 THE INSCKIPTION. 
 
 Farewell, sweet maid ! whom, as bleak Winter sears 
 The fragrant bud of Spring, too early blown. 
 Untimely Death has nipt. Here take thy rest. 
 Inviolable here ! while we, than thou 
 Less favour'd, throush the irksome vale of life 
 Toil on in tears without thee. Yet not long 
 Shall Death divide us — Rapid is the flight 
 Of life, more rapid than the turtle's wing, 
 And soon our bones shall meet. Here may we sleep ! 
 Here wake together! and, by his ' dear might,' 
 Who conquer'd Death for sinful man, ascend 
 Together hence to an eternal home ! 
 
 On this affliction he quitted his curacy, and 
 with liis two sisters returned to Bishopstone. Here 
 the trouble of his mind was considerably alle- 
 viated by an affectionate invitation from his much 
 esteemed and sincere friend, William Hayley, 
 Esq. to visit Eartham; where he had the pleasing 
 satisfaction of meeting and becoming personally 
 known to AVilliam Cowper, Esq. author of the 
 Task, with Mhom he had maintained a confiden- 
 tial correspondence for some years. 
 
 In 1792 he published his Cursory Bemarks 
 upon the Arrangement of the Plays of Shakspeare, 
 occasioned by reading Mr. Malone's Essay on the 
 
XXIV ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 clironolos.ical Order of those celebrated Pieces. 
 Mr. Cou'per, in a letter to the Author, speaks of 
 the above publication as follows : • I have read 
 your Cnrsori) Eemarks, and am much pleased 
 both with the style and the argument. Whether 
 the latter be new or not, I am not competent to 
 judge; if it be, you are entitled to much praise 
 for the invention of it. Where other data are 
 wanting to ascertain the time when an author of 
 manv pieces wrote each in particular, there can 
 be no better criterion, by which to determine the 
 point, than the more or less proficiency manifested 
 in the composition. Of this proficiency where it 
 appears, and of those plays in which it appears 
 not, you seem to me to have judged well and truly; 
 and consequently I approve of your arrangement.' 
 
 In April, 1793, he went to Oxford, and, with 
 two of his sisters, resided in a small house at Tem- 
 ple Cowley. In November the same year he was 
 elected Professor of Poetry in that University j 
 and in the year following took the degree of 
 Bachelor in Divinity. 
 
 On being elected Professor, he published a Spe- 
 cimen of some intended Lectures on English Poe- 
 try. And it was in this year that he wrote his 
 Tears of Affection j a poem occasioned by the 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. XXV 
 
 lingering regret he still experienced from the death 
 of his favourite sister. 
 
 In 1797 he took the degree of Doctor in Divi- 
 nity. And in 1799 he married Harriet, daughter 
 of Hughes Minet, Esq. of Fulham, Middlesex. 
 
 In 1800 he printed, at his own private press, his 
 Favourite Village ; and the same year he pub- 
 lished his Ticelve Dissertations on the Nature 
 and Occasion of Psalm and Prophecy. 
 
 On Saturday, December 19, 1801, he went to 
 Buckland in Berkshire,and on the day following per- 
 formed the whole of Divine Service at that church. 
 On the Monday evening he was attacked with a 
 violent shivering, similar to that of an ague-fit. 
 On the Tuesday he was unable to rise from his 
 bed, complaining of great inability, and heaviness, 
 upon his eyes, which prevented him from opening 
 them. Every medical assistance was procured, 
 but to little effect, as he expired, apparently in a 
 sound sleep, on the Wednesday evening, in his 
 thirty-eighth year, at the house of his affectionate 
 friend, the Rev. Dr. Rathbone. His body, by his 
 own desire, was conveyed to Bishopstone, and 
 placed in the family vault, close by that of his 
 sister Catharine. 
 
XXVi ACCOUNT OF THE ACTIIOR. 
 
 He left a widow and two sons ; James Henry, 
 bornJune5, 1800; and John Louis, born June 12, 
 1801 ; also a posthumous daughter, born August 
 1802. 
 
 He was tall, but well proportioned : his counte- 
 nance serene and lively : of a fair complexion, with 
 flaxen hair. His disposition was meek, affection- 
 ate, benevolent, and cheerful ; yet occasionally 
 irritable and impatient. With his intimate friends 
 he was affable, polite, and familiar ; but in mixed 
 company generally reserved. 
 
 He was ever anxious to discharge the duties of 
 his profession to the utmost of his abilities ; for his 
 piety was fervent and unaffected. 
 
 A small marble tablet is erected to his memory, 
 by his four sisters, with the following Epitaph, by 
 his friend, M^illiam Hayley, Esq. 
 
 Hurdis ! ingenuous Poet and Divine ! 
 
 A tender sanctity of tliongiit was thine ; 
 
 To thee no sculptur'd tomb could prove so dear, 
 
 As the fond tribute of a Sister's tear. 
 
 For earth, wiio shelters in her vast embrace 
 
 The sleeping myriads of the mortal race. 
 
 No heart in all that multitude has known. 
 
 Whose love fraternal could surpass tliiue own. 
 
THE MEMORY 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE VILLAGE CURATE, iic. 
 
 BY A FRIEND. 
 
 Sweet Bard, whose pencil could with Nature's vie, 
 To thee shall no kind friend one tribute pay ? 
 
 And shall the ground, where thy cold relics lie, 
 Be still unhallow'd by the Muse's lay ? 
 
 Yet not inglorious in thy coffin sleeps 
 
 With thee that song, whose beauty charms the soul : 
 Still shall the virgin, as with thee she weeps, 
 
 O'er all her senses own thy soft control. 
 
 While Pity reads the tributary verse 
 Thy hand inscrib'd upon a sister's bier, 
 
 Fancy shall view the slow-proceeding hearse. 
 And with the mourner's mix her sacred tear : 
 
XXviii TO THE MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 Shall feel, when dust on dust is thrown, the sound 
 Strike deep on each warm fibre of the heart, 
 
 And tell with solemn voice to all around, 
 ' That hour must come, when love from love must part.' 
 
 Yet shall thy muse excite by turns to joy, 
 And to the mind her fairer views disclose : 
 
 For why should sorrow all our thoughts employ, 
 Why waste our years in unavailing woes ? 
 
 With thee, sweet Bard, \vc tread thy village lawn. 
 And taste each pleasure of thy rural scene ; 
 
 Mark with thy raptur'd eye the flecker'd dawn. 
 When June'sga^i/ month has deck'd the world in green : 
 
 And then when Evening comes, a pilgrim sad, 
 Each livelier tint of Nature's face to shroud ; 
 
 While rising slow, in silver mantle clad, 
 
 The moon hangs pillow'd on an eastern cloud ; 
 
 We hear thy nightingale her anthem raise. 
 
 Amidst the stilness of thy quiet grove ; 
 While thine own organ with accordant praise 
 
 Swells the loud notes of gratitude and love. 
 
 Or in thy study, fiU'd with ancient lore. 
 Where learning smil'd upon thy peaceful hours, 
 
 We see thee seated midst a numerous store. 
 
 Culling fresh fragrance from the Muse's flowers : 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE, &C. Xxix 
 
 Or proudly marshalling thy classic bands, 
 Where all, well rang'd, in gilded livery shine ; 
 
 As some great leader midst his army stands, 
 And darts his eye along the goodly line. 
 
 Oh, blameless triumph ! and oh, blest mankind. 
 Had the world's victors been content, like thee, 
 
 The wreath of science on their brows to bind. 
 And sought such laurels as with Peace agree ! 
 
 Far happier thou ! of nature's charms to sing. 
 Thine was the lot, from din of arms retir'd ; 
 
 To rise from earth on Contemplation's wing, 
 By Faith, by Hope, by Charity inspir'd. 
 
 'Twas thine with Peace the rural shades to rove, 
 To taste the bliss domestic life bestows ; 
 
 To feel the fondness of thy sisters' love, 
 
 Their joys to heighten, and to sooth their woes. 
 
 'Twas thine with these to pass the studious day ; 
 
 To blend with Hurdis, Cowper's honour'd name ; 
 To charm his fancy with thy woodland lay. 
 
 To share his friendship, and partake his fame. 
 
 Nor didst thou wake thy heavenly harp in vain : 
 
 Though cold's the hand that strung th' immortal lyre, 
 
 Still soft Compassion listens to the strain. 
 And hangs enchanted o'er the trembling wire. 
 
XXX TO THE MEiMORY OF THK AUTUOK, &C. 
 
 E'en from the tomb such sweet vibrations ring, 
 As steal from Princesses tlie trickhng tear ; 
 
 So Love fraternal struck the sorrowing string, 
 That matron Majesty bows clown to hear. 
 
 And, oh ! what jewel on a Prince's brow 
 
 Shines like the drop, which Pity's grief betrays > 
 
 'Tis this that pales the ruby's living glow. 
 
 And dims the brightness of the diamond's blaze. 
 
 P. H. 
 
 Magd. Colt. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pagt 
 
 The Village Curate 1 
 
 Adriano, or the first of June 129 
 
 Tears of Atfection 245 
 
 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 To a Sister 277 
 
 To Cecilia 279 
 
 The Fall of Hebe 282 
 
 A Question proposed and explained to Kitty 285 
 
 Verses occasioned by an Accident 2S6 
 
 Address to his Father 287 
 
 To Amanda 288 
 
 Canzonet I. 289 
 
 The Midnight Invocation 290 
 
 Evening Walk 294 
 
 A Landscape 295 
 
 Another Landscape 296 
 
 Blank Lines to Kitty 297 
 
 To a Lady, who upon receiving a flower observed that na- 
 ture could not have made it more perfect 299 
 
 Canzonet II 300 
 
 Lines inserted in a Pocket-book 301 
 
 To tlie Moon 302 
 
 Canzonet III 304 
 
 To Happiness 305 
 
 Canzonet IV 307 
 
 Second Address to the Moon 309 
 
 To a Lady who drew the pins from her bonnet in a Thun- 
 der-storm 3J3 
 
 To Criticbra 314 
 
Sptcdili/ u-ill be publiihed, 
 THE 
 
 FAVOURITE VILLAGE, 
 
 WITH A 
 
 SUBSEQUENT POEM, 
 
 (NOW FIRST PUBLISHED) 
 
 AND 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE REV. JAMES HURDIS, D. D. 
 
 LATE FELLOW OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, AND PROFESSOR OF POETRY, 
 IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. 
 
 Uniformli/ printtd with the present Coliime, and completing this 
 Attthoi't Poetical fy'orks. 
 
THE 
 
 VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Dam relego scripsisse pudet, quia plurima ceino, 
 Me quoque qui feci jiidice, dipoa linl. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 The following Poem, as now presented to the 
 Reader, has been cleared of many of those imper- 
 fections, which disgraced it in former editions; 
 and some vigour has been added to its feebler 
 parts. Passages may still remain, which the critic 
 may think ought to have been expunged. The 
 only apology offered for their preservation is, 
 that their removal might have been fatal to other 
 more deserving lines, with which they are insepa- 
 rably connected. The Author does not wish to 
 disguise his sentiment, that the Poem ought origi- 
 nally to have been written with more care. There 
 
PKKFACK. 
 
 are many things in it, of which he can still say, 
 scripsisse pudet. But not having the most distant 
 expectation, when he first wrote, that the pages 
 whicli he penned were to be so generally read, and 
 afterwards acknowledged, he was inattentive in 
 drawing them up. The Poem indeed was com- 
 mitted to the hands of the printer long before it 
 was finished, and had possibly been extended to a 
 much greater length, had not the compositor over- 
 taken the writer, and called for more materials be- 
 fore they were ready. It was this which occa- 
 sioned the abruptness of the conclusion, and the 
 hasty dismissal of the remaining Poets, whom it 
 was the Author's intention to have pictured seve- 
 rally, but for this interruption. 
 
THE 
 
 VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world, and all our woe. 
 With loss of Eden — of the glorious year, 
 In all her changes fair ; of gentle Spring, 
 Veil'd in a show'r of roses and perfumes. 
 Refulgent Summer in the pride of youth, 
 Mild Autumn with her wain and wheaten sheaf, 
 Or sullen Winter, loud, and tyrannous ; 
 Let nobler poets sing. Sit thou apart. 
 And on thine own Parnassus sweep the lyre, 
 
6 THE VILLAGF. CURATE 
 
 Applauded Hayley, by the muses taught, 
 
 Who in those fairy groves dehght to dwell 
 
 Which thy hand rear'd. And thou, superior bard, 
 
 Who, pris'ner to some fair one's wifl, hast sung 
 
 Thy Task so sweetly, strike again the strong, 
 
 The bold, the various energetic chord, 
 
 Secure and happy in thy fair retreat. 
 
 Be mine the task to sing the man content, 
 
 The Village Curate. From no foreign shore 
 
 Came he a wand'ring fugitive, and, tost 
 
 On angry seas to please a poet's gods, 
 
 At length scarce reach'd the hospitable port. 
 
 With Father Brute he boasts not to have left 
 
 The tott'ring state of Priam, nor his blood 
 
 Can shew by lineal citalogue so pure 
 
 And only British, that no rude invader 
 
 Of Danish, Saxon, or of Norman breed, 
 
 Has niix'd with his god-sprung progenitors. 
 
 Nor has he clomb the high and hoary tops 
 
 Of Snowdon or Piinlimmon; yet in heart 
 
 A truer Briton lives not ; thee he loves, 
 
 O happy England, and will love thee still. 
 
THE VILLAGE CDRATE. 
 
 In yonder mansion, rear'd by rustic hands, 
 And deck'd with no superfluous ornament, 
 Where use was all the architect propos'd, 
 And all the master wish'd, which, scarce a mile 
 From vill^e tumult, to the morning sun 
 Turns its warm aspect, yet with blossoms hung 
 Of cherry and of peach, lives happy still 
 The reverend Alcanor. On a hill. 
 Half way between the summit and a brook 
 Which idly wanders at its foot, it stands. 
 And looks into a valley wood-besprent, 
 That winds along below. Beyond the brook, 
 Where the high coppice intercepts it not. 
 Or social elms, or with his ample waist 
 The venerable oak, up the steep side 
 Of yon aspiring bill full opposite. 
 Luxuriant pasture spreads before his eye 
 Eternal verdure ; save that here and there 
 A spot of deeper green shows where the swain 
 Expects a nobler harvest, or iiigh poles 
 Mark the retreat of the scarce-budded hop, 
 Hereafter to be eminently fair, 
 
8 THE VII.LAOR CUHATH. 
 
 Alul hide the naked staff that trainM hiui up 
 
 With golden fiow'i"s. On the hill-top behold 
 
 The village steeple, rising from the midst 
 
 Of many a rustic edifice ; 'tis all 
 
 The Pastor's care. For he, ye whipping clerks, 
 
 Who with a jockey's speed from morn till night 
 
 Gallop amain through sermons, services, 
 
 And dirty roads, and barel}' find the day 
 
 Sufficient for your toil — he still disdains 
 
 For lucre-sake to do his work amiss. 
 
 And starve the flock he undertakes to feed. 
 
 Nor does he envy your ignoble ease. 
 Ye pamper'd Priests, who only eat and sleep, 
 And sleep and eat, and quafl" the tawny juice 
 Of vet'ran port : sleep on, and take your rest. 
 Nor quit the downy couch preferment strews 
 To aid your master. While Alcanor lives. 
 Though Providence no greater meed design 
 To crown his labour, than the scanty sum 
 One cure afibrds, yet shall he not regret 
 That he renounc'd a life so little worth 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 To God and to his country. For he too 
 
 Might still have slumber'd in an easy chair, 
 
 Or idly lolled upon a sofa, held 
 
 A willing captive in the magic chain 
 
 Of Alma-mater; but in happy time 
 
 Serious occasion cut the golden link, 
 
 And set him free, to taste the nobler sweets 
 
 Of life domestic. There tli' apostate lives, 
 
 In habitation neat, but plain and small : 
 
 Look in and see ; for there no treason lurks, 
 
 And he who lives as in the face of Heav'n 
 
 Shuns not the eye of man. On either side 
 
 The door, that opens with a touch, a room ; 
 
 The kitchen one, and what you will the other. 
 
 There now he sits in meditation lost, 
 
 And to the growing page commits with speed 
 
 To-morrow's text. Look round, nor fear to rouse 
 
 The busy soul, which, on her work intent. 
 
 Holds sense a pris'ner, and with cautious bolt 
 
 Has barr'd full fast the portals of the mind, 
 
 To shut out interruption. Bare the walls — 
 
 For here no painter's happy art has taught 
 
10 THE VILLAGE CUnATP. 
 
 The great progenitor to live anew 
 
 Upon the smiling canvass. Sculpture iiere 
 
 No ornament lias hung of fruit or flow'r; 
 
 Nor specimen is here, to show how well 
 
 The imitative style can steal the grace 
 
 Which Nature lent the Painter. One poor sheet, 
 
 Half almanack, half print, without a fi'ame, 
 
 Above the grate hangs unaccompanied : 
 
 A kind remembrancer of time to come. 
 
 Of fast and festival, expiring terms, 
 
 New moon and full. A regal table here 
 
 Arrests the eye, and here the brave account 
 
 Of Chancellor, High Steward, and their train, 
 
 Vicc-Chancellor, and Proctors ; awful sound. 
 
 And still more awful sight to him, that treads 
 
 The public street with hat and stick, or wants 
 
 That grave appendage of the chin, a band. 
 
 Above behold the venerable pile 
 
 Some pious Founder rais'd ; but stay we not 
 
 To call him from his grave, where he perhaps 
 
 Would gladly rest unknown, and have an ear 
 
 Not to be rous'd by the Archangel's trump. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 11 
 
 Yon half-a-dozen shelves support, vast weight ! 
 The Curate's Library. There marshall'd stand 
 Sages and heroes, modem and antique. 
 He, their commander, like the vanqui->h'd fiend 
 Oul-cast of Heav'n, oft through their armed files 
 Darts an experienc'd eye, and feels his heart 
 Distend with pride to be their only chief. 
 Yet needs not he the tedious muster-roll ; 
 The title page of each well-known, his name, 
 And character. Nor scqrns he to converse 
 With raw recruit or musty veteran. 
 And oft prefers the mutilated garb 
 To macaroni suit, bedaub'd with gold. 
 Which often hides the man of little worth, 
 And tinsel properties. What need of dress 
 So fine and gorgeous, if the soul within 
 Be chaste and pure } the fairest mask put on 
 Hides not the wrinkle of deformity. 
 A soul of wortii will gild a beggar's frieze, 
 And on his tatter'd suit a lustre shed 
 No time can change. Give to the harlot's cheek 
 The glowing rouge, true virtue needs it not. 
 
1 2 THE VILLAGE CUliATE. 
 
 Shed perfumes in ihe chambers of the sick, 
 The iip of health has odours of its own. 
 
 Now mark we, what the master most esteems, 
 Yon antiquated thing, whose shapeless bulk 
 Fills half his room, the name a harpsichord. 
 In days remote the artist liv'd, whose hand 
 First smooth'd the burnish'd surface, haply sprung 
 From line of Jubal, whose ingenious race 
 Taught erst the harp and organ. Thence it came. 
 Like great Atrides' sceptre, handed down 
 From Vulcan's smithy : to his chatterbox. 
 The pert and nimble-finger'd Argicide, 
 Jove gave it, he to Pelops, and so on. 
 So when his Grace a thread-bare coat discards. 
 He gives it to his valet, he to Tom, 
 And Tom to Dick ; then swings it for a while 
 Under a penthouse-shade in Monmouth-street. 
 It travels once again from back to back 
 Of prentice, poet, pedlar, till at length, 
 Quite out at elbows, and of buttons stript, 
 Powder'd and greasy, to some beggar's brat 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 13 
 
 It falls, a golden prize. Such the descent 
 Alcanor's instrument may boast ; but he 
 More for its present use the thing esteems, 
 Than could its ancient pedigree be trac'd 
 E'en to the days of old Cadwallader. 
 What boots it, O ye titled great, to show 
 The noble ancestor of regal line, 
 Whose valour bound an enemy in chains, 
 Or patriotic wisdom sav'd a state, 
 To be allied to men of worth and wit, 
 The glory of the world, if in yourselves 
 No spark of virtue live ? Who can esteem 
 The man, who all his dignity derives 
 From honours not his own ? Give me the steed 
 Whose noble effort^ bore the prize away ; 
 1 care not for his grandsire or his dam : 
 Be thine the nag of admirable port, 
 Which, spare and sinewless, still lags behind; 
 I ask him not, though sprung of Galathy, 
 Bucephalus, or Pegase. Yet I grant. 
 Where goodness is to greatness near allied. 
 And blood and virtue for one empire strive. 
 
14 IHE VILLAGE CURATE- 
 
 The man who has them is a man indeed. 
 Nor, trust me, is the world so worthless grown, 
 But such there are, and such my soul esteems. 
 That ample case, which underneath the frame 
 Of harpsichord so smooth, in shape uncouth 
 Reposes, from the morning broom defends 
 A viol-bass, else long ago destroy'd 
 By the rude blows of slattern Lalage. 
 For she, a subtle wit, can plainly see 
 No worth in that whose worth is far remov'd 
 Beyond her sight and reach : so, critic-like, 
 She sweeps away her cobweb with a frisk, 
 And crushes many a pearl. 
 
 That smaller case 
 A violin protects, still sound and safe, 
 Though tumbled ringing oft upon the floor 
 With proud disdain, and ruin musical. 
 
 Such is Aicanor's household, such his state. 
 Save what might yet be sung in higher strains, 
 Of broom, and stool, of table, chair, and grate, 
 The furniture of parlour, kitchen bare, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 15 
 
 And cellar ill-bestow'd ; imperial themes, 
 
 And worthy meditation infinite. 
 
 Save too the tedious invent'ry above, 
 
 Of blanket, bed, and reverend bureau: 
 
 Besides what ornaments the nest sublime 
 
 Of heav'n-aspiring Lalage. A maid 
 
 Is she, who sleeps in the moon's neighbourhood, 
 
 And often hears the golden show'r descend 
 
 Upon the tiles above, nor dreads assault 
 
 From maid-deceiving Jove. Too wise were he 
 
 To seek Calisto under Dian's nose. 
 
 Let the fair silver-shafted Queen depart. 
 
 And Jove may come to woo her in the dark ; 
 
 She too has beauty that demands a veil. 
 
 Hide, hide her from him, or she wins him not. 
 
 Methinks Displeasure clouds the critic's brow, 
 And Scorn her arrow dips, profoundly perch'd 
 On his protruded lip. ' Is this the man 
 The poet sings, who, stranger to the world, 
 Suffers the speedy wick of life to burn 
 E'en to the socket; and, the duty done 
 
16 THE VII,I.A(iE CURATE. 
 
 One church affords, the rest of life resigns 
 
 To selfish ease ? Are these the nobler sweets 
 
 Of life domestic ? Was it bat for this 
 
 Alcaiior fled the public walks of life, 
 
 And blessed the serious cause that set him free 
 
 From Alma-mater's chain ? Nobler it were 
 
 To mingle with the busy world, and be 
 
 The like of others, than sit here, supine 
 
 And sedulous, to please himself alone. 
 
 I grant him innocent and free from blame, 
 
 But hate the bliss which centres in itself. 
 
 Give me the man who cannot taste a joy 
 
 Which none partakes.' A truce, impatient Sir ; 
 
 For such Alcanor is. Not for himself 
 
 He sought the lonely cell remote, and stor'd 
 
 His humble mansion with resources sweet 
 
 Of intellectual bliss. To other eyes 
 
 And other ears the letter'd page unfolds 
 
 Ambrosial food, the honey of research. 
 
 'Tis not to please Alcanor's self alone. 
 
 Or heedless Lalage, so oft is heard 
 
 The melting sound of sweet-ton'd harmony. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 11 
 
 In chambers yet unsung three fairies dwell, 
 Each to Alcanor bound, and near in blood, 
 But nearer in affection. Julia she, 
 Who holds the reign of household management, 
 And moderates with skill the lavish hand 
 Of hasty Lalage. Eliza next, 
 Of aspect mild, and ever-blooming cheek ; 
 Good humour there, and innocence, and health, 
 Perennial roses shed. It is a May 
 Which never drops its blush, but still the same 
 Appears in Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring ; 
 Save when it glows with a superior tinge, 
 Kiss'd bv the morning breeze, or lighted up 
 At sound of commendation well-bestow'd. 
 Under the down-cast eye of modest worth. 
 Which shrinks at its own praise. Unwary Belles, 
 Who day by day the fashionable round 
 Of dissipation tread, stealing from art 
 The blush Eliza owns, to hide a cheek 
 Pale and deserted, come, and learn of me 
 How to be ever-blooming, young, and fair. 
 Give to the mind improvement. Let the tongue 
 VOL. I. c 
 
IS THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Be subject to the heart and head. Withdraw 
 From city smoke, and trip with agile foot, 
 Oft as the day begins, the steepy down 
 Or velvet lawn, earning the bread you eat. 
 Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed ; 
 The breath of night's destructive to the hue 
 Ofev'rv flow'r that blows. Go to the field. 
 And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps 
 Soon as the sun departs ? Wlw close the eyes 
 Of blossoms infinite, long ere the moon 
 Her oriental veil puts off? Think why, 
 Nor let the sweetest blossom nature boasts 
 Be thus expos'd to night's unkindly damp. 
 Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose, 
 Compell'd to taste the rank and pois'nous steam 
 Of midnight theatre, and morning ball. 
 Give to repose the solemn hour she claims, 
 And from the forehead of the morning steal 
 The sweet occasion. O there is a charm 
 Which morning has, that gives the brow of age 
 A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth 
 Shed perfumes exquisite. Expect it not, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 19 
 
 Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie, 
 Indulging fev'rous sleep, or wakeful dream 
 Of happiness no mortal heart has felt 
 But in the regions of romance. Ye fair, 
 Like 3'ou it must be woo'd, or never won : 
 And, being lost, it is in vain j-e ask 
 For milk of roses and Olympian dew. 
 Cosmetic art no tincture can afford 
 The faded feature to restore : no chain. 
 Be it of gold, and strong as adamant. 
 Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will. 
 
 But leave we not the gentle Isabel 
 Unsung, though nature on her cheek no rose 
 Has planted, and the lily blossom there 
 Without a rival. Look within; and learn. 
 That on the mind internal slie bestows 
 What she denies the face. Yes, she is kind. 
 And gives to ev'n-j' man his proper gift. 
 To make him needful to his native soil. 
 There is not inequality so strange 
 'Twixt man and man, as haughty wits suppose. 
 
20 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 The begfgar treads upon the monarch's heel 
 For excellence, and often wears a heart 
 Of noble temper, under filth and rags : 
 While lie that reigns, in spite of outward pomp, 
 Is mean and beggarly within, and far outweigh'd 
 By the offensive lazar at his gate. 
 Th' unletter'd fool, who daily steers the plough 
 With vacant head, and heart as unimprov'd 
 As the dull brute he drives, gives to the world 
 A necessary good, which all thy pains, 
 Ingenious Critic, or thy deep research. 
 Profound Philosopher, thy preaching. Clerk, 
 Thy prattle, Lawyer, or thy grave demurs. 
 Costly Physician, hardly shall exceed. 
 The kingly tulip captivates the eye. 
 But smelt we loathe ; while the sweet violet, 
 Which little beauty boasts, hid from the sight. 
 With such a fragrant perfume hits the sense, 
 As makes us love ere we behold. And thus 
 The gaudy peacock of the feather'd race 
 The noblest seems, till the sweet note be heard 
 Which nightly cheers the musing poet's ear 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 21 
 
 Under the thorny brake ; and then we grant, 
 
 That little Philomel, though unadorn'd, 
 
 Needs not the aid of plumes. So, Isabel, 
 
 Internal worth upon thy cheek bestows 
 
 A rose's beauty, though no rose be there. 
 
 A heart which almost breaks to be rebuk'd, 
 
 A mind inform'd, yet fearful to be seen, 
 
 Kept by a tongue which never but at home, 
 
 And cautious then, its golden trust betrays. 
 
 These are thy charms, and they are charms for me, 
 
 And in my eye as sweet a grace bestow. 
 
 As matchless Beauty, trick'd in air}' smiles 
 
 And suit of fantasy, what time she trips 
 
 With foot inaudible the sprightly round 
 
 Of fairy dance, outshining ev'ry star 
 
 And planet of the night. And these shall last, 
 
 As morning fair and fresh as amaranth, 
 
 When all thy triumphs. Beauty, are no more. 
 
 Here let us pause. For learned jockeys say, 
 'Tis good to give one's steed a morning draught : 
 And he that will may whet his whistle too 
 
'.'3 iriE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 With cordial peppermint, or baser dram, 
 'rhe journey scarce begun. Tedious the way, 
 Througii many a dismal lane, and darksome wooil, 
 In storj- famous for the murder done 
 On nightly traveller. And ask the sot, 
 Who daily drives the clattering stage, with face 
 Raw as the surloin, wrapt in coat of proof, 
 Lashing his rawbon'd steeds to distance time. 
 Now swearing, drinking now, now snarling jokes, 
 Now laughing loud, and now with surly heel 
 Stamping the boot — ask him, I say, if drink 
 Be not the soul of labour. What could he. 
 The frequent cann denied, the smiling bowl, 
 And ever-and-again-rcturning dram ? 
 Or ask the drunken fool, who all day long 
 Or drinks, or lolls upon an alehouse bench, 
 With pot in hand, and thirsty pipe in mouth. 
 Sons of Anacreon, say whence the laugh 
 Which shakes the very roof, at ev'ry pause 
 Of the loud song with Stentrophonic voice 
 Lustily brayed ? Or you, ye gallant bloods, 
 Say whence your noble exploits, to beset 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 23 
 
 Fair Thais, kick the waiter, burst the lamp. 
 
 Cry fire, and bid defiance to the watch ? 
 
 Join your shrill pipes, ye maids of Billingsgate, 
 
 And market dames, and make the chorus full. 
 
 ' O, there is nothing noble to be done 
 
 Till we have swallow'd pint on pint. 'Tis drink. 
 
 And only drink, that makes the world go round.' 
 
 I praise you not ; and if there be a wretcli 
 Who thus far has perus'd my careless page, 
 In hope to find a palliative to vice. 
 Here let us part. An enemy to mirth 
 Who deems me, does me wrong. I hold it good 
 To laugh away a portion of my days, - 
 And give to mirth her song, to sport her feather : 
 But he who draws his wit to stab at truth, 
 And is the friend of folly when he smiles, 
 Has liv'd too long. Ne'er be my trifling muse 
 Virtue's assassin, or the friend of vice. 
 Kind Heaven, if there be a deed so dark 
 Yet lodg'd in future time, be death my lot 
 Ere it arrive, and send me to my grave 
 E'en in the pride and glory of my strength. 
 
'■i* THE VILLAGE Cl'RATE. 
 
 Ye gentle Pow'rs, (if any such there be, 
 And, if there be not, 'lis a sweet mistake 
 To think there be) that clay by day, unseen, 
 Where souls, unanimous and link'd in love, 
 In sober converse spend the vacant hour, 
 Hover above, and in tiie cup of life 
 A cordial pour which all its bitter drowns, 
 And gives the hasty minutes as they pass 
 Unwonted fragrance ; come and aid my song. 
 In that clear fountain of eternal love 
 Which flows for ay at the right hand of him, 
 The great Incomprehensible ye serve. 
 Dip my advent'rous pen, that nothing vile, 
 Of the chaste eye or ear unworthy, may 
 In this my early song be seen or heard. 
 
 Sing then, my Muse, the rural Curate's steps, 
 His modes of living, manners, and pursuits. 
 One year the limits of thy song confine, 
 From early spring till spring again return. 
 
THE VILLAGE CUR^VTE. 25 
 
 Then let the bard begin, when Winter yet 
 Powders the lawn with snow, and on our eaves 
 Hangs the chaste icicle. Be that the time, 
 When the tir'd sportsman lays his gun aside, 
 Nor wages ineffectual war again 
 On partridge race. Tiie day St. Valentine, 
 V>'hen maids are brisk, and at the break of day 
 Start up, and turn their pillows, curious all 
 To know what happ_v swain the fates provide 
 A mate for life. Then follows thick discharge 
 Of true-lo\-e knots and sonnets nicely penn'd ; 
 But, to the learned critic's eye, no verse, 
 But prose distracted, galloping away 
 Like yelping cur with kettle at his tail. 
 Forgive the thought, ye maids of poesy. 
 And be as kind as fair. Critics may laugh 
 And yet approve ; and I your pains applaud, 
 Though siiort of excellence. I love the maid 
 Who has ambition, and betrays a mind 
 Of active and ingenious turn ; who scorns 
 Only to know wiiat fashion and the age 
 Require, and can do more than flirt her fan, 
 
26 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Read novels, dance with grace, sing playhouse airs, 
 
 Speak scandal, daub or vellum or her face, 
 
 Retail some half-a-dozen terms in French, 
 
 And twice as many English, and dispatch 
 
 By every post a tedious manuscript, 
 
 Which to translate would crack the very brain 
 
 Or Arabic Professor. O ye fair. 
 
 Ye were design'd for nobler flights than these ; 
 
 Nature on you as we as us bestow'd 
 
 The good capacity. And though to us 
 
 She gave the nicer judgment, yet she hid 
 
 The sweet defect in you, with better skill 
 
 To clothe the fair idea, keener eye, 
 
 And quicker apprehension. 'Tis in 30U 
 
 Imagination glows in all her strength. 
 
 Gay as the robe of spring, and we delight 
 
 To see you pluck her blossoms, and compose 
 
 The cheerful nosegay for the swain you love. 
 
 What if Alcanor's self should not disdain 
 
 To imitate your toils, but sometimes hang 
 
 Ill-woven chaplets on Maria's brow, 
 
 Wliich needs no ornament to make it please 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 27 
 
 With sweeter grace. The hour so spent shall live. 
 
 Not unapplauded, in the book of Heav'n. 
 
 For dear and precious as the moments are 
 
 Permitted man, they are not all for deeds 
 
 Of active virtue. Give we none to vice, 
 
 And Heav'n will not strict reparation ask 
 
 For many a summer's day and winter's eve 
 
 So spent as best amuses us. Alas ! 
 
 If He that made us were extreme to mark 
 
 The trifled hour, what human soul could live ? 
 
 We trifle all, and he who best deserves 
 
 Is but a trifler. What art thou whose eye 
 
 Follows my pen, or what am I that write ? 
 
 Both triflers. 'Tis a trifling world, from him 
 
 Who banquets daintily in sleeves of iawn. 
 
 To him who starves upon a country cure : 
 
 From him who is the pilot of a state, 
 
 To him who begs, and rather begs than works. 
 
 Then blame we not Alcanor for his pains. 
 Nor think him misemployed, what time he sits 
 Eager to clothe the new-born thought, and wooes 
 
28 THE VILLAGF. CURATE. 
 
 The maiden MeJitation, hard to win, 
 For terms of apt significance. Nor then, 
 When Winter, better pleasM, puts on a smile, 
 And round his garden at high noon he walks, 
 Not unattended, and the dafTodil 
 And early snowdrop welcomes, pensive flow'r. 
 Nor needs lie then excuse, what time he starts, 
 To mark the progress of the morning sun. 
 As northward from his equinox he steers. 
 And once again brings on the glorious year. 
 Sweet are the graces which the steps attend 
 Of early morning, when, the clouded brow 
 Of winter smooth'd, up from her orient coucli 
 She springs, and, like a maid betroth'd puts on 
 Her bridal suit, and with an ardent smile 
 Comes forth to greet her lover. To my eye. 
 As well as thine, Alcanor, grateful 'tis, 
 Ay passing sweet, to mark the cautious pace 
 Of slow-returning Spring, e'en from the time 
 When first the matted apricot unfoids 
 His tender bloom, till the full orchard glows ; 
 From when the gooseberry first shews a leaf, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 29 
 
 Till the high wood is clad, and the broad oak 
 
 Yields to the fly-stung ox a shade at noon 
 
 Sun proof. How charming 'tis, to see sweet May 
 
 Laugh in the rear of Winter, and put on 
 
 Her gay apparel to begin anew 
 
 The wanton year. See where apace she comes 
 
 As fair, as young, as brisk, as when from Heav'n 
 
 Before the Founder of the world she tripp'd 
 
 To Paradise rejoicing: the light breeze 
 
 Wafts to the sense a thousand odours ; Hark ! 
 
 The cheerful music which attends. 
 
 O Man, 
 Would on thyself alone the awful doom 
 Of death had past ! It grieves me to the soul 
 To think how soon the blooming year shall fade, 
 How soon the leafy honours of the vale 
 Be shed, tlie blossom nipt, and the bare branch 
 Howl dreary music in the ear of Winter, 
 Yet let us live, and, while we may, rejoice, 
 And not our present joy disturb with thought 
 Of evils sure to come, and by no art 
 Be shunn'd. 
 
30 IHE VILF.AGE CURATE. 
 
 Come hither, fool, who vainly think'st 
 Thine only is the art to plumb the depth 
 Of truth and wisdom. 'Tis a friend who calls, 
 And has some honest pity left for thee, 
 O thoughtless stubborn Sceptic. Look abroad, 
 And tell me, shall we to blind chance ascribe 
 The scene so wonderful, so fair, and good ? 
 Shall we no farther search than sense will lead, 
 To find the glorious taase which so delights 
 The eye and ear, and scatters ev'ry where 
 Ambrosial perfumes ? Is there not a hand 
 Which operates unseen, and regulates 
 The vast machine we tread on ? Yes, there is 
 Who first created the great world, a work 
 Of deep construction, comphcately wrought. 
 Wheel within wheel; though all in vain we strive 
 To trace remote effects through the thick maze 
 Of movements intricate, confus'd and strange, 
 Up to the great Artificer who made 
 And guides the whole. What if we see him not ? 
 No more can we behold the busy soul 
 Which animates ourselves. Man to himself 
 
THE VILLAGE CUR.'iTE. 31 
 
 Is all a miracle. I cannot see 
 
 Tbe latent cause, yet such I know there is. 
 
 Which gives the boJy motion, nor can tell 
 
 By what strange impulse the so ready limb 
 
 Performs the purposes of will. How then 
 
 Shalt thou or I, who cannot span ourselves, 
 
 In this our narrow vessel comprehend 
 
 The being of a God. Go to the shore, 
 
 Cast in thy slender angle, and draw out 
 
 The huge Leviathan. Compress the deep^ 
 
 And shut it up within the hollow round 
 
 Of the small hazel-nut : or freight the shell 
 
 Of snail or cockle with the glorious sun, 
 
 And all the worlds that live upon his beams, 
 
 The goodly apparatus that rides round 
 
 The glowing axle-tree of Heav'n. Then come, 
 
 And I will grant 'tis thine to scale the height 
 
 Of wisdom infinite, and comprehend 
 
 Secrets incomprehensible ; to know 
 
 There is no God, and what the potent cause 
 
 Which the revolving universe upholds, 
 
 .And not requires a Deity at hand. 
 
32 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Persuade me not, insulting disputant, 
 That I shall die, the wick of life coiisum'd, 
 And, spite of all my hopes, sink to the grave, 
 Never to rse again. Will the great God, 
 Who thus by annual miracle restores 
 The perish'd year, and youth and beauty gives 
 By resurrection strange, where none was ask'd, 
 Leave only man to be the scorn of time 
 And sport of death ? Shall only he one spring, 
 One hasty summer, and one autumn see. 
 And then to winter irredeemable 
 Be doom'd, cast out, rejected, and despis'd ? 
 Tell me not so, or by thyself enjoy 
 The melancholy thought. Am I deceiv'd ? 
 Be my mistake eternal. If I err. 
 It is an error sweet and lucrative. 
 For should not Heav'n a farther course intend 
 Than the short race of life, I am at least 
 Thrice happier than thou, ill-boding fool. 
 Who striv'st in vain the awful doom to fly 
 Which I not fear. But I shall live again, 
 And still on that sweet hope shall my soul feed. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 33 
 
 A medicine it is, which with a touch 
 Heals all the pains of life ; a precious balm, 
 Which makes the tooth of sorrow venomless, 
 And of her hornet sting so keen disarms 
 Cruel Adversity 
 
 A truce to thought, 
 And come, Alcanor, Julia, Isabel, 
 Eliza come, and let us o'er the fields, 
 Across the down, or through the shelving wood, 
 Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead, 
 And be it ours to follow, and admire. 
 As well we may, the graces infinite 
 Of nature. Lay aside the sweet resource 
 Which winter needs, and may at will obtain. 
 Of authors chaste and good, and let us read 
 The living page, whose cv'ry character 
 Delights and gives us wisdom. Not a tree, 
 A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains 
 A folio volume. We may read, and read. 
 And a-ad again, and still find something new, 
 Something to please, and something to instruct, 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
3'i. THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 E'en iti the noisome weed. See, ere we pass 
 
 Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye 
 
 A little monitor presents her page 
 
 Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells 
 
 The lily of the vale. She nor affects 
 
 The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun. 
 
 She to no state or dignity aspires. 
 
 But silent and alone puts on her suit. 
 
 And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which 
 
 We had not known there was a thing so sweet 
 
 Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast 
 
 Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth 
 
 Stoops their high heads that vainly were expos'd, 
 
 She feels it not, but flourishes anew, 
 
 Still shelter'd and secure. And so the storm, 
 
 That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak, 
 
 The humble lily spares. A thousand blows, 
 
 Which shake the lofty monarch on his throne. 
 
 We lesser folk feel not. Keen are the pains 
 
 Advancement often brings. To be secure, 
 
 Be humble ; to be happy, be content. 
 
 All is not gold, Eliza, which the eye 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Delights in. To command a coach and six, 
 
 Be styl'd my Lady, or your Grace, to lead 
 
 In fashion, shine at court, be cloth'd in silk, 
 
 And make an artificial day, beset 
 
 With eye-distressing jewels, are but charms 
 
 Which hft you from the crowd, to be the mock 
 
 Of hissing envy ; steps they are, that lead 
 
 Unwary maids to fortune's pillory. 
 
 To be the butt of undeserv'd reproach 
 
 And lying slander. Hast thou not observ'd 
 
 The idle school-boy, through a field of wheat 
 
 Scarce ripe, returning home, with what delight 
 
 He trims a switch, and strikes at the full ear 
 
 Most eminent, and still walks on and strikes r 
 
 So Fortune gambols with the great, and still. 
 
 As one above another climbs, condemns. 
 
 And makes him shorter by the head. Well-pleasM. 
 
 No doubt, Alcanor's self were, should by chance 
 
 An eddy seize him in the stream of life. 
 
 And bear him to a throne, of all this isle 
 
 Grand Metropolitan : but trust mc, Sir, 
 
 Nor Laud nor Tillotson would stoop again 
 
30 THE VILLAGE CUKATF. 
 
 To bear the golden burden. But with him 
 Sweet peace abounds, and only he escapes 
 The poison'd shafts of obloquy and wrong, 
 Who hides his virtue in content ; and, like 
 This modest lily, wins our best regard 
 By studying to avoid it. Virtue too 
 Will ever thus her lone retreat betray. 
 And, spite of privacy, be sought and seen ; 
 For she has fragrance, which delights the sense 
 Of men and angels, yea, of God himself. — 
 
 Away, we loiter. Without notice pass 
 The sleepy crocus, and the staring daisy 
 The courtier of the sun. What find we there ? 
 The love-sick cowslip, which her head inclines 
 To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek 
 And soft-ey'd primrose. Dandelion this, 
 A college youth who flashes for a day 
 All gold ; anon he dofts his gaudy suit, 
 Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop, 
 And all at once, by commutation strange, 
 Becomes a Reverend Divine. How sleek ! 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 37 
 
 How full of grace ! and in that globous wng, 
 So nicely trimm'd, unfatiiomable stores, 
 No doubt, of erudition most profound. 
 Each hair is learned, and his awful phiz, 
 A well-drawn title-page, gives large account 
 Of matters strangely complicate within. 
 Place the two doctors each by each, my friends, 
 Which is the better ? say. I blame not you. 
 Ye powder'd periwigs, which hardly hide. 
 
 With glossy suit and well-fed paunch to boot, 
 
 The understanding lean and beggarly. 
 
 But let me tell you, in the pompous globe. 
 
 Which rounds the dandelion's head, is couch'd 
 
 Divinity most rare. I never pass 
 
 But he instructs me with a still discourse, 
 
 That more persuades than all the vacant noise 
 
 Of pulpit rhetoric ; for vacant 'tis, 
 
 And vacant must it be, by vacant heads 
 
 Supported. 
 
 Leave we them to mend, and mark 
 
38 THF. VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps 
 All night, and never lifts an eye all day. 
 
 How gay this meadow ! — like a gamesome boy 
 New clotli'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he 
 All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars 
 Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n, 
 As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd 
 With silver daisies. 
 
 See, the toiling hind 
 With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last 
 The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought 
 To fell the glory of the barren waste ! 
 For what more noble than the vernal furze 
 \Vith golden baskets hung ? Approach it not, 
 For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords 
 Drawn to defend it. 'Tis the treasury 
 Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet, 
 Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his hand, 
 And quafr the subtil ether. Here they dance 
 Or to the village chimes, or moody song 
 Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 39 
 
 Fantastically trod. There Oberon 
 
 His gallant train leads out, the while his torch 
 
 The glow-worm lights, and dusky night illumes : 
 
 And there they foot it featly round and laugh. 
 
 The sacred spot the superstitious ewe 
 
 Regards, and bites it not in reverence. 
 
 Anon the drowsy clock tolls one — tlie cock 
 
 His clarion sounds, the dance breaks off, the lights 
 
 Are quench'd, the music hush'd, they speed away 
 
 Swifter than thought, and still the break of morn 
 
 Outrun, and chasing midnight as she flies 
 
 Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves 
 
 Her flimsy web, while sober Reason sits, 
 
 And, smiling, wonders at the puny work, 
 
 A net for her; then springs on eagle vving, 
 
 Constraint defies, and soars above the sun. 
 
 Not always such her flight. For croaking dame* 
 
 And silly mothers oft conspire to clip 
 
 Her infant wing, and feed her full with fears, 
 
 Till all her energy expires, and she. 
 
 Caught in the snare of fancy, lives and quakes 
 
 Pris'ner for life. O thoughtless managers I 
 
40 THE VILLAGE CURATR. 
 
 See where the sky-blue periwinkle climbs 
 E'en to the cottage eaves, and hides the loam 
 And dairy lattice with a thousand eyes, 
 Pentagonally form'd, to mock the skill 
 Of proud geometers. See there the fern 
 Unclenching all her fingers, to distract 
 The plodding theorist, who little sees. 
 And tortures reason for the rest. Behold, 
 And trust him not, the seed. .So errors live, 
 Truth dies, and ev'ry day we need a Brown 
 To set a jangling world to rights. 
 
 No more : 
 But mark with how peculiar grace yon wood, 
 That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze 
 Her sea of leaves : thither we turn our steps, 
 And as we pass attend the cheerful sound 
 Of woodland harmony, which ever fills 
 The merry vale between. How sweet the song 
 Day's harbinger performs ! I have not heard 
 Such elegant divisions drawn from art. 
 And what is he that wins our admiration ? 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 4 1 
 
 A little speck which floats upon the sun-beam. 
 What vast perfection cannot nature crowd 
 Into a puny point ! The nightingale, 
 Her solo anthem sung, and all who heard 
 Content, joins in the chorus of the day. 
 She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please, 
 Nor, like the moddy songsters of the world, 
 Displays her talent, pleases, takes affront. 
 And locks it up in envy. 
 
 Now we hear 
 The golden wood-pecker, who like the fool 
 Laughs loud at nothing. Now the restless pye • 
 So, pert and garrulous, from morn to iiigiit 
 The scandal-monger prates, and frankly tells 
 The secret springs which actuate the state. 
 The minister, the people. She can sec. 
 With eas}' eye, who stands, who falls, who rises ; 
 Who little merits, and who best deserves ; 
 And thus she murders truth, and propagates 
 The public lie, extorting many a tear 
 And many a sigh from wounded innocence. 
 
42 THE VILLAGE CUIIATE. 
 
 Yes, Isabel, if ev'ry idle word 
 Have awful weight in heav'n, no feeble deed 
 Will turn the scale in favour of that fool. 
 Who prattles injury, and worth defames, 
 From gay fifteen to tremulous fourscore ! 
 
 Hark, how the cuckoo mocks the village bells. 
 The jay attend, a very termagant. 
 
 Observe the glossj' raven in the grass 
 Croaking rude courtship to his negro mate. 
 Yes, he's a flatterer, and in his song. 
 If such it may be call'd, her charms recites. 
 He tells her of her bosom black as jet. 
 Her taper leg, her penetrating eye, 
 Her shapely beak, her soft and silky wing. 
 Her voice melodious — waddles courteous round , 
 Vows to be constant, prays humane return — 
 Solicitous in vain he claps his wing 
 And flies; she much against her will pursues. 
 
 I love to see the little goldfinch pluck 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 43 
 
 The groundsel's featlier'd seed, and twit and twit, 
 And soon in bower of apple blossoms perch'd. 
 Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song. 
 I would not hold him pris'ner for the world. 
 
 The cliimney-haunting swallow too, my eye 
 And ear well pleases. I delight to see 
 How suddenly he skims the glassy pool. 
 How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed 
 Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear 
 His morning song twitter'd to dawning day. 
 But most of all it wins my admiration, 
 To view the structure of this little work, 
 A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without. 
 No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut, 
 No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert. 
 No glue to join ; his little beak was all. 
 And yet how neatly finish'd ! What nice hand, 
 With ev'ry implement and means of art, 
 And twenty years apprenticeship to boot. 
 Could make me sucli another ? Fondly then 
 
'^'^ THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill 
 Instinctive genius foils. 
 
 The bee observe ; 
 She too an artist is, and laughs at man. 
 Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon 
 With truth to form ; a cunning architect, 
 Who at the roof begins her golden work, 
 And builds without foundation. How she toils, 
 And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r. 
 Travels the livelong day. Ye idle drones. 
 Who rather pilfer than your bread obtain 
 By honest means like these, behold and learn 
 How good, how fair, how honourable 'tis 
 To live by industry. The busy tribes 
 Of bees so emulous are daily fed 
 With heaven's peculiar manna. 'Tis for tliem. 
 Unwearied alchymists, the blooming world 
 Nectareous gold distils. And bounteous heav'n, 
 Still to the diligent and active good. 
 Their very labour makes the certain cause 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 45 
 
 Of future wealth. The little traveller, 
 Who toils so cheerfully from flow'r to flow'r, 
 For ever singing as she goes, herself 
 Bears on her wings and thighs the genial dust 
 The barren blossom needs, and the young seed 
 Impregnates for herself, else unprolific. 
 
 How peaceable and solemn a retreat 
 This wood affords ! I love to quit the glare 
 Of sultry day for shadows cool as these : 
 The sober twilight of this winding way 
 Lets fall a serious gloom upon the mind. 
 Which checks, but not appals. Such is the haunl 
 Religion loves, a meek and humble maid. 
 Whose tender eye bears not the blaze of day. 
 And here with Meditation hand in hand 
 She walks, and feels her often-wounded heart 
 Renew'd and heal'd. Speak softly. We presume. 
 A whisper is too loud for solitude 
 So mute and still. 
 
 So have I gone at night, 
 
'*6 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 When the faint eye of day was hardly clos'd, 
 And turn'd the grating key which kept the door 
 Of church or chapel, to enjoy alone 
 The mournful horrors, which impending night 
 And painted windows shed along the dark 
 And scarce to be distinguish'd aisle. RIy foot 
 Has stood and paus'd, half startled at the sound 
 Of its own tip-toe pace. I've held my breath, 
 And been offended that my nimble heart 
 Should throb so audibly. I would not hear 
 Aught else disturb the silent reign of death, 
 Save the dull ticking of a lazy clock. 
 That calls me home, and leads the pious soul 
 Through mazes of reflection, till she feels 
 For whom and why she lives. Ye timid fair, 
 I never saw the sheeted ghost steal by, 
 I never heard th' unprison'd dead cumplain 
 And gibber in my ear, though I have lov'd 
 The yawning time of night, and travell'd round 
 And round again the mansions of the dead. 
 Yet have I heard, what fancy well might deem 
 Sufficient proof of both, the prowling owl 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 41 
 
 Sweep by, and with a hideous shriek awake 
 The church-yard echo, and I too have stood 
 Harrow'd and speechless at the dismal sound. 
 But here she frays us not. Such scenes as these 
 No ghost frequents. If any spirits here, 
 They are as gentle as the eve of day, 
 And only come to turn our wand'ring steps 
 From lurking danger. With what easy grace 
 This footway winds about ! Show me designs 
 That please us more. What strict geometer 
 Can carve his yew, his quickset, or his box, 
 To half its elegance ? I would not see 
 A thousand paces forward, nor be led 
 Through mazes ever serpentine. Let art 
 Be hid in nature. Wind the flow'ry path, 
 But be not bound to follow Hogarth's line. 
 I grant it beauty ; but, too often seen, 
 That beauty pleases not. I love to meet 
 A sudden turn like this, which stops me short, 
 Extravagantly devious, and invites 
 Or up the hill or down ; then winds again. 
 By reeling drunkard trod, and sudden ends 
 
48 THE VILLAGE CURATE, 
 
 In a green swarded wain-way, not unlike 
 
 Cathedral aisle completely rooPd with boughs, 
 
 Which stretching up-hill through the gloomy wood 
 
 Displays at either end a giant door 
 
 Wide opeu'd. Travel not the steep, nor tread 
 
 With hardly sensible advance the hill 
 
 Which baffles expedition. Gaze awhile 
 
 At the still view below, the living scene 
 
 Inimitable nature has hung up 
 
 At the vault's end, then disappear again, 
 
 And follow still the flexile path, conceal'd 
 
 In shady underwood. Nor sometimes scorn 
 
 Under the high majestic oak to sit, 
 
 And comment on his leaf, his branch, his arm 
 
 Paternally extended, his vast girth, 
 
 And ample hoop above. To him who loves 
 
 To walk with contemplation, ev'ry leaf 
 
 Affords a tale concluding with a moral. 
 
 The very hazel has a tongue to teach, 
 
 The birch, the maple, horn-beam, beech, and ash 
 
 But these detain us not, for the faint sun 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 49 
 
 Puts on a milder countenance, and skirts 
 The undulated clouds that cross his way 
 With soften'd glory. His warm axle cools. 
 And his broad disc, tho' fervent, not intense, 
 Foretells the near appro.ich of matron night. 
 Ye fair, retreat. Your drooping flow'rs will need 
 Kind nutriment. Along the hedge-row path 
 Hasten we homeward. Only pause our speed 
 To gaze a moment at the custom'd brow, 
 Which ever unexpectedly displays 
 The clear cerulean prospect of the vale. 
 Dispers'd along the bottom flocks and herds. 
 Hayricks and cottages, beside a stream 
 Which silverly meanders here and there ; 
 Above the brook, corn-fields, and pastures, hops, 
 And waving woods, and tufts, and lonely oaks. 
 Thick interspers'd as Nature best was pleas'd. 
 I could not pass this view, nor stay to feast. 
 For all the wealth of Ind. Ingenious painter, 
 Why leave a land so delicately cloth'd, 
 To gather beauties on a foreign shore ? 
 'Twas here my Shakspeare caught his living art, 
 VOL. 1. i: 
 
so THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 And who can paint like him ? To British eyes 
 
 Show British beauties. Who can choose but love ? 
 
 Paint me the fair ones of my native isle ; 
 
 Your canvass shall have charms no time can kill. 
 
 The foreign belle, though fair, attracts me not. 
 
 Another moment pause, and to the vale, 
 From the calm precipice we tread, look back. 
 See where the school-boy, once again dismiss'd, 
 Feels all the bliss of liberty, and drives 
 The speedy hour away at the brisk games 
 Of social cricket. It delights me much 
 To see him run, and hear the cheerful shout 
 Sent up for victory. I cannot tell 
 What rare effect the mingled sound may yield 
 Of huntsmen, hounds, and horns, to firmer hearts. 
 Which never feel a pain for flying puss ; 
 To me it gives a pleasure far more sweet. 
 To hear the cry of infant jubilee 
 Exulting thus. Here all is innocent, 
 And free from pain, which the resounding chase, 
 With its gigantic clamours, cannot drown, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 31 
 
 E'en though it pour along a thund'ring peal, 
 Strong as the deep artilleiy of heav'n. 
 
 Now turn, and from the pleasant summit view 
 Alcanor's cell. Before, the garden see 
 Well shorn and spruce ; behind, the neat domain 
 Of cow and truant poney, who approves 
 All pastures but his own. Seen from afar, 
 It seems, meihinks, a party-colour'd spot 
 Upon a sampler little Miss has work'd 
 To please her grandimi. Love it still, ye fair ; 
 Enjoy it still, Alcanor. Here who will 
 May live in satisfaction truly sweet, 
 Wiiich York or Lambeth cannot give. Who strays, 
 Shall taste a thousand pains unfelt at home. 
 We fondly think the land of happiness 
 Is any where but here. And thus we quit 
 The little bliss we own for less, and learn 
 From painful circumstance, the more we stray, 
 The more we want relief. The troubled heart 
 Which harbours discontent, feeds a disease 
 No change of place, no medicine, can cure. 
 
52 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Happy the man who truly loves his home, 
 And never wanders further from his door 
 Than we have stray'd to-day ; who feels his heart 
 Still drawing homeward, and delights, like us. 
 Once more to rest his foot on liis own threshold. 
 
 Alcaiior, Julia, Isabel, Eliza, 
 Here let lis pause, and ere still night advance 
 To shut the books of heav'n, look back and see 
 What commendable act has sprung to-day. 
 Ah ! who can boast ? The little good we do 
 In all the years of life will scarce outweigh 
 The follies of an hour. 
 
 Adieu, ye fair ; 
 We leave you to your task, nor give you aid 
 As wont. Rear'd by your hands alone, the flow'r 
 Shall have a ruddier blush, a sweeter fragrance. 
 Alcanor, come, and let us once again 
 Descend into the valley, and enjoy 
 The sober peace of the still summer's eve. 
 We have no blush to lose ; our freckled cheek 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 The sun not blisters, nor the night-dew blasts. 
 Such is the time the musing poet loves. 
 Now vigorous imagination teems, 
 And, warm with meditation, brings to birth 
 Her admirable thought. I love to hear 
 The silent rook to the high wood make way 
 With rustling wing ; to mark the wanton mouse, 
 And see him gambol round the primrose head. 
 Till the still owl comes smoothly sailing forth. 
 And with a shrill to-whit breaks off his dance. 
 And sends him scouring home ; to hear the cur 
 Of the night-loving partridge, or the swell 
 Of the deep curfew from afar. And now 
 It pleases me to mark the hooting owl 
 Perch'd on the naked hop-pole, to attend 
 The distant cataract, or farmer's cur, 
 That bays the nortliern lights or rising moon. 
 And now I steal along the woody lane, 
 To hear thy song so various, gentle bird. 
 Sweet queen of night, transporting Philomel. 
 I name thee not to give my feeble line 
 A grace else wanted, for I love thy song. 
 
54 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 And often have I stood to hear it sung, 
 
 When tliC clear moon, with Cytherean smile 
 
 Emerging from an eastern cloud, has shot 
 
 A look of pure benevolence and joy 
 
 Into the lieart of night. Yes, I have stood 
 
 And mark'd thy varied note, and frequent pause. 
 
 Thy brisk and melancholy' mood, with soul 
 
 Sincerely pleas'd. And O, methought, no note 
 
 Can equal thine, sweet bird, of all that sing 
 
 How easily the chief! Yet have I heard 
 
 What pleases me still more — the human voice 
 
 In serious sweetness flowing from the heart 
 
 Of unaffected woman. I could hark 
 
 Till the round world dissolv'd, to the pure strain 
 
 Love teaches, gentle Modesty inspires. 
 
 But tease me not, ye self-conceited fools, 
 
 Who with a loud insufferable scjuall 
 
 Insult our ears, or hum a noiseless air 
 
 Disdaining to be heard ; the while ye smile, 
 
 To show a set of teeth newly repair'd, 
 
 Or shrink and shrug, to make the cro« d admire 
 
 Your strange grimaces practis'd at the glass. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 O, I abhor it. I would rather hear 
 A pedlar's kit scrape to a dancing dog. 
 
 Melodious bird, good night ; good night, Alcanor. 
 Let us not borrow from the hours of rest. 
 For we must steal from morning to repay. 
 And who would lose the animated smile 
 Of dawning day, for th' austere frown of night ? 
 I grant her well accoutred in her suit 
 Of dripping sable, powder'd thick with stars. 
 And much applaud her as siie passes by 
 AV'ith a replenish'd horn on either brow ; 
 But more I love to see awaking day 
 Rise with a flustcr'd cheek ; a careful maid, 
 Who fears she has outslept the custom'd hour, 
 And leaves her chamber blushing. Hence to rest ; 
 I will not prattle longer to detain you 
 Under the dewy canopy of night. 
 
 So have I sung Alcanor and the fair. 
 Through the slow walk and long beloiter'd day 
 Of early summer. Let him read who will ; 
 
56 
 
 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 And blame me not, if tardy as the snail 
 
 I iiardly creep a single mile from home. 
 
 It is my humour. Let him speed who will, 
 
 And fly like cannon-shot from post to post ; 
 
 I love to pause, and quit the public road, 
 
 To gain a summit, take a view, or pluck 
 
 An unknown blossom. What if I dismount, 
 
 And leave my steed to graze the while I sii 
 
 Under the pleasant lee, or idly roam 
 
 Across the pasture, diligent to mark 
 
 What passes next ? 'Tis English blood that flows 
 
 Under the azure covert of these veins. 
 
 I love my liberty ; and if I sing, 
 
 Will sing to please myself, bound by no rule, 
 
 The subject of no law. — I cannot think 
 
 Praise-worthy excellence is only hit 
 
 By servile imitation. In a path 
 
 Peculiarly his own great Handel went, 
 
 And justly merits our applause, though not 
 
 The Homer of his art. In a new course 
 
 Went Shakspeare, nobly launching forth ; 
 
 And who siiall say he has not found perfection, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 51 
 
 Though not a Sophocles ? Ye shallow wits, 
 Who bid us coast it in the learned track, 
 Nor quit the sight of shore, there is in art 
 A world unknown, whose treasures only he 
 Shall spy, and well deserve, who proudly scorns 
 The second laurel, and exulting steers 
 Far from the custoni'd way. My slender bark 
 Perchance has rush'd into a boisterous sea. 
 Which soon shall overwhelm her : yet I fear 
 No storms the furious elements can rouse, 
 And if I fail, shall deem it noble still 
 To founder in a brave attempt. Once more 
 The cheerful breeze invites ; I fill my sail, 
 And scud before it. When the critic starts, 
 And angrily unties his bags of wind, 
 Then I lay to, and bid the blast go b;-. 
 
58 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 At once we rusli into the midst of June, 
 
 And find Alcanor at the noon of day 
 
 Laborious in his garden. The warm sun 
 
 Is clouded, and the fluctuating breeze 
 
 Calls him from nicer labour, to attend 
 
 The vegetable progress. Mark we now 
 
 A thousand great effects which spring from toil, 
 
 Unsung before. The martial pea observe. 
 
 In column square arrang'd, line after line 
 
 Successive ; the gaj' bean, her hindmost ranks 
 
 Stript of their blossoms ; the thick-scatter'd bed 
 
 Of soporific lettuce; the green hill 
 
 Cover'd with cucumbers. All these my Muse 
 
 Disdains not. She can stray well-pleas'd, and pluck 
 
 The od'rous leaf of marj'ram, balm, or mint ; 
 
 Then smile to think bow near the neighbourhood 
 
 Of rue and wormwood, in her thoughtful eye 
 
 Resembling life, which ever thus brings forth 
 
 In quick succession bitter things and sweet. 
 
 Nor scorns she to observe the thriving sage, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 59 
 
 Which well becomes the garden of a clerk ; 
 
 Tiie wholesome camomile, and fragrant thyme. 
 
 All these thy pains, Alcanor, propagate. 
 
 Support, and feed. Let the big Doctor laugh, 
 
 Who only toils to satisfy the calls 
 
 Of appetite insatiate, and retires. 
 
 Good honest soul, offended at the world, 
 
 In pure devotion, to his pipe and bowl, 
 
 And whiffs and sleeps his idle hours away. 
 
 Yes, let him laugh. A life of labour yields 
 
 Sweeter enjoyment than his gouty limbs 
 
 Have sense to feel. It gives the body health, 
 
 Agilitj', and strength, and makes it proof 
 
 Against the fang of pain. It stays the cQurse 
 
 Of prodigal contagion, scares away 
 
 The scythe of time, and turns the dart of death : 
 
 And hence the mind unwonted force derives ; 
 
 Recruited oft by labour, to her work 
 
 Strong as a giant she returns, and rolls 
 
 Her Sisyphacan ball with wond'rous ease 
 
 Up to the mountain's top. It is the soul 
 
 Of poesy and wit. Then follow still 
 
60 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 The happy task, nor scorn to feel, Alcanor, 
 How passing grateful 'tis to reap the fruits 
 Of willing toil. The board of industry, 
 By her own labour frugally supplied, 
 Gives to her food an admirable zest, 
 Unknown to indolence, which half asleep 
 With palateless indifference surveys 
 The smoaking feast of plenty. 
 
 I have stray'd 
 Wild as the mountain bee, and cuU'd a sweet 
 From ev'ry flow'r that beautify'd my way. 
 Now shall my serious Muse with solemn tone 
 Begin her friendly lecture to the fair. 
 
 Unwedded maiden, is there yet a man 
 For wisdom eminent ? seek him betimes. 
 He v/ill not shun thee, though thy frequent foot 
 Wear out the pavement at his door. Ye fair. 
 Be sedulous to win the man of sense ; 
 And fly the empty fool. Shame the dull boy. 
 Who leaves at college what he learn'd at school, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 61 
 
 And wliips his academic hours away, 
 
 Cas'd in unwrinkled buckskin and tight boots, 
 
 More studious of his hunter than his books. 
 
 ! had ye sense to see what powder'd apes 
 Ye oft admire, the idle boy for shame 
 Would lay his racket and his mace aside, 
 And love his tutor and his desk. Time was 
 When ev'ry woman was a judge of arms 
 And militarj- exploit : 'twas an age 
 
 Of admirable heroes. And time was 
 
 \Vlien women dealt in Hebrew, Latin, Greek ; 
 
 No dunces then, but all were deeply learn'd. 
 
 1 do not wish to see the female eye 
 Waste all its lustre at the midnight lamp ; 
 I do not wish to see the female cheek 
 Grow pale with application. Let your care 
 Be to preserve your beauty ; that secur'd, " 
 Improve the judgment, that the loving fair 
 May have an eye to know the man of worth, 
 And keep secure the jewel of her charms 
 
 From him who ill deserves. Let the spruce beau, 
 That lean, sweet-scented, and palav'rous fool, 
 
62 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Who talks of honour and his sword, and plucks 
 The man who dares advise him by the nose ; 
 That puny thing which hardly crawls about, 
 Reduc'd by wine and women, yet drinks on, 
 And vapours loudly o'er his glass, resolv'd 
 To tell a tale of nothing, and outswear 
 The northern tempest ; let that fool, I say, 
 Look for a wife in vain, and live despis'd. 
 
 I would that all the fair ones of this isle 
 Were such as one I knew. Peace to her soul, 
 She lives no more. And I a genius need 
 To paint her as she was. Most like, methinks, 
 That amiable maid the poet drew 
 With angel pencil, and baptiz'd her Portia. 
 Happy the man, and happy sure he was. 
 So wedded. Bless'd with her, he wander'd not 
 To seek for happiness ; 'twas his at home. 
 How often have I chain'd my truant tongue. 
 To hear the music of her sober words ! 
 How often have I wonder'd at the grace 
 Instruction borrow'd from her eye and cheek ! 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 63 
 
 Surely that maid deserves a monarch's love, 
 Who bears such rich resources in herself 
 For her sweet progeny. A motiier taught 
 Entails a blessing on her infant charge 
 Better than riches ; an unfailing cruse 
 She leaves behind lier, which the faster flows 
 The more 'tis drawn ; where ev'rj soul may feed, 
 And nought diminish of the public stock. 
 
 Show me a maid so fair in all your ranks, 
 Ye crowded boarding-schools. Arc ye not apt 
 To taint the infant mind, to point the way 
 To fashionable folly, strew with flow'rs 
 The path of vice, and teach the wayward child 
 Extravagance and pride ? Who learns in you 
 To be the prudent wife, or pious mother ? 
 To be her parents' staff, or husband's joy ? 
 'Tis you dissolve the links that once held fast 
 Domestic happiness. 'Tis you untie 
 The matrimonial knot. 'Tis you divide 
 The parent and his child. Yes, 'tis to you 
 We owe the ruin of our dearest bliss. 
 
64 THK VlLLAGi: CUIUTE. 
 
 The best instructress for the growing lass 
 Is she that bare her. Let her first be taught, 
 And we shall see the path of virtue smooth 
 With often treading. She can best dispense 
 That frequent medicine the soul requires, 
 And make it grateful to the tongue of youth. 
 By mixture of affection. She can charm 
 When others fail, and leave the work undone. 
 She will not faint, for she instructs her own. 
 She will not torture, for she feels herself. 
 So education thrives, and the sweet maid 
 Improves in beauty, like the shapeless rock 
 Under the sculptor's chisel, till at length 
 She undertakes her progress through the world, 
 A woman fair and good, as child for parent, 
 Parent for child, or man for wife, could wish. 
 Say, man, what more delights thee than the fair ? 
 What should we not be patient to endure, 
 If they command ? We rule the noisy world, 
 But they rule us. Then teach them how to guide, 
 And hold the rein with judgment. Their applause 
 May once again restore the quiet reign 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 65 
 
 Of virtue, love, and peace, and yet bring back 
 The blush of folly, and the shame of vice. 
 
 My lecture ceases — Once again observe 
 Alcanor in his garden ; not alone, 
 For Isabel is there. The day declines, 
 And now the falling sun offends them not. 
 She rears the fainting flow'r, and feeds its root. 
 Ye botanists, I cannot talk like you. 
 And give to ev'r)' plant its name and rank. 
 Taught by Linn^ ; yet I perceive in all 
 Or known or unknown, in the garden rais'd. 
 Or nurtur'd in the hedge-row or the field, 
 A secret something which delights my eye. 
 And meliorates my heart. And much I love 
 To see the fair one bind the straggling pink. 
 Cheer the sweet rose, the lupin, and the stock. 
 And lend a staff' to the still gadding pea. ' 
 
 I cannot count the number of the stars. 
 Nor call them by their names, much less relate 
 What vegetable tribes Alcanor loves, 
 The fair ones rear. 1 will not swell my song, 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 THE VILLAGE CURATE, 
 
 Like you, ye bards of Epopoe'ian fame, 
 Witli the proud list offerees led from Greece, 
 Or angels tumbled headlong into hell. 
 Yet let me praise the garden-loving maid, 
 Who innocentl}' thus concludes the day. 
 Ye fair, it well becomes you. Better thus 
 Cheat time away, than at the crowded rout, 
 Rustling in silk, in a small room close pent, 
 And heated e'en to fusion ; made to breathe 
 Fetid, contagious air, and fret at whist. 
 Or sit aside to sneer and whisper scandal. 
 
 In such a silent, cool, and wholesome hour, 
 The Author of the world from heaven came 
 To walk in Paradise, well pleas'd to mark 
 The harmless deeds of new-created man. 
 And sure the silent, cool, and wholesome hour 
 May still delight him, our atonement made. 
 Who knows but as we walk he walks unseen, 
 And sees and well approves the cheerful task 
 The fair one loves. He breathes upon the pink, 
 And gives it odour ; touches the sweet rose, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 67 
 
 And makes it glow; beckons the evening dew, 
 And sheds it on the lupin and the pea : 
 Then smiles on her, and beautifies her cheek 
 With gay good humour, happiness, and health. 
 So all are passing sweet, and the young Eve 
 Feels all her pains rewarded, all her joys 
 Perfect and unimpair'd. But who can love, 
 Of heav'niy temper, to frequent your walks. 
 Ye foshion-loving belles ? The human soul 
 Your pestilent amusement hates ; how then 
 Shall he approve, who cannot look on guilt ? 
 
 So day b}' day Alcanor and the fair 
 Attend the garden studious, soon as eve 
 Her cooling odours sheds, and the large sun 
 Grows dim, and shoots his mellow rays oblique. 
 
 Nor these the only pleasures summer yields. * 
 They often wander at the elose of day 
 Along the shady lane, or through the wood, 
 To pluck the ruddy strawbeny, or smell 
 The perfum'd breeze that all the fragrance steals 
 
6S THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Of honeysuckle, blossom'd beans, or clover ; 
 Or haply rifles from the new-made rick 
 Tlie hay's sweet odour, or tlie sweeter breatii 
 Of farmer's yard, where the still patient cow 
 Stands o'er the plenteous milk-pail ruminant. 
 Sometimes they stray at highest noon, when day 
 His garish eye has veil'd, and idly range 
 The new-mown pasture, mark the distant forge 
 Deep in the valley, jutting its low roof 
 Against the stream, close by the trickling sluice, 
 And thither turn tiieir steps. I love to see 
 Ho^v hardly some their frugal morsel earn ; 
 It gives my own a zest, and serves to damp 
 The longing appetite of discontent. 
 
 See, pale and hollow-eyed, in his blue shirt, 
 Before the scorching furnace, reeking stands 
 The weary smith. A thund'ring water-wheel 
 Alternately uplifts his cumbrous pair 
 Of roaring bellows. He torments the coal. 
 And stirs the melting ore, till all rcsolv'd ; 
 Then with vast forceps seizes the bright mass, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 69 
 
 And drags it glowing to the anvil. Eye 
 
 Can scarce attend it, so intense the heat. 
 
 He bears it all, and with one arm lets free 
 
 Th' impatient stream. The heavy wheel uplifts 
 
 Slowly, and suddenly lets fall, the loud 
 
 And awful hammer, that confounds the ear, 
 
 And makes the firm earth tremble. He the block 
 
 Shapes, to the blow obsequious; cooler grown, 
 
 He stays his floodgate, once again provokes 
 
 The dying cinder, and his half-done work 
 
 Buries in fire. Again he plucks it forth, 
 
 And once more lifts it to the sturdy anvil. 
 
 There beaten long, and often turn'd, at length 
 
 'Tis done. He bears it hissing t<^the light. 
 
 An iron bar. Behold it well. What is't, 
 
 But a just emblem of the lot of virtue ? 
 
 For in this naughty world she cannot live, 
 
 Nor rust contract, nor mingle with alloy. 
 
 So the great Judge, to make her worthy heav'n. 
 
 Submits her to the furnace and the anvil ; 
 
 Till molten, bruis'd, and batter'd, she becomes 
 
 Spotless and pure, and leaves her dross behind. 
 
10 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Who can repine and think liis lot severe, 
 Who well considers this ? Tiie slaving smith, 
 That wipes iiis flowing brow so fast, his bread 
 Earns at the bitter cost, expense of health. 
 In summer's hottest day he feeds his forge, 
 And stands expos'd to the distressful fire. 
 That almost broils him dead. Yet what complaint 
 Makes he at fortune f He is well content 
 To toil at his infernal work, and breathe 
 A torrid atmosphere, to earn at best 
 Scanty subsistence in this pinching world. 
 Ye idle rich, consider this, nor aim 
 At places, pensions, titles, coronets. 
 Ye lazy clerks, consider this, nor sue 
 For benefices, canonries, and mitres. 
 All might inherit ease, would they not long 
 To fill a braver office, and at times 
 Look down, and see how hard the drudging poor 
 Toils for a bare subsistence. Be content. 
 And happiness shall turn and follow you. 
 But she is coy as the unwedded maid, 
 And he that follows her is vex'd in vain. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 11 
 
 And may pursue for ever. Let her fly ; 
 Shy fool, I follow not. If ihou relent, 
 Feast at my board, and be a welcome guest. 
 
 So summer glides along, and happy he 
 Who, like Alcanor, holds occasion fast. 
 And, duty done, enjoys the summer lounge. 
 
 So have I wander'd ere those days were past 
 Which childhood calls her own. Ah ! happy days, 
 Days recollection loves, unstain'd with vice, 
 Why were ye gone so soon ? Did I not joy 
 To quit my desk, and ramble in the field. 
 To gather austere berries from the bush. 
 Or search the coppice for the clust'ring nut ? 
 Did I not always with a shout applaud 
 The voice that welcome holiday announc'd ? 
 Say, you that knew me, you that saw me oft 
 Shut up my book elate, and dance with glee. 
 O liberty ! how passing sweet art thou 
 To him who labours at the constant oar 
 
12 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Sorely reluctant, to the pining boy 
 
 Who loves enlargement, and abhors his chain. 
 
 So on thy banks too, Isis, have I stray'd, 
 A tassei'd student. Witness you who shar'd 
 My morning walk, my ramble at higii noon, 
 My evening voyage, an unskilful sail, 
 To Godstow bound, or some inferior port. 
 For strawberries and cream. What have we found 
 In life's austerer hours, delectable 
 As the long day so loiter'd ? Ye profound 
 And serious heads, who guard the twin retreats 
 Of British learning, give the studious boy 
 His due indulgence. Let him range the field. 
 Frequent the public walk, and freely pull 
 Tlie yielding oar. But mark the truant well, 
 And if he turn aside to vice or folly. 
 Shew him the rod, and let him feel you |)rize 
 The parent's happiness, the public good. 
 And you, ye thoughtless young, deem it not hard 
 If sage experience check your wild career, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. TS 
 
 And disappoint your project. Love the hand 
 Which steadily corrects, and be not apt 
 To leave the student's for the jockey's part. 
 To drink and gamble. Will he thus repay 
 Parental goodness ? Who can wonder then, 
 The parent's curse on Alma-mater lights, 
 And the wide world re-echoes with the sound 
 Of terrible reproach. Forbear, forbear. 
 
14 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Now comes July, and with his feivid noon 
 Unsinews labour. The swiukt mower sleeps. 
 The weary maid rakes feebly. The warm swain 
 Pitches his load reluctant. The faint steer. 
 Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along 
 The slow-encumber'd wain. The hedge-row novr 
 Delights, or the still shade of silent lane, 
 Or cool impending arbour, there to read, 
 Or talk and laugh, or meditate and sleep. 
 
 There let me sit to see the low'ring storm 
 Collect its dusky horrors, and advance 
 To bellow sternly in the ear of night ; 
 (To see the' Almighty electrician come, 
 I Making the clouds his chariot. Who can stand 
 I When he appears ? The co'nscious creature flies 
 And skulks away, afraid to see his God 
 Charge and recharge his dreadful battery. 
 For who so pure his lightning might not blast, 
 And be the messenger of justice ? Who 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. IS 
 
 Can Stand expos'd, and to his Judge exclaim, 
 ' My heart is cleansed, turn thy storm away r' 
 Fear not, ye fair, who with the naughty world 
 Have seldom niingled. Mark the rolling storm. 
 And let me hear you tell, when morning comes, 
 With what tremendous howl the furious blast 
 Blew the large show'r in heavy cataract 
 Against your window ; how the keen, the quick, 
 And vivid lightnincj quiver'd on your bed. 
 And iiow the deep artillery of heaven 
 Broke loose, and shook your coward habitation. 
 Fear not ; for if a life of innocence. 
 And that which we deem virtue here below, 
 Can hold the forky bolt, ye may presume 
 To look and live. Yet be not bold, but shew 
 Some pious dread, some grave astonishment. 
 For all our worthy deeds are nothing worth ; 
 And if the solemn tempest cut us short 
 In our best hour, we are in debt to heav'n. 
 
 The storm subsided, and the day begun, 
 Who would not walk along the sandy way. 
 
Ti> THE VILLAGE CUIiATE. 
 
 To smeli the shower's fragrance, see the sun 
 With his sheer eye ascend tiie zeniili joyous, 
 Mark tlie still-rumbling cloud crowding away 
 Indignatu, and embrace the gentle breeze. 
 That idly wantons with the dewy leaf. 
 And shakes the pearly rain-drop to the ground ? 
 How sweet the incense of reviving flow'rs ! 
 Ye must abroad, ye fair. The angry night 
 Has done you mischief. Ev'ry plant will need 
 Your kindly hand to rear its falling head. 
 
 Come not St. Swithin with a cloudy face. 
 Ill-ominous ; for old tradition says. 
 If Swithin w'eep, a deluge will ensue, 
 A forty da3s of rain. The swain believes, 
 And blesses sultry Swithin if he smiles, 
 But curses if he frowns. So boding dames 
 Teach the fray'd boy a thousand ugly signs. 
 Which riper judgment cannot shake aside : 
 And so the path of life is rough indeed, 
 And the poor fool feels double smart, compcll'd 
 To trudge it barefoot on the naked flint. 
 
'the village CUB.ATE. 'J^ 
 
 For what is judgment and the mind inform'd, 
 Your Christian armour, Gospel-preparation, 
 But sandals for the feet, that tread with ease, 
 Nor feel those harsh asperities of life, 
 Which ignorance and superstition dread ? 
 I much admire we ever should complain 
 That life is sharp and painful, when ourselves 
 Create the better half of all our woe. 
 Whom can he blame who shudders at the sight 
 Of his own candle, and foretels with grief 
 A winding-sheet ? who starts at the red coal 
 Which bounces from his fire, and picks it up. 
 His hair on end, a coffin ? spills his salt, 
 And dreads disaster ? dreams of pleasant fields, 
 And smells a corpse ? and ever shuns with care 
 The unpropitious hour to pare his nails ? 
 Such fears but ill become a soul that thinks. 
 Let time bring forth what heavy plagues it will. 
 Who pain anticipates, that pain feels twice, 
 And often feels in vain. Yet, though I blame 
 The man who with too busy eye unfolds 
 The page of lime, and reads his lot amiss. 
 
78 THE VILLAOF, Cl'RATE. 
 
 I can applaud to see the smiling maid 
 With pretty superstition pluck a rose, 
 And lay it by till Christmas. I can look 
 With much complacency on i^ll her arts 
 To know the future husband. Yes, ye fair, 
 I deem it good to take from years to come 
 A loan of happiness. We could not live, 
 Did we not hope to-morrow would produce 
 A better lot than we enjoy to-day. 
 Hope is the dearest med'cine of the soul, 
 A sweet oblivious antidote, which heals 
 The better half of all the pains of life. 
 
 Now o'er his corn the sturdy farmer looks 
 And swells with satisfaction to behold 
 The plenteous harvest which repays his toil. 
 We too are gratified, and feel a joy 
 Inferior but to his, partakers all 
 Of the rich bounty Providence has strew'd 
 In plentiful profusion o'er the field. 
 Tell me, ye fair, Alcanor tell me, what 
 Is to the eye more cheerful, to the heart 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 79 
 
 More satisfactive, than to look abroad, 
 And from the window see the reaper strip, 
 Look round, and put his sickle to the wheat ? 
 Or hear the early mower whet his scythe, 
 And see where he has cut his sounding way, 
 E'en to the utmost edge of the brown field 
 Of oats or barley ? What delights us more, 
 Than studiously to trace the vast effects 
 Of unabated labour ? to observe 
 How soon the golden field abounds with sheaves ? 
 How soon the oat and bearded barley fall, 
 In frequent lines, before the keen-edg'd scythe ? 
 The clatt'ring team then comes, the swarthy hind 
 Down leaps, and doffs his frock alert, and plies 
 The shining fork. Down to the stubble's edge 
 The easy wain descends half built, then turns, 
 And labours up again. From pile to pile 
 With rustling step the swain proceeds, and still 
 Bears to the groaning load the well-poiz'd sheaf. 
 The gleaner follows, and with studious eye 
 And bended shoulders traverses the field 
 To cull the scatter'd ear, the perquisite 
 
so THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 By heaven's decree assign'd to them who need, 
 And neither sow nor reap. Ye who have sown, 
 And reap so plenteously, and find the grange 
 Too narrow to contain the harvest given, 
 Be not severe, and grudge the needy poor 
 So small a portion. Scatter many an ear, 
 Nor let it grieve you to forget a sheaf, 
 And overlook the loss. For he who gave 
 Will bounteously reward the purpos'd wrong 
 Done to yourselves ; nay more, will twice repay 
 The generous neglect. The field is clear'd ; 
 No sheaf remains ; and now the empty wain 
 A load less honourable waits. Vast toil succeeds. 
 And still tlie team retreats, and still returns 
 To be again full-fraught. Proceed, ye swains, 
 And make one autumn of your lives, your toil 
 Still new, your harvest never done. Proceed, 
 And stay the progress of the falhng year, 
 And let the cheerful valley laugh and sing, 
 Crown'd with perpetual August. Never faint. 
 Nor ever let us hear the hearty shout 
 Sent up to heaven, your annual work complete, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 8 I 
 
 And harvest ended. It may seem to you 
 The sound of joy, but not of joy to us. 
 We grieve to think how soon your efforts cease, 
 How soon the plenteous year resigns her fruits, 
 And waits the mute approach of surly Winter. 
 
 One labour more the cheerful hand awaits ; 
 Then the glad year is done. We seize with joy 
 The precious interval, and shape our walk 
 At early evening down the meadow path ; 
 Till sunk into the vale, fast by the brook 
 We spy the blooming hop, and with light heart 
 The glorious garden enter. Tell me not, 
 Ye who, in love with wealth, your da^-s consume 
 Pent up in citj- stench, and smoke, and filth : 
 O tell me not of aught magnificent 
 Or fair as this, in all your public walks. 
 What are the charms your Ranelagh affords 
 Compar'd with ours ? Search all your gardens round, 
 Ye shall not find e'en at your boasted Vaux 
 A haunt so neat, so elegant as this. 
 Long let us stray, and frequently repeat 
 
 VOL. L G 
 
82 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Our ev'ning's homage to the blooming hop. 
 Spare him, ye swains, pernicious insects spare, 
 Ye howling tempests, come not near his branch, 
 But let him hang till I have gaz'd my fill. 
 Then shall he fall, and his gay honours shed, 
 And your forbearance plenteously repay 
 With his abundant gold. Long let us stray. 
 Enjoy the grateful covert, and admire 
 The one continued cluster over-head 
 Of blossoms interwoven, and depending 
 E'en to the touch and smell. Long let us stray, 
 And ever as we come to the shorn mead, 
 And quit the garden with reluctance, then, 
 When we behold the smiling valley spread 
 In gay luxuriance far before us, sheep 
 And oxen grazing, till tiie eye is stay'd. 
 The sinuous prospect turning from the view, 
 And all above us to the left and right, 
 Enchanting woodland to the topmost hill — 
 Then let the village bells, as often wont. 
 Come sweUing on the breeze, and to the sun, 
 Half-set, sing merrily their ev'ning song. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 83 
 
 1 ask not for the cause — it matters not. 
 
 It is enough for me to hear the sound 
 
 Of the remote exhilarating peal. 
 
 Now dying all away, now faintly heard, 
 
 And now with loud and musical relapse 
 
 Its mellow changes huddling on the ear. 
 
 So have I stood at eve on Isis' hanks, 
 
 To hear the merry Christ-Church bells rejoice. 
 
 So have I sat too in thy honour'd shades, 
 
 Distinguish'd Magdalen, on Cherwell's brink. 
 
 To hear thy silver Wolsey tones so sweet. 
 
 And so too have I paus'd and held my oar. 
 
 And sufFer'd the slow stream to bear me home, 
 
 While Wykeham's peal along the meadow ran. 
 
84 THE VILLAGE CUIIATE. 
 
 Now let September and October coine, 
 
 Twin months of slaughter. Persecution starts, 
 
 And ere the dewy day be half awake 
 
 Begins her bloody work. The fields are throng'd 
 
 With licens'd murderers, who slay for sport. 
 
 So when the jealous Herod gave the word, 
 
 The cruel ruffian thirsted for the blood 
 
 Of helpless innocents. And so the sword, 
 
 Another Herod reigning, was let loose 
 
 To spill the blood of sleeping Huguenots. 
 
 Alcanor joins them not. He envies none 
 
 The pleasures of the field, and much admires 
 
 To hear the squabble and the loud harangue. 
 
 And all for game ; to see the British soul 
 
 So puny grown, it quarrels for a feather. 
 
 'Tis a mean wretch, and scarce deserves to live, 
 
 Who cannot find amusements void of pain. 
 
 O undeserving parent, who neglects 
 To train the infant boy to deeds humane. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 85 
 
 See how his sports, his pastimes, dearest child, 
 
 Are all to be indulg'd, whether he choose 
 
 To whip his nurse, to lasli the sleeping puppy, 
 
 Or pinch the tail of uaoffending puss. 
 
 Go, catch the surly beetle, and suspend 
 
 The harmless pris'ner by the wing or tail, 
 
 To make the booby laugh. But if, so loud 
 
 His well-deserv'd rebuke, the timid child 
 
 Stands off alarm'd, then let him see thee crush 
 
 The thing he fears. Or give it liberty. 
 
 Not unconstrain'd, as Heav'ii bestow'd it. No, 
 
 Set the gall'd pris'ner free, but lock his chain 
 
 Full-fast about him. Bid him to the field, 
 
 But pluck no arrow from his side. He's gone. 
 
 And feels that liberty is wondrous sweet, 
 
 Though the crook'd pin fast fix'd, and trailing thread, 
 
 Admit no remedy. A while he lives — 
 
 His thread clings fast — he famishes, and dies. 
 
 Go, Tom, a ladder bring, and reach the nest, 
 
 'Tis but a chirping sparrow's, and 'twill serve 
 
 To pacifj' the boy. What if the dam 
 
 In patient expectation sit, and hope 
 
86 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Another day shall all her cares reward, 
 
 And bring to light her helpless progeny ? 
 
 Forth from her high maternal office dragg'd 
 
 With rude indignity, behold she comes 
 
 A joyful victim to the callous boy. 
 
 He with delight her ruffled plumes surveys, 
 
 Seizes her nest, and the dear charge purloins ; 
 
 Then with a frantic laugh down drops the eggs, 
 
 And blindfold hops to crush them as he goes. 
 
 Ah ! hapless bird, yet iiappy still, if this 
 
 Be all the pain thy cruel foe intends. 
 
 Nothing avail'd tliy labour of an age 
 
 To weave the genial nest, with many a root 
 
 And many a straw far-fetch'd .' 'Twas all in vain. 
 
 Half-starv'd Grimalkin claims thee for his prey, 
 
 And in his cruel paw fast-clutch'd devours 
 
 Relentless. Or the boy aware, himself 
 
 Cuts short existence, and allots to puss 
 
 Only the sever'd liead. Hard-hearted lout, 
 
 Steel'd executioner, behold the blood 
 
 Of parent and of oflFspring. Burn with shame ; 
 
 For thou hast done a deed which Heav'n abhors. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 87 
 
 Let the wise parent laugh, to see how well 
 
 His looby boy has learn'd to be humane. 
 
 Let him applaud the bloody deed, and spare 
 
 The well-earn'd rod. In thee, great state, 
 
 Eternal glory of the Gentile world, 
 
 Just Athens, had the beardless youth presum'd 
 
 A deed so villainous, the public arm 
 
 Had the mean wretch chastis'd, till it had wak'd 
 
 A soul humane and sensible of wrong. 
 
 Behold and mark the sturdy fool, at length 
 
 Grown up to man, (if such he may be deem'd. 
 
 Possessing nothing human but the shape,) 
 
 What are his sports ? and how delights the dunce 
 
 From morn to night to spend the live-long day ? 
 
 * Can the swarth Ethiopian change his skin ?' 
 
 Or can the leopard at his will be white, 
 
 And lay his spots aside ? From morn to eve 
 
 See how he toils with generous intent 
 
 To be the murd'rer of the tim'rous hare, 
 
 To win the brush of Reynard nobly sklll'd. 
 
 To vex the badger ; or with cruel joy 
 
 Stoops o'er the cock-pit, eager to behold 
 
S8 THE VILLAGE CURATE, 
 
 The dying struggles of poor Chanticleer. 
 
 'Twas nature taught the gen'rous hircl to figlit. 
 
 And drive the bold intruder from his roost, 
 
 In care for thee, mean wretch, ^vho hast supply'd 
 
 The weapon nature kindly had refus'd, 
 
 Or made to strike in vain. Now mark his gait, 
 
 When morning hardly' dawns, and from the hutch 
 
 He lets the fuU-ear'd pointer loose to range. 
 
 Well arm'd is he, within with morning dram, 
 
 Without with old surtout, thick shoes, and hose 
 
 Of leather, button'd to the buckskin'd knee. 
 
 So forth he fares, brave knight ; but first he primes 
 
 And crams his musket, then suspends his pouch, 
 
 His powder-horn, and whip with whistle tipt. 
 
 On his bro.id shoulders. Let me not forget. 
 
 What he might well forget, th' important bag. 
 
 To be ere long (for so he thinks) well lin'd 
 
 With pheasant, partridge, snipe, or tardy quail. 
 
 So mounts the popping Hudibras or stile 
 
 Or crackling hedge, or leaps the muddy ditch. 
 
 His armour clatt'ring as he goes. I see 
 
 Where he has swept the silver dew away 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 89 
 
 Across the pasture. Now he dimbs the gate, 
 And heys bis clog to run the stubble round, 
 While he stands still, or scarcel}' moves a pace. 
 So have I seen the hastj' minute-hand 
 Run round and round, while th' other idly stood. 
 Or seem'd to stand, and with commanding tone 
 Bray'd loud to instigate his race again. 
 Take heed, take heed. With nose infalhble 
 The silent pointer winds toward the game. 
 Now motionless he stands, one foot hft up, 
 His nostril wide distended, and his tail 
 Unwagg'd. Now speed, thou hero of the gun, 
 And when the sudden covey springs, let fly 
 And miss them all. O I rejoice to see 
 When our amusements are so innocent 
 They give no pain at all. But spare the whip, 
 And if the wary covey spring too soon, 
 Let Sancho still be safe ; and let not rage 
 Prompt thee to stamp upon his guiltless neck 
 Till the blood issue from his lips and nose : 
 Much less let fly upon the faithful cur 
 The volley fate has spar'd, for he is staunch^ 
 
90 THE VILLAGE CUUATE. 
 
 And true to thee as thou art false to him. 
 
 O thoughtless world, that will not be at pains* 
 To cultivate humanity in youth. 
 'Tis hence we laugh at woe, and ev'ry day 
 Unpitying hear the cries of half a world 
 Vex'd with the galling scourge of slavery. 
 My eye is cast on Britain's western isles, 
 And I behold a patient slave grown faint 
 Under the lash. Inhuman dog, forbear: 
 The man who now lies bleeding at thy feet 
 Was once a monarch. To the bloody field 
 He led a num'rous tribe, attach'd by deeds 
 Of pure affection to their leader. He 
 No laws of mutiny had fram'd, nor fear'd 
 To see desertion thin his peopled ranks. 
 Bravely he fought, and hardly would submit. 
 Surviving only he. Then first he knew 
 What 'twas to faint, when looking for his friends 
 He saw them dead and bleeding at his side. 
 Nor had he then let fall his well-strung bow, 
 And shook the poison'd quiver from his side, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 91 
 
 Were there one arrow left, or still surviv'd 
 He for whose life and happiness he fought, 
 His only son. Him reeking in his blood 
 The hapless monarch saw, and could no more. 
 Then spare iiim yet. What if he left his task, 
 And sought the friendly siiadc to vent his grief 
 Yet recent. True, he slept, and at an hour 
 Wlien industry was busy. 'Twas the call 
 Of sympathizing nature, that would pour 
 One balm at least upon his countless wounds. 
 Poor soul, he slept, and fancy to his mind 
 Rcstor'd again the days he once had seen. 
 Forth from his iiut he went, his only son 
 And wife (now more than widow) by his side. 
 He tipt his arrow, strung his bow, and shot. 
 The stricken bird was her's, and lier's the deer. 
 Laden with these, his choicest gifts, lie sought 
 His humble palace once again ; there sat 
 And ate his plain and temperate repast. 
 And the too-fleeting hours beguil'd with talk 
 Of twenty thousand dangerous escapes 
 From cruel tiger, or more cruel man. 
 
92 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 And was this little happiness too much ? 
 The sword of justice surely will unsheath, 
 Nor fail in vain upon these guilty isles. 
 Cross not again the proud Atlantic wave, 
 With iiellish purpose to enslave the free, 
 Or load the pris'ner with eternal chains, 
 For he is Man as thou art. Not for thee, 
 And only thee, did God's creative Word 
 Call into being this vast work, the world. 
 Nor yet for thee that Word incarnate shed 
 His precious blood. Go, cruel tyrant, go, 
 Reign in the forests of thy native isle, 
 And let the prowling savage reign in his. 
 Let him enjoy the little bliss he owns. 
 Or give him more. Make not his little less, 
 For Adam was his sire, and Adam thine ; 
 And he shall share redemption too with thee, 
 With thee, and me, and all this Gentile world, 
 If we deserve to rank in brotherhood 
 With one we wrong so much. Content were he 
 To tread the burning desert, feel the sun 
 Dart his herce rays diiect upon his head, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 93 
 
 And earn the little plenty his wild state 
 Affords, with hunter's toil. Content were he 
 To be an humble pensioner at best 
 Of the grim lion ; but the cursed hand 
 Of brutal avarice that peace destroys, 
 That little peace which the brave lion spares. 
 
 September half elaps'd, the day returns, 
 Remember'd oft with awful reverence 
 And pious love of thee. All-seeing Power, 
 Who foUow'st virtue wheresoe'er she roves. 
 Her shield and buckler. On the sunny down 
 Eliza stray'd. Ah ! why alone ? 'Twas so 
 The tempter vanquish'd Eve ; 'twas so she fell. 
 She stray'd and mus'd, she pluck'd a flow'r and sung. 
 She knew no fear, accustom'd oft to range 
 The pleasant hill, and deeming none less good. 
 Less honest than herself. But such the world. 
 We cannot find the place, howe'er remote 
 From public notice, which escapes the search 
 Of prying Inst. A fierce Hibernian whelp, 
 Strong as the tiger, subtle as the fox. 
 
94 THE VIIXAfJE CURATE. 
 
 Saw and was pleas'd. No bar to him his vow 
 Made at the altar, to be constant still 
 To her he wedded there. In his false heart 
 He fed adult'rous hope, he conch'd and slunk, 
 And with a leer the solitary down 
 Survey'd, far as the jealous eye can reach. 
 So Satan lurk'd, and joy'd to find alone 
 Ingenuous Eve ; and he his proem tun'd 
 With flattery and lies, and so didst tiiou. 
 Into the heart of Eve his words made way : 
 Eliza heard not thine. For she had mark'd 
 And knew her tempter ; she had well observ'd. 
 Unknown to thee, thy ofi;en-practis'd wiles. 
 What wonder then th}' eulogy was vain ? 
 Thy large account of honour and of w ealth 
 Mov'd only her derision, nor could win 
 One smile, one kiss, one look of approbation. 
 Here had thy passion ceas'd, thou might'st at least 
 Have challeng'd honour with the fiend of Hell. 
 But foil'd, and still repuls'd, thy hungry soul 
 Had baser means to dare. Her reason proof, 
 Thy next resource unmanly violence. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 95 
 
 What guilty marks left not thy greedy hand 
 Upon the fair one's arm ? so mighty thou 
 To combat virtue, to assail a maid 
 No match for thee but in so good a cause. 
 Yet hadst thou vanquish'd, but a power unseen 
 Approv'd her efforts, and resisted thine. 
 What saw'st thou, coward, to be put to flight 
 Swift as the hostile arrow ? Mark my words. 
 The man of noble purpose nothing daunts, 
 No, not a falling world. He were compos'd 
 And stedfast as a rock, though floods of fire 
 The world and all its fellows swept away, 
 And he beheld a universe in flames. 
 Then was the mighty foil'd, the cunning caught : 
 
 And yet he blushes not. Accus'd, he starts. 
 
 Protests his innocence, appeals to justice. 
 
 Unlocks the copious fountain of his eye. 
 
 And who can say it is not strange and piteous ? 
 
 Yet why decays his honour, spite of tears. 
 
 Of protestations and appeals, of threats, 
 
 And public insolence ? Ah me ! I fear 
 
 Eliza may forgive thee, but in vain ; 
 
96 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 And though insulted Justice slumber herii, 
 She will arraign thee at the bar of Heaven, 
 And, spite of Charity, the wrong repay. 
 
 Now comes the happy morning long desir'd 
 By rural lads and lasses. Light appeai-s. 
 The swain is ready in his Sunday frock, 
 And calls on Nell to trip it to the fair. 
 The village bells are up, and jangling loud 
 Proclaim the holiday. The clam'rous drum 
 Calls to the puppet-show. The groaning horn 
 And twanging trumpet speak the sale begun. 
 Of articles most rare and cheap. Dogs bark, 
 Boys shout, and the grave Doctor mounts sublime 
 His crowded scaffold, struts, and makes a speech. 
 Maintains the virtue of his salve for corns. 
 His worm-cake and his pills, puffs his known art. 
 And shews his kettle, silver knives and forks. 
 Ladle and cream-pot, and, to crown the bait. 
 The splendid tankard. Andrew grins, and courts 
 The gaping multitude, till Tom and Sue 
 And Abigail and Ned their shoulders shrug, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 97 
 
 And laugh and whisper, and resolve to sport 
 The solitary shilling. Simple swains. 
 And silly maids, you laugh, but Andrew wins : 
 And what for you but sorrow and remorse, 
 Or box of salve to plaister disappointment ? 
 Unless the smart of folly may be sooth'd 
 By Andrew's cheerful pranks, the dancing girl, 
 And frolic tumbler. Now the street is fili'd 
 With stalls and booths for gingerbread and beer, 
 Rear'd by enchantment, fiiiish'd in a trice. 
 Amusements here for children old and voung; 
 For little master's pence, a coach, a drum, 
 A horse, a wife, a trumpet ; dolls for miss, 
 Fans, cups and saucers, kettles, maids and churns. 
 For idle school-boys Punchinello rants, 
 The juggler shuffles, and the artful dame 
 Extends her lucky-bag. For infants tall, 
 Of twenty years and upwards, rueful games. 
 To whirl the horse-shoe, bowl at the nine pins, 
 Game at the dial-plate, drink beer and gin. 
 Vapour and swear, cudgel, get drunk and fight. 
 Then comes the ass-race. Let not wisdom frown, 
 VOL. r. H 
 
98 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 If the grave clerk look on, and now and then 
 
 Bestow a smile ; for we may see, Alcanor, 
 
 In this untoward race the ways of life. 
 
 Are we not asses all ? We start and run, 
 
 And eagerly we press to pass the goal, 
 
 And all to win a bauble, a lac'd hat. 
 
 Was not great Wolsey such ? He ran the race, 
 
 And won the hat. What ranting politician. 
 
 What prating lawyer, what ambitious clerk. 
 
 But is an ass that gallops for a hat ? 
 
 For what do Princes strive, but golden hats ? 
 
 For diadems, whose bare and scanty brims 
 
 Will hardly keep the sun-beam from their eyes. 
 
 For what do Poets strive ? a leafy hat. 
 
 Without or crown or brim, which hardly screens 
 
 The empty noddle from the fist of scorn. 
 
 Much less repels the critic's thund'ring arm. 
 
 And here and there intoxication too 
 
 Concludes the race. Who wins the hat, gets drunk. 
 
 Who wins a laurel, mitre, cap, or crown, 
 
 Is drunk as he. So Alexander fell. 
 
 So Haman, Caesar, Spenser, Wolsey, James. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 99 
 
 Now chilly ev'ning, in her grey coat clad, 
 Advances from the cast, and puts to flight 
 The rear of day, girt with a zone of stars. 
 The busy fair is ended. The rank booth 
 Expels its beastly habitant the mob. 
 And Andrew's laughable conceit is hush'd. 
 Home reels the drunken clown, or staj's to fight. 
 Nothing the cause, yet honour much concern'd. 
 Confusion reigns, uproar and loud misrule ; 
 Distinctions cease, and still the oath, the scream, 
 The shout, the hoot, disturb the midnight ear 
 Of sober Cloe gone to bed betimes. 
 
100 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Ah me ! the golden year is fled. Behold 
 
 Gloomy and sad November, with a brow 
 
 Severe and clouded. Scarce a leaf sustains 
 
 His pestilential blast. The woods are stript, 
 
 And all their honours scatter'd in the vale. 
 
 Th' ambassador of surly Winter he, 
 
 And in his hand he bears the nipping frost. 
 
 Before his tyrant lord he scatters sleet, 
 
 And with a hideous frown bids Autumn speed, 
 
 And after her runs howling through the land. 
 
 The field has lost its verdure. All the pride 
 
 Of the sweet garden fades. Where now the rose, 
 
 The lupin, aster, balsam, or carnation ? 
 
 Or where the lily with her snowy bells ? 
 
 Where the gay jasmin, odorous syringa, 
 
 Graceful laburnum, or bloom-clad arbute ? 
 
 Or if we stray, where now the summer's walk 
 
 So still and peaceal)le at early eve, 
 
 Along the shady lane, or through the wood, 
 
 To pluck the ruddy strawberry, or smell 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATK. lOl 
 
 The perfum'd breeze that all the fragrance stole 
 Of honey-suckle, blossom'd beans, or clover? 
 Where now the blush of Spring, and the long day 
 Beloiter'd ? cheerful May, that fiU'd the woods 
 With music, scatter'd the green vale with flow'rs, 
 And hung a smile of universal joy 
 Upon the cheek of nature ? Where blooms now 
 The king-cup or the daisy ? Where inclines 
 The harebell or tlie cowslip ? Where looks gay 
 The vernal furze with golden baskets hung ? 
 Where captivates the sky-blue periwinkle 
 Under the cottage-eaves ? Where waves the leaf. 
 Or rings with harmony the merry vale ? 
 Day's harbinger no song performs, no song 
 Or solo anthem deigns sweet Philomel. 
 The golden wood-pecker laughs loud no more. 
 The pye no longer prates ; no longer scolds 
 The saucy jay. Who sees the goldfinch now 
 The feather'd groundsel pluck, or hears him sing 
 In bower of apple blossoms perch'd r Who sees 
 The chimney-liaunting swallow skim the pool, 
 And quaintly dip, or hears his early song 
 
102 TIIK VILLAHF. CUUATE. 
 
 Twitter'cl to dawning day ? All, all are luisird. 
 
 The very bee her merry toil foregoes, 
 
 Nor seeks Hlt nectar, to be sought in vain. 
 
 OiUy the solitar\' robin sings, 
 
 And perch'd aloft with melancholy note 
 
 Chants out the dirge of Autumn ; cheerless bird, 
 
 That loves the brown and desolated scene, 
 
 And scanty fare of Winter. Let me weep 
 
 With you, ye Muses, and with you, ye fair. 
 
 Chief mourner at the grave of her we love, 
 
 Expiring nature. For ye sought w ith me 
 
 The sober twilight of the shelving wood, 
 
 With me forsook the glare of sultry day, 
 
 To tread the serious gloom Religion loves, 
 
 And where she smiles and wipes her dewy eye, 
 
 With meditation walking hand in hand. 
 
 Ye too have lov'd and heartily approv'd 
 
 The winding foot-path, and its sudden curve, 
 
 And swarded wain-way like cathedral aisle — 
 
 And heard me comment on the leaf, the branch, 
 
 The arm, the girih of the paternal oak. 
 
 Ye too have lov'd the long frequented brow, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. iOS 
 
 Which ever unexpectedly displays 
 
 The clear cerulean prospect of the vale. 
 
 Oft have ye stood upon the shaggy brink 
 
 Of yonder wood-clad hill, to gaze with me 
 
 Athwart the wide and far-extended view, 
 
 Which ocean skirts or blue downs indistinct. 
 
 Oft have ye look'd with transport pure as mine 
 
 Into the flow'ry dell. But ah ! no more 
 
 We wander heedless ; Winter's wind forbids. 
 
 The piercing cold commands us shut the door. 
 
 And rouse the cheerful hearth ; for at the heels 
 
 Of dark November, comes with arrowy scourge 
 
 The tyrannous December. Joyless now 
 
 The morning sun scarce seen, and clouded eve. 
 
 No genial influence sheds noon, eclips'd. 
 
 Sad scenes ensue ; brief days, and blust'ring nights. 
 
 And snows, such as the winter-loving Muse 
 
 Of Cowper paints well pleas'd, and such as mine 
 
 Views not unsatisfied. For though without 
 
 Bleak winds and pinching frosts, within is joy. 
 
 And harmony, and peace. 
 
104 HIE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Say, Muse, bow pass 
 The frozen hours of \Vinter, the lone eve, 
 The gloomy morn, the cold and cheerless day, 
 At the lone mansion that invests the fair, 
 And Village Curate. Genius there unfolds 
 Her quick impassion'd page ; and Nature there 
 And art their secret treasures all display. 
 There dance the jocund maids of Memory 
 In everlasting round. Heroic Song 
 Her swelling act proclaims, and Eloquence 
 Flows with her smooth and even tide iilong, 
 Transported History the fame records 
 Of ages past and gone, and, nothing vex'd 
 Or wearied with her long exact account, 
 O'erleaps the boundaries of present time. 
 And, led by Prophesy, extends her tale, 
 Fondly perhaps, to the world's consummation. 
 Then Music cheers, and sjmpathetic sounds 
 ^lake smooth the way for serious Tragedy : 
 Then dialogue and high dispute, the song. 
 The dance, the hearty laugh, and flippant wit 
 Of merry Comedy. Urania then 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 105 
 
 Points to the starry firmament, or moon 
 Kclips'd, and holds attention mute, the wliile 
 With moving finger she describes the course 
 Of planetary stars, or with sweet voice 
 Tells whither she led up her heav'nly bard 
 To visit light, and draw empyreal air ; 
 Or whither Newton, more than mortal then, 
 When, musing as he sat, she shook the tree, 
 And dropt an ap[)le, and her studious child 
 Caught up to lieav'n. 'Tis pleasant to remark 
 How early genius plumes her for the flight. 
 And tries her short excursions, fearful yet, 
 And little on her wing confiding, now 
 Full-fledg'd and dauntless, soaring to the clouds, 
 And peering in the eye of hcav'n itself. 
 Sagacious Newton, let me muse with thee. 
 And wonder at thy quick and piercing eye 
 Cleans'd of its mortal film. Who docs not wish 
 Like thee to penetrate the dark abode 
 Of clouded mystery, and in his word 
 And works unfold the fearful Deity ? 
 
106 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 But not at Newton only to admire, 
 Ye studious fair, we love, but sometimes laugh 
 At Braiie and Descartes ; ))raise the strong eye 
 Of Galileo, and applaud the speed 
 Of holy Wilkins, posting like a witch 
 Upon a restive broom-stick to the moon. 
 
 And sometimes thee, ingenious Boyle, we hear, 
 Maintaining truth and sifting nature ; thee 
 Sometimes, whose patriotic genius foil'd 
 Assailant Rome, and almost sav'd the state 
 Of falling Syracuse : then travel round 
 The universal globe, at ev'ry shore 
 Taking large draughts of story and of song. 
 But chiefly thee we love majestic Britain, 
 Wedded to Neptune, and thy thund'ring fleets 
 Follow exulting to the hostile shore ; 
 Now bear thee company to furthest Ind, 
 Or to the frozen pole, or round the cape 
 Of utmost Horn, with philosophic touch 
 Converting dross to gold : now disembark, 
 And march with Harry to the heart of France, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 107 
 
 And beard the wordy Monarch on his throne. 
 And now we follow to the cannon's mouth 
 Tremendous Marlb'rough ; or stand by, and see 
 The living Elliot scare his foe to death 
 With everlasting show'r of burning hail. 
 And many more we praise, and some accuse 
 Whose names and deeds my speedy muse sings not. 
 
 And now morality we love, and truth, 
 And serious argument, and grave debate ; 
 What Mede or Newtoil with prophetic eye 
 Divine, what Hales or Tiliotson advise. 
 Anon we smile with zealous Latimer, 
 Or silent Addison, then range at large 
 Cervantes, Sidney, Bacon, Fenelon, 
 And twenty thousand more choice wits and rare. 
 
 But chiefly thee, immortal Shakspearc, thee 
 We love and honour, Nature's darling child. 
 And still we court thy Muse, and still applaud, 
 Whether the gentle Portia tread the stage 
 With bloody Shylock, or Vincentio wed 
 
108 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 The virtuous Isabel. Whether thy fays 
 Dance to the moon, or Prospero dispatch 
 His sight-outrunning Ariel to the deep, 
 The while the generous Miranda cheers 
 Her fainting Ferdinand. Whether the Duke 
 And gloomy Jaques confer, and Rosalind 
 Laugh at her sighing lover in disguise ; 
 Or smiling Perdita come tripping forth 
 With mint and marj'ram, rosemary and rue : 
 Or Viola, that never told her love, 
 But let concealment like a vvornr i' th' bud 
 Feed on her damask cheek. With hearty laugh 
 We still dismiss the still outwitted rogue, 
 But still pretending FalstafF. Tlien we trace 
 With terror and applause the bloody deeds 
 Of civil rage, and full of horror see 
 Thy mailed Mars upon !iis altar sit 
 Up to the ears in blood ; the fatal cause 
 Aspiring Bolingbroke. Thence wrath ensued. 
 And frequent l)ickcring, and stedfast hate. 
 The lie resounded, and the gauntlet fell. 
 And ev'rv tonifue cried traitor. To the field 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 109 
 
 They rush'd insane, and ev'ry blade drank blood. 
 So Percy fell, and old Northumberland, 
 Three Dukes of Somerset three-fold renown'd. 
 Two Cliffords, virtuous Humphry, Suffolk, York. 
 So Montague and Warwick, two brave bears. 
 That in their chains fetter'd the kingly lion. 
 And made the forest tremble when they roar'd. 
 Then comes despotic Richard, in thy lines, 
 Great bard, supremely horrible, his eye 
 Still bent on murder, tho' his blunted sword 
 Is dull with use, and his destructive arm 
 Claims respite, wearied. Wolsey then laments 
 Unstable fortune, and the favour lost 
 Of fickle Harry, and we too lament. 
 Now pitied and applauded, Timon raves ; 
 And lofty Coriolanus scorns the shout 
 Of popular applause, thence basely doom'd 
 To banishment and death. Then Brutus strikes, 
 And bleeding Julius, looking for his friend, 
 Dies by his hand. In hurly-burly then, 
 By ghosts and witches circled round, Macbeth 
 In fiery storm stalks by, with tim'rous eye 
 
1 10 THE VILL.\GE CUKATE. 
 
 And fretful conscience, shunning the decree 
 Of blood for blood. Then Imogen delights, 
 And eagerly we trace th' eventful scene, 
 Till all winds up into a hajopy close. 
 Not such the fortune of afflicted Lear 
 And poor Cordelia, of thy injur'd wife 
 Jealous 0;hello, of the maid distraught 
 Ophelia, or thy bride that slept with death, 
 Too hasty Romeo. Yet these delight, 
 And ill their dread catastrophe dispense 
 Wholesome correction to the bleeding heart. 
 
 The Poet silent, long with rapture heard. 
 The Shakspeare of another art succeeds. 
 Sweet Music wakes, and with Orphean air 
 Handel begins. What mortal is not rapt 
 To hear his tender wildly-warbled song, 
 Whate'er the theme, but chiefly when he sings 
 Messiah come, and with amazing shout 
 Proclaims him King of Kings, and Lord of Lords, 
 For ever and for ever. Hallelujah. 
 Great soul, O say from what immortal fount 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. Ill 
 
 Thou hast deriv'd such never-failing power 
 To win the soul, and bear it on the wings 
 Of purest ecstacy, beyond the reach 
 Of ev'ry human care. From whence thine art 
 To lift us from the earth, and fix us there 
 Where pure devotion with unsparing hand 
 Pours on the altar of the living God 
 The hallow'd incense of the grateful heart ? 
 O mighty Handel, what seraphic power 
 Gave inspiration to thy sacred song ? 
 Thyself perchance wast some supernal spirit, 
 Permitted to reside on earth awhile, 
 To teach us here what music is in heaven. 
 If ev'ry Angel that attends the throne 
 Of clouded Deity such song inspire, 
 Let but our mortal ears one chorus hear, 
 And all the world were gather'd into Heav'n. 
 The very Devils surely were drawn up 
 To listen at the golden doors of light, 
 And Hell left wasteful, wide, and desolate. 
 
 Corelli, sweet harmonious bird, thee too 
 
1 1 2 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 We liear dcliglitcd, and tliy mellow strains 
 Deem no mean recompense for the lost song 
 Of lark and nightingule. Thy air repeat, 
 And let judicious discord still commend 
 Triumphant harmony, till Winter's self 
 Be won like us, and smooth his rugged brow, 
 And all his hours enchanted fleet away, 
 Soft as his fur, and quiet as his snow. 
 
 And oft we feel the soul-subduing power 
 Of vocal harmony, breath'd softly forth 
 And gently swell'd accordant, without aid 
 Of quaint embellishment, save only such 
 As Nature dictates, and without design 
 Lets fall with ease in her impassion'd mood. 
 Then serious glee and elegy delight, 
 Or pious anthem, such as Croft inspires, 
 Or graver Purcel, or endearing Clark. 
 The noble harmonies of Brewer, Estc, 
 Webbe, Baildon, Ravenscroft, we hear 
 With ever new delight. Brisk canzonet 
 Then pleases, gay duet, or Highland air 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 1 18 
 
 Divinely warbled, and witli cadence sweet 
 And tender pause prolonsi'd by one we love, 
 Spontaneous and unask'd. And oft the soul 
 With patriotic ardour glows, and pants 
 For glory, honour, and immortal deeds, 
 Transported at the sound of martial strains 
 With sudden burst commenc'd, and moving slow 
 With solemn grandeur and majestic pomp 
 To an obstreperous rebounding close. 
 
 But who shall tell in simple strain like mine 
 The many shapes that Music, Proteus-like, 
 Puts on, with grateful change of subject, time. 
 Contrivance, mood, soothing the captive ear, 
 And filling the rapt soul with fare so sweet 
 That still it feeds and hungers. Mortal voice 
 Shall ill relate with what harmonious art 
 She fashions pleasure to the various mind. 
 What wonder then the sulky wheels of time 
 Fly glibly round, the drowsy pendulum 
 Foregoes his old vexatious click unheeded. 
 And the shrill-sounding bell proclaims apace 
 
 VOL. L I 
 
1 I 4 THE \MLLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Tlie brief acconiplisird hours. By Music won, 
 Decrepit Time forgets liis annual gout, 
 Renews his dance, and with a noiseless foot 
 Hies speedily away. 
 
 I have not told. 
 How oft we listen to the musty song 
 Of ancient bards, nor think we need excuse 
 To honour merit in her home-spun suit. 
 And chiefly we esteem thy fairy song, 
 Immortal Spenser, in rude guise yclad. 
 Then the fierce knight advances o'er the plain, 
 Drad for his derring do and bloody deed. 
 And now the combat 'gins, and cruel arms 
 The recreant knight o'erwhelm in uncouth fray. 
 The castle falls, and many a maid is won. 
 And many a maid is lost through dire mishap. 
 
 Then comes a troop in gilded uniform, 
 The goodly band Johnsonian. Cowley lirst, 
 Poetic child, whose philosophic muse 
 Distracts, delights, torments, and captivates. 
 
THE VILLAGE CORATI. 1 15 
 
 Let me attend, when, from the world retirM, 
 
 He turn'd his restive Pegasus to graze, 
 
 And thought, and wrote, sedate and sober prose. 
 
 Comes Milton nest, that like his wakeful bird 
 
 Sings darkling, sings and mourns his eye-sight lost, 
 
 And nightly wanders to the Muses' haunt, 
 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
 
 Smit with the love of sacred song ; to us 
 
 Displaying nature, and the blissful scenes * 
 
 Of Paradise, though not to him returns 
 
 Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn, 
 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine. 
 
 Sweet bard, that bears us softly now, and, smooth 
 
 As that unwrinkled flood that slowly winds 
 
 By Windsor's haughty tow'rs, and visits shores 
 
 Divinely various — rushes now, and leaps, 
 
 Confounding sense, immeasurable depth, 
 
 A foaming cataract, whose thund'ring fall 
 
 Disorders hell, and utmost earth and heav'n. 
 
 Comes Butler then, incomparable wit, 
 
 Aud not to be reprov'd, save when bis muse 
 
116 THE VILLAGE CURATK. 
 
 Decorum overleaps, and here and there 
 
 Bolts the coarse jest, to the chaste eye and ear 
 
 Offensive ; for behind the comic mask 
 
 We find the scholar and the man of sense, 
 
 The friend of virtue, and the foe of vice. 
 
 Then follows courtly Waller, and in vain 
 
 On Amoret or Saccharissa calls, 
 
 With budget full of trifles, birth-day odes, 
 
 Congratulations, songs, and compliments. 
 
 And mythologic tales. Then Denham charms, 
 
 And from his own Parnassus, Cooper's Hill, 
 
 Sings the wide prospect that extended lies 
 
 Under his proud survey. Then Sprat. And then 
 
 Roscommon fills with elegant remark. 
 
 His verse as elegant ; unspotted lines 
 
 Flow from a mind unspotted as themselves. 
 
 Then Wilmot tunes his reed, and in his song 
 
 Gives early specimen of genius, rare 
 
 And prone to excellence. But ah ! how vain 
 
 Poetic hopes ! The prime of life is lost. 
 
 His talent wasted, and the giddy fool 
 
 Grows old in pleasure, and denies his God. 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. HT 
 
 The grave in view, a holy friend his guide, 
 
 He views his conduct with remorse, repents, 
 
 Acknowledges his fault, curses the wit 
 
 Of erring man that so outwits itself. 
 
 And dies, a martyr to the pains of vice. 
 
 Then Yalden sings, and fills us with delight. 
 
 His harp so tun'd, that as the morning breaks 
 
 It breathes spontaneous rapture, and again 
 
 At cv'ning close with solemn eulogy 
 
 Welcomes the reign of night. With dewy eye 
 
 But harlot tear, then Otway's muse begins, 
 
 And charms who hears her with her Syren air; 
 
 To decency, alas, no friend, to vice 
 
 No enemy. His Celia then proclaims 
 
 Enamour'd Duke, at Floriana's grave 
 
 Sweet lamentation chanting. Doi-set then 
 
 Hums nobly liberal, and hums too much, 
 
 Scarce heard an hour. Chaste Montague succeeds. 
 
 Stepney less pure, and Walsh with feeble wing 
 
 Half flying, half on foot. Then comes a bard, 
 
 Worn out and pennyless, and poet still 
 
 Though bent with years, and in impetuous rhyme 
 
118 THE VILLAGK CURATE. 
 
 Pours out his unexhausted song. What muse 
 
 So flexible, so generous as thine, 
 
 Immortal Dryden. From her copious fount 
 
 Large draughts he took, and unbeseeming song 
 
 Inebriated sang. Who does not grieve, 
 
 To hear the foul and insolent rebuke 
 
 Of angry satire from a bard so rare ? 
 
 To trace the lubricous and oily course 
 
 Of abject adulation, the lewd line 
 
 Of shameless vice, from page to page, and find 
 
 The judgment brib'd, the heart unprincipled, 
 
 And only loyal at th' expence of truth. 
 
 Of justice, and of virtue ? Meaner strain 
 
 The dapper wit commends of sprightly Garth. 
 
 We smile to see fantastic Poetry 
 
 Shake hands with Physic, and with grave burlesque 
 
 Arrange liis gallipots, and gild his pills; 
 
 Then march in dreadful armour to the field. 
 
 To screen her new ally from hostile shocks. 
 
 With pestle truncheon, Cloacinian helm. 
 
 And levell'd squirt. Then heartil}' we laugh 
 
 With laughter-loving King, and much applaud 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. I 19 
 
 That vein of mirth which, innocent and clear, 
 In silver neatness flows. Young Phihps then, 
 Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme, 
 A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire, 
 Sings gravely jocund. Dismal rag applauds, 
 With sympathetic ardour touch'd, at sound 
 Of tattefd galligaskins, college duns, 
 And subtle catchpole. Modest Pomfret then, 
 To soar aloft unable, with light wing 
 Above the plain scarce elevated skims, 
 A short and feeble flight. So have I seen 
 The spaniel-hunted quail with lowly wing 
 Shear the smooth air : and so too have I heard 
 That she can sweetly clamour, though compell'd 
 To tread the humble vale, nor ever mount 
 High as the ev'ning swift or morning lark. < 
 
 Then blameless Hughes, in union with Pepusch, 
 Still to the eloquent orchestra tunes 
 His virtuous, unmeaning song. And now. 
 In tones that might attract an angel's ear. 
 Flows the smooth strain of rigiiteous Addison. 
 Then Blackmore says an everlasting tale. 
 
120 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Bless'd with a callous muse. Genius in vain 
 
 Laugiis at tlie fond attempt, for still he bawls, 
 
 And with gigantic dissonance subdues 
 
 The universal hiss. No poet — true — 
 
 But mark the man, and you shall Rnd him good. 
 
 And what's the poet if the man be naught ? 
 
 Let Buckingham reply. Genius and wit 
 
 May flourish for a day, and snatch the wreath 
 
 From awkward probity ; but soon shall fade 
 
 The ready laurels of a vicious muse, 
 
 While amaranthine honours crown the brow 
 
 Of unpoetic virtue. Waller's muse 
 
 In courteous Granville lives, in Granville dies. 
 
 Who can refuse applause to tragic Rowe ? 
 
 Who can wiih'iolil his honest praise from thee, 
 
 Tickel, thou friend of Addison, and virtue .? 
 
 Who is not startled at the fertile wit 
 
 Of beardless Congreve ? and who does not grieve 
 
 That 'twas not drawn in the defence of virtue? 
 
 How sweet the music of thy happy lines. 
 
 Poetic Prior ; full of mirth thy muse. 
 
 And exquisite her jest. Ah ! hear it not, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 121 
 
 Ye sober fair, for fulsome is tiie tale, 
 
 And only fit for tiie distemper'd ear 
 
 Of jovial libertines. His graver song 
 
 Applaud* unsatisfied, and ever laugh 
 
 To see liiin mount his furious Pegasus 
 
 Pindaric, often back'd, but back'd in vain, 
 
 And never to be tam'd by crazy wits. 
 
 'Twas an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse, 
 
 ' And flung his rider if he sat not sure,' 
 
 Dan Cowlej- said. Yet up sprung Mat, resolv'd. 
 
 O'er sea and land with an unbounded loose 
 
 Runs the mad steed, a Gilpin race I ween. 
 
 Hardly the muse can sit the head-strong horse. 
 
 See, now she gallops round the Belgic shore. 
 
 Now through the raging ocean ploughs her way. 
 
 To rough lerne's camps; there sounds alarms. 
 
 In the dank marshes finds her glorious theme, 
 
 And plunges after iiim through Boyne's fierce flood. 
 
 Back to his Albio" then, then with stiflPwing 
 
 East, over Danube and Propontis' shores, 
 
 From the Moeotis to the northern sea. 
 
 To visit the young Muscovite ; thence up. 
 
122 THE VILLAGE CUKATB. 
 
 Resolv'ci to reach the liigh empyrean spliere, 
 
 And ask for William an Olympic crown. 
 
 Till, lost in tractless fields of shining day, 
 
 Unhors'd, and all revers'd, down, down she comes. 
 
 Comes rushing with uncommon ruin down. 
 
 Glorious attempt, but not unhappy fate. 
 
 'Twas lucky, Mat, thou had'st not giv'n a name 
 
 To some Icarian gulf, or shook at least 
 
 The carnal man so sore, that he had limp'd. 
 
 And lamely hobbled to the verge of life ; 
 
 But, thanks to fate, thy pace is even yet, 
 
 And happily the Muse her mirthful song 
 
 In durance vile prolongs. So have I heard 
 
 The captive finch, in narrow cage confin'd. 
 
 Charm ail his woe away with cheerful song, 
 
 Which might have melted e'en a heart of steel 
 
 To give him liberty. Hence, hence, away 
 
 Ye meaner wits, hide your diminish'd heads. 
 
 See genius self approaches. Homer's soul 
 
 A puny child informs. Let envy laugh 
 
 To sec an urchin ugly as herself 
 
 The glory of our isle. For thee, great bard, 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 12 S 
 
 We twine the laurel wreath, and grant it thine 
 Thrice-won. Shall any mortal tongue presume 
 To scatter censure on thy charming page ? 
 Hark, 'tis the din of twenty thousand curs 
 Who bark at excellence. Who best deserves 
 Must feel the scourge of infinite abuse, 
 For man to man is fiercer than the wolf, 
 More cruel than the tiger. Who can brook 
 The sight of aught more worthy than himself? 
 Invite an angel firom the courts of heav'n, 
 Our critic eye shall spy a thousand faults 
 Where not a fault exists. Mistake me not, 
 I name not thee an angel, haughty bard, 
 Thy deeds were human. With an honest heart 
 I love the poet, but detest the man. 
 Thy purer lays what mortal can despise, 
 Thy baser song what mortal can approve, 
 Thou witty, dirty, patriotic Dean ? 
 Laugh on, laugh on. With pencil exquisite 
 Picture the features of encourag'd vice, 
 And fashionable folly. Give the fair. 
 The peerless Stella, everlasting worth, 
 
124 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Deride thy narrow paper-sparing friend; 
 
 And gall the great. But why shall thy sweet Muse 
 
 Turn scavenger, and the fool kennel rake 
 
 For themes and similes ? What heart but grieves, 
 
 To find an equal portion in thy song 
 
 Of elegantly fair and grossl}' foul ? 
 
 Now honest Gay, a city shepherd, sings, 
 
 Nor sings in vain to us. In Arcady 
 
 We love to stray, and dream of happy days 
 
 No eye has seen, no heart has felt. We love 
 
 The land of Fair)', and tlie puny deeds 
 
 Of dapper elves. Whate'er the frantic poet 
 
 In his wild mood imagines, we applaud. 
 
 Nor wholly scorn with Gay or Broom to stray, 
 
 Or Ambrose Philips, through enchanted land 
 
 To painted meadows, flow'ry lawns and hills, 
 
 To crystal floods, cool groves, and shady bow'rs, 
 
 And rills that babble, tinkle, purl, and murmur. 
 
 How sweet the song that from thy mellow pipe, 
 
 Dear Parnel, flow'd. Death overheard amaz'd. 
 
 And his stone couch forsook, all wonder now. 
 
 And now all envy. Sure he thought no bard 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 12* 
 
 Of mortal mixture could such tones create ; 
 
 Or if of mortal mixture he had liv'd 
 
 Double the days of man, and stol'n from years 
 
 Due to the reign of silence and of death, 
 
 Song so divine. With the bad thought possess'd. 
 
 He keen'd his arrow on a flint, advanc'd, 
 
 And threw it greedily, his lipiess jaws 
 
 Gnashing with hate. So fell betimes the bard, 
 
 So triumph'd death, and at the bloody deed 
 
 Shook his lean bones with laughter. Cursed fiend, 
 
 Thou bane of excellence, go hence, and laugh ; 
 
 Yet shall the pious poet sing again. 
 
 And thou shalt hear, and with eternal wrath. 
 
 Ay burning, dance with agony, and gnaw, 
 
 Howling for pain, the adamantine gates 
 
 Of treble-bolted Hell. 
 
 Away, kind bards ; 
 Enough of you, nor shall your song beguile 
 One moment more; for see again sweet Spring 
 Laughs at our window, and with rosy hand 
 Shews the full blossom and the budded leaf. 
 
12C THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Away, away. Some wintry day be thine, 
 Descriptive Thomson ; some December night, 
 Thine, pious Young; some melancholy morn. 
 In wal'r}' fog involv'd, thine orphan Savage. 
 Be tliou our close companion, Shenstone, thou, 
 Sweet bard of Hagtey, in the hawthorn shade 
 Some weary Summer's noon. Be thou our guest, 
 Impetuous Akenside, some gloomy eve, 
 When the red lightning scarce begins to glare. 
 And the mute thunder hardly deigns to growl. 
 Rais'd by thy torrent song, we shall enjoy 
 The loud increasing horrors of the storm, 
 Awfully grand. At such a time thee too, 
 Rapt in ferocious ecstasy, we call. 
 Terrific Gray, to sweep thy sullen lyre. 
 And give to madness the distracted soul. 
 Repose at leisure, ye inferior bards, 
 Till Summer's beauty flies, and the green wood 
 Scatters her recent honours to the breeze. 
 
 So have I gayly sung the man how bless'd. 
 The Village Curate ; weaving in my song 
 
THE VILLAGE CURATE. 127 
 
 Your praise, ye fair, and many an honest thought 
 
 Which unsoUcited deaianded room. 
 
 I care not if no eye this page peruse ; 
 
 I sung with pleasure, and I cease with joy. 
 
 I sing no more, and blame him not who sleeps. 
 
 Careless what I, enamour'd of the vale 
 
 And hilly woodland, have so vainly sung. 
 
 For popular applause, I ask it not. 
 
 True, noble Critic, it were ill deserv'd, 
 
 By this rude song obtain'd. Yet I not fear, 
 
 Ere the short tale of my existence close. 
 
 Some happy strain on my time-mellow'd harp 
 
 To hit, these woods may well remember. Yes, 
 
 Some happy strain, by chance, I hope to hit. 
 
 If yet the Muses love thy fam'd retreat, 
 
 O Sidney, or thy Spenser's early song ; 
 
 If yet the walks where love-sick Waller mus'd. 
 
 If yet immortal Saccharissa's haunt 
 
 Delight them, and sweet Amoret's abode. 
 
ADRIANO, 
 
 THE FIRST OF JUNE. 
 
 noqao adhiic Varo videur nee dictie Cinnil 
 
 Digna, sed argutus iuler strepere anser olurea. 
 
 VIRO. 
 
ADRIANO, 
 
 THE FIRST OF JUNE. 
 
 Far in the bosom of an ancient wooii, 
 Whose frowning oaks in a deep valley grew 
 Between two lofty cliffs, and to the sea 
 Stretch'd out their broad impenetrable shade, 
 There stood a cottage. 'Twas the lone abode 
 Of Adriano, and his only child 
 Maria. Here had they been lost, till time 
 Had huiried to oblivion twenty years. 
 'Twas all his care to nourish her, all her's 
 To cherish him. He taught her to be good, 
 To love retirement and the quiet cell, 
 And shield her virtue from the sight of men. 
 She heard and heeded, and no pleasure knew 
 
132 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Apart from solitude and Adriano. 
 Her only walk without him and alone 
 Was to a village near, to purchase food, 
 Or what domestic want might further need, 
 And her own industry could ill supply : 
 And ever as she jocund tripp'd it home. 
 Her osier basket dangling on her arm, 
 And Frisk behind her barking at her heels. 
 She met her sire in tears. Constant was he 
 To meet his child returning, and his tears 
 As duly shed. Oft had she ask'd the cause, 
 But ask'd in vain ; till one fair summer's eve 
 (The last that foUow'd in the train of May) 
 She urg'd her suit once more, and not in vain. 
 He smil'd, and told her he had things to tell 
 Would wake attention in the senseless rock. 
 ' To-morrow, child, 'tis one-and-twenly years 
 Since to this wretched world thy mother bare thee; 
 And, as I oft have told thee weeping, died. 
 She was — I cannot say how good — God knows. 
 I could have borne the loss. For though she died 
 To me and thee, she liv'd to peace and Heav'n. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 133 
 
 Such virtue could not perish, but be sure 
 Is as the heav'ns eternal, and shall die 
 Never. Yes, yes, I could have borne the loss. 
 And thought it mucii to have thee left behind 
 Helpless and ever-crying. 'Twas enough. 
 I might have train'd thee to th}' mother's virtue. 
 And, satisfied to see her live again 
 lu a deserving daughter, hiive gone down 
 In humble quiet to my grave ; secure 
 That hungry penury should never haunt 
 And tempt thy goodness. For I had, my child, 
 Enough of Fortune's bounty to supply 
 My ev'ry want, and something for the hand 
 Of the lean beggar, who now shuns my door. 
 Or asks in vain. I had, my child, enough ; 
 And would I had it still. For when swift time 
 Has counted all my days, and these grey locks 
 Are call'd to shelter in the silent grave ; 
 When this resulting heart shall cease to beat. 
 And this warm hand that now encloses thine 
 Be cold and lifeless, how shall thy poor self 
 Escajje ilie lion-tooth of craving want ? 
 
J^* AOniANO, OR 
 
 ■\\ ho will protect thee from the winning b.i.is 
 Of greedy lust? Who clothe these tender limbs ? 
 Wlio give thee food r' 
 
 He said, and s.iiti no more ; 
 For grid' was swelling in Maria's heart, 
 And the big tear stole trembling From her eye. 
 She hung her head, and look'd upon the ground 
 To hide it ; but the gen'rons parent saw, 
 And caught her in his arms. ' Fear not, my child ; 
 Let us wipe off tlie^c unbecoming tears. 
 And cease to sigh and sob : for He who clothes 
 The lilies of the field, shall clothe tliee too. 
 He who jjiotects the little chirping bird, 
 Hiding her nest in foliage, and her young 
 Feeding with plenty, shall protect iny cliihl ; 
 Shall keep her as the apple of an eye, 
 SImM feed her, s'.iall invite her to his arms. 
 Shall shield her with his wings. Thou shalt be safe 
 Under his downy pinions. Tiiou shalt fear 
 By night no terror, and no storm by day : 
 His own eternal armour shall be thine ; 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 135 
 
 The lurking adder sliall not hurt thy foot : 
 Sorrow and sickness shall not vex tliy heart.' 
 
 He said, and led her to the cottage door, 
 Dispos'd the basket, comforted and kiss'd her. 
 Then to the garden bow'r together both, 
 Link'd arm in arm, proceeded. There they sat, 
 And he his melancholy tale rehears'd, 
 And she was all attention. He began. 
 And told her of his youth and boyish days 
 Till manhood came, his aged parents died. 
 And he, a sighing lover, sought a wife. 
 Twice was he wedded, and his former love 
 Bore him a son, the cause of all his woe. 
 He train'd him, as he thought, to deeds of praise ; 
 He tauglit him virtue, and he taught him truth. 
 And sent him early to a public school. 
 Here, as it seem'd, (but he had none to blame) 
 Virtue forsook him, and habitual vice 
 Grew in her stead. He laugh'd at honesty, 
 Became a sceptic, and could raise a doubt 
 E'en of his father's truth. 'Twas idly done 
 
1 36 ADIilANO, OR 
 
 To tell liim of another world, for wits 
 
 Knew better ; and the only good on earth 
 
 Was pleasure ; not to follow thai was sin. 
 
 ' Sure he that made us, made us to enjoy ; 
 
 And why,' said lie, ' should my fond father prate 
 
 Of virtue and religion. They aflbrd 
 
 No joys, and would abridge the scanty few 
 
 Of nature. Nature be my deity, 
 
 Her let me worship, as herself enjoins, 
 
 At the full board of plenty.' Thoughtless boy ! 
 
 So to a libertine he grew, a wit, 
 
 A man of honour; boastful empty names 
 
 That dignify the villain. Seldom seen. 
 
 And when at home, under a cautious mask 
 
 Concealing the lewd soul, his father thought 
 
 He grew in wisdom as he grew in years. 
 
 He fondl}' deem'd he could perceive the growth 
 
 Of goodness and of learning shooting up, 
 
 Like the young ofl'spring of the shelter'd hop. 
 
 Unusual progress in a summer's night. 
 
 He call'd him home, with great applause dismiss'd 
 
 By his glad tutors — gave him good advice — 
 
THK FIRST OF JUNE. 137 
 
 Bless'd him, and bade him prosper. With warm heart 
 
 He drew his purse-strings, and the utmost doit 
 
 Four'd in the youngster's pulm. ' Away,' he cries, 
 
 ' Go to the seat of learning, bo)-. Be good. 
 
 Be wise, be frugal, for 'tis all I can.' 
 
 ' I will,' said Toby, as he bang'd the door, 
 
 And wink'd, and snapp'd his finger, ' Sir, I will ' 
 
 So joyfiil he to Alma Mater went 
 A sturdy fresh-man. See him just arriv'd, 
 Receiv'd, matriculated, and resolv'd 
 To drown his freshness in a pipe of port. 
 ' Quick, Mr. Vintner, twenty dozen more ; 
 Some claret too. Here's to our friends at home. 
 There let 'em do«e. Be it our nobler aim 
 To live — where stands the bottle?' Then to town 
 Hies the gay spark for futile purposes. 
 And deeds my bashful muse disdains to name. 
 From town to college, till a fresh supply 
 Sends him again from college up to town. 
 The tedious interval the mace and cue, 
 The tennis-court .ind racket, the slow lo;inge 
 
138 AURIANO, OR 
 
 From street to street, the badger-hunt, tlie race, 
 
 The raffle, the excursion, and the dance. 
 
 Ices and soups, dice, and the bet at whist. 
 
 Serve well enough to fill. Grievous accounts 
 
 The weekly post to the vex'd parent brings 
 
 Of college impositions, heavy dues. 
 
 Demands enormous, which the wicked son 
 
 Declares he does his utmost to prevent. 
 
 So, blaming with good cause the vast expence. 
 
 Bill after bill he sends, and pens the draught 
 
 Till the full ink-horn fails. With grateful heart 
 
 Toby receives, short leave of absence begs, 
 
 Obtains it by a lie, gallops away, 
 
 And no one knows what charming things are done, 
 
 Till the guird boy returns without his pence, 
 
 And prates of deeds unworthy of a brute. 
 
 Vile deeds, but such as in these polish'd days 
 
 None blames or hides. 
 
 So Toby fares, nor heeds, 
 Till terms are wasted, and the proud degree. 
 Soon purclias'd, comes his learned toils to crown. 
 
THE FJUST or JUNE. 139 
 
 He swears, and swears he knows not what, nor cares ; 
 
 becomes a perjur'd graduate, and thinks soon 
 
 To be a candidate for Orders. Ah ! 
 
 Vain was the hope. Though many a wolf as fell 
 
 Deceive the shepherd and devour the flock. 
 
 Thou none shalt injure. On a luckless day, 
 
 Withdrawn to taste the pleasures of the town, 
 
 Heated with wine, a veheinent dispute 
 
 With a detested rival shook the roof. 
 
 He perin'd a challenge, sent it, fought, and fell ; 
 
 And, if there be for such delinquents rooni 
 
 In God's eternal mansions, went to Heav'n. 
 
 The terrible report in half a day 
 lleacird Adriano's ear. His wife was dead. 
 Her lieav'n-aspiring soul had just forsook 
 Its mortal tenement, her eye was fix'd, 
 And in his own he press'd her pallid hand, 
 Cold as a stone. A longing look he rais'd. 
 And wish'd to follow ; but severer lot 
 Chain'd him to earth. * Think then, my child,' says he, 
 ' Think what a stroke I felt, when in one day 
 
140 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Thy mother died and thy base brother fell ; 
 
 Though base, belov'd ; though worthless, yet regretted. 
 
 I could not pour on thy lov'd mother's bier 
 
 My debt of grief, but gave her to the earth 
 
 Ere I had half bewail'd her, or had once 
 
 That honest pleasure known the good man feels 
 
 In shedding sorrow o'er his buried friend. 
 
 I hasten'd to my son. I found him dead. 
 
 I wept and buried him. And then I thought, 
 
 His debts discharg'd, to have sought thee once more, 
 
 My only comfort left, and liv'd at home 
 
 In honourable ease. But ah, ni}' child, 
 
 Much as I thought for him, he never thought 
 
 Or for liimself or me. No debt was paid, 
 
 But all my former bounty had been spent 
 
 On vice and folly. Not a single trade 
 
 But brought me some exorbitant demand 
 
 On my diminish'd purse. I paid them all, 
 
 And little was there left for me and thee. 
 
 To be the slender means of our support. 
 
 Thanks be to Heaven, like the widow's cruse. 
 
 That little never fail'd. With my own hands 
 
THE FIHST OF JUNE. 1 4 1 
 
 In this our garden have I daily wrought, 
 
 And the kind earth has well repaid my toil. 
 
 We have not wanted, but i)avc reap'd enough 
 
 These twenty years, and he that pines for more 
 
 Deserves not what he has. I was content. 
 
 And many a pleasant day have past with thee, 
 
 And my few books, and antique instrument. 
 
 How chang'd firom what I was ! but not, so chang'd. 
 
 Wish I my lot revers'd, or would again 
 
 To the gay world return. Only for thee 
 
 Grieves my sad heart with heavy thoughts oppress'd. 
 
 And not enough relying on His arm 
 
 Who knows my wants, and surely will not fail me. 
 
 I grieve for thee, who hast not in the world 
 
 A friend but me, whose wither'd arm can do 
 
 But little to defend thee, and must soon 
 
 Do nothing. True, we found a friend of late. 
 
 Where none had sought him, in the pleasant cot 
 
 At the hill-foot, that stands upon the verge 
 
 Of this tall wood, and overlooks the vale. 
 
 Gilbert is honest, or my e3-es deceive me. 
 
 I love the two young maids he calls his sisters. 
 
142 ADRIANO, OH 
 
 Anna is sensible, Sophia fair, 
 
 And both arc good. I honour such. They come, 
 
 Soon as the morrow dawns, to hail the day 
 
 Which gave Maria Ijirth. They sought my door 
 
 Soon as the bird was flown, and promised me. 
 
 But know, Maria, in this naughty world 
 
 The garb of virtue is assum'd by vice, 
 
 And hard it is for an experienc'd eye 
 
 To say who merits. Falsehood often lurks 
 
 Under the veil of truth, and seeming worth 
 
 Is but the mask to hide a villain's hcHrt. , 
 
 Be cautious whom you trust. Make none a friend 
 
 Till long experience has confirm'd him yours ; 
 
 But having tried his worth, and found him true, 
 
 Give him thy heart for ever. Such a friend 
 
 Is the best blessing human life affords. 
 
 Find one and be content : there are not many. 
 
 One in a million. Friendship thus begun 
 
 Refines and mellows like a gen'rous wine, 
 
 Improves as it grows older, and from age 
 
 Acquires a flavour that may charm the taste 
 
 Of Cherubim and Angels. Yet be kind 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. I 43 
 
 And affable to all, and strive with none. 
 Give none occasion to condemn and hate 
 And wish to injure thee ; in all thy words 
 Wise as the serpent, gentle as the dove.' 
 
 He said and ended, and beheld tho moon 
 Through the dark branches of a quiv'ring beech 
 In mellow glory rising. Day was fled, 
 Th' expiring ray of the departed sun 
 Glow'd faintly in the west, and the clear star, 
 That leads him up or lights him to his bed, 
 Was sinking fast into the smiling sea. 
 He rose, and with his daughter sought repose, 
 Ne'er sought in vain under the cottage roof. 
 
 Sleep on, ye happy cottagers, sleep on; 
 A wakeful eye regards you ; sleep in peace. 
 Ye shall not sleep again till sorrow cease, 
 Till Providence reward your faith and truth. 
 And with a world of joy repay your tears. 
 
144 AOUIANO, OR 
 
 Now day awoke, and tiic rejoicing sun 
 
 Rose to the morning chorus of the wood. 
 
 Sophia saw and heard, and Anna rous'd 
 
 Yet sleeping. Up they sprung, light as two doves; 
 
 And now, by fancy drcss'd, on Gilbert call 
 
 To quit his closet, and the scheme complete 
 
 They yesternight had plann'd. Gilbert was ris'n. 
 
 And bade the maids good-morrow with his flute. 
 
 Sophia heard, and seizing her guitar, 
 
 Tun'd it in haste. They join'd, and altogether 
 
 Down the dry path to Adriano's cot 
 
 In silence hasted. Thither come, they paus'd, 
 
 And, drawing to the window, all at once 
 
 Their morning serenade struck up. His flute 
 
 In smooth persuasive tones young Gilbert blew, 
 
 Sophia lightly touch'd her soft guitar. 
 
 And with angelic sweetness Anna sung : 
 
 Hark! the iiinsic morning brings 
 To Adriano's lone retreat. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. W* 
 
 Ev'ry songster gaily sings, 
 Melody how rare and sweet ! 
 
 The steeple bell with tone so grave, 
 
 Hear it swell and proudly roar ; 
 Hear the solemn sounding wave 
 
 Die in murmurs on the shore. 
 
 Hark ! the sheepcot how it rings, 
 
 Loud the distant heifer lows. 
 The village herald claps his wings. 
 
 Mounts the gate, and stoutly crows. 
 
 Adriano, hear and rise. 
 
 Hear, Maria, hear and wake ; 
 Hear and lift thy charming eyes, 
 
 All is cheerful for thy sake. 
 
 Maria heard, and, startled at the sound. 
 Sprung from her chair, and threw her book aside. 
 For she had risen, as her custom was. 
 At that fine hour when never-loit'ring day 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Forsakes his chamber, and the glorious sun 
 
 Shames the dull taper Dissipation holds 
 
 To light her closing revels. To the door 
 
 She tripp'd, and, gently peeping, saw unseen 
 
 Who sung, who play'd. Her little heart was glad, 
 
 And flutter'd, with impatience, like a bird 
 
 Newly imprison'd. With supreme delight 
 
 She mark'd the song, and hearken'd to its close : 
 
 Then lifting cautiously the wooden latch, 
 
 The door with silence open'd, stood reveal'd, 
 
 And bade her friends good-morrow, with a smile 
 
 Improv'd and heightened by a glowing blush 
 
 Might teach the morning envy. Yes, she blush'd 
 
 Where no shame was. For she was meek as good. 
 
 And fair as meek. Civility arose, 
 
 And ev'ry friend who enter'd shook her hand. 
 
 Gave joy, and took a kiss — to thee, fond youth, 
 
 With some reluctance giv'n, and not obtain'd. 
 
 However sought, on any day but this. 
 
 Though she esteems thee much. The board was spread. 
 
 And ere the guests were seated came the host. 
 
 And, with a smile that made his hoary locks 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNF.. 
 
 1« 
 
 Lovely as 5'outh, bade welcome. On his child 
 
 A thousand hearty blessings he bestow'd, 
 
 And kiss'd her thrice and thrice. Then 'gan the chat, 
 
 And cheerfully thej- smil'd at Anna's jest 
 
 And Adriano's tale. But little time 
 
 Gave they to rest so soon, accustom'd all 
 
 At this fine hour to scale the lofty cliff. 
 
 Where first the rising sun his beams impress'd 
 
 And drank the dew. With one consent they rose, 
 
 And, from the wood emerging, clomb the hill, 
 
 Oft pausing as they went, to gather breath. 
 
 And view the prospect. To the top at last 
 
 They come, and drink the wholesome morning breeze, 
 
 Parent of health and beauty. There they walk. 
 
 And count the village-steeples, woods and fiatrms, 
 
 Villas and towns. Now cautiously approach 
 
 The awful brink of the bold jutting cliff. 
 
 And look delighted on the boundless sea. 
 
 Here they remark the azure plain is still 
 
 And smooth as marble, cover'd here with sails, 
 
 Here streak'd with shadows from above, and her* 
 
 RufBed and sparkling like a flood of gems. 
 
148 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Here they behold a chain of rocks half hid, 
 And gently wash'd by the returning wave. 
 Here the curl'd waters break upon the shore, 
 They see the foam, and faintly hear the murmur. 
 Upon the beach a fisherman they ken 
 Spreading his nets to dry, his little bark 
 Riding at anchor ; but a mite is he, 
 His bark a nut-shell. But not long they look, 
 For story tells of some who gaz'd too much, 
 And, turning giddy, fell, tremendous thought, 
 From top to bottom many a fathom down 
 To certain death. 'Twas like a fall from Heav'n. 
 So cheerfully they turn'd, and down the hill 
 With ease descended to the shady cot. 
 There see them seated, and the good man hear 
 With many a jest and many a merry tale 
 Beguiling time, the while Maria brews 
 The fragrant tea, and fair Sophia waits 
 And deals about her cakes and butter'd roll. 
 From such a hand what mortal can refiise ? 
 So to be waited on improves the feast ; 
 'Twould make ambrosia of a peasant'^, bread, 
 
THE FIKST OF JUNE. 149 
 
 And fill his cup with nectar. She was fair, 
 
 Was exquisitely fair, and knew it not. 
 
 Gilbert had told ber she was wondrous plain, 
 
 And she believ'd him ; flying from her glass, 
 
 And underrating ev'ry grace she had. 
 
 She courted not the eye, but still withdrew 
 
 And gave the way to yVnna, nothing vex'd 
 
 To be outdone. So was the lovely maid 
 
 Quiet and unassuming ; quick to serve, 
 
 As deeming some atonement might be made. 
 
 For want of charms, by readiness to please. 
 
 Anna had wit, and heartily she laugh'd 
 
 To hear the jest go round ; the shuttlecock 
 
 Wits love ; and ever as it came to her 
 
 She struck it smartly, and it swift return'd. 
 
 Yet she was generous, and never drew 
 
 But in a cause of honour. Her keen stroke 
 
 Fell never on the golden shield of truth, 
 
 Nor treacherously gave a coward scar 
 
 To unarm'd virtue. Say as much of yours. 
 
 Ye charitable maidens of threescore. 
 
 Ye praters, who delight to steal the wreath 
 
150 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 From merit's blister'd hand, who nettles twine 
 
 For virtue's tender brow, scourge modest worth, 
 
 And grant humility a crown of thorns. 
 
 Anna no wreath had envied or despoil'd. 
 
 Only at folly, vice, and want of sense, 
 
 She aim'd her shaft, and only there drew blood. 
 
 No surgeon's lancet had a finer edge. 
 
 And he that felt it smil'd, content to bleed 
 
 To purchase health so easy. Gilbert too, 
 
 Provok'd by merriment, had sense and humour, 
 
 Which ever as they went kept equal pace, 
 
 Like steeds well match'd, and neither lagg'd behind, 
 
 Or overran the other. But at home 
 
 To graver thoughts he dedicates the day, 
 
 Tauglit by his father, a deserving priest, 
 
 To think. A man of rarest worth was he, 
 
 And led his children in the paths of truth. 
 
 He made them virtuous, and died. So left, 
 
 To the small cot that overlooks the vale, 
 
 Taking in one wide view the down, the wood, 
 
 The cultivated champaign, and the sea. 
 
 They came lamenting. Here they liv'd in peace; 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 151 
 
 A little patrimony all their care, 
 Sav'd by their father from the scanty dues 
 Of one small living : better sav'd, he thought, 
 Than wasted on degrees to make his son 
 A member of the Church, which oft repays 
 Endless expense with forty pounds a year 
 Only for life. So happily they liv'd. 
 Secure at least from want, though little rais'd 
 Above the gen'ral herd. O happy state. 
 And only to be envied ! One short year 
 The pleasant cottage had receiv'd its guests, 
 And only missM them when the dappled mom 
 Invited to the hill, or silent eve 
 Drew to the wood and Adriano's cot ; 
 Or when, as now, with early steps they came 
 To breakfast with Maria. So they sat : 
 And time was brisk, and with his hasty bell 
 Twice rung the finish'd hour, not unobserv'd. 
 Each complimented each to think how soon 
 Hours speed away, when the delighted ear 
 Feeds on the converse of the friend we love. 
 And much was said of life's soon-finish'd race, 
 
I 52 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 And happiness that fled as soon as felt, 
 
 Light as the morning cloud : till Gilbert's hand 
 
 Drew from his pocket the close-written book 
 
 Of choice duets, and all were loud for music. 
 
 Then Anna sang, and in delightful fugue 
 
 Sophia follow'd. Gilbert blew his flute, 
 
 And made the mellow harmon}' complete. 
 
 Then Annapaus'd, and Gilbert's flute was still, 
 
 And with soft voice Sophia sang alone. 
 
 Some awe she felt, and with a downcast eye 
 
 A modest smile and lightly-waving blush 
 
 Gave to her song inimitable grace. 
 
 Then Gilbert join'd again, and Anna sang, 
 
 And swell'd the chorus, till the list'ning ear 
 
 Was raptur'd with the sound. And thus they sang : 
 
 Welcome, welcome, glowing June, 
 
 Chiefly thou its eldest day. 
 To thee our cheerful song we tune. 
 
 Thou follower of airy May. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 153 
 
 Welcome to the sire and us, 
 
 May no ill thy birth befal ; 
 May we ever greet thee thus, 
 
 Ever welcome to us all. 
 
 And so they sang till the clear sun grew warm, 
 And the cool shade invited. Up they rose, 
 And to a spreading beech, whose leafy shield 
 No sun could penetrate, the merry maids 
 Repair delighted. There the table stands ; 
 In haste Maria brings a seat for each, 
 And each produces, to amuse the rest. 
 Her work-bag and her basket. Ev'ry tongue 
 Was glib. Maria's self had found a voice, 
 And much she prais'd her friend's more skilful hand. 
 And much excus'd her own. To work they went. 
 And Anna taught her how to toil and please, 
 And give the needle all the painter's art ; 
 And much they chatted, and of well-known youths, 
 Some loving, some belov'd, some not esteem'd, 
 In confidence said much ; nor shall my Muse 
 Divulge their secret passions to the world. 
 
154 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Meantime young Gilbert, by appointment bound, 
 
 Went to the sea ; and to the garden bow'r 
 
 Walk'd Adriano to reflect alone, 
 
 And recollect his scatter'd spirits, pleas'd 
 
 To see his daughter happy with her friends, 
 
 And much delighted at the loud discourse 
 
 Under the shady beech. Long time he sat, 
 
 And meditated now, now read, now wrote, 
 
 Unwilling to disturb the lively maids : 
 
 For well he knew that laughter-loving youth 
 
 Caimot enjoy her story, serious age 
 
 And reverend experience looking on. 
 
 Gilbert had reach'd the shore, and found the boat 
 Impatient to be gone, the steady breeze 
 Swelling the bosom of the slacken'd sail ; 
 He tarried not, but hastily embark'd. 
 And bade the chiding fisherman begone. 
 Himself assisted, and with ready hand 
 Drew up the anchor, while the sturdy boy 
 
niE FIRST OF JUNE. 155 
 
 Hoisted the sail, and his grave father sat 
 
 To guide the helm. So from the shore they launch'd, 
 
 Bound to no port, but destln'd on a cruise, 
 
 A morning's cruise for fish. . Pleas'd was the youili ; 
 
 With utmost joy he saw the wood recede, 
 
 Beheld his cottage dwindled to a speck, 
 
 Observ'd the snow-white cliffs to right and left 
 
 Unfolding their wide barrier to his view, 
 
 And felt the boat bound gaily o'er the waves. 
 
 Light as a cork. He took the helm rejoic'd. 
 
 And right before the wind held on his course 
 
 Unheeding. 'Twas in vain his busy friends 
 
 Advis'd a diff'rent course, to gain with ease 
 
 The shore he left. He carelessly went on, 
 
 And never dream'd of danger and delay. 
 
 Never experienc'd. Fast into the waves 
 
 Sinks the far distant shore. The lofty cliff 
 
 Stoops to the water, and his hoary brow 
 
 At ev'ry wave seems buried in the Hood. 
 
 And now the gloomy clouds collect. A storm 
 
 Comes mutt'ring o'er the deep, and hides the sun. 
 
 Hush'd is the breeze, and the higli-lifted wave, 
 
'•5° ADR/ANO, OK 
 
 Portending speedy danger, to the shore 
 
 In lurid silence rolls. In tenfold gloom 
 
 The stormy south is wrapi, and his grim frown 
 
 Imparts unusual horror to the deep. 
 
 Now to the shore too late young Gilbert turns. 
 
 The breeze is sunk, and o'er the mounting wave* 
 
 Labours the bark in vain. To the stout oar 
 
 The fisher and his son repair, and pull, 
 
 Alarm'd for safety, till their flowing brows 
 
 Trickle with dew. And oft the anxious youth 
 
 Looks back amaz'd, and sees the lightning play, 
 
 And hears the thunder, and beholds a sea 
 
 Ready to burst upon him. Oft he thinks 
 
 Of Anna and Sophia, and of thee, 
 
 Much-lov'd Maria, and thy aged sire. 
 
 Never perhaps again to walk with you, 
 
 To hear you speak, to live upon your smiles. 
 
 Ye hapless pair, what shall become of you, 
 
 No brother to defend yon, and no father ? 
 
 But fast the storm increases. The strong flash 
 Incessant gleams upon the curling wave. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 15T 
 
 Round his dark throne in awful majesty 
 
 The tl)under marches ; his imperious roar 
 
 Shakes the proud arch of heav'n. And now the show'r 
 
 Begins to drop, and the unsteady gust 
 
 Sweeps to the shore, and stoops the flying boat 
 
 E'en to the brink. Small distance then, my friends, 
 
 'Tmxt life and death ; a mere hair's breadth. And yet 
 
 Far, verj' far, appears the wish'd-for port. 
 
 And lo ! between yon rocks, now seen, now lost. 
 
 Buried in foam, and high the milky surge 
 
 Rolls its proud cataract along the shore, 
 
 Access denying. To the frowning cliff 
 
 Approach not. Mark the strong recoiling wave. 
 
 E'en to the base of the high precipice 
 
 It plunges headlong, and the stedfast hill 
 
 Wears with eternal batterj'. No bark 
 
 Of forty times your strength in such a sea 
 
 Could live a moment. 'Twere enough to wreck 
 
 A British nav}', and her stoutest oak 
 
 Shiver to atoms. To the faithless beach 
 
 Fly with all speed — a hurricane pursues. 
 
 Tempt the loud surge. If life be to be won, 
 
158 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Deserve it well ; if to be lost, be brave, 
 
 And yield it hardly. 
 
 In the garden-bow'r 
 Long time had Adriano sat and nius'd. 
 At length the clouded sun, and falling breeze, 
 That shook no more the whisp'ring poplar's leaf 
 Repose persuading, rous'd him from his seat 
 To view the weather. With sagacious eye 
 He re.id the gloomy south, and soon perceiv'd 
 The brooding storm. Quick to the maids he walks, 
 And tells of Gilbert's absence, and his wish 
 To tempt that day the ever-restless deep. 
 And lo ! a storm advancing. To the shore 
 In great anxiety they haste. His friend 
 Old Adriano lov'd, and much the maids 
 His orphan sisters lov'd him, and as much 
 Lov'd meek Maria. On the beach they stand, 
 And o'er the flouncing surge with stedfast eye 
 Look out. None spies a sail ; and much they fear, 
 And much they hope. Of probable delay 
 And alter'd purpose Adriano speaks, 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 159 
 
 And sooths the tim'rous fair, though little hope 
 His bosom entertain'd of Gilbert's safety. 
 He tells them of miraculous escapes, 
 Deliv'rances imthought of, and delays 
 Ordain'd by Providence. At length the storm 
 Grew loud, and double thunder shook the cliff. 
 The lightning glar'd, and shot his fiery fork 
 Hard at the hill. Back to the shelter'd cot 
 Speeds the good man, a maid in either hand ; 
 Anna in one, Sophia in the other. 
 Maria ran before. Dark was the wood. 
 And darker still the cottage : it was night 
 Risen at noon. Their scatter'd work they seize, 
 Their chairs and table, and the welcome door 
 Scarce enter ere the heavy show'r descends. 
 A deluge falls, and loud the thunder roars. 
 Jarring the casement. With indignant glare 
 The hghtning flashes, and a flood of fire 
 Illumines all the wood. The pow'rful blast 
 Runs howling by the door, and oft they think 
 They hear the crash of the descending elm 
 Torn from its roots, or shatter'd lieech, or oak, 
 
160 ADRUNO, Ok 
 
 Sinit by the bolt of Heav'ii. But most they think 
 Of thee, young Gilbert, on the troubled deep 
 In anguish tost, or buried in the waves, 
 A prey to sharks, or cast upon the beach, 
 No friend to save thee, or thy poor remains 
 Snatch from the flood, and lay them in the earth 
 With decent burial. And much they wept, 
 And many a tear was shed by thy sweet eye, 
 Lovely Maria, to attest thy love, 
 Never before confessed. For she had lov'd, 
 Much lov'd the gen'rous Gilbert, and she hop'd 
 Ere Adriano died to find a friend, 
 Perhaps a husband. In extreme despair 
 Two hours they past, two long and painful hours. 
 None took refreshment, but the little feast 
 Untasted stood, courting the tongue in vain. 
 
 At length the storm abates. The furious wind 
 No longer howls. The lightning faintly gleams. 
 And the retiring thunder scarce is heard. 
 
THE FinST OF JUNE, 161 
 
 The shower ceases, and the glowing sun 
 Bursts from the cloud, and hangs the wood with pearls 
 Fast falling to the ground. On the dark cloud 
 His wat'ry ray impress'd, in brilliant hues 
 Paints the gay rainbow. All is calm and clear. 
 The blackbird sings, and nothing of the storm 
 Is heard, save the grand sui^e whose heavy fell 
 Sounds awful though remote, and as it sinks 
 With harsh concussion rakes the flinty beach. 
 No longer thej' delay, but once again 
 Speed to the shore along the sandy path. 
 They come, and lo ! the rough tormented deep 
 Boils like a cauldron, like a furnace steams. 
 Who can escape the furv of such wrath ? 
 A multitude they meet, who one by one 
 Studiously prowl along the sounding shore, 
 And glean the foamy weed for hidden wreck. 
 And all they ask of Gilbert, but in vain : 
 None saw him, none the fisher or his son. 
 Mournfully slow they travel the rough beach 
 With painful steps, lamenting as they go. 
 Link'd arm in arm went Anna and Maria, 
 VOL. I. M 
 
1 6* ADRIANO, OR 
 
 And arm in arm a little mile behind 
 
 VValk'd Adriano and Sophia. He 
 
 The tender-hearted maid consoi'd, and spoke 
 
 Of grievous accidents which oft befal 
 
 The innocent and good, and yet require 
 
 Steady submission and a thankful heart 
 
 To him who sends them. Sad Maria too 
 
 Gave grief a tongue, and comforted her friend, 
 
 Needing relief herself. 
 
 And thus they walk'd, 
 Till to the foot of the steep cliff they came, 
 And there they saw upon the greensward edge 
 A little rais'd above them one who stood 
 His arms infolded, and the roaring waves 
 With stedfast eye regarded, as they roU'd 
 In foamy storm against the cliff below. 
 Glad they approach'd him, and with gentle voice 
 Anna requested, had he seen a youth 
 Clad thus and thus, a fisher and his son, 
 Or a light boat with painted sides and stern. 
 He heard her not, in admiration lost 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 163 
 
 At the loud conflict of the waves below ; 
 
 Till turning short he saw surpris'd a maid, 
 
 Whose tearful eye met his, and from whose lips 
 
 Fell feeble accents to his ear address'd. 
 
 He ask'd her what she would. She pray'd again. 
 
 If he had seen a youth — 
 
 * Fair maid,' said he, 
 ' I am a stranger on this boist'rous shore, 
 And known to none. With yester-morning's sun 
 I left my home, and with a tim'rous friend 
 Sought these high ciif& and that majestic wood. 
 In search of some who in this lonely vale, 
 Such the report, seek shelter from the Morld. 
 To-day by noon we reach'd the utmost wood, 
 Just as the storm began. My wary friend 
 Took refuge at a cottage by the way. 
 With him I left my steed, to the white shore 
 Determin'd, the wide ocean never seen. 
 And fortune promising, to crown my hopes, 
 A storm. I came and clomb the cliff, and saw, 
 In yonder hovel shelter'd, the wild flood 
 
164 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 III iill its fury. With exceeding awe, 
 Mingled with joy (for nature in my soul 
 Put something of the raven, and I love 
 Her awful operations) I beheld 
 The loud tempestuous waters lifted up 
 Proudly terrific, and in foamy pomp 
 Roird thund'ring to the shore. I felt the cliff 
 Shake at their potent onset, while the blast 
 Lifted the hovel's roof, and his strong side, 
 Though ribb'd with oak, before its fury lean'd. 
 I saw the fierce and fiery lightning fall 
 And burn along the cliff, e'en at my feet 
 Expiring. The resounding thunder seem'd 
 As heav'n and earth had war, and each enrag'd 
 Its horrid indignation had roar'd out 
 Close at my ear. In furious cataract 
 The rain descended, as if God was wroth. 
 And Heav'n its windows once again had op'd 
 To drown the world. I saw the rushing shower 
 Fall on the milk-white head of yon high cliff. 
 And steam along the down and o'er the wood ; 
 And ever as the stormy blast blew strong, 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 165 
 
 And tl)e keen lightning shot, it seem'd to fall 
 
 In sheets of fire. Methought the batter'd earth 
 
 Rock'd to and fro, as with a palsy shook, 
 
 Prophetic of her end. And then I saw, 
 
 Scarce saw npon the bounding waves below 
 
 (Sad sight, and such as fill'd my soul with grief 
 
 And terror inexpressible), a ship, 
 
 Full of brave sailors, in extreme distress, 
 
 Toss'd on the rocks. Through all the storm 1 heard, 
 
 Or thought I heard, the lamentable cries 
 
 Of fifty souls in the full bloom of life 
 
 Begging relief in vain. I saw a wave 
 
 Sweep half into the flood. The living half 
 
 Frantic with terror ran from deck to deck. 
 
 With lifted hands and looks imploring mercy. 
 
 Some plung'd into the waves ; and one I saw 
 
 Clasp a distracted female in his arms, 
 
 And shield her with a father's love — in vain — 
 
 A larger wave came tumbling o'er the deck, 
 
 And swept it clear. The parent's hold was lost : 
 
 In the wet shrouds I saw his drowning child 
 
 A moment hang, then drop into the waves. 
 
166 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Some yet remain'd high on the rolling mast 
 In dreadful expectation rock'd ; but soon 
 Tiie wek'ring ship was buried, her high mast 
 Fell to the water, and no soul was left. 
 Soon as the storm subsided I came down, 
 And saw upon tiie beach the scatter'd wreck 
 Of what was once a boat. And, as I stood 
 In fix'd amaze surveying the wild surge, 
 I saw the roaring deep cast up the corpse 
 Of one yet warm with life. E'en at my feet 
 The falling water left him, mangled much, 
 And much distorted ; yet he seem'd a youth 
 Of no mean birth, his locks with ribband tied. 
 His coat dark blue, his waistcoat neatly wrought, 
 Buckles of silver in his shoes, his knees 
 Garter'd with silk — ' 
 
 He said, and to the earth 
 Sunk Anna spiritless. Sophia too, 
 Who unperceiv'd came up, and list'ning stood. 
 And heard the story of the shatter'd boat. 
 And how the corpse was cloth'd, shed bitter tears, 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 16T 
 
 And wrung her hands, and lift her eyes to heav'n: 
 
 Then knelt by Anna, press'd her clay-cold hand, 
 
 And rais'd her head, and laid her cheek to her's, 
 
 And call'd, and sigh'd. Maria speechless stood, 
 
 Pierc'd to tlie heart. Death o'er her trembling limbs 
 
 Spread his pale banner, and the spark of life 
 
 Was half extinguish'd. On her father's neck 
 
 She fell, and labour'd to conceal her grief 
 
 Too mighty to be hid. The good man wept. 
 
 The stranger stood aghast. Humane he was. 
 
 And shed some few involuntary drops, 
 
 Not knowing why, and turn'd about to hide them. 
 
 With gentle hand he help'd to raise the maid. 
 
 And put the cheering ether to her lip. 
 
 And touch'd her temples. She reviv'd, and sigh'd. 
 
 And having found her feet, and shed a flood 
 
 Of pure affection, with a trembling voice. 
 
 Oft interrupted, of the stranger ask'd, 
 
 ' Whither the corpse was carried.' He replied, 
 
 ' None saw it but myself; and I alone. 
 
 In pity to a stranger thus expos'd 
 
 To hungry sea-birds and the |)itiless boor 
 
16S ADKIANO, OR 
 
 Who walks the beach for plunder, lak'd a hole 
 Unseen of any, and the shroudless corpse 
 Buried in haste ; and came away, well pieas'd 
 To have done an otfice that myself had wish'd 
 Upon the naked shore so cast.' 
 
 ' But where, 
 Where, Sir,' said Anna, ' shall we find the spot 
 Where the dear youth lies buried ?' ' Level}' maid,' 
 Replied the stranger, ' with my own rude hands 
 I smooth'd it as I could, t' escape the search 
 Of curious plunderers; and scarce had done, 
 When a high-lifted surge with monstrous roar 
 Burst on the shore, and shot his foamy strength 
 Up to the topmost beach. 1 ran before it, 
 And turning could not mark the spot myself 
 Where the drown'd youth was laid. Thence up I came. 
 And, when you saw me first, with stedfast eye 
 Watch'd the approach of something from the wreck, 
 Which seem'd another corpse.' 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNK. le* 
 
 * O mighty God !' 
 Cried Anna, ' then these longing eyes no more 
 Shall see our brother, our unhappy Gilbert.' 
 ' Gilbert !' exulaim'd the stranger all amaz'd, 
 Gilbert ! and was it Gilbert whom these hands 
 Interr'd ? and are the maids I see his sisters ? 
 I might have known it, for Sophia's voice 
 Twice call'd thee Anna, and my conscious heart 
 Leap'd at the sound. Come, let me both embrace. 
 And be assur'd, the man who thus intrudes 
 Is a warm friend, who heartily partakes 
 Your grief for Gilbert.' 
 
 Silence chain'd his tongue. 
 He said no more, but, Anna's hand in his, 
 Turn'd short aside, and to his flowing eyes 
 Applied the kerchief. In extreme amaze 
 All stood. There was a pause in grief, and joy 
 Was ready with a dewy-raptur'd eye 
 To mingle ecstasy with sorrow. ' Yes, 
 A warmer friend,' said he, ' than greets you thu<v 
 No mortal knows. My name is Frederic ! 
 
170 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 * Ha ! Frederic ! and is it Frederic ? 
 Mine and my father's Frederic?' exclaini'd 
 Astonish'd Anna : ' by what lucl<y ciiance 
 ' Tn this hard hour do I again embrace 
 My faithful Frederic ?' She said, and sprung 
 And caught him in her arms, and on his neck 
 Breatii'd out in tears unutterable joy, 
 Unutterable grief. 
 
 ' Thy Frederic, 
 Thy faithful Frederic, and only thine,' 
 Said he, ' is he who holds thee. To this vale 
 I came in quest of thee, doubly rejoic'd 
 To bear good news to Gilbert, and to thee 
 A heart unchang'd. I mounted not the cliff. 
 Till I had sought in vain the humble cot 
 Where fame reported Gilbert was conceal'd. 
 Years have elaps'd since at a friend's retreat 
 I met thee, Anna, lov'd thee, and was lov'd. 
 Our fathers saw the strong attachment made, 
 And thought it best to separate our hands 
 Till age had taught us prudence, and our love, 
 
THE HRST OF JUNE. 171 
 
 Of childish passion dear, to pure esteem 
 And rational regard had mellow'd down. 
 Yet am I childish still, and in my soul 
 Perceive no alter'd love, no warmth ahated. 
 First in my mind is Anna when I w;ike. 
 Last ere I sleep. She is my thought all day, 
 My constant dream all night.' 
 
 ' O Frederic, 
 And canst thou,' said she, * to a maid so lost 
 Be true and faithful ? Canst thou love me still, 
 All destitute of friends, no father left. 
 No brother to defend me ? Canst thou grieve 
 To see these tears } And shall the same kind roof 
 Receive Sophia and my wretched self, 
 Never to part ? Take then my hand, and Heav'n 
 Mix no repentance in thy cup.' 
 
 * Dear soul. 
 Can I ?' said he ; ' inhuman were my heart, 
 Could I not love thee in the perilous hour. 
 As much or more than in the cloudless day 
 
172 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Of gay prosperity. Be thine my roof, 
 And thine, ^Sopliia. All my purse can give 
 Shall purchase happiness for you and me. 
 Come, let us liasten homeward. By the way 
 I'll give you short account of better lot 
 Now intercepted, and to-morrow's sun 
 Shall launch us on the world to live anew.' 
 
 ' Stay, gentle stranger,' Adriano cried, 
 Who silently had stood and mark'd his words. 
 And joy 'd and griev'd ; ' a little moment stay. 
 Be not too hasty to deprive my child 
 Of these her amiable only friends, 
 Nor pluck from me my second best support 
 Of age and weakness. Be till night at least 
 My guests, and end the melancholy day, 
 Begun with joy, in my poor sheltcr'd cot. 
 To leave me thus would be a loss indeed. 
 'T would break my poor child's heart.' 
 
 The stranger turn'd. 
 And bow'd obedience, by the tender fair 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. ITS 
 
 With ease persuaded, in his heart inclin'd 
 To meet the good petition with consent. 
 So silently they went, and Fred'ric told 
 The purpose of his journey. Joyful news 
 He thought to bring to Gilbert and his house. 
 But Providence, who ev'ry ill removes, 
 And gives us only good, by sudden change 
 Had otherwise ordain'd, and what he wills 
 Is best for man. A rich relation died. 
 And left to Gilbert a complete estate. 
 But if he died and left no child behind, 
 It went to Ronsart, an unmanner'd youth. 
 Bred at his mother's knee, the very man 
 Who came with Fred'ric to the lonely wood. 
 Unwelcome was the news, and ev'rv heart 
 Throbb'd with the transports of augmented grief. 
 Sweet comfort fled, and Fred'ric strove in vain 
 To stay the course of unavailing tears. 
 So home they came, in silent sorrow sat. 
 Bread of affliction ate, and drank the cup 
 No longer sweet, unmingled with content. 
 
174 ADRIANO, OK 
 
 O Grief, thou blessing and thou curse, how fair, 
 How charming art thou, sitting thus in state 
 Upon the eyelid of ingenuous youth, 
 \Vat'riug the roses of a healthful cheek 
 With dews of silver ! O for Lely's art, 
 To touch the canvass with a tender hand, 
 And give a faithful portrait of thy charms, 
 Seen through the veil of grief, sweet maid, Sophia. 
 O for the pen of Milton, to describe 
 Thy winning sadness, thy subduing sigh, 
 Gentle Maria ; to describe thy pains. 
 Assiduous Fred'ric, to alleviate grief. 
 And hang a smile upon thy Anna's brow ; 
 To paint the sweet composure of thy looks, 
 Experienc'd Adriano, thy attempt 
 To waken cheerfulness, and frequent eye 
 Stealing aside in pity to Maria. 
 ' Be comforted,' he said, and in the sound 
 Was music ev'ry ear was pleas'd to hear. 
 But thy availing voice was not like His, 
 Who bade the deep be still, and it obey'd. 
 A transient gleam of peace one moment shone, 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 1 75 
 
 But sorrow came the next. 
 
 Short time they sat, 
 For Fred'ric now bethinks him of his friend. 
 And begs the good man's leave to be excus'd 
 Till early eve, or till he finds at least 
 The roving Ronsart. Well he knew, the youth 
 Was fiery and impatient, and perhaps 
 Might combat danger thus alone, unus'd 
 To win regard by gentle courtesy. 
 In words precipitate and harsh, in deeds 
 Rude and despotic- To partake his walk 
 Anna requested, and he gave consent ; 
 
 Well knowing love has many tales to tell 
 
 Fit only for the ear of him who loves. 
 
 So forth they walk'd, and to his weeping child 
 The careful father went. He drew a seat. 
 
 And sat between Maria and her friend. 
 
 One hand of each he took, and bade them cease, 
 
 And shed no bitter tears for Gilbert's death. 
 
 For death was happy. 'T was a kind reprieve 
 
 To a sad exile, freedom to a slave. 
 
176 AOniANO, OR 
 
 Wealth to a beggar. 'Twas a private door 
 
 Open'd by Mercy to let in her son, 
 
 The poor, unhappy, cheated pilgrim, Man, 
 
 Into the land of rest : that happy land. 
 
 Once his, but lost, o'er whose fast-bolted gate 
 
 Insulted Justice waves her fiery sword. 
 
 And swears no soul shall enter. Yet there was 
 
 One entrance left, left by that gracious God, 
 
 Who made the heav'ns and this revolving earth, 
 
 Who spake, and it was done. He gave the key 
 
 To Mercy, Mercy was for man. 
 
 But words 
 Were not sufficient to remove their grief. 
 He paus'd — he pitied. Gen'rous sympathy 
 Thrill'd in his heart, and monntod to bis eyes. 
 He took his liat, and left them with a sigh. 
 
 Nor sit they long. Eacii takes a book by chance, 
 Nfot purposing to read, but steal awav 
 And feed the sorrows of her heart alone. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 117 
 
 Into the wood they went. Sophia turn'd. 
 Maria wander'd on ; nor stays her foot. 
 Till to the margin of a brook she comes 
 Swell'd by the morning's rain. Thro' the dark wood 
 Its troubled torrent ran, and falling hoarse 
 From a green bank on little rocks below 
 Made music not ungrateful to her ear. 
 She look'd about, and saw no friend behind. 
 She shut her book, and on a painted bench. 
 Erected long ago by some rude hind 
 Under a poplar's shade that overhung 
 The huddling brook, she sat her down and sobb'd 
 Till sorrow had its fill ; then wip'd her eyes. 
 And lean'd her arm against the poplar's bark. 
 Her head against her arm. The other hand 
 Held fast the book and tear-dipt handkerchief. 
 She look'd upon the brook, and mus'd awhile. 
 Watching the bubbles as they rose and burst. 
 At length persuasive rest her eyelids clos'd, 
 And all in graceful negligence reciin'd 
 VOL. r. N 
 
178 ADUIANO, OR 
 
 Slie slept, if sleep it may be call'd, that fiU'd 
 Her troubled mind with images of woe 
 And death. 
 
 Meanwhile in sad and thoughtful mood 
 Thrice round his garden Adriano walk'd. 
 He shook the drooping lilac, rais'd the pea, 
 Supported the gay stock, and brush'd the dew 
 From the full budded pink. With tender hand 
 Maria's shelter'd flower-pots he cheer'd, 
 Removing aught might hurt the cautious bud 
 Of balsams, myrtles, roses, or the plant 
 So finely sensitive. At length he turns. 
 And seeks the maids he left, but finds them not. 
 Deserted was the cottage ; only Frisk, 
 For ever faithful, at the threshold slept. 
 Wide open stood the door, and seem'd to tell 
 Whither the maids were gone. He drew it to, 
 And, Frisk before him, sought the custom'd walk 
 Through the dark wood. Sophia soon he saw 
 (Her book was open, but she read it not) 
 In thoughtful posture now, now walking brisk, 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 179 
 
 And now in warm distress looking to Heav'n, 
 Tlie tears fast falling down her fluster'd cheek. 
 
 ' What reads my child ?' he cried ; ' some tender 
 tale 
 Of virtuous suflPring ?' Startled at the voice, 
 She shut her book, and wiping her warm cheek 
 Put it away disorder'd. ' Let me see,' 
 Said Adriano kindly ; ' let me see 
 What tale has pow'r to wring exhausted grief 
 To such a flood of woe !' He seiz'd the book, 
 And found it JFerler^s Sorrow's. ' A3'e, my child, 
 A wretched tale, but not to be believ'd. 
 O pestilent example, to describe 
 As worthy pity and the fair one's tears 
 Deeds by no arguments to be cxcus'd. 
 Who kills hirhseif, involves him in the guilt 
 Of foulest murder. True, no written law 
 Commands our strict forbearance ; but be sure 
 The laws of nature are the laws of God ; 
 And he, ^vho said, Thou shall not murder, made 
 This universal law that binds our hands 
 
180 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 From mischief to ourselves. Else why so strong 
 
 The love of being and the fear of death ? 
 
 Why stands the tortur'd sick on the grave's brink, 
 
 And trembles to step in ? Why linger I, 
 
 Assur'd that nothing painful waits me there f 
 
 'Tis God's decree engrav'd upon the heart 
 
 To make us wait with patience, till he comes, 
 
 Undraws the curtain, and dispels the gloom, 
 
 And takes us to his bosom, and rewards 
 
 Our constancy and truth. That mortal, then, 
 
 Who shuns the suff'rance of impending ills, 
 
 Is cowardly and rash. For what more rash 
 
 Than wilfully to spoil a noble work 
 
 God made, and said, let live ? What more betrayi: 
 
 Rank cowardice, than tim'rously to shake 
 
 And fly distracted at a foe's approach ? 
 
 Can there be aught more painful, than to lose 
 
 An amiable wife ? in one short hour 
 
 To fall from affluence and joy and peace, 
 
 To poverty and grief ? Can there be felt 
 
 Heavier misfortune, than to lose a son, 
 
 And find myself a beggar at his death ; 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. lt^ 
 
 Forc'd into solitude without a friend, 
 And only one poor little weeping child 
 To be the sad companion of my grief f 
 Yet I am living still, and kiss the hand 
 That smote me so severely. Tell me not 
 That life has pains too heavy to support. 
 Look towards Calvary, and learn from thence 
 The noblest fortitude is still to bear 
 Accumulated ills, and never faint. 
 We may avoid them, if we can with honour ; 
 But, God requiring, let weak man submit. 
 And drink the bitter draught, and not repine. 
 Had Cato been a Christian, he had died 
 By inches, rather than have ta'en the sword 
 And falPn unlike his master.' 
 
 * Yes, good Sir,' 
 Answer'd Sophia, with a downcast eye, 
 Turning the leaves, ' and he, who feels like me. 
 Would sooner bear ail human woes in one. 
 Than fly to death for succour, and destroy 
 A parent's peace for life' 
 
182 ADRIANO, OK 
 
 ' 'Tis justly said,' 
 Cried Adriano, at the pious thought 
 Touch'd with aft'ection, ' and the man rfho dies, 
 Provok'd to madness by adult'rous love, 
 Ignobly dies. A more disgraceful end 
 No sentence could inflict.' 
 
 ' And she who loves,' 
 Replied Sophia, • and divides her heart. 
 Giving it not entire to him she weds. 
 Deserves no pity, suffer what she will.' 
 
 ' Doubtless,' said he : ' O it delights me much 
 To find such sense in woman, she can see 
 The fatal tendency of tales like these. 
 'Tis thus the arch-deceiver, busy still 
 To ruin man, besots the female heart, 
 Insinuates evil counsel, and inflames 
 The hungry passions, that like arid flax 
 Catch at a spark, and mount into a blaze. 
 The passions heated, reason strives in vain ; 
 Her empire's lost, and the distracted soul 
 
THE FtRST OF JUNE. 183 
 
 Becomes the sport of devils, wholly bent 
 To turn and wind it in a world of sin.' 
 
 ' 'Twere dang'rous then,' cried she, ' however good. 
 To trust our judgment in a tale like this !' 
 
 ' Dang'rous indeed,' said he ; ' for what young maid 
 Can so distinguish between good and ill, 
 As not to love and practise both alike, 
 When both are painted lovely ? Trust me, child, 
 There lurks a serpent in this flow'ry path 
 Shall sting thee to the quick. Better desist, 
 And enter not at all, than be seduc'd 
 By its best fruits, till appetite increase, 
 And step by step the cautious foot advance, 
 Till no return be found. The thirsty tongue 
 May taste the spring it nauseates and abhors, 
 Till custom makes it sweet. And frequent use 
 May so befool the sense, to make it long, 
 And drain the cup, and drink the pois'nous dregs, 
 Rather than quit it for the draught of health.' 
 
184 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 < If ihen,' lejoin'd Sophia, ' tales like these 
 Ought never to attract a female's eye, 
 Tell me, good Sir, for I have long'ii to ask, 
 What shall werqad?' 
 
 ' What read, my child ?' said he, 
 • Read thy Creator in his word and works. 
 Follow Philosophy, and hear her speak 
 Of other peopled worlds, and other suns 
 Enlight'ning worlds unheard of. See her draw 
 The ample circle, and describe the laws 
 Of this our little universe, which lies 
 Within the ken of our assisted eye. 
 Be with her when she turns the spotted globe, 
 And shews the cause of seasons, day and night, 
 In equal portions dealt to all mankind. 
 Attend her to-the field, with studious eye 
 Closely examining whate'er she sees. 
 Hear her discourse of wisdom in the brute. 
 The fish, the fowl, the insect, plant and flow'r. 
 In ev'ry particle alive or dead. 
 From the cloud-cover'd mountain's highest peak 
 
THE FIHST OF JUNE. 185 
 
 Down to the centre. Follow Historj', 
 
 And hear her justify the ways of God, 
 
 Requiting evil, and rewarding good, 
 
 And holding up to honour and esteem 
 
 The great example. Follow Poetry, 
 
 And mark her epic song and tragic act. 
 
 And only leave her when indecent mirth 
 
 Turns wit to madness. I could tell thee, child, 
 Would time permit, a thousand wholesome paths. 
 Where profit only with amusement dwells, 
 And where no danger lurks. Be such as Grey, 
 Or More's attentive daughter. From his lips 
 A family grew wise, and ev'ry ear 
 Drank pure instruction. Like a summer sun 
 On all about him his benignant ray 
 Shed happy influence, and ev'ry child, 
 Improv'd and cherish'd by the glowing beam, 
 Shone like a planet. Chiefly she the first. 
 The morning star, how exquisite her charms, 
 For ever near and dancing in his smiles, 
 And shining most the parent orb eclips'd. 
 Be such as Bacon's mother, skill'd to rear 
 
186 ADRIANO, OK 
 
 Her infant prodigy ; or such as she 
 The gallant Sidney's sister, learn'd and good, 
 Whose like ere death shall kill, expiring time 
 Shall throw a dart at him, and shut the grave. 
 Learn by what arts ingenious Packington 
 To lasting honour rose ; how Masham won 
 Locke's just regard ; how pious Norton's child 
 In early greatness died ; how Astell shone 
 The glory of her age. Seek these, my child, 
 And let none go beyond thee. To excel 
 Be all thy wish at morning, noon, and night. 
 But shun the flow'ry path where no good dwells, 
 And guard thy virtue as a precious gem 
 Much envied and soon lost. Another time. 
 If yet the wood, the cottage, and the down 
 Have charms to sta}' thee, Gilbert gone for ever, 
 I will instruct thee further. Live with me. 
 And be Maria's friend, and eat my bread. 
 And be my second daughter.' 
 
 ' Thanks, good Sir,' 
 Sophia said, and in one modest look 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. I87 
 
 Convey'd such gratitude as angels feel 
 
 In the great world above. And now again 
 
 Grief swell'd her heart, and tears ran down her cheek. 
 
 • Come,' said the careful father, ' weep no more. 
 Go to the cot, ere chilly ev'ning come, 
 And the damp wood aflect thee. Where's my daughter ?' 
 
 Under a poplar's shade that overhung 
 
 The noisy brook, upon a painted bench, 
 
 Maria sat and slept. But scarce her eyes 
 
 Had clos'd, when Ronsart, looking for his friend, 
 
 And angry to be left so long alone, 
 
 Came scowling to the spot. He saw the maid, 
 
 And stood a moment in amazement lost. 
 
 His anger ceas'd, and pleasure in its stead 
 
 Sat on his brow exulting. So retreats 
 
 The morning cloud before the rising sun, 
 
 And day that louring wak'd forbears her frown. 
 
188 ADIUANO, OR 
 
 And softens to a smile. Nearer the maid 
 
 He drew, enraptur'd with her charms. He gaz'd, 
 
 And all the villain came into his heart. 
 
 He long'd, and yet he fear'd to touch. For vice 
 
 Is ever aw'd at goodness, and begins 
 
 Her treach'rous act with fear and doubt, asham'd 
 
 To see herself so base, and of her prey 
 
 Inly despairing, since no pow'r can force 
 
 Strong Heav'n, no strength withstand his fiery arm 
 
 Who fights for virtue. With a trembling hand 
 
 He stole the book and read — he drew away 
 
 And kiss'd her handkerchief, and touch'd her hand. 
 
 So plays the hungry tiger with his prey. 
 
 Whetting his appetite by long restraint. 
 
 She mov'd, and sigh'd. He ihrobb'd with expectation, 
 
 And ready stood to catch her in his arms 
 
 Soon as her e)'e-lids rose. She slept again.] 
 
 He sat beside her, and with curious eye 
 
 Survey'd her, as he thought, all unobserv'd : 
 
 But close behind him, by a tree conceal'd. 
 
 Stood one in rustic habit clad, and watch'd 
 
 His guilty motions. To the brook he came, 
 
THE nRST OF JUNE. 189 
 
 And saw the maid asleep. Just then he heard 
 The steps of Ronsart, and withdrew unseen. 
 So when at last th' impatient youth arose, 
 And wak'd the maid, and seiz'd her in his arms. 
 And thought him of his wicked act secure, 
 F.re he could fix his longing lips on hers, 
 He aim'd a blow at the young villain's head, 
 That fell'd him to the earth. 'Twas Gilbert ! 
 
 Struck 
 With terror and amaze Maria fled, 
 But knew 'twas Gilbert. To her sire she came 
 Just parting from Sophia, out of breath, 
 And so disorder'd between smiles and tears, 
 She found no tongue. She took Sophia's hand, 
 And led her trembling to the brook. They ran, 
 And Adriano foUow'd. Ere they came 
 Ronsart had risen, and in furious wrath 
 High-menacing at Gilbert ran. His voice 
 Drew Fred'ric and his Anna to the spot. 
 Returning home wearied with fruitless search. 
 They came in time to see a second blow 
 
190 ADRIANO, OK 
 
 Drive Ronsart back, and plunge him in the brook. 
 
 Tlien came Sopliia and the injur'd maid, 
 
 And Adriano. Fred'ric was enrag'd ; 
 
 He seiz'd the collar of the man unknown, 
 
 And had not seiz'd in vain, but Anna saw 
 
 And knew her brother, fair Sophia saw 
 
 And knew him. All were satisfied 'twas Gilbert. 
 
 So eagerly they ran and kiss'd his cheek. 
 
 And hung upon his neck, and wept for joy. 
 
 And he wept too, and tenderly caress'd 
 
 Thee, dear Maria, and thy breaking heart 
 
 Fill'd full with consolation. 
 
 Then he turn'd. 
 And with austere regard on Fred'ric look'd, 
 Who statue-like in blank astonishment 
 Stood fix'd, and sternly ask'd him, < what he would.' 
 Speedy as lightning Anna ran between. 
 And cried, < 'Tis Frederic !' 
 
 ' It matters not,' 
 Said Gilbert, ' who it is. The man who thus 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 191 
 
 Seizes my throat, must show me ample cause, 
 
 Or I shall call him to a sharp account, 
 
 Though he be Fred'ric my much-honour'd friend.' 
 
 ' Who sees his friend,' cried Fred'ric, * thus abus'd, 
 Beat to the earth, and wallow'd in the brook, 
 And gives him no assistance, is a coward. 
 Let him who injur'd Ronsart shew me cause. 
 Or I shall call him to a sharp account. 
 Though he be Gilbert my much-honour'd friend.' 
 
 ' Then hear,' said Gilbert. ' To this spot I came. 
 Intending hurt to none. From the loud surge 
 But ill escap'd, and climbing the rude cliff 
 Through a steep moulder'd gap, at a small hut 
 Belonging to the fisher and his son, 
 I found this suit, and chang'd it for my own 
 All dripping wet. Soon as the tempest ceas'd 
 I left the hut thus clad, and tow'rds the wood 
 Came with all speed, well know ing these my friends, 
 And these my sisters, had not hearts of steel. 
 And might be griev'd at my delay. I saw. 
 
192 ADniANO, OR 
 
 Just as my weary feet had reach'd tliis spot. 
 This lovely maid upon that bench asleep, 
 I saw, and was rcfiresh'd ; but had not gazM 
 A moment's space, ere yonder villain came, 
 Thy friend ; and I retir'd, and unperceiv'd 
 Beheld the dev'lish antic at his wiles. 
 I knew his purpose, (for the outward act 
 Gives true assurance of the inward mind,) 
 And burning with impatience stood awhile. 
 Till he all passion seiz'd the helpless maid 
 Alone and sleeping, and with touch profane 
 Thought to have feasted on those crimson lips 
 And that vermilion cheek. I sprung to help her. 
 And sure my arm had more than usual strength, 
 For with one blow I fell'd him to the earth. 
 And set the captive free. She fled alarm'd, 
 And hardly stay'd to cast one thankful look 
 On him who sav'd her — but that gracious smile 
 Repays me well. The shameless villain rose, 
 And, cursing me by ev'ry name above, 
 Ran at my life. The second blow you saw. 
 Which plung'd him headlong in the miry brook. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 193 
 
 And if an act like this can need defence, 
 I stand prepar'd to give it ; for be sure, 
 Had it been Fred'ric I had done the same. 
 And Fred'ric had deserv'd it.' 
 
 ' Yes, and more,' 
 Cried Fred'ric, at his guilty friend incens'd : 
 ' Give me thy pardon, and chastise the boy 
 Till double recompence atone the wrong. 
 My arm shall lend assistance.' 
 
 * No, my friend,' 
 Said Gilbert, ' let him stand aloof, while thus 
 We join our hands in friendship. If he dares 
 Again to break the peace of this calm wood, 
 Again my arm shall teach him to be just.' 
 
 ' Thy arm shall teach me, ignominious boy '.' 
 Ronsart replied, and haughtily advanc'd : 
 ' O Fred'ric, I'm astonish'd thy cold ear 
 Can drink a tale so false. 'Tis all a lie. 
 His was the purpose to assault the maid, 
 
 Vol. I. O 
 
194 ADRIAMO, OR 
 
 ^nd mine to shield her. By these hazels hid, 
 I saw the villain to the bench advance, 
 And offer violence. My heart was hot, 
 And 'gainst my brave attempt to combat force 
 And rescue innocence, his arm prevail'd. 
 But think not, Gilbert, to escape me thus. 
 If there be courage in thee, and these rags 
 Cover no coward's heart, in half an hour 
 Meet me again. This be the spot, and come 
 Prepar'd for measures that may best acquit 
 My injur'd honour.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Fred'ric, ' 'tis, 
 'Tis all a lie. Thy purposes, no doubt. 
 Were fair and good. Look at the injur'd maid ; 
 The frown of indignation cast on thee, 
 The smile bestow'd on Gilbert, are strong proofs 
 Thine is the cause of justice and of truth. 
 Thy fury shows thee honest, and thy wrongs 
 Cloth'd in the modest style of injur'd worth 
 Bespeak a friend's compassion. I rejoice 
 Gilbert yet lives to disappoint thy hopes. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 194 
 
 Thou man of honour ; to reward thy deeds, 
 
 Thou man of courage. In my soul I loath 
 
 The wretch who dares be wicked, yet complains 
 
 Of injur'd honour, and defends his act 
 
 With specious hes and seeming honesty. 
 
 O Gilbert, let me give thee double joy, 
 
 Escap'd the troublous ocean, and restor'd 
 
 To these and me. We thought the roaring surge 
 
 Had wreck'd th}' bark and cast thee up, and I, 
 
 In pity to a mangled corpse unknown, 
 
 Had given thee hasty burial in the beach. 
 
 It griev'd me much, for to the wood I came 
 
 With joyful news. The wealthy Rowley dead 
 
 Gives thee his whole estate. Enjoy it long. 
 
 And be the father of a num'rous race, 
 
 And Ronsart's second hope, prevented thus, 
 
 Remain unsatisfied for ever. Come, 
 
 Let us be gone, and leave the valiant boy 
 
 To meditate at leisure, lie may find 
 
 A surer way to honour, than to lurk. 
 
 And offer insult to a sleeping m.iid. 
 
 To menace her protector, and demand 
 
196 ADRHNO. OR 
 
 Strict satisfaction, when no head but his 
 Deserves the stroke of justice.' 
 
 Gilbert stood 
 With thoughtful brow revolving in his mind 
 Old Rowle^^'s goodness, cheerful now, now grave. 
 In doubt was he, or to accept his lot, 
 Or love the cottage still. Of the wide world 
 He little knew, nor much had seen to blame ; 
 And novelty had charms to win his heart. 
 But here Maria dwelt ; and what was wealth. 
 Or what was life, without her ? His distress 
 Good Adriano saw, and mark'd his eye 
 Oft turning to Maria. ' Why,' said he, 
 ' Stands Gilbert falt'ring thus, the only soul 
 That not rejoices at his own good lot ?' 
 
 * 'Tis strange indeed,' said Gilbert ; ' but my mind 
 Is doubtful of its choice. On either hand 
 A happy lot invites me, and to each 
 My wav'ring heart inclines. Here stands the world 
 And with a fascinating smile attracts, 
 
THK FIRST OF JUNK. 197 
 
 And talks of duties between man and man, 
 
 Of laurels to be won and praise deserv'd 
 
 By public service. Sweet retirement there 
 
 Shows me her boundless treasures, bids me drink 
 
 At her eternal fountain of delights. 
 
 And rove, and read, and prattle to mj- friends 
 
 In the fine ease of unmolested life. 
 
 And how shall I forsake the sunny down, 
 
 How leave the shady wood, the cot and thee, 
 
 And dear Maria ? Who shall guard her then 
 
 From the sly lurking villain ?' 
 
 ' Fear thou not,' 
 Said Adriano smiling, ' let us live 
 Unheard of still. There is a God above. 
 Who loves the good, and guards them from all ills ; 
 And he shall lend me, to protect my child, 
 A shield of adamant. Go seek the world, 
 Shine in the public eye. Be great and good. 
 Employ thy talents to a noble end, 
 And pay them back with int'rest. Other downs, 
 And other woods, and other smiling friends, 
 
198 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 And other mansions shall delight thee there. 
 Forget Maria and her father's cell, 
 And live with men, and feast thy ear with mirth, 
 Thy eye with beauty.' 
 
 * Never,' cries the youth, 
 ' O never, never. Let me sooner die 
 Than leave the friends I love. I cannot quit 
 The sliady cottage and the sunny down, 
 These many years remember'd, often sought 
 At morning and at eve. My native soil, 
 I cannot leave thee ; how much less my friends, 
 Thee Adriano, and thy duteous child 
 Maria ! Give me her, and to tlie world 
 I go rejoicing, for I must confess 
 I love her much.' 
 
 ' I know thou lov'st her much,' 
 Said Adriano, ' and thou didst enough 
 ' Well to deserve her heart. But how shall I 
 Support the absence of an only child. 
 Scarce able now to live, by her good hand 
 
THE FIRST O? JUNE. 189 
 
 Sustain'd and cherish'd ?* 
 
 ' Be together still,' 
 Cried Gilbert warmly, ' and my house thy home. 
 ' What says Maria ?' 
 
 On the ground were fi.x'd 
 Her modest eyes, and downcast was her head. 
 She smoothed her apron's hem, and smil'd aside, 
 And lovely blushes wav'd upon her cheek. 
 She look'd at Adriauo for his leave. 
 And gave her hand to Gilbert. Her meek eye 
 Met his transported, and a look of love 
 Shot to Iiis heart. He kiss'd her glowing cheek, 
 And Adriano smil'd. The happy sign 
 Maria saw, and fell upon his neck. 
 And, ' O Maria, my dear child,' he said, 
 ' This was the happy hour I long'd to see. 
 My daughter wedded to a worthy jouth 
 Who so deserves ber, fills my heart with joy. 
 I ask no more ; kind Heav'n has fully paid 
 For all my former pains. Be happy these, 
 
•200 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 . I leave the world in peace, content to die. 
 And go to her whose loss these e3'es have wept 
 These twcnt}'' years. IMaria, love thy husband. 
 Be kind to iiim as thou wast kind to me, 
 And he shall love thee with as perfect love. 
 A few short days, perhaps, and I am gone ; 
 My office is expir'd, and what can I 
 To he of service more ?' 
 
 ' Come, come,' saiil Gilbert, 
 Live and rejoice with us. A few short year.? 
 Of the best happiness this world affords 
 Shall not o'erpay thee for thy daily care 
 To rear this lovely maid. Great was the gift, 
 And pure is the esteem tliat gift has won. 
 Oh ! my heart longs to show thee what it owes, 
 And make thy happiness complete as mine. 
 To-morrow let us hence. Another day 
 Shall make Maria mine. I cannot rest 
 Till I have shown to an admiring world 
 How fair a rose has in the desert sprung.' 
 
 ( 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 201 
 
 O ye mistaken belles, who fondly think 
 'Tis prudent to engage the public eye 
 Ere infancy expire; to lead the dance ; 
 Parade the public walk and crowded street, 
 Prate to the grinning coxcomb, and engage 
 The eager ears of an assembled rout 
 Ail hungr}* to devour your pert remark ; 
 To scream at tiie full concert unabasii'd. 
 And foremost sit in the projecting box 
 Till the fine blush forsakes jou ; learn from hence, 
 ^\'ho quits her modesty foregoes a grace 
 Which nothing can compensate. The fix'd blush. 
 Or true or borrow'd, has few charms for man. 
 Be all the morning's beauty on thy cheek. 
 It shall not win me if it ne'er retire 
 And come again, by just occasion call'd. 
 Be all the ev'ning's splendor in thy eye. 
 It shall not please me if the stubborn lid 
 In sweet abashment never fall. Peruse 
 All living nature ; what but modesty 
 Pervades the hoav'ns above and earth beneath ? 
 The mighty Author of the world, whose hand 
 
202 ADRIAXO, OR 
 
 Creates all beauty, flies before the search. 
 We see the traces of his glorious art, 
 But seek the finger that performs in vain. 
 In darkness and in clouds he wraps hiui up, 
 Withdraws, and only wishes to be seen 
 In these his works ; though beautiful, no doubt, 
 The source of so much beauty, beyond thought 
 Engaging to the eye and ev'ry sense. 
 That presence he denies. O modesty. 
 Beyond example charming ! In his word. 
 And him the pattern of his Father's deeds 
 Assuming poverty to hide the God, 
 Read him still modest ; and retreating still. 
 Though still pursued. He yet remains unseen, 
 Though on the footstool of his throne wc stand, 
 And feel all God about us. Hence, ye fair, 
 Learn to esteem the godlike gift, and meet 
 The public eye with caution, lest the blush. 
 By constant admiration put to flight, 
 Disdain to come again, and all the charms 
 Which Nature gave you to engage our hearts 
 Be gone, and leave you with no power to please. 
 
THE FIRST or JUNE. 203 
 
 Gilbert was marching with Maria's arm 
 
 Fast lock'd in his, when Adriano spoke. 
 
 ' Stay, Gilbert, pause awhile, and ere we go 
 
 Another match approve. This worthy youth 
 
 (For such I deem him, tho' not known a day) 
 
 Has giv'n his heart to Anna, she to him. 
 
 While yet we thought thee lost, she told her love, 
 
 All destitute of friends ; and nobly he 
 
 Resolv'd to love her in the hour of need, 
 
 As much or more than in the cloudless day 
 
 Of gay prosperity. The same kind roof 
 
 Was to receive Sophia and herself. 
 
 Never to part.' 
 
 * O admirable friend ! 
 The friend in need,' said Gilbert, ' is a friend 
 No bounty can repay.' He took their hands 
 And join'd them, and a thousand blessings gave ; 
 He wisird them health, and peace, and long to live. 
 As happy as Maria and himself. 
 
SOI ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Then all were cheerful, and the kiss of love 
 Went round. Good humour sat on ev'r}' check, 
 And ev'ry eye was merry. The clear moon 
 Rose on the wood, and disappearing half 
 Under the border of a sable cloud, 
 Hung- like a drop of gold. The pleasing sight 
 All saw deliglrted, Adriano most, 
 Who first perceiv'd the silent orb had ris'n, 
 And ev'ning stol'n upon t1iem. With gay heart 
 He summons to tlie cottage, there to sit, 
 To eat, to drink, and while away an hour 
 Before they rest. Young Ronsart then he saw, 
 And felt compassion for the thoughtless youth. 
 He bade the rest retire; but Fred'ric stay'd. 
 Lest aught might prompt the hasty boy to rage, 
 And Adriano's care be ill repaid 
 By insolence and anger. To the youth 
 The good man went. In proud disdain he turn'd. 
 And with harsh finger pluck'd the hazel's leaf; 
 When Adriano thus : 
 
 ' Come, honest youth. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 20i 
 
 Mistake us not for foes. Partake our cheer. 
 
 The smart of folly felt, we ask no more. 
 
 Be wise in future. 'Tis a pow'rful hand 
 
 Protects the good ; provoke its wrath no more. 
 
 Be happy with us, for my child forgives 
 
 The purpos'd injury, assur'd like me 
 
 Thy geu'rous nature in the hour of thought 
 
 Will feel contrition. Harbour no revenge ; 
 
 For Gilbert's anger justly was provok'd. 
 
 Think, hadst thou seen a maid by thee belov'd, 
 
 Alone thus sleeping, and a stranger came, 
 
 With eagerness approach'd, and seiz'd her hand, 
 
 And caught her in his arms, tho' all he wish'd 
 
 Was but a kiss, how had thy fury burn'd ! 
 
 Who could forbear and look in patience on. 
 
 To see another's arm infold the fair 
 
 He deems his own ? Be satisfied, nor think 
 
 Gilbert has done thee wrong. Provoke him not 
 
 To meet thee in the field, for such an act 
 
 Were base in him and thee. 'Twere like the wretch 
 
 Who call'd his righteous brother to account, 
 
 And slew him for hi* virtue. 'Twere in both 
 
206 ADRJANO, OR 
 
 Strange violation of the law divine, 
 To follow custom, which too often leads 
 To terrible mistake. The rich and great 
 Adopting folly, to the gen'ral eye 
 Make vice seem innocent. So here their use 
 Approves stupendous error, and the mean, 
 Eager to imitate their words and deeds. 
 Adopt an act that will not bear excuse. 
 Think as ye will of virtue, O ye great, 
 'Tis your's to recommend the faith ye own 
 By virtuous conduct. Ev'ry soul that fails. 
 By your infectious fiishions led astray, 
 Shall at your hands his happiness require.' 
 
 ' Aye, sir,' said Fred'ric, ' and 'twere well the great 
 Had something of the honest Briton left, 
 And scorn'd to ape the manners of the French. 
 I hate to see such senseless def'rence paid 
 To a designing foe. Let the fop's coat 
 Be made at Paris, let his locks be teaz'd 
 All day by the frizeur, and let him walk 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 207 
 
 With hat in hand on tiptoe to the ball 
 
 All flattery and essence. Butterflies 
 
 Make summer cheerful, and such powder'd moths 
 
 Serve for the wise to laugh at. But be sure 
 
 Our native virtue will instruct us best 
 
 How and for what to fight. Or if that fail, 
 
 Appeal we to the Roman and the Greek. 
 
 Their swords were only drawn for public wrongs, 
 
 And never clash'd but in the state's defence. 
 
 Csesar was brave, and Csesar had his foes ; 
 
 But when drew Ctesar blood but in the field ? 
 
 His private quarrels to the winds he tost, 
 
 Forgot his injuries, and only slew 
 
 Contending for his country.' 
 
 ' Truly said,' 
 Cried Adriano, * and the man who thinks 
 Will act like Caesar, for no public good 
 Can flow from private vengeance. 'Tis our part, 
 As Christians, to forget the wrongs we feel. 
 To pardon trespasses, our very foes 
 To love and cherish, to do good to all. 
 
208 aDriano, or 
 
 Live peaceably and not avenge ourselves. 
 
 And he who, spite of duty, fights and falls, 
 
 Runs on the sword, and is his own assassin. 
 
 Who sheds another's blood is guilty murder ; 
 
 No matter what the cause, for hear the law : 
 
 Who sheds man's blood, by man his blood be shed *. 
 
 E'en of the beast will I require man's life. 
 
 Who kills his neighbour, be it with design, 
 
 Whether they strive or not, he surely dies. 
 
 Strike with a stone, with iron, or with wood f. 
 
 Or, only whh the hand, if life be lost, 
 
 'Tis deatii. The land delil'd by blood is dcans'd 
 
 But by his blood who shed it.' Think of this, 
 
 My hasty friend, and let an old man's words 
 
 Sink deep into thy heart. I had a son, 
 
 Who fell an cajly victim to the sword, 
 
 (May God forgive him !) and it grieves my soul 
 
 To find the times so thoughtless, they have lost 
 
 All sense of virtue. 'Tis a grievous sight 
 
 X To see brave youths of towardness and hope, 
 
 * Gen. ix. 5. t Exod. xxi. Numb. xxxv. I Bacon. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 209 
 
 Sons of tlie morning, cast away and lost, 
 Short-liv'd and transient as the incadow-flow'rs 
 Before the mower's scy tlie ; to see the blood 
 Ignobly shed, whose efforts might have won 
 A day of glory, and preserv'd a state. 
 Was Sidnej^ such ? was Wolfe ? was Manners ? These 
 Are Britain's boast, the noblest ornaments 
 That grace the story of our happy isle.' 
 
 ' And what,' said Fred'ric, ' is the cause assign'd 
 To vindicate the duel ? Is it wrong, 
 Intolerable wrong ? Then seek the law ; 
 Let public justice in her even scales 
 Weigh the vast injury, and fix the price 
 Shall recompense th' affront. The private eye 
 Sees double for itself, and to the foe 
 Allows no merit. Is the cause so small 
 The law o'erlooks it ? Then a gen'rous mind 
 Should scorn a recompense.' 
 
 ' The noble soul,' 
 Said Adriano, ' like a summer sea, 
 VOL. I. P 
 
SIO AOaiANO, OK 
 
 Is not to be disturb'd by ev'ry breath. 
 
 It stands above weak insult, like an Alp, 
 
 That hides its sunny forehead in the sky, 
 
 And scorns the pelting of the storm below. 
 
 True courage seldom stoops to weigh a word. 
 
 The blow not always moves it, and it strikes 
 
 Then only, when the gen'ral good requires. 
 
 It feels that life and all we have is due 
 
 To them we serve, our country and our God. 
 
 When these command, it dares oppose all ill ; 
 
 But deems it neither honest, just, nor brave, 
 
 To combat danger, when they both forbid. 
 
 It guards its station with a watchful eye. 
 
 Willing to act, or patient to forbear, 
 
 As duty gives the word. For well it knows, 
 
 True magnanimity is so to live 
 
 As never to infringe the laws of God, 
 
 Or break the public peace. Let the shrill tongue 
 
 Of defamation prate, and her loud rout 
 
 Decree a coward's name to him who hears 
 
 The lie unmov'd, and will not dare to fight 
 
 E'en for a blow. 'Tis fortitude to bear ; 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 21? 
 
 And he who cannot bear, but stakes liis hfe 
 To win the praises of a herd like this, 
 Who hardly know a virtue from a vice, 
 And leaves the approbation of his God, 
 His country, and a conscience free from guilt, 
 \V'hat is he but a coward ? He prefers 
 The poor applause of women and of fools, 
 To inward peace and everlasting joy ; 
 Afraid to combat with the world's disgrace. 
 Which gives no torment to a wise man's heart, 
 Lasts but a day, and with to-morrow's sun 
 Goes down and is forgot.' 
 
 « O I abhor,' 
 Said Fred'ric hastily, * the moody shout 
 Of popular applause, which falls by chance 
 On virtue or on vice, and not discerns 
 The better claim of the devout and good. 
 For all the praises of a world like this 
 Who would be great ? Give me a thousand tomes 
 Of such applause, I'll tear 'em piece by piece, 
 And trample all my honour in the dust. 
 
212 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Is tlieic a mail whose judgment is exact ? 
 To earn his praise I'd climli tlie arduous top 
 Of burning Etna, were it thrice as high 
 As yon bright moon, and one eternal snow 
 To the last foot ; Td dive into the deep ; 
 I'd dig down to the centre of the earth ; 
 I'd take the eagle's wings, and mount the skies, 
 And follow virtue to her seat in heaven.' 
 
 ' Aye, gen'rous youth,' said Adriano, pleas'd, 
 ' 'Tis noble to deserve the wise man's praise. 
 Such is the man of honour. Only he 
 Is great and honourable, who fears the breach 
 Of laws divine or human, and foregoes 
 E'en reputation rather than infringe 
 The Christian duty. 'Tis the devil's art 
 To varnish folly, and give vice a mask 
 To make her look like virtue. Thus to fight. 
 To murder and be murder'd, tho' the cause 
 Would hardly justify a moment's wrath. 
 Is honour, glorious honour. Vulgar eyes 
 Mistake the semblance, and the specious vice 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 2 1 3 
 
 Passes for sterling virtue. But take heed, 
 Ingenuous youth, and let th' impostor pass. 
 Scorn the applause of a misguided mob. 
 Despise their censures. Can that ear be judge 
 Of the musician's merit, whose base sense 
 Can scarce prefer immortal Handel's notes 
 To the harsh brayings of a pester'd ass ? 
 Can that eye judge of beauty and desert, 
 Which scarce distinguishes the sign-post daub 
 From the great painter, whose ingenious hand 
 Touches the canvass with a poet's fire ? 
 Then why permit them to prescribe the bounds 
 Of courage and of honour ? Be assur'd 
 The joint applause of twenty million such 
 Confers no dignity. 'Tis nobler far 
 To bear the lash of slander, and be styl'd 
 Scoundrel and coward with a mind at ease, 
 Sure to be honour'd by the great above, 
 Tho' slighted by the little here. Be first, 
 Ye men of place and fashion, on whose deeds 
 The vulgar eye for ever is intent. 
 Their very garments modelling from you — 
 
214 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 Be first to recommend a steady mind. 
 Serene and patient, by no wrongs provok'd 
 To tiiirst for blood. An ornament it is 
 Shall give you greatness in an angel's eyes, 
 Shall raise you all to thrones no pow'r can shake, 
 For ever honour'd and for ever lov'd.' 
 
 He said, and scarce had ended, when the sound 
 Of footsteps nimbly pacing reach'd his ear. 
 The hazels rustled, and with cheerful smile 
 Sophia from the shade emergVl. The moon 
 Shone full upon her, and her mellow beams 
 Improv'd a countenance serene as her's. 
 She seem'd an angel stepping from the clouds 
 With happiness for man : ' And why,' she said, 
 ' Why do you loiter here ? O we have long'd, 
 Have long'd to see you. We have danc'd an age, 
 And wisli'd for you to help. Come, Sir, and see 
 How gracefully Maria leads the dance. 
 She's life itself. I never saw a foot 
 So nimble and so eloquent. It speaks. 
 And the sweet whisp'ring poetry it makes 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. tlS 
 
 Shames the musician. Fred'ric come, be quick, 
 For Anna waits, and waits with patience yet.' 
 
 ' Stay but a moment,' Adriano cried ; 
 ' For here is one it grieves me to dismiss.' 
 
 ' O let him join us '.' said the cheerful maid ; 
 * Maria charg'd me to forgive him. She 
 Can bear no malice. And do you forgive ; 
 I know you to be good, and I engage 
 To be his partner in the dance.' 
 
 She said. 
 The good man solemnly forgave. The youth 
 Felt true compunction, and his fault excus'd 
 With shame and tears. Then Fred'ric took bis hand, 
 In transport home they went, and Ronsart dress'd. 
 And Adriano led him to the room. 
 Much shame he fe!t ; but the good man was kind, 
 And interceded, and they all forgave. 
 Gilbert shook hands, and ev'ry maid was pleas'd. 
 Sophia pitied her embarrass'd swain. 
 
216 ADIIIANO, OR 
 
 And swept her fingers o'er the loud guitar 
 Provoking to the dance. Tiie fiddler heard. 
 And tun'd his strings, and 'gan a lively air. 
 Then Gilbert seiz'd again Maria's hand, 
 And led her to the top ; then Fred'ric ran. 
 And Anna hounded to receive his hand : 
 Good Adriiino rested, Ronsart rose, 
 And kind Sophia beckon'd with a smile. 
 So merrily they danc'd one speedy hour 
 Ere the last meal began. At length they ceas'd. 
 Then much they chatted, and as much they sang, 
 Each by his partner seated. To delight 
 Was ev'ry fair one's wish, and ev'ry youth's. 
 And all were pleas'd. E'en Adriano's ej'e 
 Sparkled with honest joy, tho' seventy years 
 Had somewliat dinim'd its lustre; and his cheek 
 Show'd yet some traces of the youthful blush, 
 Warm'd by the hearty laugh. 
 
 At length the clock 
 Sounded the midnight hour, and up they rose. 
 Each to his home retreats, engag'd to rise 
 
THR FIRST OF JUNE. 217 
 
 And meet his charmer by the morning dawn 
 
 At Adriano's door. To tlje lone cot, 
 
 Never so long deserted, Gilbert bastes, 
 
 In either hand a sister. To the inn 
 
 (If such the village-hovel mav be call'd. 
 
 Where the high-lifted bush, well understood. 
 
 Alone proclaims ' Good entertainment here 
 
 For man and horse') speeds Fred'ric and his friend. 
 
 With high commissions chaig'd. To her own room. 
 
 With blessings loaded by her joyous sire. 
 
 And pure affection's thrice-repeated kiss. 
 
 Withdrew Maria, happy as a cherub. 
 
 He slept in peace ; but scarce one short-liv'd hour 
 Her watchful eye-lids clos'd. Excessive joy 
 Burn'd on her cheek and bounded in her heart. 
 Nor car'd she much for sleep, while certain bliss 
 Gave ease to vigilance, but envious sleep 
 Cheated her fancy with a thousand dreams 
 Of Gilbert struggling with the furious waves. 
 
218 ADRIAMO, Oil 
 
 And asking life in vain. At length day rose, 
 Wak'd by the lark, and from her bed she sprung. 
 The early breakfast slie prepar'd, herself 
 Attir'd, and wak'd her father. Scarce had he 
 Forsook his chamber, when the hasty rap 
 Announc'd young Gilbert and his sisters. Joy 
 Maria's cheek suffus'd, and with glad heart 
 Her friends slie welconi'd ; chiefly thee, fond youth ! 
 For six long hours (O what an age in love !) 
 Not seen or heard. 
 
 And now the sounding hoof* 
 Of steeds quick-pacing echo through the wood. 
 The frequent lash resounds, and the brisk wheel 
 Runs lightly clatt'ring o'er the velvet sward. 
 Soon to the door came Fred'ric and his friend. 
 Each in his chaise with looks of gladness sat. 
 One horse drove each, another led behind. 
 They hail their happy friends, and now descend, 
 And all are seated at the cheerful board. 
 
 Not long they sat, impatient to be gone. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 818 
 
 The door is fasteii'd, Adriaiio mounts, 
 
 And Gilbert at his right hand holds the whip ; 
 
 Maria sits between. His Anna's arm 
 
 Fred'ric supports, and lifts her to her seat, 
 
 Then follows after. Ronsart's willing hand 
 
 Sophia's foot sustains, and to her throne 
 
 Upon the prancing steed she neatly springs. 
 
 Light as the climbing vapour. Proud is he 
 
 To be so mounted, and his silver bit 
 
 Haughtily champs, and shakes his flowing mane, 
 
 And paws the earth. Then Ronsart strode his sfeed ; 
 
 Young Gilbert's whip the sounding signal gave, 
 
 And all departed. One desirous look. 
 
 Back on the lonely cot Maria cast, 
 
 And shed a tear at parting. Due regret 
 
 Good Adriano felt, and his moist eye 
 
 And falt'ring tongue confess'd the swelling heart 
 
 Unwillingly betray'd. Ah ! they are gone. 
 
 Deserted roof, O how shall I forsake 
 Thee ! tlie best ornament my song can boast. 
 Parent of happiness that seldom fail'd. 
 
420 ADRIANO, on 
 
 Source of sweet peace, that never ceas'd, and fled 
 But to return with transport. Who shall lead 
 The vine's luxuriant branch and purple fruit 
 About thy casements now ? Who shall regard 
 The creeping ivy round thy chimney wound, 
 And o'er thy thatch in dark profusion spread ? 
 Who shall invite the oak's umbrageous arm ? 
 Who shall frequent the beech, and on the bench 
 Under his wholesome shade sweet lectures read. 
 To guide his offspring in the ways of truth ? 
 Who shall improve thy bovv'r, and turn thy soil. 
 Who prune thy fruit-trees, and protect thy flow'rs. 
 Who weed the gravel at thy door? All this 
 Will I — O undisturb'd retreat, thy still. 
 Thy secret pleasures shall be all I ask, 
 Shut out for ever from the noise of men. 
 
 But thou art dumb — thy Ijooks, thy walks, thy views. 
 Have no sweet voice to captivate m}' ear. 
 Thy music does not speak. I smile indeed. 
 And see thee smile again ; but all thy sounds 
 Are but the feeble echoes of my own. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 221, 
 
 My ear is hungry, and my eye athirst, 
 For her whom Adam, earth's primeval lord. 
 Found wanting never seen, and without whom 
 E'en Paradise was painful. Let me feast 
 On the sweet tones of melody and sense 
 In soft persuasion dropping from the tongue 
 Of lovely woman ; let me drink her smiles, 
 The beverage of love, and from her eye 
 See my own joy reflected, and thence doubled. 
 Without her all thy charms, forsaken cot. 
 Court me in vain. Adieu then, humble roof, 
 Not to be sought, since not to be enjoy'd 
 Alone. A little longer with the world 
 I mix ; a little longer hear the shout 
 Of clam'rous, factious, discontented man; 
 A little longer bear the beldam's frown. 
 The hiss of slander, and the sneer of pride. 
 Then shall thy door receive me, never more 
 To quit thy peaceful shadows, till kind Heav'n, 
 With her the sole sweet partner of my joys, 
 Transplant me (of indulgence not deserv'd) 
 Into a world where charity abounds, 
 
222 ADRIANO, OR 
 
 And love shall live for ever and for ever. 
 
 So sang the poet, and with speedy step 
 Went forward to the world. He sought the church, 
 And saw Maria issue from the porch 
 In transport led by Gilbert. Anna next 
 Came smiling forth, to Fred'ric wedded. Then 
 Cheerful tlio' single, and the only maid 
 Without a mate, Sophia tripp'd along. 
 The good man followed with a face of joy, 
 And Ronsart. Show'rs of roses strew'd the path, 
 And sprigs of myrtle, lavender, and bay. 
 The chaises both are fiU'd, the steeds remounted, 
 And through the village street I saw them pass. 
 While ev'ry door and ev'ry window throng'd, 
 And ev'ry countenance was full of mirth. 
 And merrily the bells rang round. And I 
 Stood thrilling as thej' went, for in my soul 
 I love the sight of happiness enjoy'd : 
 M'ould it were lasting, and not quickly past, 
 Short as the transports of a wedding-day. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE. 22$ 
 
 Nor Stood I long, for at the wedding feast 
 I knew this face was welcome, and I went. 
 And I beheld young Ronsart as he rode 
 And chatted with Sophia. I beheld 
 His bashful look and unaffected tears, 
 When warm with love he loiter'd far behind, 
 Bewail'd his folly, and in humble tone 
 Besought the fair one, if her gea'rous heart 
 Could e'er forget the wickedness he thought, 
 Could love a stranger of his deeds asham'd, 
 She would regard his unabating sighs, 
 And with her hand reward him. I beheld 
 Sophia's cheek with ardent blushes spread. 
 I heard her tell him of a man she lov'd, 
 And he had long lov'd her, and yesternight 
 The letter Fred'ric brought was pemi'd by him, 
 And he was constant still. Then Ronsart bow'd, 
 And wav'd his claim, and to his fate resign'd. 
 
 To Gilbert's house they came, and 1 was there, 
 And shook thy hand, Sophia, and thy lips 
 Kiss'd with a lover's warmth. I saw the tear 
 
224 ADRIANO, on. THE FIUST OF JUNE. 
 
 Run trickling from thj' eye. I felt thy hand 
 In ecstasy press mine. I saw thy tongue, 
 Eager to tell nie of an age of news, 
 Could utter nothing, and was bound like mine 
 In chains of joy and undissembied love. 
 I sat beside thee at the feast ; I serv'd ; 
 I cheer'd thee, and was cheer'd ; I fill'd thy glass ; 
 I pledg'd thy toast ; I reac'.i'd thee fruit ; I drank, 
 And with thee sang ; I led thee to the walk ; 
 I led thee home ; I led thee to the dance. 
 Time had no durance ; with a prater's tongue 
 He counted his short hours, and speedy night 
 Gallop'd her coursers to conclude the day. 
 
 Surely the time shall come when once again 
 Thou shalt adorn the feast, and lead the dance, 
 Thyself the wedded fair. Cords of restraint 
 Shall cease to bind me, and the lonely cot 
 Yield all its pleasures to thy lip and mine. 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION, 
 
 A POEM, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY 
 
 THE DEATH OF A SISTER 
 
 TENDEULY BELOVED. 
 
 Nos societ tumuUif, societ nos obsecro creliim. 
 
 SIR T. MORE. 
 
 Eja age in amplexns, cara Maria, redi. 
 
 LOWTH. 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 *Tis done, 'tis done, the bitter hour is past. 
 And Isabel, my treasure, my delight. 
 Is number'd with the dead. I see the hearse 
 With sable plumes and sullen-footed steeds 
 The village church approach. I see the corse. 
 From its dark cell releas'd, by many a hand 
 Uplifted heavily. I hear the bell 
 Toll to the slow and melancholy step 
 Of mute procession, the white priest before. 
 The mourners following, and in the midst, 
 Thee my delight, my pleasure, and my ho|je, 
 Under the flowing pall. I see my love 
 Borne thro' the portal of her native church, 
 Thence never to return. I hear a voice 
 Consign her to oblivion, dust to dust, 
 Ashes to ashes. 
 
228 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Everlasting God, 
 Author of life, and sovereign of death, 
 Why hast thou stript me of this lovely gem, 
 The glory of my bosom ? Was my tongue 
 Unwilling to intreat thee ? Was my knee 
 Tardy to kneel ? or did my anxious heart 
 Ask without fervour for the life it sought ? 
 Mysterious Being, with unceasing prayer 
 Have I t!iy throne approach'd, beseeching health 
 For this my dearest blessing. With large tears 
 Have I thy grace intreated day and night, 
 Requesting rather pain and poverty 
 Than this so bitter loss. Yet still in vain 
 Have I besought thee, and thy will be done. 
 I know there is not righteousness in man, 
 And of the blessings which I yet enjoy 
 I nothing merit. Loud as 1 complain'd, 
 Devoutly as I pray'd, thine ear was shut 
 Without injustice; and the pains I feel 
 Are the due wages of my mean desert. 
 
 Eternal God, must I no more enjoy 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 229 
 
 The genial comforts wliich t!iy liberal hand 
 Once shed about me ? Must yon lonely cot 
 Know me no more ? yon wood-besprinkled vale 
 Echo no longer to my careless song ? 
 No ! my sweet treasure Isabel is gone, 
 And in yon rural mansion lives no more 
 The Village Curate. To some stranger's eye 
 Must it unfold its blossoms, the sweet buds 
 Which art has taught its windows to surround. 
 To mine they give no pleasure, nor to me 
 Smiles, as it did, the valley or the brook, 
 The wood, the coppice, the paternal oak, 
 Or village steeple station'd on tlie hill. 
 No ! my sweet treasure Isabel is gone. 
 Some messenger of God my door has pass'd 
 From earth returning, saw the beauteous flower. 
 Transported gather'd it, and in his hand 
 Bore it to Heav'n rejoicing. Lo ! my tears ! 
 They flow for lsal)cl, whom these my eyes, 
 When lirst they wak'd to reason antl to sense, 
 Found a poor friendless infant at my side 
 In the same cradle sleeping. With a smile 
 
230 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 And arms outstretch'd it pleaded for my love, 
 And won affection which no time could kill, 
 No accident abate. Our souls were one, 
 One were our hopes, our pleasures, and our pains. 
 Wept Isabel ? into her wounded heart 
 Sweet consolation her companion pour'd. 
 Droop'd with distemper her unhealthy mate ; 
 She at his side sat weeping, sooth'd his pain 
 With gentle eye-drops, and the tender tone 
 Of sympathy maternal, nor forbore 
 Till rosy welfare to his cheek return'd. 
 
 Then sported they together, from the world 
 Long time remote, where yon enormous downs 
 Shoulder the eastern moon. The mountain's side 
 They scal'd together, on his airy brow 
 Together loiter'd, and together bowl'd 
 The bounding flint into the vale below. 
 Together stood they trembling on the cliff. 
 To view the wide unlimited expanse 
 Of ocean green beneath, what time the storm 
 His azure realm had troubled, and at large 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 231 
 
 The tempest-loving porpoise thro' his waves 
 Fiounder'd unheeding. On the pebbly beach 
 With painful step they travell'd side by side, 
 Shrunk at the thund'ring downfall of the surge, 
 And chas'd the flying foam. Never apart 
 Till Education at her season came, 
 Sever'd their hands, and bade the boy averse 
 To learning's distant fane her steps attend. 
 
 Yet still tow'rd Label's belov'd retreat 
 A longing eye he cast, her parting tears 
 Remember'd, her engaging smile, her look 
 Of meek affection, her impassion'd kiss. 
 Oft on the spotless sheet with breathing pen 
 He pour'J the tender sentiment he felt. 
 She the warm line perus'd, and dwelt with pride 
 On ev'ry glowing period. 
 
 So increas'd 
 Love not to be subdued, and like the moon 
 To ampler plenitude and sweeter day 
 Proceeded hourly ; but not like the moon 
 
252 TEAItS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Incrcas'd to wane, augmented but to change. 
 No, my sweet Isabel, tliy faithful love 
 Knew no decline ; from day to day it grew, 
 From year to year, an amaranthine flower 
 Unchangeable. With exquisite delight 
 She welcom'd home the countenance she lov'd, 
 What time Vacation 'gan his airy dance, 
 And left Tuition nodding o'er his books 
 In Academus' shades : with show'r of joy 
 Welcom'd the day when Education's claims 
 Drew to a period, and the youth was her's, 
 Never to leave her more. 
 
 Then to the cot, 
 Not unaccompanied by those they lov'd. 
 Contented they withdrew. Then life began. 
 And sweetly pass'd it by their happy door. 
 While they and health and innocence within 
 Sat at the board together. There they dwelt, 
 And often rose in the sweet morn of May, 
 To watch the slow and timorous return 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 33S 
 
 Of renovated Spring. ^Vith eye well-pleas'd 
 They saw the sun industrious from his couch 
 Still on tlie morrow with an earlier smile 
 His beauteous dawn dispense ; witli joyful heart 
 Noted tiie progress of the gradual vale 
 Slowly reviving, saw the op'ning bud 
 Spread its incautious blossom to the breeze, 
 The tender leaf for its protection spring. 
 And gloried to behold the lonely oak 
 In tardy foliage cloth'd. Yes, day by day 
 'Twas thy supreme and innocent delight 
 With me, my Isabel, the plant and flower. 
 The shrub and the ejpalier, the high wood, 
 The hedge-row, field, and orchard to observe, 
 Each in its turn with vegetative life 
 Freely endued, and, as its season came, 
 Clad in peculiar honours. With thy eye 
 Has mine enchanted round the garden stray'd. 
 And oft hare I beheld thee with a smile 
 Thy families protecting, raising some. 
 Some wedding to tiie marriageable stem, 
 And some with dew-drops cheering. 
 
234 TEARS OF ArFECTION. 
 
 Ah ! no more 
 Must thy sweet converse in the garden shade 
 My list'ning ear engage. Thou shalt no more 
 Hear me discourse of wisdom freely shed 
 On ev'ry work below, and to the sight 
 Of him who searclies easv to be seen. 
 Our eyes no more upon the bloom of spring 
 Shall dwell together. Never shall I hear 
 Thy tongue again the concert of the grove 
 Applaud, and n)ark at thy request the strain 
 Of many a warbler singing to his mate. 
 The bird of morn, that on the sun-beam floats, 
 What time he darts it from the deep aslant, 
 And smites unseen tiie flccker'd roof of Ileav'n, 
 Shall no more wake thee with his early song 
 In wild division warbled. Nor again 
 Her solo anthem shall the bird of night. 
 Heard with attention, to thy watchful ear 
 In the still coppice vary. Eve and morn 
 Participated pleasure shall no more 
 To us distribute. With thy arm in mine 
 I shall no more the sober walk enjoy 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 235 
 
 In the still ev'ning vale, what time tlie rook. 
 With whisp'ring w'ing brushes the midway air. 
 To the high wood impatient to return. 
 We shall no more yon family of oaks, 
 Which crowds the bottom of the gloomy vale, 
 Visit together, when the shades of night 
 Double the horrors of their mingled boughs. 
 We shall not listen to the free complaint 
 Of the day-dreading partridge, oft dispers'd, 
 And often pitied by thy tongue and mine. 
 We shall not hear with sympathetic heart 
 The distant bell, whose deep and equal tone 
 Tolls to the grave some relative deceas'd, 
 Some child, some parent, or some spouse belov'd, 
 And dear to them who follow, as ourselves 
 Were precious to each other. 
 
 No ! dear girl, 
 Thy own sad knell has toll'd. My wounded heart 
 Has yeam'd at thy decease, and tho' my foot 
 Refus'd to follow to the yawning grave 
 
236 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Thy cold remains, my overflowing eye 
 
 Has wept thee pienteonsly. It weeps thee still, 
 
 And daily, while 1 may, the silent spot 
 
 Where thy poor reliques rest, with swelling heart 
 
 Will I revisit. Daily by tliy grave 
 
 Will I the luxury of grief profuse 
 
 Indulge, and dwell a statue on the spot 
 
 Where the dark vault its stony jaws has clos'd 
 
 Oil Isabel my treasure, and ere long 
 
 Shall close on me. The solitary walls 
 
 Which guard thy corse shall my domestic Muse 
 
 With unaffected eulogy inscribe. 
 
 And place her breathing tablet o'er thy bones 
 
 With the deep sigh of exquisite regret. 
 
 My tongue shall oft report thee, and my feet 
 
 Rejoice to be detain'd, while at thy side 
 
 1 tell the moving tale of thy desert. 
 
 Here sleeps my Isabel, the brightest gem 
 
 Heav'n in my crown had plac'd, my bosom-star, 
 
 The sweet companion of my lonely hours, 
 
 Whose presence made a moment of a day, 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 2ST 
 
 Whose absence makes a century of an hour. 
 
 With me she tripi)'d upon the airy ilown, 
 
 \\"ah me she loiter'd in the sunny vale, 
 
 With me applauded nature, ever fair. 
 
 Revolve in what \ icissitude she will. 
 
 In ev'ry season of the beauteous year 
 
 Her eye was open, and with studious love 
 
 Read the divine Creator in his works. 
 
 Chiefly in thee, sweet Spring, when ev'ry nook 
 
 Some latent beauty to her wakeful search 
 
 Presented, some sweet flow'r, some virtual plant. 
 
 In ev'ry native of the hill and vale 
 
 She found attraction, and where beauty fail'd, 
 
 Applauded odour or commended use. 
 
 So was the wild geranium to her breast. 
 
 However simple and however plain, 
 
 A welcome ornament ; germander so, 
 
 With his blue flower on ev'ry bank dispers'd, 
 
 No guest impertinent. The humble vetch 
 
 Her posy grac'd, and the pale rose of prime. 
 
 The orchis elegant, with many a tier 
 
 Of flv-resemblin'' blossoms each o'er each 
 
238 TKAUS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Pagoda-like dispos'd. With tender sense 
 
 The pimpernel, which to the humid morn, 
 
 Ere yet the shower-shedding cloud appears. 
 
 Its bosom closes, and presages wet. 
 
 The tansey with its bloom of gold, and leaf 
 
 Verdant above, with silver lin'd beneath, 
 
 The lujula, which often on the bank 
 
 Dwells by the woodland strawberr}', and presents 
 
 A leaf not less delicious than his fruit, 
 
 A flow'r superior. 
 
 Such and thousands more, 
 Leisurel}' gather'd, have thy hand and breast. 
 Dear Isabel, adorn'd, wliile I well pleas'd 
 Have niark'd thy studious search, and unpercciv'd 
 Drawn thee thus loit'ring in unutler'd song; 
 Or idly wound the clasping eglantine 
 About thj' crown, or fill'd thy hair with flow'rs 
 Of the sweet woodbine, whose maternal branch 
 Suckles the bee with honey, and the moth. 
 Yes, gentle maid, thy steps have I pursu'd 
 In search of summer beauties, and observ'd 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 239 
 
 Myriads that wak'd me to delight and joy, 
 But' none so fair, so lovely as thyself. 
 With thee have I admir'd the shady grove, 
 The sunny champaign, the extensive weald 
 Scatter'd with steeples, messuages, and mills, 
 And dwelt on many a pleasurable spot 
 Of intersected pasture, with its stack, 
 Cottage and lodge, few sheep and grazing cow. 
 Deeming content and happiness were there. 
 With thee have I applauded the deep vale, 
 Its verdure mellowing as it stole away. 
 To either margin of a winding stream 
 Presenting fainter shadows, softer woods ; 
 With thee beheld with smile affectionate 
 Our native downs remote, hill behind hill, 
 Gigantic family, some near, some far, 
 Withdrawing till their faint expiring tops 
 Were almost lost and melted into air. 
 With thee have I delighted still to rove 
 At mom, at eve, in twilight, and at noon. 
 Long as sweet summer lasted. Chiefly then 
 When tufts of primrose smil'd upon tlie bank. 
 
240 TEAIIS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Gracing the verge of some translucent stream, 
 Or glassy lake, whose mirror their soft flow'rs 
 Reflected softer to the loit'rer's eye. 
 Or when the strawherry with ruddy cheek 
 Provok'd the finger to be plucking still. 
 When fragrant honeysuckle his sweet flow'r 
 Along the hedge-row scatter'd, and the breeze 
 Of ev'ning freely his perfume dispens'd ; 
 When blossom'd clover, or the martial bean, 
 The hayrick newly built, or bitter hop 
 Emitting from the oast a grateful steam, 
 Fill'd all the vale with odours. Arm in arm 
 Have we the de«s of ev'ning often met, 
 And the pale ray of the September moon. 
 What time ascending with discolour'd cheek 
 She peer'd above the cloud or highland wood. 
 And silently improving as she rose 
 Hung o'er the fiided landscape full of light; 
 A glorious lamp, to cheer a boundless hall 
 Floating across the living dome of Hcav'n, 
 Suspended upon nothing. Arm in arm 
 Have we the sun of morning on the brow 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 241 
 
 Yet unapparent welcom'd, and his soft 
 Emergent glory like tlie bee enjoy'd, 
 Roving from bank to bank, from hill to hill. 
 Along the meadow now, or thro' the field 
 Of sheaves erect, or barley by the scythe 
 In firequent lines dispos'd, or fertile oat. 
 Now by the stream, to hear the liquid lapse 
 Of Rother gliding o'er some pebbly shoal. 
 Or with hoarse tumult thro' the foamy dam 
 And idle mill-wheel falling. Homeward now 
 Thro' many a garden which the foster'd hop 
 Shades with his branch prolific, yet untouch'd : 
 Now to some quarter where his honours fall, 
 Thro' many a family who pluck his flow'rs. 
 And fill the bin with gold, there to delay 
 And haply some assist the pole to strip, 
 Bestowing freely a few moments toil 
 To mark how industry her task pursues. 
 With finger never weary, singing still. 
 Now to the village, whose aspiring church 
 High on a hillock in the valley stands, 
 And smiles with glory in the rising sun. 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 As if it lov'd the prospect it adorns. 
 
 How sweet the pleasure then, in some lone nook 
 
 Under a precipice, or lofty wood, 
 
 To pause and listen, while the village bells, 
 
 By distance mellow'd, their melodious tones 
 
 Each after other to the feeding ear 
 
 Softly persuasive utter'd ; faintly heard 
 
 Sometimes, and scarce more audible, remote, 
 
 Than the melUfluous octave, gently touch'd 
 
 By some impassion'd songstress, to relieve 
 
 Her soul-subduing song ; sometimes more bold, 
 
 A sweet harmonious diapason swell 
 
 Of gradual increase, by the breeze at length 
 
 In loud confusion huddled on the ear. 
 
 Till echo chid them, and they died again. 
 
 Ah me ! such pleasures shall be mine no more. 
 My lov'd companion, whose endearing smile 
 And sensible remark made all things sweet, 
 Attends my paths no more. My gentle friend 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 24^ 
 
 Is snatch'd away to Heav'n. Content is gone, 
 And sorrow saddens every step I tread. 
 Dear spirit, come again. In some lone hour, 
 While thus I sit in melancholy thought. 
 With eyes intent upon the quiv'ring flame 
 TThat plays along the hearth, and shed my tears 
 Without reluctance, open wide the door, 
 Steal to my side unseen, and with a kiss. 
 As often wont, my reverie disperse. 
 Recall me with a smile from the dark gloom 
 Of woe and discontent, and once again 
 Bring to my side sweet peace ; for she is fled. 
 And has been long departed. When disease 
 First prey'd on thee, my treasure, she withdrew, 
 And wander'd God knows whither. Cruel maid I 
 She left me tho' I lov'd her, and is gone 
 With those to linger who shall prize her less. 
 Then come again, dear spirit, come again. 
 And let thy smile exhilarate a soul 
 Which cannot live and be cohtent alone. 
 I will esteem thee more and chide thee less. 
 And nothing utter which thy heart shall wound, 
 
m TEARS OF AFFECTION". 
 
 Tho' death divide us never. Want of eas«. 
 And frequent sense of agon}' conceal'd, 
 Has sometimes made me in the wayward houi 
 E'en thee, thou blameless innocent, reprove ; 
 And thou hast wept to ease an aching heart. 
 Which almost burst at my undue rebuke. 
 Return again, sweet spirit. Let me weep. 
 And make atonement for the wrong I own. 
 Thou wilt not blame me. Guilty as I am. 
 Forgiveness shall be mine. Wert thou my judge. 
 My debt of trespass would be small indeed. 
 
 Come let me hold thee with a father's love, 
 And yield thee benefits thrice more in weight 
 Than father ever on his child bestow'd. 
 Thou art my daughter. When my weeping Muse 
 The filial Marg'ret drew, she copied thee. 
 Nor can I deem thee to the brilliant gem 
 Of More inferior, tho' with justice styl'd 
 The grace of Britain *. Piety was thine, 
 
 • Britaoaix decus. — Erasm. 
 
TEARS OP AFFF.CTION. iH 
 
 As piety was her's. Good humour, love. 
 
 Compassion, pleasantry, and soft address, 
 
 Exterior symbols of a mind within 
 
 Gentle, humane, and firiendly, grac'd you both. 
 
 Both from attentive childhood's earliest hour 
 
 Were by the Muses nurtur'd. Marg'ret's eye 
 
 Delighted ever on the page to dwell 
 
 Of sweet instruction, and no leisure hour 
 
 Neglected Isabel, and not improv'd ; 
 
 Pursuing still the multifarious tale 
 
 Of general story, of the world at large 
 
 Discoursing, ancient continent and new. 
 
 Of kingdoms born, and mighty states deceas'd, 
 
 Of wars and victories and routed hosts, 
 
 And millions slain, of whom and of their deeds, 
 
 But in the classic page, no trace exists. 
 
 Now to the changes of her native isle 
 
 Strictly attentive, from its earliest birth 
 
 The growth of pow'r she trac'd, and gradual rise 
 
 Of commerce, feeble in its first essay. 
 
 Spreading another and another sail. 
 
 Till ocean swarm'd with ventures, till excess 
 
246 TEAKS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Came to the shores, till hixury began, 
 And exquisite refinement wondrous nice 
 AUow'd no blemish in the work siie sought. 
 The birth of learning then, and childish march 
 Of science, yet an infant led by strings. 
 She mark'd, and thro' successive ages watch'd 
 Tiie puny stripling till he grew to man. 
 With snges thus which every age adorn'd. 
 Philosophers and scholars she ere long 
 Had intimate acquaintance, and the tale 
 Of anecdote peculiar still pursued, 
 And gloried to remember. Ye whose pens 
 In moral lesson have your country taught, 
 Say which of you she knew not ? studious ever 
 Of your instructive and amusing line. 
 Whether it march'd in solemn state along, 
 Or wanton'd idly to arrest the eye, 
 And lead the slumb'ring judgment unawares 
 To sense of duty. Which of j'ou, ye bards. 
 Had she not foUow'd thro' your airy flights ? 
 Whether aloft in Epic song sublime 
 And bold Pindaric soaring, or beneath 
 
TEARS or AFFECTION. 2*t 
 
 Flutt'riiig in humble verse, or steadier song 
 
 Warbling suspended in the midway heav'n. 
 
 From the wild terrace of the British muse 
 
 She ev'ry flow'r had gather'd, and disposed 
 
 In cabinet secure her posied sweets, 
 
 The weed rejecting ever. Witness these 
 
 So neatly penn'd, so carefully preserv'd. 
 
 Volumes of beauty, for the leisure eye 
 
 And faithless memory copied. Prospers here 
 
 The puniest blossom of the classic muse. 
 
 Here flourishes the fairest Chiefly thine, 
 
 Thou bard of nature, Shakspeare. Milton, thine i 
 
 Thine, Dryden, from a mound of rubbish cuU'd, 
 
 Yet not inferior to the best that blow. 
 
 Thine, Spenser, to the antiquarian eye 
 
 Soberly pleasing. Butler, thine, replete 
 
 With learning, sense, and wit. Roscommon, thine. 
 
 Judicious, elegant; and, Otway, thine. 
 
 Applauded and reprov'd. Thine, Pope, as gems 
 
 Not seldom lustrous, sometimes tinsel-ray'd. 
 
 Thine, gentle Pomfret, not to be despis'd ; 
 
248 TEARS or AFFECTION. 
 
 And, nebulous Blackmoie, thine. Tliine, charniinf 
 
 Rowe, 
 Politest grace of the dramatic page ; 
 And thine, poetic Prior. Parnel, thine, 
 To me of lovely fragrance. Thomson thine ; 
 And thine, more musical, descriptive less. 
 Young, in whose tedious and protracted song 
 Still gleams and still expires the cloudy day 
 Of genuine poetry. Thine too are there. 
 Impetuous Akenside, as thunder strong. 
 Thine, awful, pleasing, persecuted Gray. 
 Thine, lovelorn Lyttelton ; and, Shenstone, thine. 
 An artificial nosegay made of shells. 
 And thine, not least esteem'd, tho' latest nam'd. 
 Ingenious Cowper. From thy various Muse, 
 Sweet bard, she frequent entertainment sought. 
 Nor long could seek in vain. Upon thy page 
 Her eye was feeding, when invidious death 
 Her bosom wounded with his poison'd shaft. 
 And soon she thought thy labour to repay 
 With some fair pledge of honour and esteem, 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 249 
 
 By her wn art accomplished. Time to come, 
 
 Far as the ken of certainty may reach, 
 
 She to display had purpos'd, and thine eai* 
 
 With sweet prophetic narrative to feed 
 
 As long as hunger would. For she had skill 
 
 The moon from her high orbit to decoy. 
 
 And hold her spell-bound in the midst of Heav'n, 
 
 While she propounded question, at what hour 
 
 The phasy wand'rer with decreasing orb 
 
 Her course anomalous fulfill'd unseen ; 
 
 Or at what hour with half replenish'd horn 
 
 She grac'd the brow of eve, or when replete 
 
 Rose in full glory in the belt of night. 
 
 Then question sprung, if in her annual course 
 
 Ofttimes the world embracing, thro' the band 
 
 Which marks the fancied circuit of the sun 
 
 At her renewal, or her full-fac'd hour. 
 
 She pass'd. Affirmative reply with style 
 
 Correct was noted, and from thence arose 
 
 Examen nice, how near or how remote 
 
 The node she saiPd to, or the node she left ; 
 
 And whether as she journey'd, void or fill'd. 
 
2 50 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 She touch'd the distant shadow of the earth, 
 
 Or shadow'd earth herself. Earlh's shadow then 
 
 Was feebly pictur'd, and the point exact 
 
 By computation noted, where the orb 
 
 Of night first smote it, and her borrow'd beam 
 
 Slowly submitted, till her faded cheek 
 
 Was all with wan deliquium sicklied o'er. 
 
 Her central course athwart the shade she cross'd, 
 
 And ev'ry moment of her pallid march 
 
 Were represented then, till her thick veil 
 
 Earth drew aside, impatient of delay. 
 
 And the sweet loss she raourn'd. Then glow'd anew 
 
 The silver, crescent with improving horn, 
 
 And the fair orb thro' all her changes pass'd 
 
 Of wane and increase in a summer's eve. 
 
 The moon thus portray'd in her languid hour, 
 
 Question arose what time her rayless orb 
 
 The sunbeam intercepted, and how large 
 
 The portion sever'd from his ardent globe 
 
 By her intruding disc ; at what bright hour 
 
 She 'gan invade him, and her central path, 
 
 Whether it smote his axis in the midst, 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 351 
 
 Total eclipse inducing, or a ring 
 Of glory sparing on his utmost skirt. 
 
 Such arduous queries would the fair one ask, 
 And reason answer'd, on her spotless blank 
 The luminaries painting, each in turn 
 InTolv'd in partial or in total gloom ; 
 The one long struggling with her adverse hour, 
 The other soon victorious. Nor alone 
 Computed she the labours of the moon 
 Or parent sun, as their expiring balls 
 The passant year alarm'd, or years to come 
 Clouded with idle terrors yet unborn. 
 Into the dark abysm of ages pa.<<t 
 An eye inquisitive she threw, and oft 
 The credulous historian, copying still 
 The date erroneous, with unerring art 
 Chastis'd and rectified, the glorious fact 
 To its lost hour restoring, till the page 
 Of maim'd chronology spake truth aloue. 
 
 Such was thy skill, dear maid, by nature taught 
 
252 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 The maze of heavenly motions to explore. 
 Nor this thy only art; in numbers vers'd, 
 And able early to untie with ease 
 The problematic knot, howe'er delay'd 
 By fraction cumbersome, and hard to rule. 
 Thine was the pow'r, when calculation swarm'd 
 With digits numberless, and scarce could urge 
 Her toilsome process, by unwieldy size 
 Retarded, to conduct with ease the mind 
 Thro' all its movements to the truth it sought 
 By that sweet art of the wild Arab learn'd. 
 Compendious method, whose disputing march 
 Relieves the soul of effort, and cuts short 
 The labour of attention, making truth 
 To him who millions agitates involv'd 
 No longer vex'd and tedious, nor to him 
 Who geometric inference pursues, 
 Still on the letter'd diagram intent. 
 
 Thine also was the art, to touch with skill 
 And various feeling the persuasive stop 
 Of organ meUow-ton'd, slow movement first 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 98% 
 
 And solemn fingering, till the lapt soul 
 
 With sweet indulgence satiated 'gan doze 
 
 As if by opium lull'd, and ill perceiv'd 
 
 The melting lapse of diapason sounds, 
 
 Harmonious combination falling slow 
 
 Into a tremulous expiring close. 
 
 Then the brisk fugue witii captivating air. 
 
 Expressive pause, and tone distinct and loud, 
 
 Led like some active hero to the field, 
 
 Led and was foUow'd b}- battalions firm, 
 
 Till universal uproar fill'd the ear. 
 
 Then follow'd tender air, that stole along 
 
 Like softest poetry, whose dying fall 
 
 Might ravish Heav'n itself. Then solemn march, 
 
 Impulse scarce needing of the pow'rful trump 
 
 And loud reverberating drum, to wake 
 
 Reposing valour to gigantic deeds. 
 
 Then air accompanied by verse and voice, 
 
 Haply of Handel's muse, for some sweet grace 
 
 Selected and esteem'd, haply deriv'd 
 
 From genius less improved, from living art. 
 
 Which seldom to the judgment dares appeal, 
 
254 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Her song compiling for the ear alone. 
 Religious anthem then thy spreading hand 
 With its full concord swell'd, whether it breath'd 
 Melodious solo or harmonious verse, 
 Or shouted chorus awfully devout, 
 Enrich'd with all the mysteries of tone. 
 
 What grace had music which to thee was new 
 Or hard to copy, evermore intent 
 Upon her learned pleasure-giving page ? 
 And yet not so intent, but that thy eye 
 Would often hunger for sedater fare, 
 Would thirst th' amusing characters of Greece 
 In Homer's line to read, and drink the stream 
 Of pure Castalius genuine as it fell. 
 Nor of that fount alone, but of the fount 
 Of God, whence prophets their sublimer draught 
 Drew, till the plenteous bev'rage on their lips 
 Kindled divine enthusiasm, long'd thy soul 
 To taste with freedom. Hence thy brave attempt 
 To climb the mountain of Judaean writ. 
 Till nought of Hebrew rudiment thy search 
 
TEARS OF AITECTION. flSS 
 
 Or memory escap'd. The key was thine 
 The ark of ancient promise to unlock, 
 And there the sacred leaf, to others dumb. 
 To scan and to interpret for ibyself. 
 Yet slighted not thy truth-adoring soul 
 The volume of translation, long esteem'd 
 And executed well, nor needing yet, 
 Save here and thete, a sense-restoriug touch. 
 Thence drew thy judgment a continual feast, 
 The chain of prophecy expounding still, 
 Link after link, as story lent thee light, 
 And tracing with conviction the strong proof 
 Of Christian verity, still firee to doubt 
 And nothing credulous, yet yielding still 
 To equal testimouy brave assent. 
 
 StfCH were the treasures of thy active mind, 
 Ingenious Isabel ; such the sweet arts 
 Which made thee to a brother dear indeed ; 
 That not the pious child of More to him 
 
256 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Seem'd to possess, enchanting as she was, 
 
 Of mental beauty a more ample share. 
 
 Yet, lovely as thou wert, thy hour is past, 
 
 Thy beaming day is ended. Thou art gone, 
 
 Fleeting and transient as the cloud of morn, 
 
 And only this poor feeble outline lives. 
 
 This stol'n resemblance of thy trembling shade. 
 
 Cast by the midnight taper on the wall. 
 
 And sorrowfully pencil'd ere thy lips 
 
 Were cold in death. Yes, this poor shade alone 
 
 Is all that Heav'n has left me, and e'en this 
 
 Had not been mine to weep o'er and to love. 
 
 But that my daring pencil, spite of grief, 
 
 The feature copied when the soul was fled. 
 
 Dear welcome image, in my bosom dwell. 
 
 Forsake me never. Let me love thee still. 
 
 And often gaze upon thy lifeless cheek 
 
 Till blinded sorrow has no eye to see. 
 
 Let me the kiss of ecstasy imprint 
 
 On thy cold lips, oft as my sinking soul 
 
 With recollection bows of those dear hours 
 
 WJien thy belov'd original was mine. 
 
TEARS OK AFFECTION. 25T 
 
 To speak to and caress. Then go in peace, 
 And to the mansion of my heart return, 
 Whence none but death shall pluck thee. Tliere repose 
 In mute security till life be spent. 
 Nought that reminds me of the maid I lov'd, 
 Nor aifght that she applauded or esteem'd, 
 Shall from my sight depart. Therefore shall you, 
 Ye gentle doves, familiar to the hand, 
 Whom goodness long experienc'd has made tame 
 And nothing fearful of the touch of man, 
 Under my roof still live, and still enjoy 
 Provision plenteous. Isabel your lives 
 Redeem'd for pity, and the debt forgave : 
 Dying herself, your liberty she ask'd 
 Of thirsty violence ; and ye shall fall, 
 When nature pleases, without shedding blood. 
 And thou too, tabby fav'rite, tho' thy eye 
 Stranger to tears no sorrow has express'd. 
 Still sporting on the hearth, tho' Isabel, 
 Thy fond protectress, is thy friend no more, 
 Thou, gentle kitten, shalt no morning-meal 
 VOL. I. s 
 
253 TEAUS OF AI'FECTION. 
 
 With slender tone petitionary ask. 
 But I will yield it. Sit upon my knee, 
 And whisper pleasure, gratitude, and love. 
 For favour well bestow'd : thy silky neck 
 Still offer to the pressure of my hand. 
 And fear no evil : frisk upon the floor, 
 And cuff the cushion or suspended cork 
 Till riot make thee weary : slumber then 
 In the warm sunbeam on the window's ledge. 
 Till from thy fur the spark electric spring ; 
 Or doze upon the elbow of my chair, 
 Or on my shoulder, or my knee, while I, 
 Lost in some dream of happiness deceas'd. 
 Steal from reflection pleasure, and beguile 
 A morning's march across the vale of life 
 By musing upon comforts now no more. 
 Or if sweet sle?p not please thee, with the cord 
 And dangling tassel of the curtain play. 
 Or seize the grumbling hornet, or pert wasp, 
 Intruding ever, while I smile remote 
 At danger brav'd by vent'rous ignorance 
 And anger ill-escap'd. Only forbear 
 
TEAnS OF AFFECTION. 259 
 
 To tease the fly and inoffensive moth, 
 As Isabel forbade thee. Least of all 
 Fasten thy talons on the fenceless dove, 
 For that were murder not to be excus'd. 
 
 O CHANGEABLE and fleeting world ! The hour 
 E'en now, by time's repeating tongue announc'd, 
 Completes the circle of twelve speedy months 
 Since I my Isabel, with heart elate 
 And proud of its possession, at the ball 
 Beheld triumphant ; since her rapid hand 
 The harp's sweet strings with emulation smote, 
 And easily victorious won the palm. 
 Yet blush'd to take it as not well deserv'd. 
 Where is she now ? O soul-distracting thought \ 
 Open thy caverns, earth, and bless my sight 
 With one short interview of her I mourn. 
 And thou, great God, forgive me, if I burst 
 The portal of the grave, ill-reconcil'd 
 To this thy bard decree. Ye silent dead, 
 
2C0 TF.AnS OF AFFECTrOX. 
 
 I come to weep in your profoniiJ abodes, 
 
 To shed my tears within j'our moiild'riiig vaults, 
 
 Mid eyeless sculls and dissipated bones. 
 
 I have a father somewhere. Here he lies. 
 
 Good man, I much respect thee, tho' my tears 
 
 Grac'd not tb}- fun'ral hour ; a child too young- 
 
 To know the value of the friend he lost. 
 
 Repose in peace. Thy children shall be mine. 
 
 r come net now to weep thee, but to seek, 
 
 My long-lov'd Isabel, of all thy train 
 
 Save one the youngest, and of all thy train 
 Excepting none the loveliest. Here she sleeps. 
 Known to a father scarce twelve little moons, 
 To me a daughter for twelve precious \-ears 
 Twice told. Thou tenant of the gloomy vault, 
 Whom these dark boards have prison'd from my sight, 
 Thou sleeping angel, in a treble chest 
 Thrice lock'd and bolted, let me the harsh screw, . 
 Which thy sweet smile confines, from its firm hold 
 Wrench hatefully away : let me the seam. 
 Which o'er thy silent innermost recess 
 Strong cement closes, resolutely burst. 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 261 
 
 To view thy welcome countenance again. 
 
 Where are the lips, which mine so oft have press'd 
 
 In J030US welcome and in sad adieu ? 
 
 Where arc the eyes, which ne'er encounter'd these 
 
 But to relate, in eloquence how sweet. 
 
 In poetry how charming, the soft tale 
 
 Of daughterly affection ? Where, oh where 
 
 Is the sweet voice that charm'd my soul to rest, 
 
 And made my cottage but a step from Heav'n ? 
 
 Where is the hand, so welcome to my touch. 
 
 So skill'd to gratify my thirsting ear 
 
 Witli harmony's full measure of delight ? 
 
 Obstruction hence ! impediment away ! 
 
 Tho' universal hell my arm oppose 
 
 I will again behold her. Lend me. Death, 
 
 Lend me, grim monster, thy eternal bar. 
 
 Thy massy lever, that upheaves the lid 
 
 Of the mephitic marble-jaw'd abyss, 
 
 And I shall all prevail. Lo ! it is done. 
 
 Ah me ! is this my Isabel ? Are these 
 The lips where health his odoriferous gales 
 
262 TEAHS OF AFFECTION- 
 
 And venial roses shed ? Are these the balls 
 
 Whose dew so often fell to sooth my pain 
 
 Or welcome my return, provoking still 
 
 The latent synipatiiy my looks denied, 
 
 Till my heart melted and my eye o'erflow'd ? 
 
 Are these the fingers that so charm'd my ear ? 
 
 Is this the hand that dwelt upon my arm 
 
 So many summers in the ev'ning walk ? 
 
 The hand that serv'd me with good-will so free, 
 
 Guided the pen so fairly, and the heart 
 
 So sweetly portray'd on the vacant leaf ? 
 
 How chang'd and how disguis'd ! Dear lovely maid. 
 
 These wasted features, and this dread attire. 
 
 Deprive thee of all semblance. But for these 
 
 External horrors which thy limbs enclose, 
 
 And this thy name engraven, I should deem 
 
 Delusion bound me in her subtle chain : 
 
 Whither, oh whither is thy beauty fled ? 
 
 Great God of change, unchangeable thyself, 
 How transient are thy vvrorks ! The very world 
 Is but a beauteous flow'r, whose sweet leaves 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 868 
 
 Still fade to flourish, still revive to die. 
 The tide once overwhelm'd it, and the frown 
 Of Him who made it has its tender branch 
 Oft wither'd. It shall perish once again 
 E'en to the root, and yet revive and live. 
 And so shalt thou, sweet Isabel, return. 
 Heav'n speed the day ! Eternal Deity, 
 Be it thy pleasure to restore her soon. 
 Restore her now. Let my unhallow'd lips 
 The word convey. Archangel, blow the trump, 
 And send thy death-subduing summons forth, 
 That hell may bear and tremble : let old earth 
 Quake to her broad foundations at thy blast, 
 And gasp and heave with agonies intense 
 To give her kindred millions second birth : 
 Let Heav'n be open'd, and the spotless Judge 
 Upon the clouds descend, the shout of Gods 
 Wafting his chariot to the world he won. 
 I will not fly, tho' conscious of offence. 
 And many a talent wasted and ill-us'd. 
 Till I have seen my Isabel awake 
 To bless me with a smile. Why stays the hour f 
 
264 TEARS OF ArrcCTION. 
 
 Why slumbers justice at lier chariot side ? 
 
 Have I no voice in Heav'n ? Then sorrow come, 
 
 And shed no drop of comfort in my cup ; 
 
 Here let me die, the victim of regret, 
 
 And sleep till mercy wake me, till relief 
 
 Wipe all away my tears, and bid me live, 
 
 For misery is no more. Close at thj' side, 
 
 Ingenious Isabel, let me be laid. 
 
 Never to leave thee : may the daring wretch 
 
 Who parts my bones from thine, feel never peace, 
 
 But sigh for agonies severe as these. 
 
 Sweet maid, I lov'd and rear'd thee as I could. 
 
 And ask forgiveness that I did no more. 
 
 Must I still live ? Great God, at thy command 
 I close my lips. I will no more complain. 
 I will return to life, however sharp, 
 Nor quit it till thy summons call me hence. 
 Adieu, my love, sweet Isabel, adieu ! 
 My lost companion, exquisitely dear, 
 I leave thy cold and solitary cell 
 To visit life again ; I shall not long 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTIOX. 865 
 
 Be absent from thy side ; these ling'ring pains. 
 
 Effect of vigilance and much concern 
 
 And fretful melancholy, pining still 
 
 For thee my treasure lost, will yet prevail. 
 
 And weigh me down to death : departed maid, 
 
 Soon to thy side I come : and, bounteous God, 
 
 Grant me this blessing, never to be mov'd 
 
 From this mV spot of coveted repose 
 
 Till the loud trump of resurrection blow. 
 
 Then (hear me Heav'n !) let these lamenting eyes, 
 
 Which saw my lovely Isabel depart, 
 
 First wake to endless being, and with tears 
 
 Of joy profuse her renovation mark. 
 
 Let me behold her, as the gentle warmth 
 
 Of life rekindles, as her glowing cheek 
 
 The hue of health recovers, as her pulse 
 
 Begins again to throb, her lip to breathe ; 
 
 Then let me wake her with an ardent kiss, 
 
 And with a flood of transport bless the day 
 
 Which makes her mine for ever. Day remote. 
 
 And long to be expected : for not yet 
 
 Shall pass this world away : nor yet shall come 
 
206 TEAKS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 The fun'ral of the globe, tho' earth be old, 
 
 And oft betray her symptom of decline. 
 
 No ! I have long to tarry ere the morn 
 
 Of restoration dawn, and many a slow 
 
 And weary winter must I urge away: 
 
 Distress and sickness, sorrow, care, and pain, 
 
 Must I endure alone ; shed many tears. 
 
 Lament for comforts gone, and thro' the dark 
 
 And dismal cave of dissolution march, 
 
 Ere I can meet my Isabel again. 
 
 And even then my pittance of desert 
 
 Shall ill entitle me her bliss to share, 
 
 Tho' Heav'n be bountiful, and much forgive ; 
 
 Tho' it attribute merits not our own 
 
 To us who need. Then what is life to me > 
 
 The cage of discontent, dark prison-house 
 
 Of sorrow and complaint, which I nor dare 
 
 To quit, nor hope to dwell in. Happier days 
 
 Once found me loit'ring, but such days are fled. 
 
 Yes, I was happier once, and fondly sung 
 Of comforts not dissembled, of my cot, 
 
tEAnS OF AFFECTION. 261 
 
 And sweet amusements which attract no more. 
 
 Meihouglit my song should ever be content, 
 
 Plac'd by my God where I was richly bless'd. 
 
 In such a nook of life, that I nor wish'd 
 
 Nor fancied aught that could have pleas'd me more. 
 
 So sings the summer linnet on the bough, 
 
 And, pleas'd with the warm sunbeam, half asleep, 
 
 The feeble sonnet of supine content 
 
 To his Creator warbles ; warbles sweet, 
 
 And not contemn'd, till some unfeeling boy 
 
 His piece unheeded levels, and with show'r 
 
 Of leaden mischief his ill-utter'd song 
 
 Suddenly closes : pines the songster then. 
 
 Wounded and scar'd, flutters from bough to bough, 
 
 Complains and dies ; or lingers life away 
 
 In silent anguish, and is beard no more. 
 
 My God, have I arraign'd thee ? Let thy bow 
 Ten thousand arrows in this bosom fix, 
 Yet will I own thee just. Take all away ; 
 
268 TEARS OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Leave me no fricinl, but let me weep alone 
 At mute affliction's solitary board. 
 Summon Cecilia to an early grave, 
 And let her tribe of cheerful graces fade, 
 Fast as the flow'r she gathers : let the worm 
 Prey on the roses of Eliza's cheek : 
 Yet will I bless thee. For to this harsh world 
 I came a beggar, but sufficient bread 
 Have never needed; thy indulgent hand 
 Fed and sustain'd me, and sustains me still; 
 Nor feel I hardship which thy partial rod 
 To me alone dispenses : bitter loss. 
 Sorrow and misery o'erflow the cup 
 Of nianj^ a soul more innocent than mine. 
 
 Behold yon village church, whose humble tow'r 
 Stands in a vale between two lofty hills 
 Upon the confines of the winter's flood ; 
 There Caroletta sleeps. Poor hapless girl ! 
 She saw a daring brother bound in chains. 
 And visited his dungeon — saw the sword 
 Of angry justice waving o'er his head — 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 269 
 
 Blusli'd for his shame— -absconded fiom the world — 
 Pin'd into sickness — and, the culprit dead, 
 Close at his heels went down into the grave. 
 So beaut)-, virtue, piet}', and youth, 
 Fell in an instant, and the scythe of lime 
 Cut froni the root, with one determin'd blow, 
 The noisome thistle and the harmless rose. 
 A rose too delicate and winning fair 
 For the deserted village where it grew. 
 And happily remov'd to bloom in Heav'n. 
 
 Conduct thine eye along that chain of hills, 
 Observe a steeple at the mountain's foot. 
 Girded by woodland ; there Aurelia liv'd, 
 And to her happy spouse, the Vicar, bore 
 Six smiling infiints. To maturer years 
 Each rose in turn, but, ere the hour was past 
 Which childhood limits, one grew sick and died : 
 Another linger'd, and another fell : 
 A third departed ; and thus clos'd the grave 
 On three sweet maidens in the bloom of life : 
 A duteous son then fell, by frenzy seiz'd, 
 
270 TEARS OF AFFECTION, 
 
 Ere education her expensive work 
 
 Had well accomplish'd, and the letter'd youth 
 
 Dismiss'd a graduate : yet another liv'd, 
 
 But liv'd remote upon the Indian shore. 
 
 Nor there liv'd long, but died : the Vicar then 
 
 To Heav'n was summon'd, and his weeping spouse. 
 
 With only one poor sickly daughter left. 
 
 Fled from the vale, and was not heard of more. 
 
 Then let not me complain, but o'er thy grave. 
 Departed Isabel, my tablet place, 
 And to my hearth return ; content that Heav'n, 
 Which all might challenge, has yet spar'd me much. 
 ^ Adieu, sweet maid, whom death untimely smote. 
 As eager winter nips the bud of spring, 
 For blossoming too early. Here secure. 
 While judgment tarries, in the dust repose, 
 And while, less happy thro' the vale of life. 
 We toil in tears without thee. Yet not long 
 Shall death divide us : swift as the dove's wing 
 Shall pass the moments of this changeful stage. 
 And soon our bones shall meet : here will we sleep, 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 3TI 
 
 Here wake together, and from lience ascend 
 (If haply innocence like thine be ours) 
 To love which no affliction shall disturb.' 
 
 Ye kind and cheerful partners of my roof, 
 Receive me once again, and once again, 
 Welcome associates of my humble board. 
 Smile at my entrance, and assuage my pain 
 With pure esteem's reiterated kiss. 
 Cecilia, let thy finger fill my ear 
 With the sweet concord of subduing sounds. 
 Prelude to serious song. Let thy free voice, 
 Eliza, sooth me with some plaintive air. 
 Till peace and conifort fill my breast again. 
 Steal me away from grief, and grief from me. 
 Let not your hearts be sad, tho' on my cheek 
 Dull melancholy dwell, and from my brow 
 Depart reluctant as the low'ring gloom 
 Of mid-November : yet this cloud shall pass, 
 And float away with sensible retreat 
 In the returning sunshine of content. 
 This frown of winter shall ^ain be cbas'd 
 
272 TEARS OF ArFECTlON. 
 
 By tlie sweet smile of spring : summer shall come. 
 
 And joy shall blossom from ten thousand buds, 
 
 Gay as the nectarine, tho' now its branch 
 
 Seem to be blasted by a with'ring frost, 
 
 Never to flourish more. Come then, my loves, 
 
 Still let improvement be our daily care ; 
 
 And let us rise to this our welcome task 
 
 Soon as the lark of May, which soars aloft 
 
 In the first glimpse of morning, and performs 
 
 A darkling anthem at the gates of Ileav'n : 
 
 Let us pursue it, earnest as the bee. 
 
 Searching the raspberry's unfolded bloom. 
 
 Which never leaves it till the sun is couch'd. 
 
 The longest summer's day ; yea, travels still. 
 
 And with the nightingale her strain prolongs 
 
 E'en in the. moon-beam, when the vale is hush'd, 
 
 And ev'ry idler bird gone home to bed. 
 
 This be our only care, till waning life 
 
 Has number'd all its sands ; and then one grave 
 
 Receive us all, and be one only vault 
 
 The darksome cell of our imprison'd bones. 
 
 Thither let nature lead us one by one, 
 
TEARS OF AFFECTION. 2 "■'5 
 
 Nothing despairing, tho' with plenteous tears 
 Haply bewailing intermitted love. 
 As now we weep o'er Isabel deceas'd. 
 No proud inscription memorize the spot 
 To which our ashes are gone down in hope ; 
 But let one unadorn'd and modest stone, 
 Plain and sincere, say only, * Here he lies. 
 And here be those he lov'd, and those he sung.' 
 Under the altar of yon village church, 
 Which stands upon a hillock in the vale. 
 And looks toward the foamy swelling deep, 
 Close by the side of Isabel so dear. 
 Will we repose together ; there to rest. 
 Till at the dawn of everlasting doom 
 The summoning Archangel lift his trump, 
 And blow the dead to life. Then shall we wake 
 To sweet renewal of unceasing love, 
 To surer peace, and union without end. 
 
 Thou bounteous Author of all human bliss. 
 Give me whatever lot thy wisdom deems 
 VOL. I. T 
 
^71 TEARS OF AI'FECTION. 
 
 Meet and convenient — pleasure, if thou wilt — 
 If not, then pain — and be it sharp as this, 
 My heart, tho' wounded, shall adore thee still. 
 
MISCELLANIES. 
 
MISCELLANIES. 
 
 TO A SISTER. 
 
 When kind Cecilia welcom'd to her breast 
 The finch the schoolboy pilfer'd from its nest ; 
 And fed the nursling till its plumage grew, 
 And its firm pinions with full vigour flew, 
 She ope'd her chamber in the blaze of day, 
 And bade the feather'd foundling post away. 
 ' Go little bird, to range the field be thine, 
 To give thee liberty and life was mine ; 
 No ransom ask I, recompens'd enow, 
 To hear thy song upon the distant bough.* 
 But he, by gratitude's sweet tie detain'd. 
 Felt to her hand his small affection chained. 
 He fled indeed, and with true transport burn'd, 
 But still to her and to his cage return'd. 
 
278 TO A SISTER. 
 
 Nor went she forth to saunter in tlic grove, 
 But still he came, and perch'd upon her glove, 
 Still on her shoulder sat to sing, and sip 
 The honey'd beverage of her dewy lip ; 
 Nor siiffer'd love (such passion finches feel) 
 His little bosom from her kiss to steal. 
 
 So, dear Eliza, tho' I make thee free, 
 Thy daughter-like affection clings to me; 
 And, the' I bid thee a fond bride become, 
 Thy warmest wishes anchor still at home. 
 ' Go gentle maid, to range the fields be thine. 
 To give thee nurture, and sweet grace, was mine ; 
 No ransom a.sk I, nor will inly moan. 
 So thou rejoice, to spend my days alone. 
 Silent to sit, and silent brooks explore. 
 Thy cage deserted and thy song no more. 
 Sweet bird thy mate invites thee to the wood; 
 Go, and be happy as thy heart is good. 
 
tl9 
 
 TO CECILIA. 
 
 Why, O Spring, so in vain are display'd 
 
 Thy sweet blossoms that us'd to delight ? 
 And thy branches in beauty array'd, 
 
 Why attract they so little my sight ? 
 Why so litt'e regard I the grove, 
 
 Or the garden, the mead, and the rill ' 
 Why so dull is the village I love. 
 
 And so stupid the vale and the hill ? 
 
 Ah me ! 'tis because a sweet maid 
 
 The sad village enlivens no more, 
 'Tis because from these mountains has stray'd 
 
 The dear Girl who I almost adore 1 
 'Tis because I contemplate alone 
 
 The once beautiful charms of the year ; 
 'Tis because sweet Cecilia is gone, 
 
 And no more shall be listen'd to here. 
 
'80 TO CECILIA. 
 
 Why, alas ! not contented to stay, 
 
 So abruptly departed the fair? 
 Why so sccretl}' vanish'd away 
 
 Ere my soul of its loss was aware ? 
 Wlij' so suddenly strove she to fly, 
 
 And unbless'd from my presence withdrew ? 
 Why retreated, and dropt not a sigh, 
 
 Nor imparted a friendly adieu ? 
 
 She perhaps would but little regard 
 
 Were Alcander to linger and die ; 
 She perhaps may disdain to reward 
 
 One so little exalted as I. 
 She despises my state, nor approves 
 
 Of possessions where nothing is fine ; 
 She has elsewhere another she loves, 
 
 Whose endowment is ampler than mine. 
 
 On her merits, perhaps, deeming few, 
 
 And herself at all arts inexpert, 
 (For she fear'd me, and trembled to shew 
 
 What she deem'd her inferior desert,) 
 
TO CECILIA. B8i 
 
 She may think 'twere in vain to expect 
 
 Admiration or friendship of me ; 
 She may think that I cannot respect 
 
 One so little accomplishM as she. 
 
 Turn again, lovely maid — let the muse 
 
 Better hopes to thy bosom impart ; 
 Be assur'd, that the bard who pursues 
 
 Can approve with the tenderest heart. 
 What if fortune a step-mother seem, 
 
 And his superflux now may be non.e ; 
 She ere long may avow her. esteem, 
 
 And proclaim him her favourite son. 
 
 O return, and let mutual desire 
 
 In thy look, in thy accent be found — 
 Let Amelia again touch the lyre. 
 
 And refiresh the sad vale with its sound. 
 Let thine own rapid finger mine ear 
 
 To sweet music for ever incline ; 
 For thy bosom has nothing to fear ; 
 
 And I would that as little had mine. 
 
282 
 
 THE FALL OF IIEBE. 
 
 When Hebe the Charming was banish'd from Heav'n, 
 Notwithstanding her beauty and birth, 
 
 And her office by Jove to another was given, 
 She came down, to be vain upon earth. 
 
 She travell'd all Europe an equal to meet ; 
 
 But no features with her's could compare, 
 Not a virgin was found that was half so complete. 
 
 She was fairest of all that are fair. 
 
 But it happen'd at length, as she heedlessly stray'd 
 By a brook that ran down to the sea. 
 
 She was met by a good-humour'd, innocent maid, 
 Who, ihey said, was more charming than she. 
 
 She appeal'd to the Shepherds, and, favour to gain. 
 Brought the cup of the Gods in her hand ; 
 
 She insisted on homage, but sought it in vain, 
 Not a Shepherd would heed her command. 
 
THE FALL OF HEBE. 2SS 
 
 They agreed * of the many fair maids they had seen, 
 
 She was fairest of all except one : 
 She was beauteous and lovely as Beauty's own queen j 
 
 But that Kitty was equall'd by none.' 
 
 Eurag'd that a maid not immortal should charm, 
 
 Her nectar she threw in her face ; 
 From her cheek, it down trickled her neck and her arm, 
 
 Till her beauties were all in disgrace. 
 
 Mighty Jove saw the wrong from his chamber in Heav'n, 
 
 And sent his fleet messenger down, 
 To examine the cause, and make matters all even 
 
 As soon as the grievance was known. 
 
 He came, and decreed, ' that since Hebe was vain, 
 
 And had injur'd her betters below, 
 Envy never should flee from her forehead again ; 
 
 But should live among frowns on her brow. 
 
 ' Ill-nature and anger should scowl in her eye. 
 Pride and insolence dwell on its lid. 
 
28 1 THE FALL OF HEBE. 
 
 More than half a thousand attractions sliould die, 
 Not a feature should charm as it did. 
 
 ' But for Kitty, since she had not given offence, 
 But was innocent, humble, and meek, 
 
 On her forehead should flourish good humour and sense 
 To atone for the blot on her cheek. 
 
 ' Tiie Muses and Graces should in her deliglit. 
 And, to pay for the charms she had lost, 
 
 Should contend with each other, from morning to night, 
 To see which could adorn her the most.' 
 
 So was Hebe disgrac'd with a leer and a frown, 
 
 While Kitty had beauties enow — 
 A lovelier charmer was never sent down 
 
 To be courted by mortals below. 
 
283 
 
 A QUESTION 
 
 PROPOSED AND EXPLAINED TO KITTY. 
 
 Whence came the blemish on thy face ? 
 
 Did Hebe cause the stain, 
 Did Nature's self iier work disgrace 
 
 Lest Kitty should be vain ? 
 
 No, 'twas the Priest, who seldom went 
 
 To sprinkle smiles like thine, 
 Mistook the chalice for the font, 
 
 And christen'd thee with wine : 
 
 Or the pure element, distress'd 
 
 At Angel-looks so meek. 
 Thought thee another Saviour-guest, 
 
 And blush'd * upon thy cheek. . 
 
 * The autlior here alludes to a vtrell-known beautifiil line, said to have 
 been writtcii by Drydon, upon the Miracle of Cana : 
 
 Lympha pudica Dcum vidit et erubnit — 
 
 When God appear'd, the conscious water blush'd. 
 
286 VERSES OCCASIONED BY AN ACCIDENT. 
 
 So Heaven forbade with timely spot 
 
 That beauty to aspire. 
 Which, hail it blaz'd without a blot, 
 
 Had set the world on fire. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 OCCASIONED BY AN ACCIDENT. 
 
 It chanc'd, her gay triumph to check, 
 As Amanda was dancing with grace. 
 
 The chain that encompass'd her neck 
 Came asunder, and fell from its place. 
 
 Be it mine, said the youth at her side. 
 To entrammel a heart that would stray. 
 
 It shall rest where it is, she replied, 
 Lest my own should be pilfer'd away. 
 
 Ay, bind it, he answer'd with zeal, 
 O for charity give it a chain ; 
 
 For none that has power to steal 
 Will have virtue enough to refrain. 
 
387 
 
 ADDRESS TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 Departed soul, whose sudden calm decease 
 Came in the moment when thy joyous heart 
 Vv'elcom'd the birth-hour of th/ 'atest born — 
 Tliou at whose feet, a care-devoted child, 
 I stood unconscious in the hour of death. 
 And saw thy eyelid close, nor deem'd it aught 
 Save the sweet symptom of returning sleep — 
 Kind parent, whose indulgence yet my soul 
 Fondly remembers, and thy name reveres — 
 If in the mansions where thy spirit dwells 
 Inhabits sweet remembrance of thy own. 
 Know tbey are happy, and thy virtues hail 
 With never-ceasing pride and filial joy. 
 
388 
 
 TO AMANDA. 
 
 If Prometheus, my charmer, complain'd 
 Of the rigorous justice of Jove, 
 
 And to Caucasus ever was chain'd, 
 When he stole only fire from above ; 
 
 Shalt thou 'scape the Thunderer's blow, 
 And thy infinite theft be forgiven. 
 
 Who hast plunder'd all nature below. 
 Who hast stol'n all the beauties of heaven 
 
 O no, thou no longer shalt stray 
 From the fetters of punishment free ; 
 
 Mighty Jove the vast wrong shall repay. 
 And chain thee for ever — to nje. 
 
289 
 
 CANZONET I. 
 
 When the grey witch of former days 
 Presum'd to exercise her spell, 
 
 She made her exit in a blaze, 
 And he that was bewitch'd was well. 
 
 But now since more angelic shapes 
 At incantation take their turn. 
 
 The beauteous sorceress escapes, 
 And he that is bewitch'd must bum. 
 
 So am I doomed in spite of aid 
 To languish in the midst of flame, 
 
 Fast-stak'd by yon enchanting maid. 
 Who charms me with her very name. 
 
 Bewitching beauty, ah, restrain 
 The pow'rful magic of thine eye, 
 
 VOL. I. V 
 
290 THE MIDNIGHT INVOCATION. 
 
 Bestow a smile upon my pain, 
 And set me fiec, or let me die. 
 
 Rouse thy displeasure. Let despair 
 With his keen arrow pierce my side, 
 
 Or give me ease, \Vhich must be there. 
 Where heav'n, and love, and thou reside. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT INVOCATION. 
 
 Ye fairies who float on the breeze. 
 And in blossoms delight to repose, 
 
 Or regale with convenience and ease 
 In the moss-cover'd bud of the rose ; , 
 
 Ye elves who in acorn-cups dwell, 
 
 Sleeping fast through the fervours of noon, 
 
 And rejoice round the hyacinth's bell 
 To dance down the pale day of the moon ; 
 
THE MIDNIGHT INVOCATION. 291 
 
 Lay aside ev'ry sport ye pursue 
 
 On the mountain or dew-besprent green, 
 
 And your gay summer habits renew, 
 To come hither and wait on your Queen. 
 
 Make ye haste at the dead of the night 
 
 From her chamber to steal her away, 
 Oh make haste, and again to my sight 
 
 My divine little charmer convey. 
 
 Your most easy of chariots prepare. 
 One whose wheels are on thistledown borne,. 
 
 And conduct her asleep thro' the air 
 Softly smiUng as rosy-cheek'd morn. 
 
 Deck her couch with the blossoms of spring, 
 
 Round about her sweet essences shed. 
 And suspend the grey butterfly's wing 
 
 For a canopy over her head. 
 
 In the lap of sweet slumber and ease 
 On the plumes of the moth let her he, 
 
292 THK MIDNIGHT INVOCATION. 
 
 And her cheek curtain close from the breeze 
 With the web of the foe to the fly. 
 
 And, since slumber and music agree, 
 Gentle harmonies round her be heard, 
 
 The soft flutes of the gnat and the bee. 
 And the hum of the dew-sipping bird. 
 
 At my door when your myriads alight, 
 Let no footstep disquiet her peace ; 
 
 Come ye down like the snow in the night. 
 Soft and still as the dew on the fleece. 
 
 And if, wak'd, from yon intricate thorn 
 The sweet linnet should warble his lay. 
 
 Bid him hush, for it is not the morn, 
 He has long to repose before day. 
 
 Airy charmer, who thus to my sight, 
 Cloth'd in fancy's bewitching attire, 
 
 Comest ever by day and by night. 
 While I gaze and too fondly admire j 
 
THE MIDNIGHT INVOCATION. t9S 
 
 Lift thine eye, and my passion approve, 
 
 For I own, and conceal it no more. 
 Thou alone art the fairy I love, 
 
 Thou alone art the sylph I adore. 
 
 Yet, alas ! since to these longing arms 
 
 Thy attractions thou wilt not resign, 
 Slumber on while I dote on thy charms, 
 
 And applaud what must never be mine. 
 
 Ah \ the Fates, gentle Waller, design'd 
 That our lots should in one thing agree; 
 
 Thou wast won by a maiden unkind. 
 And a maiden unkind has won me. 
 
 Thou didst love, and still she could refuse, 
 
 Sweet encouragement never was thine, 
 Saccharissa could laugh at thy muse, 
 
 Annabella is heedless of mine. 
 
294 
 
 ' EVENING WALK. 
 
 'Tis awful, as tlie shades of ev'ning fall, 
 To walk among that family of oaks 
 Which nature seems, in her luxuriant mood, 
 To have pour'd along the bottom of the vale. 
 Under their mingled bough reigns double night, 
 Cloth'd in profoundest horror. 'Tis a path 
 Dull at noonday ; but at the twilight close, 
 Dark as the blind abyss or gloomy cave 
 
29S 
 
 A LANDSCAPE. 
 
 Behold that vale, whose sides are cloth'd with wood 
 
 And here and there a pleasurable spot 
 
 Of intersected pasture, with its stack. 
 
 Cottage and lodge, few sheep, and grazing cow : 
 
 Mark how it mellows as it steals away. 
 
 And mingles fainter shadows, softer woods. 
 
 How gracefully it parts, and winds along, 
 
 To leave that rising ground, on whose fresh top 
 
 Above the green enclosures stands a Church, 
 
 Which smiles with glory as the ev'ning sun. 
 
 And seems to love the prospect it adorns. 
 
 Behold behind it, as the vale recedes 
 
 And falls into a flat the eye scarce sees, 
 
 A family of hills, some near, some far, 
 
 Withdrawing till their faint expiring tops 
 
 Are almost lost, and melted into air. 
 
 Is it not lovely ? Is it not divine ? 
 
 And yet, my heart, within thy silent cell 
 
 Dwells a fair image which is lovelier still. 
 
296 
 
 ANOTHER LANDSCAPE. 
 
 'Tis pleasant to look out upon that vale 
 After a day of rain. A plenteous shower 
 Gives freshness to its verdure, makes the oaks 
 Dispers'd along its bottom and its sides 
 Look young and vigorous ; and ev'ry field. 
 Hedge-row, and coppice, seems as new as they. 
 Perhaps, the setting sun a moment shines, 
 And over-head, ting'd by his fiery ray, 
 Floats the departing cloud, and seems a waste 
 Or vapoury wilderness of hills and rocks. 
 And sunny mountains upon mountains pil'd. 
 Perhaps, too, as the dewy eve has clos'd j 
 Slowly ascending, the September moon 
 Has, with her ample copper-colour'd face, 
 Above the cloud or highland wood appear'd, 
 And, silently improving as she rose, 
 Hung o'er the faded landscape full of light ; 
 
lUiNK UNES TO KITTT. S97 
 
 A glorious lamp to cheer a boundless hall, 
 Floating across the living roof of Heav'n, 
 Suspended upon nothing. Lend me, Wright, 
 Thy happy pencil, and the scene is mine. 
 
 BLANK LINES TO KITTY. 
 
 Elegant Fairy, whose engaging ways 
 Have rais'd thee to a throne in my esteem 
 High above all thy sex ! — Unrivall'd maid. 
 Who, ever to my mind a welcome guest, 
 Com'st with such sweet intrusion, whether night 
 Muffle the world in darkness, and I sleep. 
 Or muse in vigilance to-morrow's song ; 
 Or whether day be kindled in the east, 
 And find me poring on my Shakspeare's line ; 
 Thou, whose sweet image at the ev'ning dance. 
 Or mid the flow'ry tribes, describing all, 
 And all surpassing (loveliest flow'r that blows) ; 
 Or by domestic hearth, or at the desk 
 Rapidly fingering authentic proof 
 
298 BLANK LfNES TO KITTY. 
 
 Of taste and industry ; pursues me still ; 
 Say, by what magic povv'r, what heav'iily art, 
 Hast thou my soul subdued, and bound it fast 
 In chains of strong attachment ? Why returns 
 Tliy ev'ry action to my musing eye ? 
 Why feeds remembrance still upon thy smile, 
 And deems it sweet repast ? Have not I look'd 
 On many an angel, ere I look'd on thee ? 
 Have I not witness'd the commanding grace 
 Which affability and smiles bestow 
 On heav'nly features ? Have I not beheld 
 Beauty allied to fortune and to rank, 
 And plum'd with all the dignity can spring 
 From virtue and a due regard to heav'n, 
 Join'd to the feeble ornament of art, 
 Dress and accomplishments ? Why then art thou 
 Not to be banish'd from my longing heart ? 
 Why does thy lovely image haunt my soul ? 
 Ah me ! I must adore thee, and my chain* 
 Lothe not : captivity is passing sweet, 
 Cheer'd by the sweet persuasion that thy heart 
 Is one with mine. Hope, be thy ray sincere, 
 
TO A LADY, &C. 399 
 
 And light us safely o'er the shoals of love, 
 Into the peaceful haven of success ! 
 And then, indulgent heav'n, if my fate 
 Be sad discomfiture, still favour ber, 
 And give her, to compensate my defeat, 
 The sweetest portion of thy sweetest cup. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 WHO, ITPON RECEIVING A FLOWER, OBSERVED THAT 
 NATURE COULD NOT HAVE MADE IT MORE PERFECT. 
 
 Could Nature do no more for this fair flower ? 
 
 Assert it not, fair maid — it is not true ; 
 To make a fairer she had surelj' power, 
 
 Who made a fairer when she modeli'd you *. 
 
 • For the thonglit of this little piece, and one of the lines, the Author 
 ronfesws hioitelf to have been indebted to au iogenioiu Irieud. 
 
300 
 
 CANZONET II. 
 
 In my bosom contentment shall reign, 
 And despair shall torment me no more ; 
 
 I have seen my lov'd fair one again, 
 And she came with a smile to my door. 
 
 I have seen her, tho' transient her stay, 
 The' time would not loiter and wait ; 
 
 And the show'r has not yet wash'd away 
 The small print of her foot at my gate. 
 
 Rapid day, the strong reason explain 
 Why thy steeds were so quick to be gone, 
 
 To remove my sweet angel again, 
 And to leave me to linger alone. 
 
 Come again, and, to merit my praise. 
 Travel slow thro' the regions above, 
 
 And I'll give thee the gratefullest lays 
 Which can flow from the bosom of love. 
 
LINES INSEHTED IN A POCKET-HOOK. 301 
 
 O return, and, to win my good will, 
 
 When I see her approach from afar, 
 Turn thy steeds with their heads to a hill, 
 
 And lock fast evVy wheel of thy car. 
 
 LINES 
 
 INSERTED IN A POCKET-BOOK. 
 Go, little book, I charge thee post away ; 
 
 To the fair hand of her I love depart, 
 And in soft numbers to her eye convey 
 
 The still confession of a wounded heart. 
 
 Whisper the hopeless passion in her ear, 
 Which thy sad master can no longer hide ; 
 
 And say, not Lyttelton was more sincere 
 When at his Lucy's grave he fondly sigh'd. 
 
 Go, and return not ; but from day to day 
 Plead for affection till her heart approve ; 
 
 Go, and return not, but for ever stay. 
 The sacred pledge of unforbidden love. 
 
302 TO THE MOON. 
 
 For know, if to this hand these leaves return, 
 And to this heart unwelcome tidings bear, 
 
 Thou must a flame-devoted victim burn 
 Upon the kindled altar of despair. 
 
 But if thou stay, and her propitious eye 
 Delight to read my undissembling line, 
 
 Thy precious memory shall never die, 
 But live eternal as her love and mine. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 Replenish'd moon, whose unobstructed beam 
 Once more upon the windows of my cot 
 Shines with such sweet indulgence, welcome still ! 
 I bid thee welcome with a cheerful heart, 
 Which loves thy gentle mitigated ray. 
 And the sweet smile of mute benevolence 
 Which glows upon thy brow — whether thy orb 
 Rise in the tranquil hour, and climb in peace 
 The azure concave of unclouded heav'n. 
 
TO THE MOON. SOJ 
 
 Or leave its couch to cross a stormy sky, 
 And post triumphantlj from cloud to cloud— 
 Or whether thy pure beam shed second day 
 Upon a irosty scene of hills and dales 
 Cover'd with winter's snow, or dimly rise 
 From autumn's purple east with aspect streak'd, 
 Tawny, and slowly bright' ning, as subsides 
 The ray of mellow ev'ning in the west — 
 Yes, I still lore thee, and thy rising hail 
 With all the little music which the lyre 
 Struck by my hand can utter. 
 
 Yet, fair moon, 
 Much as I love thee, let me wish thee gone. 
 Empty thy golden globe. Reverse thy horns, 
 Swiftly renewingj till thy ample orb 
 Once more arrive at her fiiU-lumin'd hour. 
 For know, unwearied empress of the night. 
 Soon as thy lamp industrious shall have run 
 Its phasy circuit round the tardy earth, 
 So soon I meet the fair one I adore. 
 My promise-bound companion in the dance. 
 
30* CANZONET III. 
 
 Then, cheerful orb, I shall not look on thee. 
 Fair as thou art, a fairer still than thou 
 Will all my 'tendance win. Sweet is thy smile, 
 But sweeter her's. For as thy beauteous light 
 O'ercomes the feebler glories of the sky, 
 So will her fair appearance thy poor ray 
 With ease subdue, and make it pale and faint 
 As at the dawn of all-eclipsing day. 
 
 CANZONET III, 
 
 When the maid that possesses my heart 
 Was content at my mansion to stay. 
 
 Rapid time was in haste to depart, 
 And the moments fled laughing away. 
 
 But now since I see her not near, 
 And to seek her is not in my pow'r, 
 
 Ev'ry day is as long as a year, 
 Ev'ry moment as slow as an hour. 
 
TO HAPPINESS. 305 
 
 Tardy time, thy fleet pinions repair, 
 To be swifter than ever was known ; 
 
 Let the hours while I wait for my fair 
 Dance away upon siuitials of down. 
 
 But when, lier gay fellows among, 
 At my door my sweet angel appears. 
 
 Bid the moments steal softly along. 
 And lengthen the days into years. 
 
 TO HAPPINESS. 
 
 O HAPPINESS, thou puny short-liv'd plant, 
 Whose tender branch this world's inclement sky 
 But ill endures, and bears abundant bloom 
 In the pacific clime of Heaven alone. 
 Let me thy transient beauty strive to rear, 
 Not without hope, uncertain as thou art. 
 That thy sweet blossom shall at length be mine. 
 I'll give thee shelter from all winds that blow, 
 DiiTuse eternal summer round thy head, 
 VOL. L X 
 
306 TO HAPPINESS. 
 
 And satisfy thy root witli gentle drops, 
 
 Warm as the dew the tender mother sheds 
 
 Upon her drooping child. And in return 
 
 Do thou, sweet stranger, to my longing eye 
 
 At least one blossom leisurely unfold, 
 
 To be transported, when occasion smiles, 
 
 Into tlie bosom of the maid I love. 
 
 There to abide, perchance, shall please thee well. 
 
 For 'tis a mansion like thy native seat, 
 
 The fair abode of innocence and truth. 
 
 Be it thy home, and satisfy mankind 
 
 That happiness can flourish here below. 
 
 And is not always like the cereus' bloom. 
 
 Alive at night, and wither'd ere the morn. 
 
307 
 
 CANZONET IV. 
 
 Can aught be more fair to the eye 
 
 Thau tlie l)lush of the maidenly year ? 
 Can aught with the orchard-bloom vie, 
 
 When in May its sweet blossoms appear ? 
 Can aught like the eglantine please, 
 
 Or the rose budding ? Tell me, what can ? 
 O thrice more attracting than these 
 
 Is the cheek of my sweet little Anne. 
 
 What can charm like the spring of the field, 
 
 When it trickles transparently by ' 
 Or what sweeter pleasure can yield, 
 
 Than to look on the gems of the sky ? 
 What can win like the tremulous dew 
 
 Which the Zephyrs on gossamer fan ? 
 O thrice more enchanting to view 
 
 Is the eye of my sweet little Anne. 
 
308 CANZONET IV. 
 
 Can auglit like tlie morning delight, 
 
 When it dawns toward peaceable day ? 
 Or bewitch like the planet of night, 
 
 When slie steals in good humour away ? 
 Is there aught like the sweetness of eve, 
 
 When, serene as when nature began. 
 The soft sun takes his mellow last leave ? 
 
 Yes, the smile of my sweet little Anne. 
 
 Can aught more delicious be nam'd 
 
 Than the exquisite fruit of the pine ? 
 More inviting can aught be proclaim'd 
 
 Than the elegant bunch of the vine ? 
 Is there aught can in flavour exceed 
 
 Ev'ry beverage precious to man ? 
 O yes, these are tasteless indeed 
 
 To the kiss of my sweet little Anne. 
 
 Thrice more than the sun-setting hour. 
 Or the dawn of the morning, benign. 
 
 More delightful than spring's sweetest flowV, 
 Or the mirth-making juice of the vine, 
 
ADDRESS TO THE MOON. 309 
 
 More serene than the gems of the sky, 
 And more soft than the down of the swan. 
 
 Is the cheek, is the lip, is the eye. 
 Is the smile, of my sweet Httic Anne. 
 
 SECOND ADDRESS TO THE MOON, 
 
 Moon ihat so fairly risest from the crown 
 Of yon high oak, and wast so fondly pray'd 
 To fill thy orb with light, ah me ! how cold, 
 How little welcome is thy cheerless beam ! 
 Methought it would have found me full of hope. 
 And at the side of one whose winning smiles 
 My soul devoutly honours. But it comes 
 To see me languishing in discontent, 
 To see me pining with a brimful eye, 
 Soliciting in vain the buried dart 
 Which festers in my bosom. Gentle moon, 
 How did I blame thee that thy pbasy lamp 
 So tardily increased ! For now methought 
 
3 10 ADDRESS TO THU MOON. 
 
 I should again my charmer's eye engage, 
 Anil touch the hand wliich her own welcome word, 
 Her own spontaneous promise, had decreed 
 Should at this moment have been link'd in mine. 
 
 O happiness, thou fair delusive flower. 
 How painfully had I thy puny bud 
 Taught to unfold its slow reluctant leaf! 
 How had I cherish'd thee, with little doubt 
 Ere this thy grateful blossom would have grac'd 
 The glowing bosom of rewarded love ! 
 But ah ! a cruel worm has kill'd my hopes, 
 Nor can I decorate a wounded heart 
 With that sweet blossom which it surely needs. 
 An exile let me wander, far froin hope, 
 Far from the haven of content and ease. 
 Far from that Paradise my doting heart 
 Fondly suppos'd its own. Such was the pain 
 Desponding Adam felt when from his hand 
 The gracious Angel parted, and he saw 
 Before him barren earth's unbounded plain, 
 
ADDRESS TO THE MOON. 3 1 1 
 
 Behind him God's high-bhizing fiery sword. 
 Such anguish feh he when the golden gate 
 Closed on the blooming garden, which his hand 
 Had with affection nurtur'd. And such too 
 Were the few natural drops he shed apart. 
 And wip'd them soon. So did he overlook 
 And bury in her tears the bitter smart 
 Eve's indiscretion rais'd, concealing half 
 And all forgiving the vast woe he felt. 
 
 Poor discontented heart ! when shalt thou taste 
 Of the pure spring of happiness again ! 
 Wide is the moon from the life-shedding sun, 
 Wide are the spangled heavens from the earth, 
 Wide is the east from the day-drowning west ; 
 Yet are not all these distances so wide 
 As the wide distance between thee and peace. 
 Thou restless tenant of an aching breast. 
 Why dost thou labour at the forge of life 
 With such impetuous stroke ? 'Tis not disease 
 Which comes thy little kingdom to disturb : 
 'Tis not the fever which alarms my blood, 
 
312 ADDRESS TO THE MOON. 
 
 Or brain delirious, which in "gly dream 
 
 Sees bony death with his potential bar 
 
 Heaving the lid of the unwholesome vault, 
 
 To give my relics room. No, 'tis the loss 
 
 Of only one sweet jewel dearly priz'd. 
 
 Whose absence may be some day not perceiv'd, 
 
 Tlio' never recompens'd. Then be at ease ; 
 
 The darkest nigiit is follow'd by a dawn ; 
 
 The gloomiest cavern has a distant mouth. 
 
 Which opens to the sun. Anguish and pain 
 
 Are changeable and waning as the moon. 
 
 The weeping mother of an only child 
 
 Can place him in the bowels of the earth. 
 
 And feel content again. His blooming bride 
 
 The husband buries, and forgets his loss. 
 
 Then may thy quick tumultuous throb be still'd 
 
 By the slow lapse of moments, months, and years. 
 
 Be patient then, and let my wakeful eye 
 
 Meet its accustom'd slumbers. One pang more 
 
 Shall be allow'd thee, when the die is cast, 
 
 And she's for ever and for ever gone. 
 
 Then to thy peace return, nor waste a sigh, 
 
TO A LADY, &C. 313 
 
 Convinc'd that Heaven in the cup of life 
 Mingles prevention for the good of man. 
 
 TO A LADF, 
 
 WHO DREW THE PINS FROM HEU BONNET IN A THUNDER- 
 STORM. 
 
 Cease, Eliza, thy locks to despoil, 
 
 Nor remove the bright steel from thy hair ; 
 
 For fruitless and fond is the toil. 
 Since nature has made thee so fair. 
 
 While the rose on thy cheek shall remain. 
 
 And thine eye so bewitchingly shine, 
 Thy endeavour must still be in vain. 
 
 For attraction will always be thine. 
 
314 
 
 • TO CRITICISM. 
 
 Sister of Nature, lovely Criticism, 
 Whose friendly, exquisite, judicious touch 
 Softens the blaze of genius, and the work 
 Of every muse improves ; ingenious maid, 
 Deem not I shun thee with a scornful eye. 
 Come to my side, and look upon my work : 
 Be seated by me. Ruminate my page ; 
 And while my hand is loop'd about thy waist, 
 And my reclining head in thoughtful ease 
 Reposes on thy shoulder, mark my faults. 
 Point to the line which my impatient pen 
 Has hastily dismiss'd, and blot the word 
 Which gives offence to decency or truth. 
 I feel and own that I have much to mend. 
 Reprove me, and advise me. Thy rebuke 
 Is ever tender, and so mix'd with love, 
 'Tis but a precious medicine disguis'd, 
 
TO CRITICISM. 
 Which charms the palate, and restores the man. 
 Such is thy censure, Cowper, whom my muse 
 Dares to believe, nor scruples to pronounce, 
 The fairest critic, and the sweetest bard. 
 
 315 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 CORRIGENDA. 
 
 *,* Since some of the preceding Articles (now first printed) 
 passed through the press, a more accurate copy in MS. has 
 been found, whicli suggests the following corrections : 
 
 P. 278. line 3. for and read or. 
 
 ... 15. ... brooks books, 
 
 279. ... 11. ... has is. 
 
 ... 12. ... who whom. 
 
 280. ... 17. ... on or. 
 
 282. ... 7. ... that who. 
 
 284. ... 1. ... a qfhet: 
 
 285. ... 5. ... who seldom went ... who, seldom wont. 
 
 294. ... 5. ... bough bouglis. 
 
 295. ... 10. ... as »'». 
 
 298. ... IS. ... feeble ontament. ... feebler omamentt. 
 
 C. WHirnNGnA.W, Pnnter, GoawcllStrect, Loadon. 
 
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