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ALBUM VERSES, 
 
 WITH A FEW OTHERS, 
 
 BY CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWARD MOXON, 64, NEW BOND STREET. 
 
 1830. 
 
BKADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 ^0 ifft ^ttfilisl^er. 
 
 Dear Moxon, 
 
 I do not know to whom a Dedication 
 of these Trifles is more properly due than to yourself. 
 You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous 
 of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which Publica- 
 tions, entrusted to your future care, would appear. With 
 more propriety, perhaps, the " Christmas,'' or some other 
 of your own simple, unpretending Compositions, might 
 have served this purpose. But I forget — you have bid 
 a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my hands sundry 
 Copies of Verses written for Albums — 
 
 Those Books kept by modern young Ladies for show. 
 Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know — 
 
 or otherwise floating about in Periodicals ; which you 
 
IV DEDICATION. 
 
 have chosen in this manner to embody.. I feel little 
 interest in their publication. They are simply — Adver- 
 tisement Verses. 
 
 It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the 
 kindness of our honoured Friend, under whose auspices 
 you are become a Bookseller. May that fine-minded 
 Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see hiS patron- 
 age justified ! I venture to predict that your habits 
 of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you 
 through the world. 
 
 I am, Dear Moxon, 
 
 Your Friend and sincere Well-wisher, 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 EnfieW; \st Jwnf, 1830. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In the Album of a Clergyman's Lady . . .1 
 
 In the Autograph Book of Mrs. Sergeant W . . 2 
 
 In the Album of Lucy Barton . . . . 3 
 
 In the Album of Miss . . .5 
 
 In the Album of a very young Lady . . . 7 
 
 In the Album of a French Teacher . . .8 
 
 In the iVlbum of Miss Daubeny . . . 9 
 
 In the Album of Mrs. Jane Towers . . .12 
 
 In my own Album . . . . . 13 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Angel Help .. . , . . , 15 ' 
 
 The Christening . . . . . 18 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 ?AOB 
 
 On an Infant dying as soon as born . . .20 
 
 To Bernard Barton, with a coloured print . . . 24 
 
 The Young Catechist . . . . 27 
 
 She is Going . . . . . 29 
 
 To a Young Friend, on her twenty-first birth day . . 30 
 
 To the same . . . . . . 32 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Harmony in Unlikeness . . • .33 
 
 Written at Cambridge . . . . . 34 
 
 To a celebrated Female Performer in the " Blind Boy." . 35 
 
 Work . . . . . .36 
 
 Leisure . . . . . . 37 
 
 To Samuel Rogers, Esq. . . . .38 
 
 The Gipsy's Malison . . . . . 39 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 To the Author of Poems published under the name of Barry 
 
 Cornwall . . . . ' . 40 
 
 To R. S. Knowles, Esq. on his Tragedy of " Virginius " . 41 
 
 To the Editor of the " Every Day Book " . .43 
 
 ACROSTICS. 
 
 To Caroline Maria Applebee . . .45 
 
 To Cecilia Catherine Lawton . , . 47 
 
CONTENTS. Vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To a Lady who desired me to write her Epitaph . . 49 
 
 Another, to her Youngest Daughter . . . .51 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. 
 On a Sepulchral Statue of an Infant Sleeping . . 52 
 The Rival Bells . . . . .53 
 Epitaph on a Dog . . . . . 54 
 The Ballad Singers . . . .56 
 To David Cook, of the Parish of St. Margaret's, West- 
 minster, Watchman . . . . 60 
 On a Deaf and Dumb Artist . . .63 
 Newton's Principia . . . . . 65 
 The Housekeeper . . . . .66 
 The Female Orators . . . . . 67 
 
 PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD MILL . . 69 
 
 EPICEDIUM. 
 Going or Gone . . . . . 75 
 
 THE WIFE'S TRIAL, OR THE INTRUDING WIDOW • 81 
 
'AN 
 
Sttfium Wtr&t^. 
 
 IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY. 
 
 An Album is a Garden, not for show 
 
 Planted, but use ; where wholesome herbs should grow, 
 
 A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where 
 
 No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. 
 
 A Chapel, where mere ornamental things 
 
 Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. 
 
 A List of living friends ; a holier Room 
 
 For names of some since mouldering in the tomb. 
 
 Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive ; 
 
 And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak, and live. 
 
 Such, and so tender, should an Album be ; 
 
 And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 IN THE 
 
 AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W- 
 
 Had I a power, Lady, to my will, 
 
 You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill 
 
 Your leaves with Autographs — resplendent names 
 
 Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, 
 
 Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand 
 
 The hands of famous Lawyers — a grave band — 
 
 Who in their Courts of Law or Equity 
 
 Have best upheld Freedom and Property. 
 
 These should moot cases in your book, and vie 
 
 To shew tlieir reading and their Serjeantry. 
 
 But I have none of these ; nor can I send 
 
 The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd 
 
 In her authentic hand ; nor in soft hours 
 
 Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers. 
 
 The lack of curious Signatures I moan. 
 
 And want the courage to subscribe my own. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON. 
 
 Little Book, surnamed of whiter 
 Clean as yet, and fair to sight, 
 Keep thy attribution right. 
 
 Never disproportion'd scrawl ; 
 Ugly blot, that's worse than all ; 
 On thy maiden clearness fall ! 
 
 In each letter, here design'd. 
 Let the reader emblem'd find 
 Neatness of the owner's mind. 
 
 Gilded margins count a sin, 
 Let thy leaves attraction win 
 By the golden rules within ; 
 
 B 2 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 Sayings fetched from sages old ; 
 Laws which Holy Writ unfold, 
 Worthy to be graved in gold : 
 
 Lighter fancies not excluding ; 
 Blameless. wit, with nothing rude in. 
 Sometimes mildly interluding 
 
 Amid strains of graver measure : 
 Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure 
 In sweet Muses* groves of leisure. 
 
 Riddles dark, perplexing sense ; 
 
 Darker meanings of offence ; 
 
 What but shades — be banished hence. 
 
 Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, 
 Candid meanings, best express 
 Mind of quiet Quakeress. 
 
ALBUM VERSES, 
 
 IN THE ALBUM OF MISS 
 
 Such goodness in your face doth shine, 
 With modest look, without design, 
 That I despair, poor pen of mine 
 
 Can e'er express it. 
 To give it words I feebly try ; 
 My spirits fail me to supply 
 Befitting language for % and I 
 
 Can only bless it I 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 II. 
 
 But stop, rash verse ! and don't abuse 
 A bashful Maiden's ear with news 
 Of her own virtues. She'll refuse 
 
 Praise sung so loudly. 
 Of that same goodness, you admire, 
 The best part is, she don't aspire 
 To praise — nor of herself desire 
 
 To think too proudly. 
 
ALBUM VEUSES. 
 
 IN THE ALBUM OF A VERY YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Joy to unknown Josepha who, I hear, 
 
 Of all good gifts, to Music most is given ; 
 
 Science divine, which through the enraptured ear 
 
 Enchants the Soul, and lifts it nearer Heaven. 
 
 Parental smiles approvingly attend 
 
 Her pliant conduct of the trembling keys, 
 
 And listening strangers their glad suffrage lend. 
 
 Most musical is Nature. Birds — and Bees 
 
 At their sweet labour — sing. The moaning winds 
 
 Rehearse a lesson to attentive minds. 
 
 In louder tones " Deep unto Deep doth call ;" 
 
 And there is Music in the Waterfall. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 IN THE ALBUM OF A FRENCH TEACHER. 
 
 Implored for verse, I send you what I can ; 
 
 But you are so exact a Frenchwoman, 
 
 As I am told, Jemima, that I fear 
 
 To wound with English your Parisian ear, 
 
 And think I do your choice collection wrong 
 
 With lines not written in the Frenchman's tongue. 
 
 Had I a knowledge equal to my will, 
 
 With airy Chansons I your leaves would fill ; 
 
 With Fabliaux that should emulate the vein 
 
 Of sprightly Gresset, or of La Fontaine ; 
 
 Or Scenes Comiques, that should approach the air 
 
 Of your own favourite — renowned Moliere. 
 
 But at my suit the Muse of France looks sour, 
 
 And strikes me dumb ! Yet, what is in my power 
 
 To testify respect for you, I pray, 
 
 Take in plain English — our rough Enfield way. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 IN THE ALBUM OF MISS DAUBENY. 
 
 Some poets by poetic law 
 
 Have Beauties praised, they never saw ; 
 
 And sung of Kittys, and of Nancys, 
 
 Whose charms but lived in their own fancies. 
 
 So I, to keep my Muse a going, 
 
 That willingly would still be doing, 
 
 A Canzonet or two must try 
 
 In praise of — pretty Daubeny. 
 
10 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 II. 
 
 But whether she indeed be comely, 
 Or only very good and homely, 
 Of my own eyes I cannot say ; 
 I trust to Emma Isola. 
 But sure I think her voice is tuneful, 
 As smoothest birds that sing in June full 
 For else would strangely disagree 
 The flowing name of — Daubeny. 
 
 III. 
 
 I hear that she a Book hath got — 
 As what young Damsel now hath not, 
 In which they scribble favorite fancies, 
 Copied from poems or romances ? 
 And prettiest draughts, of her design. 
 About the curious Album shine ; 
 And therefore she shall have for me 
 The style of — tasteful Daubeny. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 11 
 
 IV, 
 
 Thus far I have taken on believing ; 
 But well I know without deceiving, 
 That in her heart she keeps alive still 
 Old school-day likings, which survive still 
 In spite of absence — worldly coldness — 
 And thereon can my Muse take boldness 
 To crown her other praises three 
 With praise o^— friendly Daubeny. 
 
12 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS. 
 
 Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown 
 The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace, 
 How shall I find fit matter ? with what face 
 Address a face that ne'er to me was shown ? 
 Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not, 
 Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. 
 I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke ! 
 But at that name my cold Muse waxes hot, 
 And swears that thou art such a one as he, 
 Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness. 
 Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness 
 From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be 
 The pure reverse of this, and I mistake — 
 Demure one, I will like thee for his sake. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 13 
 
 IN MY OWN ALBUM. 
 
 Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, 
 
 A young probationer of light, 
 
 Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, 
 
 A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, 
 
 And friend and foe, in foul or fair, 
 
 Have " written strange defeatures" there ; 
 
 And Time with heaviest hand of all, 
 Like that fierce writing on the wall, 
 Hath stamp'd sad dates — he can't recal ; 
 
 And error gilding worst designs — 
 Like speckled snake that strays and shines- 
 Betrays his path by crooked lines ; 
 
14 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 And vice hath left his ugly blot ; 
 And good resolves, a moment hot, 
 Fairly began — but finish'd not; 
 
 And fruitless, late remorse doth trace — 
 Like Hebrew lore a backward pace — 
 Her irrecoverable race. 
 
 Disjointed numbers ; sense unknit; 
 Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit ; 
 Compose the mingled mass of it. 
 
 My scalded eyes no longer brook 
 Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look — 
 Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 15 
 
 ANGEL HELP. * 
 
 This rare tablet doth include 
 
 Poverty with Sanctitude. 
 
 Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun, 
 
 And yet the work is not half done, 
 
 Which must supply from earnings scant 
 
 A feeble bed-rid parent's want. 
 
 Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask, 
 
 And Holy hands take up the task ; 
 
 Unseen the rock and spindle ply, 
 
 And do her earthly drudgery. 
 
 * Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, 
 Esq. , in which is represented the Legend of a poor female Saint ; 
 who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bed-rid mother, 
 has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. 
 In another part of the chamber, an Angel is tending a lily, the 
 emblem of purity. 
 
16 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Sleep, saintly poor one, sleep, sleep on ; 
 And, waking, find thy labours done. 
 Perchance she knows it by her dreams ; 
 Her eye hath caught the golden gleams. 
 Angelic presence testifying. 
 That round her every where are flying ; 
 Ostents from which she may presume, 
 That much of Heaven is in the room. 
 Skirting her own bright hair they run, 
 And to the sunny add more sjin : 
 Now on that aged face th^y fix, 
 Streaming from the Crucifix ; 
 The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing, 
 Death-disarming sleeps infusing, 
 Prelibations, foretastes high. 
 And equal thoughts to live or die. 
 Gardener bright from Eden's bower. 
 Tend with care that lily flower ; 
 To its leaves and root infuse 
 Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 17 
 
 'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, 
 
 Of a crowning privilege. 
 
 Careful as that lily flower, 
 
 This Maid must keep her precious dower ; 
 
 Live a sainted Maid, or die 
 
 Martyr to virginity. 
 
18 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE CHRISTENING. 
 
 Array'd — a half-angelic sight — 
 In vests of pure Baptismal white, 
 The Mother to the Font doth bring ^ 
 The little helpless nameless thing, 
 With hushes soft and mild caressing, 
 At once to get — a name and blessing. 
 Close by the Babe the Priest doth stand, 
 The Cleansing Water at his hand. 
 Which must assoil the soul within 
 From every stain of Adam's sin. 
 The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, 
 Nor knows what all this wonder means ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 19 
 
 And now he smiles, as if to say 
 *' I am a Christian made this day ; " 
 Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, 
 Shrinking from the water cold, 
 Whose virtues, rightly understood. 
 Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 
 Strange words— The World, The Flesh,The Devil- 
 Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil ? 
 But we must silently adore 
 Mysterious truths, and not explore. 
 Enough for him, in after- times. 
 When fife shall read these artless rhymes, 
 If, looking back upon this day 
 With quiet conscience, he can say 
 *' I have in part redeem'd the pledge 
 Of my Baptismal privilege ; 
 And more and more will strive to flee 
 All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce forme." 
 
 c 2 
 
20 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 ON 
 
 AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. 
 
 I SAW where in the shroud did lurk 
 
 A curious frame of Nature's work. 
 
 A flow'ret crushed in the bud, 
 
 A nameless piece of Babyhood, 
 
 Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; 
 
 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying ; 
 
 So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
 
 For darker closets of the tomb ! 
 
 She did but ope an eye, and put 
 
 A clear beam forth, then strait up shut 
 
 For the long dark : ne'er more to see 
 
 Through glasses of mortality. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 21 
 
 Riddle of destiny, who can show 
 
 What thy short visit meant, or know 
 
 What thy. errand here below ? 
 
 Shall we say, that Nature blind 
 
 Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, 
 
 Just, when she had exactly wrought 
 
 A finish'd pattern without fault ? 
 
 Could she flag, or could she tire. 
 
 Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 
 
 (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 
 
 That should thy little limbs have quicken'd ? 
 
 Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure 
 
 Life of health, and. days mature : 
 
 Woman's self in miniature ! 
 
 Limbs so fair, they might supply 
 
 (Themselves now but cold imagery) 
 
 The sculptor to make Beauty by. 
 
 Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, 
 
 That babe, or mother, one must die ; 
 
 So in mercy left the stock. 
 
 And cut the branch ; to save the shock 
 
22 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Of young years widow'd; and the pain, 
 When Single State comes back again 
 To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, 
 Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? 
 The economy of Heaven is dark ; 
 And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, 
 Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, 
 More brief than fly ephemeral, 
 That has his day ; while shrivel'd crones 
 Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 
 And crabbed use the conscience sears 
 In sinners of an hundred years. 
 Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, 
 Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. 
 Rites, which custom does impose, 
 Silver bells and baby clothes ; 
 Coral redder than those lips. 
 Which pale death did late eclipse ; 
 Music framed for infants' glee. 
 Whistle never tuned for thee ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 23 
 
 Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, 
 
 Loving hearts were they which gave them. 
 
 Let not one be missing ; nurse, 
 
 See them laid upon the hearse 
 
 Of infant slain by doom perverse. 
 
 Why should kings and nobles have 
 
 Pictured trophies to their grave ; 
 
 And we, churls, to thee deny 
 
 Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, 
 
 A more harmless vanity ? 
 
24 AJISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON, 
 
 WITH A COLOURED PKINT. 
 
 When last you left your Woodbridge pretty, 
 
 To stare at sights, and see the City, 
 
 If I your meaning understood, 
 
 You wish'd a Picture, cheap, but good ; 
 
 The colouring ? decent ; clear, not muddy ; 
 
 To suit a Poet's quiet study. 
 
 Where Books and Prints for delectation 
 
 Hang, rather than vain ostentation. 
 
 The subject ? what I pleased, if comely ; 
 
 But something scriptural and homely : 
 
 * From the venerable and ancient Manufactory of Carrington 
 Bowles : some of my readers may recognise it. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 25 
 
 A sober Piece, not gay or wanton, 
 For winter fire-sides to descant on ; 
 The theme so scrupulously handled, 
 A Quaker might look on unscandal'd ; 
 Such as might satisfy Ann Knight, 
 And classic Mitford just not fright. 
 Just such a one I Ve found, and send it ; 
 If liked, I give — if not, but lend it. 
 The moral ? nothing can be sounder. 
 The fable ? 'tis its own expounder — 
 A Mother teaching to her Chit 
 Some good book, and explaining it. 
 He, silly urchin, tired of lesson. 
 His learning lays no mighty stress on, 
 But seems to hear not what he hears ; 
 Thrusting his fingers in his ears. 
 Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one, 
 In honest parable of Bunyan. 
 His working Sister, more sedate. 
 Listens ; but in a kipd of state. 
 
26 MTSCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The painter meant for steadiness, 
 But has a tinge of sullenness ; 
 And, at first sight, she seems to brook 
 As ill her needle, as he his book. 
 This is the Picture. For the Frame — 
 'Tis not ill-suited to the same ; 
 Oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling; 
 Old fashioned ; plain, yet not appalling ; 
 And sober, as the Owner's Calling. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 27 
 
 THE YOUNG CATECHIST.* 
 
 While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, 
 Painter, who is she that stayeth 
 By, with skin of whitest lustre. 
 Sunny locks, a shining cluster. 
 Saint-like seeming to direct him 
 To the Power that must protect him ? 
 Is she of the Heaven-born Three, 
 Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity ; 
 Or some Cherub ? — 
 
 They you mention 
 Far transcend my weak invention. 
 
 * A Picture by Henry Meyer, Esq. 
 
28 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 'Tis a simple Christian child, 
 Missionary young and mild, 
 From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, 
 Bible-taught without a college. 
 Which by reading she could gather. 
 Teaches him to say Our Father 
 To the common Parent, who 
 Colour not respects, nor hue. 
 White and black in him have part. 
 Who looks not to the skin, but heart. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 29 
 
 SHE IS GOING. 
 
 For their elder Sister's hair 
 Martha does a wreath prepare 
 Of bridal rose, ornate and gay : 
 To-morrow is the wedding day : 
 She is going. 
 
 Mary, youngest of the three, 
 Laughing idler, full of glee, 
 Arm in arm does fondly chain her, 
 Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her- 
 But she 's going. 
 
 Vex not, maidens, nor regret 
 Thus to part with Margaret. 
 Charms like your's can never stay 
 Long within doors ; and one day 
 
 You'll be going. 
 
30 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTII-DAY. 
 
 Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray 
 
 A blessing on thy years, young Isola ; 
 
 Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown 
 
 To me thy girlish times, a woman grown 
 
 Beneath my heedless eyes ! in vain I rack 
 
 My fancy to believe the almanac, 
 
 That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou should'st have still 
 
 Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will 
 
 Gambol'd about our house, as in times past. 
 
 Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast, 
 
 Hastening to leave thy friends ! — for which intent, 
 
 Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment. 
 
 After some thirty years, spent in such bliss 
 
 As this earth can afford, where still we miss 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 31 
 
 Something of joy entire, may*st thou grow old 
 
 A«; we whom thou hast left ! That wish was cold. 
 
 O far more ag'd and wrinkled, till folks say, 
 
 Looking upon thee reverend in decay, 
 
 *' This Dame for length of days, and virtues rare, 
 
 With her respected Grandsire may compare." — 
 
 Grandchild of that respected Isola, 
 
 Thou shoulds't have had about thee on this day 
 
 Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate 
 
 Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate. 
 
 But they have died, and left thee, to advance 
 
 Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance 
 
 The friends which Nature grudg'd. And thou wilt find , 
 
 Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind 
 
 To thee and thy deservings. That last strain 
 
 Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again 
 
 Another cheerful goblet, while I say 
 
 " Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola." 
 
32 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 External gifts of fortune, or of face, 
 Maiden, in truth, thou hast not much to show ; 
 Much fairer damsels have I known, and know. 
 And richer may be found in every place. 
 In thy mind seek thy beauty, and thy wealth. 
 Sincereness lodgeth there, the soul's best health, 
 O guard that treasure above gold or pearl. 
 Laid up secure from moths and worldly stealth- 
 And take my benison, plain-hearted girl. 
 
SONNETS; 
 
 33 
 
 HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS. 
 
 By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, 
 Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk : 
 The fair Maria, as a vestal, still ; 
 And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. 
 With soft and Lady speech the first applies 
 The mild correctives that to grace belong 
 To her redundant friend, who her defies 
 With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. 
 O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, 
 What music from your happy discord rises. 
 While your companion hearing each, and seeing. 
 Nor this, nor that, but both together, prizes; 
 This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, 
 That harmonies may be in things unlike ! 
 
 D 
 
34 SONNETS. 
 
 WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 I WAS not train'd in Academic bowers, 
 
 And to those learned streams I nothing owe 
 
 Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow ; 
 
 Mine have been any thing but studious hours. 
 
 Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, 
 
 Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap ; 
 
 My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap. 
 
 And I walk gowned; feel unusual powers. 
 
 Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, 
 
 Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain ; 
 
 And my scull teems with notions infinite. 
 
 Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach 
 
 Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein. 
 
 And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite ! 
 
SONNETS. 35 
 
 TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER 
 IN THE "BLIND BOY." 
 
 Rare artist ! who with half thy tools, or none, 
 Canst execute with ease thy curious art. 
 And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart, 
 Unaided by the eye, expression's throne ! 
 While each blind sense, intelligential grown 
 Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight : 
 Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might. 
 All motionless and silent seem to moan 
 The unseemly negligence of nature's hand. 
 That left them so forlorn. What praise is tljine, 
 O mistress of the passions ; artist fine ! 
 Who dost our souls against our sense command, 
 Plucking the horror from a sightless face, 
 Lending to blank deformity a grace. 
 D 2 
 
36 SONNETS. 
 
 WORK. 
 
 Who first invented work, and bound the free 
 
 And holy day-rejoicing spirit down 
 
 To the ever-haunting- importunity 
 
 Of business in the green fields, and the town — 
 
 To plough, loom, anvil, spade — and oh ! most sad, 
 
 To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood ? 
 
 Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, 
 
 Sabbathless Satan ! he who his unglad 
 
 Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, 
 
 That round and round incalculably reel — 
 
 For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel — 
 
 In that red realm from which are no returnings ; 
 
 Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye 
 
 He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day. 
 
SONNETS. 37 
 
 LEISURE. 
 
 They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, 
 That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, 
 Which only works and business can redress : 
 Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke. 
 Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. 
 But might I, fed with silentmeditation, 
 Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation — 
 Improbus LahoTy which my spirits hath broke — 
 I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit: 
 Fling in more days than went to make the gem, 
 That crown'd the white top of Methusalem : 
 Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, 
 Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky. 
 The heaven- sweet burthen of eternity. 
 
 DEUS NOBIS IJ^C OTIA FECIT. 
 
38 SONNETS. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 Rogers, of all the men that I have known 
 But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss 
 Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across 
 My mind an image of the cordial tone 
 Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest 
 I more than once have sat ; and grieve to think, 
 That of that threefold cord one precious link 
 By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest. 
 Of our old Gentry he appear'd a stem — 
 A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer 
 He kept in terror, could respect the Poor, 
 And not for every trifle harass them, 
 As some, divine and laic, too oft do. 
 This man's a private loss, and public too. 
 
SONNETS, 39 
 
 THE GIPSY'S MALISON. 
 
 *' Suck, baby, suck, mother's love grows by giving, 
 Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting ; 
 Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living 
 Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 
 
 Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses, 
 Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; 
 Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses 
 Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 
 
 Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces. 
 Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging ; 
 Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses 
 Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." 
 
 So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, 
 
 And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical. 
 
40 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS, 
 
 PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask 
 Under the vizor of a borrowed name ; 
 Let things eschew the light deserving blame : 
 No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. 
 ^' Marcian Colonna " is a dainty book ; 
 And thy " Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass ; 
 Thy " Dream " 'bove all, in which, as in a glass, 
 On the great world's antique glories we may look. 
 No longer then, as " lowly substitute. 
 Factor, or Proctor, for another's gains," 
 Suffer the admiring world to be deceived ; 
 Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, 
 Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains, 
 And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute. 
 
COMMF.NDATORY VERSES. 41 
 
 TO R. S. KNOWLES, ESQ. 
 
 ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIEGINIUS. 
 
 Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then 
 
 Esteemed you a perfect specimen 
 
 Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends, 
 
 To teach us colder English how a friend's 
 
 Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain, 
 
 Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain ; 
 
 But nothing further had the gift to espy. 
 
 Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I 
 
 Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene 
 
 Only to his inferior in the clean 
 
 Passes of pathos : with such fence-like art — 
 
 Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. 
 
42 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 Almost without the aid language affords, 
 
 Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium , vjords, 
 
 (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway 
 
 Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play 
 
 We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws 
 
 Our tears on credit : and we find the cause 
 
 Some two hours after, spelling o'er again 
 
 Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. 
 
 Proceed, old friend ; and, as the year returns, 
 
 Still snatch some new old story from the urns 
 
 Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before 
 
 Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more. 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 43 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE " EVERYDAY BOOK. 
 
 I LIKE you, and your book, ingenuous Hone ! 
 
 In whose capacious all-embracing leaves 
 The very marrow of tradition's shown ; 
 
 And all that history — much that fiction — weaves. 
 
 By every sort of taste your work is graced. 
 
 Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, 
 With good old story quaintly interlaced — 
 
 The theme as various as the reader's mind. 
 
 Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint — 
 Yet kindly, — that the half-turn'd Catholic 
 
 Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, 
 And cannot curse the candid heretic. 
 
44 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page 
 Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold, 
 
 And, proudly conscious of a purer age. 
 Forgive some fopperies in the times of old. 
 
 Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright Days^ 
 Must needs bestow on you both good and many. 
 
 Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, 
 Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any 
 
 Dan Phoebus loves your book — trust me, friend Hone- 
 
 The title only errs, he bids me say : 
 For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, 
 
 He swears, 'tis not a work of every day. 
 
ACROSTICS. 
 
 45 
 
 TO CAROLINE MARIA APPLEBEE. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 
 Caroline glides smooth in verse, 
 And is easy to rehearse ; 
 Runs just like some crystal river 
 O'er its pebbly bed for ever. 
 Lines as harsh and quaint as mine 
 In their close at least will shine, 
 Nor from sweetness can decline, 
 Ending but with Caroline. 
 
 Maria asks a statelier pace — 
 
 " Ave Maria, full of grace ! " 
 
 Romish rites before me rise, 
 
 Ira age- worship, sacrifice. 
 
 And well-meant but mistaken pieties. 
 
46 ACKOSTICS. 
 
 Apple with Bee doth rougher run. 
 Paradise was lost by one ; 
 Peace of mind would we regain, 
 Let us, like the other, strain 
 Every harmless faculty. 
 Bee-like at work in our degree, 
 Ever some sweet task designing. 
 Extracting still, and still refining. 
 
ACROSTICS. 
 
 47 
 
 TO CECILIA CATHERINE LAWTON. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 
 Choual service, solemn chanting, 
 Echoing round cathedrals holy — 
 Can ought else on earth be wanting 
 In heav*ns bliss to plunge us wholly ? 
 Let us great Cecilia honour 
 In the praise we give unto them, 
 And the merit be upon her. 
 
 Cold the heart that would undo them, 
 And the solemn organ banish 
 That this sainted Maid invented. 
 Holy thoughts too quickly vanish, 
 Ere the expression can be vented. 
 
48 ACROSTICS. 
 
 Raise the song to Catheriyie, 
 In her torments most divine ! 
 Ne'er by Christians be forgot — 
 Envied be — this Martyr's lot. 
 
 Lawton, who these names combinest, 
 Aim to emulate their praises ; 
 Women were they, yet divinest 
 Truths they taught ; and story raises 
 O'er their mouldering bones a Tomb, 
 Not to die till Day of Doom. 
 
ACROsncs. 49 
 
 ACROSTIC, 
 
 TaA LADY WHO DESIRED ME TO WRITE HER EPITAPH. 
 
 Grace Joanna here doth lie : 
 Reader, wonder not that I 
 Ante-date her hour of rest. 
 Can I thwart her wish exprest, 
 Ev'n unseemly though the laugh 
 
 Jesting with an Epitaph ? 
 On her bones the turf lie lightly, 
 And her rise again be brightly ! 
 No dark stain be found upon her — 
 No, there will not, on mine honour- 
 Answer that at least I can. 
 
50 ACROSTICS. 
 
 Would that I, thrice happy man, 
 In as spotless garb might rise, 
 Light as she will climb the skies, 
 Leaving the dull earth behind, 
 In a car more swift than wind. 
 All her errors, all her failings, 
 (Many they were not) and ailings, 
 Sleep secure from Envy's railings. 
 
ACROSTICS. 
 
 61 
 
 ANOTHER, 
 
 TO HER YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. 
 
 Least Daughter, but not least beloved, of Grace I 
 
 frown not on a stranger, who from place 
 Unknown and distant these few lines hath penn'd. 
 
 1 but report what thy Instructress Friend 
 So oft hath told us of thy gentle heart. 
 A pupil most affectionate thou art, 
 
 Careful to leam what elder years impart. 
 Louisa — Clare — by which name shall I call thee? 
 A prettier pair of names sure ne'er was found, 
 Resembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound. 
 Ever calm peace and innocence befal thee ! 
 E 2 
 
52 
 
 €vm^Miom. 
 
 FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNEt 
 
 I. 
 
 ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT 
 SLEEPING. 
 
 Beautiful Infant, who dost keep 
 
 Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, 
 
 May the repose unbroken be, 
 
 Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee. 
 
 While thou enjoy'st along with it 
 
 That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, 
 
 Or counterfeit to mortal sense, 
 
 The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence ! 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 53 
 
 II. 
 
 THE RIVAL BELLS. 
 
 A TUNEFUL challenge rings from either side 
 
 Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, Saint 
 
 Bride, 
 Peal swift and shrill ; to which more slow reply 
 The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy. 
 Such harmony from the contention flows, 
 That the divided ear no preference knows ; 
 Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, 
 While one exceeds in number, one in weight. 
 
54 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 III. 
 
 EPITA.PH ON A DOG. 
 
 Poor Irus* faithful wolf-dog here I lie, 
 That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, 
 His guide and guard ; nor, while my service lasted, 
 Had he occasion for that staff, with which 
 He now goes picking out his path in fear 
 Over the highways and crossings, but would plant 
 Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, , 
 
 A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd 
 His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide 
 Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd : 
 To whom with loud and passionate laments 
 From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 5^ 
 
 Nor wail'd to all in vain : some here and there, 
 
 The well disposed and good, their pennies gave. 
 
 I meantime at his feet obsequious slept ; 
 
 Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear 
 
 Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive 
 
 At his kind hand my customary crumbs. 
 
 And common portion in his feast of scraps ; 
 
 Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent 
 
 With our long day, and tedious beggary. 
 
 These were my manners, this my way of life, 
 
 Till age and slow disease me overtook, 
 
 And sever'd from my sightless master's side. 
 
 But lest the grace of so good deeds should die. 
 
 Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, 
 
 This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, 
 
 Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand. 
 
 And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, 
 
 In long and lasting union to attest. 
 
 The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog. 
 
56 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 IV. 
 THE BALLAD SINGERS. 
 
 Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column* draw, 
 Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw ; 
 Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, 
 And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race : 
 With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, 
 But long with dust and dirt discoloured 
 Belies its hue ; in mud behind, before, 
 From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. 
 One a small infant at the breast does bear ; 
 And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, 
 
 * Seven Dials. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 57 
 
 Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, 
 When youths and maids flock round. His stall for- 
 saken, 
 Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, 
 Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt 
 To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons 
 Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns 
 Cherish'd the gift of Song, which sorrow quells ; 
 And, working single in their low-rooft cells, 
 Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night 
 With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight. 
 Who now hath caught the alarm ? the Servant Maid 
 Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid 
 To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. 
 Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout 
 Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. He stands by, 
 Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply 
 With stooping shoulders. What cares he ? he sees 
 The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, 
 But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. 
 So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong 
 
58 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, 
 
 The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, 
 
 And stone- vext Sysiphus forgets his load. 
 
 Hither and thither from the sevenfold road 
 
 Some cart or waggon crosses, which divides 
 
 The close- wedged audience ; but, as when the tides 
 
 To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, 
 
 They re-unite, so these unite as fast. 
 
 The older Songstress hitherto hath spent 
 
 Her elocution in the argument 
 
 Of their great Song in prose ; to wit, the woes 
 
 Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes — 
 
 Ah ! '* Wandering He!" — which now in loftier verse 
 
 Pathetic they alternately rehearse. 
 
 All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes 
 
 His right ear to the strain. The other hopes 
 
 To catch it better with his left. Long trade 
 
 It were to tell, how the deluded Maid 
 
 A victim fell. And now right greedily 
 
 All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 59 
 
 That are so tragical ; which She, and She, 
 
 Deals out, and sings the while ; nor can there be 
 
 A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back 
 
 His contribution from the gentle rack 
 
 Of Music*s pleasing torture. Irus* self, 
 
 The staff-propt Beggar, his thin-gotten pelf 
 
 Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest, 
 
 And boldly claims his ballad with the best. 
 
 An old Dame only lingers. To her purse 
 
 The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, 
 
 " Give me," she cries. *' I'll paste it on my wall, 
 
 While the wall lasts, to show what ills befal 
 
 Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way ; 
 
 How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray." 
 
60 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 V. 
 TO DAVID COOK, 
 
 OF THE PARISH OF SAINT MABGARET S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN. 
 
 For much good-natured verse received from thee, 
 A loving verse take in return from me. 
 " Good morrow to my masters, " is your cry ; 
 And to our David, " twice as good, " say I. 
 Not Peter's monitor, shrill chanticleer, 
 Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear. 
 Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night 
 Fills half the world with shadows of affright. 
 You with your lantern, partner of your round, 
 Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallo w'd bound. 
 The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up. 
 The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, 
 
TRANSLATIONS, 61 
 
 Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appal ; 
 Arm'd with thy faithful staff thou slight'st them all. 
 But if the market gard'ner chance to pass, 
 Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass, 
 The gentle salesman you with candour greet, 
 And with reit'rated " good mornings" meet. 
 Announcing your approach by formal bell, 
 Of nightly weather you the changes tell ; 
 Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep 
 In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep 
 In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet 
 Of winter ; and in alley, or in street, 
 Relieve your midnight progress with a verse. 
 What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse 
 On your didactic strain — indulgent Night 
 With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, 
 And critics sleep while you in staves do sound 
 The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound 
 In wintry months ; but Crispin chief proclaim : 
 Who stirs not at that Prince of Coblers' name ? 
 
62 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Profuse iu loyalty some couplets shine, 
 And wish long days to all the Brunswick line ! 
 To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read ; 
 Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead 
 Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice ; 
 How death at last all ranks doth equalise ; 
 And, in conclusion, pray good years befal, 
 With store of wealth, your " worthy masters all." 
 For this and other tokens of good will, 
 On boxing day may store of shillings fill 
 Your Christmas purse ; no householder give less, 
 When at each door your blameless suit you press : 
 And what you wish to us (it is but reason) 
 Receive in turn — the compliments o' th' season ! 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 63 
 
 VI. 
 ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST. * 
 
 And hath thy blameless life become 
 
 A prey to the devouring tomb ? 
 
 A more mute silence hast thou known, 
 
 A deafness deeper than thine own, 
 
 While Time was ? and no friendly Muse, 
 
 That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, 
 
 Repair with quickening verse the breach. 
 
 And write thee into light and speech? 
 
 The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd 
 
 Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd ; 
 
 Who made the Hearing, without wrong 
 
 Did rescue thine from Siren's song. 
 
 * Benjamin Ferrers — died A.D. 1732. 
 
64 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 He let thee see the ways of men, 
 Which thou with pencil, not with pen, 
 Careful Beholder, clown did'st note, 
 And all their motley actions quote, 
 Thyself unstain'd the while. From look 
 Or gesture reading, more than book, 
 In letter'd pride thou took'st no part. 
 Contented with the Silent Art, 
 Thyself as silent. Might I be 
 As speechless, deaf, and good, as He ! 
 
RANSLATIONS. 65 
 
 VII. 
 
 NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA. 
 
 Great Newton*s self, to whom the world's in debt, 
 Owed to School Mistress sage his Alphabet ; 
 But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, 
 Discover'd properties to her unknown ; 
 Of A plus B, or minus, learn'd the use, 
 Known Quantities from unknown to educe ; 
 And made — no doubt to that old dame*s surprise — 
 The Christ-Cross-Row his Ladder to the skies. 
 Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say, 
 Her Lessons were his true Principia ! 
 
66 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 VIII. 
 THE HOUSE-KEEPER. 
 
 The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, 
 Carries his house with him, where'er he goes ; 
 Peeps out — and if there comes a shower of rain, 
 Retreats to his small domicile amain. 
 Touch but a tip of him, a horn — 'tis well — 
 He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 
 He's his own landlord, his own tenant ; stay 
 Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 
 Himself he boards and lodges ; both invites, 
 And feasts, himself ; sleeps with himself o' nights 
 He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure 
 Chatties ; himself is his own furniture. 
 And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam — 
 Knock when you will — he's sure to be at home. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. ^7 
 
 IX. 
 THE FEMALE ORATORS. 
 
 Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed 
 
 Stands, or once stood, from old Balinus named, 
 
 So judged Antiquity ; and therein wrongs 
 
 A name, allusive strictly to two Tongues. * 
 
 Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes, 
 
 And gratis deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes. 
 
 With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes, 
 
 Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes. 
 
 One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds, 
 
 And one in literalities abounds ; 
 
 In mood and figure these keep up the din : 
 
 Words multiply, and every word tells in. 
 
 Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains ; 
 
 And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins 
 
 * Billingis in the Latin. 
 F 2 
 
68 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo, 
 And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero. 
 Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand. 
 And from her sovereign station taints the land. 
 Hence Pulpits rail ; grave Senates learn to jar ; 
 Quacks scold ; and Billinsgate infects the Bar. 
 
69 
 
 PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD MILL. 
 
 I. 
 
 Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, 
 
 That sang the Pillory, 
 
 In loftier strains to show 
 
 A more sublime Machine 
 
 Than that, where thou wert seen, 
 
 With neck out-stretcht and shoulders ill awry, 
 
 Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below — 
 
 A most unseemly show ! 
 
70 ODE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ill such a place 
 
 Who could expose thy face, 
 
 Historiographer of deathless Crusoe ! 
 
 That paint'st the strife 
 
 And all the naked ills of savage life, 
 
 Far above Rousseau ? 
 
 Rather myself had stood 
 
 In that ignoble wood. 
 
 Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day. 
 
 If nought else could atone 
 
 For waggish libel, 
 
 I swear on bible, 
 
 I would have spared him for thy sake alone, 
 
 Man Friday ! 
 
 • 
 III. 
 
 Our ancestors' were sour days. 
 Great Master of Romance ! 
 A milder doom had fallen to thy chance 
 In our days : 
 
ODE. 
 
 71 
 
 Thy sole assignment 
 Some solitary confinement, 
 (Not worth thy care a carrot,) 
 Where in world-hidden cell 
 Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, 
 Only without the parrot ; 
 By sure experience taught to know. 
 Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly 
 such or no. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But stay ! methinks in statelier measure — 
 
 A more companionable pleasure — 
 
 I see thy steps the mighty Tread Mill trace, 
 
 (The subject of my song. 
 
 Delay 'd however long,) 
 
 And some of thine own race, 
 
 To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. 
 
 There with thee go, 
 
 Link*d in like sentence, 
 
 With regulated pace and footing slow, 
 
72 ODE. 
 
 Each old acquaintance, 
 
 Rogue — harlot — thief — that live to future ages 
 
 Through many a labour'd tome, 
 
 Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. 
 
 Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home ! 
 
 Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, 
 
 From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. 
 
 Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags ; 
 
 Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags, 
 
 There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, 
 
 The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes. 
 
 Incompetent my song to raise 
 
 To its just height thy praise, 
 
 Great Mill ! 
 
 That by thy motion proper 
 
 (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill) 
 
 Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, 
 
 Turn'st out men's consciences. 
 
 That were begrimed before^ as clean and sweet 
 
ODE. 
 
 As flour from purest wheat, 
 
 Into thy hopper. 
 
 All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, 
 
 Or human, or divine. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Compared with thee, 
 
 What are the labours of that Jumping Sect, 
 
 Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect ? 
 
 Thou dost not bump, 
 
 Or jump, 
 
 But walk men into virtue ; betwixt crime 
 
 And slow repentance giving breathing time, 
 
 And leisure to be good ; 
 
 Instructing with discretion demi-reps 
 
 How to direct their steps. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thou best Philosophef made out of wood ! 
 Not that which framed the tub. 
 Where sate the Cynic cub. 
 
 73 
 
74 ODE» 
 
 With nothing in his bosom sympathetic ; 
 
 But from those groves derived, I deem, 
 
 Where Plato nursed his dream 
 
 Of immortality ; 
 
 Seeing that clearly 
 
 Thy system all is merely 
 
 Peripatetic. 
 
 Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give 
 
 Of how to live 
 
 With temperance, sobriety, morality, 
 
 (A new art,) 
 
 That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, 
 
 Each Tyro now proceeds 
 
 A "Walking Stewart!" 
 
EPICEDIUM. 7^ 
 
 GOING OR GONE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Fine merry franions, 
 Wanton companions, 
 My days are ev'n banyans 
 
 With thinking upon ye ; 
 How Death, that last stinger, 
 Finis-writer, end-bringer, 
 Has laid his chill finger, 
 
 Or is laying on ye. 
 
EPICEDIUM. 
 
 II. 
 
 There's rich Kitty Wheatley, 
 With footing it featly 
 That took me completely, 
 
 She sleeps in the Kirk House ; 
 And poor Polly Perkin, 
 Whose Dad was still firking 
 The jolly ale firkin, 
 
 She's gone to the Work-house ; 
 
 III. 
 
 Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter 
 (In ten counties no smarter) 
 Has ta'en his departure 
 
 For Proserpine's orchards ; 
 And Lily, postillion, 
 With cheeks of vermilion. 
 Is one of a million 
 
 That fill up the church-yards; 
 
EPICEDILT-M. 77 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, lusty as Dido, 
 Fat Clemitson's widow 
 Flits now a small shadow 
 
 By Stygian hid ford ; 
 And good Master Clapton 
 Has thirty years nap't on 
 The ground he last hap't on, 
 
 Intomb'd by fair Widford 
 
 And gallant Tom Dockwra, 
 Of Nature's finest crockery, 
 Now but thin air and mockery, 
 
 Lurks by Avernus, 
 Whose honest grasp of hand 
 Still, while his Hfe did stand, 
 At friend's or foe's command, 
 
 Almost did burn us. 
 
78 EPICEDIUM. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Roger de Coverley 
 
 Not more good man than he ; 
 
 Yet has he equally 
 
 Push'd for Cocytus, 
 With driveUing Worral, 
 And wicked old Dorrell, 
 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, 
 
 Whose end might aifright us !- 
 
 VII. 
 
 Kindly hearts have I known ; 
 Kindly hearts, they are flown ; 
 Here and there if but one 
 
 Linger yet uneffaced, 
 Imbecile tottering elves, 
 Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, 
 These scarce are half themselves, 
 
 With ae:e and care crazed. 
 
EPICEDIUM. 79 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But this day Fanny Hutton 
 Her last dress has put on ; 
 Her fine lessons forgotten, 
 
 She died, as the dunce died : 
 And prim Betsy Chambers, 
 Decay'd in her members. 
 No longer remembers 
 
 Things, as she once did ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 And prudent Miss Wither 
 Not in jest now doth wither, 
 And soon must go — whither 
 
 Nor I well, nor you know ; 
 And flaunting Miss Waller, 
 That soon must befal her, 
 Whence none can recal her. 
 
 Though proud once as Juno ! 
 
THE WIFE'S TRIAL; 
 
 THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 
 
 % dramatic ^oem. 
 
 FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE S TALE OF TIIF "CONFIDANT. 
 
CHARACTERS: 
 
 Mr. Selby a Wiltshire Gentleman. 
 
 Katherine Wife to Selby. 
 
 Lucy Sister to Selby. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton a Widow. 
 
 Servants. 
 
 Scene, at Mr. Selby^s house, or in the grounds adjacent. 
 
 G 2 
 
€f)t miWs ^xM. 
 
 SCENE— a Library. 
 
 Mr. Selby, Catherine. 
 
 Selby. 
 Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife ; 
 I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself. 
 And those too with allowance. I have not 
 Been blest by thy fair side with five white years 
 Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch 
 With any strain of harshness on a string 
 Hath yielded me such music. Twas the quality 
 Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine, 
 That to the lame performance of some vows, 
 And common courtesies of man to wife. 
 
86 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd 
 To esteem as favours, what in that blest union 
 Are but reciprocal and trivial dues. 
 As fairly yours as mine : 'twas this I thought 
 Gently to reprehend. 
 
 Katherine. 
 In friendship's barter 
 The riches we exchange should hold some level, 
 And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys 
 Demand some thanks thrown in. You took me, sir. 
 To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom. 
 An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm. 
 Poor, you have made me rich ; from lonely maiden,^ 
 Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife. 
 
 Selby. 
 But to divert the subject : Kate too fond, 
 I would not wrest your meanings ; else that word 
 Accompanied, and full-accompanied too, 
 Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives 
 Haply did think their company too long ; 
 
THE WIFE S TRIAL. O/ 
 
 And over-company, we know by proof, 
 Is worse than no attendance. 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 I must guess, 
 You speak this of the Widow — 
 Selby. 
 
 'Twas a bolt 
 At random shot ; but if it hit, believe me, 
 I am most sorry to have wounded you 
 Through a friend's side. I know not how we have 
 
 swerved 
 From our first talk. I was to caution you 
 Against this fault of a too grateful nature : 
 Which, for some girlish obligations past, 
 In that relenting season of the heart. 
 When slightest favours pass for benefits 
 Of endless binding, would entail upon you 
 An iron slavery of obsequious duty 
 To the proud will of an imperious woman. 
 
 Katherine. 
 The favours are not slight to her I owe. 
 
88 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Selby. 
 Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts 
 Cancels all dues — [A voice within. 
 
 even now I hear her call you 
 In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses 
 Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate 
 Let her expect a brace of minutes or so. 
 Say, you are busy. Use her by degrees 
 To some less hard exactions. 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 I conjure you, 
 Detain me not. I will return — 
 Selby. 
 
 Sweet wife 
 Use thy own pleasure — [Exit Katherine. 
 
 but it troubles me. 
 A visit of three days, as was pretended, 
 Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given 
 When she will go ! I would this buxom Widow 
 Were a thought handsomer ! I'd fairly try 
 My Katherine's constancy ; make desperate love 
 
THE WIFE S TRIAL. 
 
 -89 
 
 In seeming earnest ; and raise up such broils, 
 That she, not I, should be the first to warn 
 The insidious guest depart. 
 
 Re-enter Katherine. 
 
 So soon returned 
 What was our Widow's will ? 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 A trifle, Sir. 
 Selby. 
 Some toilet service — to adjust her head, 
 Or help to stick a pin in the right place — 
 
 Katherine, 
 Indeed 'twas none of these. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 or new vamp up 
 The tamish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her 
 Demand such service from thee, as her maid, 
 Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red. 
 And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool ! fond slave ! 
 And yet my dearest Kate I — ^This day at least 
 
90 THE wife's trial. 
 
 (It is our wedding day) we spend in freedom, 
 And will forget our Widow. — Philip, our coach — 
 Why weeps my wife ? You know, I promised you 
 An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs 
 To the blest cottage on the green hill side, 
 Where first I told my love. I wonder much. 
 If the crimson parlour hath exchanged its hue 
 For colours not so welcome. Faded though 
 
 it be. 
 It will not shew less lovely than the tinge 
 Of this faint red, contending with the pale, 
 Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek 
 An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side. 
 That bears my Katherine's name. — 
 
 Our carriage, Philip. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Now, Robin, what make you here? 
 
 Servant. 
 May it please you. 
 The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton. 
 
THE wife's trial. 91 
 
 Selby. 
 He had no orders — 
 
 Servant. 
 None, Sir, that I know of, 
 But from the lady, who expects some letter 
 At the next Post Town. 
 
 Selby. 
 Go, Robin. [Exit Servant. 
 
 How is this? 
 Katherine. 
 I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger — 
 
 Selby. 
 It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton, 
 This forward Widow. But a ride's poor loss 
 Imports not much. In to your chamber, love, 
 Where you with music may beguile the hour. 
 While I am tossing over dusty tomes, 
 Till our most reasonable friend returns. 
 
 Katherine. 
 I am all obedience. [Exit Katherine. 
 
92 
 
 THE WIFE S TRIAL. 
 
 Selby. 
 Too obedient, Kate, 
 And to too many masters. I can hardly 
 On such a day as this refrain to speak 
 My sense of this injurious friend, this pest, 
 This household evil, this close-clinging fiend, 
 Tn rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants 
 GontroU'd above me ! orders countermanded ! 
 What next ? 
 
 [Servant enters and announces the Sister. 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 
 Sister ! I know you are come to welcome 
 This day's return. 'Twas well done. 
 Lucy. 
 
 You seem ruffled. 
 In years gone by this day was used to be 
 The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd 
 So soon to gall ? 
 
 Selby. 
 Gall'd am I, and with cause. 
 
THE WIFE S TRIAL. »0 
 
 And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance, 
 Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave. 
 
 Lucy. 
 Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton. 
 
 Selby. 
 She came at first a meek admitted guest, 
 Pretending a short stay ; her whole deportment 
 Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk, 
 The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing. 
 Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress, 
 Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she 
 
 flaunts it 
 In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife ; 
 Who owes her some strange service, of what nature 
 I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek 
 And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye. 
 As spell-bound by some witch. 
 Lucy. 
 Some mystery hangs on it. 
 How bears she in her carriage towards yourself ? 
 
94 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Selby. 
 As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares 
 For ray displeasure. Sometimes I have thought, 
 A secret glance would tell me she could love, 
 If I but gave encouragement. Before me 
 She keeps some moderation ; but is never 
 Closeted with my wife, but in the end 
 I find my Katherine in briny tears. 
 From the small chamber, where she first was lodged. 
 The gradual fiend by specious wriggling arts 
 Has now ensconced herself in the best part 
 Of this large mansion ; calls the left wing her own ; 
 Commands my servants, equipage. — I hear 
 Her hatred tread. What makes she back so soon ? 
 
 Enter Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death, 
 With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip 
 Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks. 
 
THE wife's trial. 95 
 
 And stoniest hard lanes in all the county, 
 Till I was fain get out, and so walk back, 
 My errand unperform'd at Andover. 
 
 Lucy. 
 And I shall love the knave for ever after. [Aside, 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 A friend with you ! 
 
 Selby. 
 My eldest sister Lucy, 
 Come to congratulate this returning morn. — 
 Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton. 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Pray, 
 Be seated. For your brother's sake, you are welcome. 
 I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion 
 With the good couple, to whose hospitality 
 I stand so far indebted. But your coming 
 Makes it a feast. 
 
 Lucy. 
 
 She does the honours naturally 
 
 [Aside. 
 
96 the wife s trial. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 As if she were the mistress of the house [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 I love to be at home with loving friends. 
 To stand on ceremony with obligations, 
 Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though, 
 Of yours jumbles one strangely. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 I shall order 
 An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam 
 
 Lucy. 
 To drive her and her pride to Lucifer, 
 I hope he means. [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 I must go trim myself ; this humbled garb 
 Would shame a wedding feast. I have your leave 
 For a short absence ? — and your Katherine 
 
 Selby. 
 
 You'll find her in her closet 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Fare you well, then. [Exit. 
 
THE wife's trial. 97 
 
 Selb^. 
 Mow like you her assurance ? 
 
 LuCYi 
 
 Even so well, 
 That if this Widow were my guest, not yours^ 
 She should have coach enough, and scope to ride. 
 My merry groom should in a trice convey her 
 To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge, 
 To pick her path through those antiques at leisure ; 
 She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints. 
 O, be not lightly jealous ! nor surmise^ 
 That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this 
 Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart 
 Secrets of any worth, especially 
 Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught, 
 My life upon't, 'tis but some girlish story 
 Of a F'irst Love ; which even the boldest wife 
 Might modestly deny to a husband's ear, 
 Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine* 
 
 H 
 
98 -I'liE wife's trial. 
 
 Selby. 
 I think it is no more; and will dismiss 
 My further fears, if ever I have had such. 
 
 Lucy. 
 Shall we go walk ? I'd see your gardens, brother ; 
 And how the new trees thrive, I recommended. 
 Your Katherine is engaged now 
 
 Selby. 
 
 I'll attend you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE wife's ihial. 99 
 
 SCENE— ^eruawfs* Hall. 
 
 Housekeeper, Philip, and others, laughing. 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 Our Lady's guest, since her short ride, seems ruffled. 
 And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip, 
 I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks 
 Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant. 
 
 Philip. 
 Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper, 
 And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions. 
 We must have leave to laugh ; our brains are younger, 
 And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries. 
 We are wild things. 
 
 II -2 
 
100 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Butler. 
 Good Philip, tell us all. 
 All. 
 
 Ay, as you live, tell, tell- ■ 
 
 Philip. 
 Mad fellows, you shall have it. 
 
 The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud 
 
 Butler. 
 I think that no one can mistake her ringing. 
 
 Waiting-maid. 
 Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to it, 
 More of entreaty hath it than command. 
 
 Philip. 
 I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus. 
 The bell, I say, rang fiercely ; and a voice 
 More shrill than bell, call'd out for " Coachman Philip." 
 I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office. 
 *• Drive me," quoth she, " to the next market town, 
 Where I have hope of letters." I made haste. 
 Put to the horses, saw her fairly coach 'd, 
 And drove her 
 
THE wife's trial. 101 
 
 Waiting-maid. 
 -By the strait high road to Andover, 
 
 I guess - 
 
 Philip. 
 Pray, warrant things within your knowledge, 
 Good Mistress Abigail ; look to your dressings, 
 And leave the skill in horses to the coachman. 
 
 Butler. 
 He'll have his humour ; best not interrupt him. 
 
 Philip. 
 Tis market-day, thought I ; and the poor beasts, 
 Meeting such droves of cattle and of people, 
 May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled. 
 Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd, 
 And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest, 
 By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions. 
 We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam, 
 In policy, to save the few joints left her. 
 Betook her to her feet, and there we parted. 
 
 All. 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
102 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Butler. 
 Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride. 
 
 Waiting-maid. 
 I think she is a witch ; I have tired myself out 
 With sticking pins in her pillow ; still she 'scapes them — 
 
 Butler. 
 And 1 with helping her to mum for claret, 
 But never yet could cheat her dainty palate. 
 
 Housekeeper. 
 Well, well, she is the guest of our good Mistress, 
 And so should be respected. Though, I think. 
 Our Master cares not for her company. 
 He would ill brook we should express so much. 
 By rude discourtesies, and short attendance. 
 Being but servants. {A bell rings furiously.) 'Tis her 
 
 bell speaks now ; 
 Good, good, bestir yourselves : who knows who's 
 wanted ? 
 
 Butler. 
 But 'twas a merry trick of Philip coachman. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
THE wife's trtae. 103 
 
 SCENE— Mrs. Selbys Chamber. 
 
 Mus. Frampton, Katiierine, ivorking. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 I AM thinking, child, how contrary our fates 
 Have traced our lots through life. Another needle, 
 This works untowardly, An heiress bom 
 To splendid prospects, at our common school 
 I was as one above you all, not of you ; 
 Had my distinct prerogatives ; my freedoms, 
 Denied to you. Pray, listen— — 
 Katherine. 
 I must hear, 
 .What you axe pleased to speak ! — How my heart sinks 
 here! [Aside. 
 
104 THE wife's Tin ax., 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 My chamber to myself, my separate maid, 
 My coach, and so forth.— Not that needle, simple one, 
 With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops ! 
 Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs. 
 But I could make a shift to thread a smaller. 
 A cable or a camel might go through this, 
 And never strain for the passage. 
 Katherine. 
 
 I will fit you. 
 Intolerable tyranny ! [Aside,, 
 
 Mrs. Frampton, 
 
 Quick, quick j 
 You were not once so slack.— As I was saying, 
 Not a young thing among ye, but observed me 
 Above the inistress. Who but I was sought to 
 In all your dangers, all your little difficulties. 
 Your girlish scrapes ? I was the scape-goat still, 
 To fetch you off ; k ept all your secrets, some, 
 Perhaps, since then — ^— 
 
THE wife's trial. 105- 
 
 Katherine. 
 No more of that;^ for mercy, 
 If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet, 
 Cleave the cold earth for comfort. [Kneels, 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 This to me ? 
 This posture to your friend had better suited 
 The orphan Katherine in her humble school-daya 
 To the then rich heiress, than the wife of Selby, 
 Of wealthy Mr. Selby, 
 
 To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is. 
 Come, come, 
 
 Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said ; 
 I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bed-fellow ! 
 You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you. 
 rU make him give you up a night or so ; 
 In faith I will: that we may lie, and talk 
 Old tricks of school-days over. 
 
 Katherine. 
 Hear me, madam 
 
106 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Not by that name. Your friend 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 My truest friend, 
 And saviour of my honour ! 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 This sounds better ; 
 You still shall find me such. 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 That you have graced 
 Our poor house with your presence hitherto, 
 Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace 
 Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate. 
 You have been pleased 
 To accept some trivial hospitalities, 
 In part of payment of a long arrear 
 I owe to you, no less than for my life. 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 You speak my services too large. 
 
THE wife's trial. 107 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 Nay, less ; 
 For what an abject thing were life to me 
 Without your silence on my dreadful secret ! 
 And I would wish the league we have renew'd 
 Might be perpetual — 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Have a care, fine madam ! [Aside. 
 Katherine. 
 That one house still might hold us. But my husband 
 
 Has shown himself of late 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 How, Mistress Selby ? 
 Katherine. 
 Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him. 
 He honours, and he loves, nay, he must love 
 The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods, 
 
 In which 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 1 understand you ; — in which husbands, 
 
108 THE wife's trial. 
 
 And wives that love, may wish to be alone, 
 To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance, 
 After a five years' wedlock, 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 Was that well, 
 Or charitably put ? do these pale cheeks 
 Proclaim a wanton blood ? this wasting form 
 Seem a fit theatre for Levity 
 To play his love-tricks on ; and act such follies, 
 As even in Affection's first bland Moon 
 Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks ? 
 I was about to say, that there are times, 
 When the most frank and sociable man 
 May surfeit on most loved society, 
 
 Preferring loneness rather 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 To my company 
 
 Katherine. 
 Ay, your's, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take 
 Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness 
 
THE wife's trial. 109 
 
 Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so. 
 For solitude, I have heard my Selby say, 
 Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions ; 
 And he would call it oft, the day's soft sleep, 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 What is your drift ? and whereto tends this speech, 
 Rhetorically labour'd ? 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 . That you would 
 Abstain but from our house a month, a week ; 
 I make request but for a single day. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 A month, a week, a day ! A single hour 
 Is every week, and month, and the long year, 
 And all the years to come ! My footing here, 
 Slipt once, recovers never. From the state 
 Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries, 
 Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides, 
 To the bare cottage on the withering moor, 
 Where I myself am servant to myself. 
 
110 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Or only waited on by blackest thoughts — 
 I sink, if this be so. No ; here I sit. 
 
 Katherine. 
 Then I am lost for ever ! 
 
 [Sinks at her feet — curtain drops. 
 
Ill 
 
 SCENE — An A'partment, contiguous to the last. 
 Selhy J as if listening. 
 
 Selby. 
 The sounds have died away. What am I changed to ? 
 What do I here, list'ning like to an abject, 
 Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good, 
 If he hear aught? ''This shall to the ear of your 
 
 husband." 
 It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery, 
 And the solution with a vengeance comes. 
 What can my wife have left untold to me. 
 That must be told by proxy ? I begin 
 To call in doubt the course of her life past 
 
1;I2 THE wife's TRIAL. 
 
 Under my very eyes. She hath not been good, 
 Not virtuous, not discreet ; she hath not outrun 
 My wishes still with prompt and meek observance. 
 Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced ; her eyes 
 Not like the dove's ; all this as well may be, 
 As that she should entreasure up a secret 
 In the peculiar closet of her breast. 
 And grudge it to my ear. It is my right 
 To claim the halves in any truth she owns. 
 As much as in the babe I have by her ; 
 Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look. 
 Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow 
 Some strange shame written. 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 
 Sister, an anxious word with you. 
 From out the chamber, where my wife but now 
 Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard 
 (Not of set purpose hark'ning, but by chance) 
 A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone 
 
THE wife's trial. 113 
 
 Of replication, such as the meek dove 
 
 Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her. The high Widow 
 
 Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard 
 
 One threat pronounced — " Your husband shall know 
 
 all." 
 I am no listener, sister ; and I hold 
 A secret, got by such unmanly shift, 
 The pitiful'st of thefts ; but what mine ear, 
 I not intending it, receives perforce, 
 I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning 
 Lurks in this fiend's behaviour ; which, by force ; 
 Or fraud, I must make mine. 
 Lucy. 
 
 The gentlest means 
 Are still the wisest. What, if you should press 
 Your wife to a disclosure ? 
 
 Selby, 
 
 I have tried 
 All gentler means ; thrown out low hints, which, though 
 Merely suggestions still, have never fail'd 
 
114 THE wife's trial. 
 
 To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to insist, 
 Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal. 
 
 Lucy, 
 Your own description gave that Widow out 
 As one not much precise, nor over coy, 
 And nice to listen to a suit of love. 
 What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on, 
 (To work the secret from her easy faith,) 
 For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming ? 
 
 Selby, 
 I see your drift, and partly meet your counsel. 
 But must it not in me appear prodigious, 
 To say the least, unnatural, and suspicious. 
 To move hot love, where I have shewn cool scorn, 
 And undissembled looks of blank aversion ? 
 
 Lucy. 
 Vain woman is the dupe of her own charms, 
 And easily credits the resistless power. 
 That in besieging Beauty lies, to cast down 
 The slight-built fortress of a casual hate. 
 
THE wife's trial. 115 
 
 Selby. 
 
 I am resolved 
 
 Lucy. 
 Success attend your wooing ! 
 Selby. 
 And V\\ about it roundly, my wise sister. 
 
 [Exeu7it. 
 
 I 2 
 
116 THE wife's trial. 
 
 SCENE— r^e Library. 
 
 Mr. Selby, Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Selby. 
 A fortunate encounter, Mistress Frampton. 
 My purpose was, if you can spare so much 
 From your sweet leisure, a few words in private. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 What mean his alter'd tones ? These looks to me. 
 Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness? 
 Is the wind changed ? I'll veer about with it, 
 And meet him in all fashions. [Aside. 
 
 All my leisure. 
 Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here, 
 
THE WIFE S TRIAL. 
 
 Would tiot express a tithe of the obligements 
 I every hour incur. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 No more of that. — 
 I know not why, my wife hath lost of late 
 Much of her cheerful spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 It was my topic 
 To-day ; and every day, and all day long, 
 I still am chiding with her. " Child," I said, 
 And said it pretty roundly — it may be 
 I was too peremptory — we elder school -fellows, 
 Presuming on the advantage of a year 
 Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much. 
 In after years, much like to elder sisters, 
 Are prone to keep the authoritative style. 
 When time has made the difference most ridiculous- 
 
 Selby. 
 The observation's shrewd. 
 
 117 
 
118 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 *' Child," I was saying, 
 " If some wives had obtained a lot like yours," 
 And then perhaps I sigh'd, " they would not sit 
 In corners moping, like to sullen moppets. 
 That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look 
 Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps 
 I said, their Selby's, " with proportion'd looks 
 Of honest joy." 
 
 Selby. 
 You do suspect no jealousy? 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 What is his import ? Whereto tends his speech ? [Aside. 
 Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir ? 
 
 Selby. 
 I do not know, but women have their fancies ; 
 And underneath a cold indifference. 
 Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd 
 A growing fondness for a female friend, 
 
119 
 
 Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see, 
 Before the friend had wit to find it out. 
 You do not quit us soon ? 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 'Tis as I find 
 Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir. — 
 Means this man honest ? Is there no deceit? [Aside. 
 Selby. 
 
 She cannot chuse. Well, well, I have been 
 
 thinking, 
 
 And if the matter were to do again- 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 What matter, sir ? 
 
 Selby. 
 This idle bond of wedlock ; 
 These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk ; 
 I might have made, I do not say a better, 
 But a more fit choice in a wife. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 The parch'd ground, 
 
120 THE avife's trial. 
 
 In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers 
 More greedily, than I his words ! [Aside. 
 
 Selby, 
 
 My humour 
 Is to be frank and jovial ; and that man 
 Affects me best, who most reflects me in 
 My most free temper. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Were you free to chuse, 
 As jestingly I'll put the supposition, 
 Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine, 
 What sort of woman would you make your choice ? 
 
 Selby. 
 I like your humour, and will meet your jest. 
 She should be one about my Katherine's age ; 
 But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity. 
 One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it ; 
 No puling, pining moppet, as you said. 
 Nor moping maid, that I must still be teaching 
 The freedoms of a wife all her life after : 
 
THE wife's trial. 121 
 
 But one, that, having worn the chain before, 
 (And worn it lightly, as report gave out,) 
 Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death. 
 Took it not so to heart that I need dread 
 To die myself, for fear a second time 
 To wet a widow's eye, 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Some widows, sir. 
 Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt * 
 
 To put strange misconstruction on your words, 
 As aiming at a Turkish liberty, 
 Where the free husband hath his several mates, 
 His Penseroso, his Allegro wife, 
 To suit his sober, or his frolic fit. 
 
 Selby. 
 How judge you of that latitude ? 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 As one, 
 In European customs bred, must judge. Had I 
 Been born a native of the liberal East, 
 
122 
 
 THE WIFE S TRIAL. 
 
 I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew 
 A married man that took a second wife, 
 And (the man's circumstances duly weighM, 
 With all their bearings) the considerate world 
 Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the deed. 
 
 Selby, 
 You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 An eye of wanton liking he had placed 
 Upon a Widow, who liked him again. 
 But stood on terms of honourable love. 
 And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife — 
 When to their ears a lucky rumour ran. 
 That this demure and saintly-seeming wife 
 Had a first husband living ; with the which 
 Being question'd, she but faintly could deny. 
 " A priest indeed there was ; some words had past, 
 But scarce amounting to a marriage rite. 
 Her friend was absent ; she supposed him dead ; 
 And, seven years parted, both were free to chuse." 
 
THE wife's trial. 123 
 
 Selby. 
 What did the indignant husband ? Did he not 
 With violent handlings stigmatize the cheek 
 Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd 
 Shame on their innocent babe ? 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 He neither tore 
 His wife's locks nor his own ; but wisely weighing 
 His own offence with her's in equal poise, 
 And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man, 
 Came to a calm and witty compromise. 
 He coolly took his gay-faced widow home, 
 Made her his second wife ; and still the first 
 Lost few or none of her prerogatives. 
 The servants call'd her mistress still; she kept 
 The keys, and had the total ordering 
 Of the house affairs ; and, some slight toys excepted, 
 Was all a moderate wife would wish to be. 
 
 Selby. 
 A tale full of dramatic incident ! — 
 
124 THE m^ife's trial. 
 
 And if a man should put it in a play, 
 How should he name the parties ? 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 The man's name 
 Through time I have forgot — the widow's too ; — 
 But his first wife's first name, her maiden one, 
 Was — not unlike to that your Katherine bore. 
 Before she took the honour'd style of Selby. 
 
 Selby. 
 A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks. 
 One knot is yet unsolved ; that told, this strange 
 And most mysterious drama ends. The name 
 Of that first husband 
 
 Enter Lucy. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Sir, your pardon — 
 The allegory fits your private ear. 
 Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk, 
 We shall have leisure. [^Exit. 
 
THE wife's trial. 125 
 
 Selby. 
 Sister, whence come you ? 
 Lucy. 
 From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she droops 
 In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps, 
 And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks 
 As she would pour her secret in my bosom — 
 Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention 
 Of some immodest act. At her request, 
 1 left her on her knees. 
 
 Selby. 
 The fittest posture ; 
 For great has been her fault to Heaven and me. 
 She married me, with a first husband living, 
 Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment . 
 Of any but indifferent honesty. 
 Must be esteem*d the same. The shallow Widow, 
 Caught by my art, under a riddling veil 
 Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all. 
 Your coming in broke off the conference, 
 
126 THE wife's trial. 
 
 When she was ripe to tell the fatal name, 
 That seals my wedded doom. 
 
 Lucy. 
 
 Was she so forward 
 To pour her hateful meanings in your ear 
 At the first hint ? 
 
 Selby, 
 Her newly flatter'd hopes 
 Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt ; 
 And with a female caution she stood off 
 Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit, 
 Which with such honest seeming I enforced, 
 That her cold scruples soon gave way ; and now 
 She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife. 
 To seize the place of her betrayed friend — 
 My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine* 
 
 Lucy. 
 Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes 
 My simple project has conducted you — 
 Were but my wit as skilful to invent 
 
THE wife's trial. 127 
 
 A clue to lead you forth ! — I call to mind 
 A letter, which your wife received from the Cape, 
 Soon after you were married, with some circumstances 
 Of mystery too. 
 
 Selby. 
 I well remember it. 
 That letter did confirm the truth (she «aid) 
 Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true, 
 But knew not fbr a fact. A youth of promise 
 She gave him out — a hot adventurous spirit — 
 That had set sail in quest of golden dreams, 
 And cities in the heart of Central Afric ; 
 But named no names, nor did I care to press 
 My question further, in the passionate grief 
 She shew'd at the receipt. Might this be he ? 
 
 Lucy. 
 Tears were not all. When that first shower was 
 
 past, 
 With clasped hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n, 
 As if in thankfulness for some escape. 
 
128 THE wife's TRIAL. 
 
 Or strange deliverance, in the news implied, 
 Which sweeten'd that sad news. 
 Selby. 
 
 Something of that 
 
 I noted also 
 
 Lucy. 
 In her closet once, 
 Seeking some other trifle, I espied 
 A ring, in mournful characters deciphering 
 The death of '* Robert Halford, aged two 
 And twenty." Brother, I am not given 
 To the confident use of wagers, which f hold 
 Unseemly in a woman's argument ; 
 But I am strangely tempted now to risk 
 A thousand pounds out of my patrimony, 
 (And let my future husband look to it, 
 If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow 
 Shall name the name that tallies with that ring. 
 
 Selby. 
 That wager lost, I should be rich indeed — 
 
THE wife's trial. 1'29 
 
 Rich in my rescued Kate — rich in my honour, 
 Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept 
 Your merry wager, with an aching heart 
 For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour 
 That I should meet my Widow in the walk, 
 The south side of the garden. On some pretence 
 Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness 
 Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight, 
 Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give, 
 (A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,) 
 You'll know your wager won — then break upon us, 
 As if by chance. 
 
 Lucy. 
 
 I apprehend your meaning 
 
 Selby. 
 And may you prove a true Cassandra here, 
 Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
130 THE wife's trial. 
 
 SCENE— Mrs. Selhy's Chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton^ — Katherine. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Did I express myself in terms so strong ? 
 
 Katherine. 
 As nothing could have more affrighted me. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution 
 Of a suspected cooling hospitality. 
 And, for my staying here, or going hence, 
 (Now I remember something of our argument,) 
 Selby and I can settle that between us. 
 You look amazed. • What if your husband, child, 
 Himself has courted me to stay ? 
 
THE wife's trial. 131 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 You move 
 My wonder and my pleasure equally. 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Yes, courted me to stay, wav'd all objections, 
 Made it a favour to yourselves ; not me, 
 His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child, 
 When I recall his flattering welcome, I 
 Begin to think the burden of my presence 
 
 Was 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 What, for Heaven 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 A little, little spice 
 Of jealousy — that's all — an honest pretext, 
 No wife need blush for. Say that you should see, 
 (As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms. 
 Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest 
 Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal 
 A kiss, while you were by, — not else, for virtue's sake. 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 THE WIFE ij TRIAL. 
 
 Katherine. 
 1 could endure all this, thinking my husband 
 
 Meant it in sport 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 But if in downright earnest 
 (Putting- myself out of the question here) 
 Your Selby, as I partly do suspect, 
 
 Own'd a divided heart 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 My own would break — 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Why, what a blind and witless fool it is, 
 
 That will not see its gains, its infinite gains- 
 
 Katherine. 
 Gain in a loss, 
 
 Or mirth in utter desolation ! 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 He doting on a face — suppose it mine, 
 Or any other's tolerably fair — 
 What need you care about a senseless secret ? 
 
THE wife's trial. 133 
 
 Katiierine. 
 Perplex'd and fearful woman ! I in part 
 Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke 
 The worse than iron band, fretting the soul, 
 By which you held me captive. Whether my husband 
 Is what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy 
 But dreams he is so, either way I am free. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame ; 
 A very heroine while on its knees ; 
 Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista ! 
 
 Katherine. 
 Not to thy wretched self these tears are falling ; 
 But to my husband, and offended heaven. 
 Some drops are due — and then I sleep in peace, 
 Reliev'd from frightful dreams, my dreams though sad. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. . 
 I have gone too far. Who knows but in this mood 
 She may forestall my story, win on Selby 
 
134 THE wife's trial. 
 
 By a frank confession ? — and the time draws on 
 For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate, 
 For which I play. A moment's difference 
 May make it her's or mine. I fly to meet him. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
THE wife's trial. 135 
 
 SCENE— ^ Garden. 
 
 Mr. Selby — Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Selby. 
 I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs. Frampton, 
 Not to conjecture, that some passages 
 In your unfinished story, rightly interpreted, 
 Glanced at my bosom's peace ; 
 
 You knew my wife ? 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Even from her earliest school days — What of that 
 Or how is she concerned in my fine riddles. 
 Framed for the hour's amusement ? 
 
136 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 By my hopes 
 Of my new interest conceived in you, 
 And by the honest passion of my heart, 
 Which not obliquely I to you did hint ; 
 Come from the clouds of misty allegory, 
 And in plain language let me hear the worst. 
 Stand I disgraced, or no ? 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Then, by 7ny hopes 
 Of my new interest conceiv'd in you, 
 And by the kindling passion in my breast, 
 Which through my riddles you had almost read, 
 Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all. 
 In her school years, then bordering on fifteen. 
 Or haply not much past, she loved a youth — — • 
 Selby. 
 
 My most ingenuous Widow 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Met him oft 
 By stealth, where I still of the party was 
 
TiiE wife's trial. 137 
 
 Selby. 
 Prime confidant to all the school, 1 warrant, 
 
 And general go-between 
 
 [Aside, 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 One morn he came 
 In breathless haste. ** The ship was under sail, 
 Or in few hours would be, that must convey 
 Him and his destinies to barbarous shores. 
 Where, should he perish by inglorious hands, 
 It would be consolation in his death 
 To have call'd his Katherine his." 
 Selby. 
 
 Thus far the story 
 Tallies with what I hoped. [Aside, 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Wavering between 
 The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him ; 
 And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged, 
 Whom he had flatter'd with the bride-maid's part ; — 
 
138 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Selby. 
 I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Briefly, we went to church. The ceremony 
 Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring 
 Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted- 
 He to his ship ; and we to school got back, 
 Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 And from that hour 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Nor sight, nor news of him, 
 For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd. 
 
 Selby. 
 Like to a man that hovers in suspense 
 Over a letter just receiv'd, on which 
 The black seal hath impress'd its ominous tokert, 
 Whether to open it or no, so I "^ 
 
 Suspended stand, whether to press my fate 
 
 [Aside. 
 
THE wife's trial. 139 
 
 Further, or check ill curiosity, 
 
 That tempts me to more loss. — The name, the name 
 
 Of this fine youth ? 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 What boots it, if 'twere told ? 
 Selby. 
 
 Now, by our loves, 
 And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day 
 To be accomplish'd, give me his name ! 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 'Tis no such serious matter. It was — Huntingdon. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 How have three little syllables pluck'd from me 
 
 A world of countless hopes ! — [Aside, 
 
 Evasive Widow 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 How, sir ! I like not this. [Aside » 
 
 Selby. 
 
 No, no, I meant 
 Nothing but good to thee. That other woman. 
 
140 THE wife's trial. 
 
 How shall I call her but evasive, false, 
 And treacherous ? — -by the trust I place in thee, 
 Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name 
 As you pronounced it ? 
 
 Mrs. Frami^ton. 
 
 Huntingdon — the name, 
 Which his paternal grandfather assumed, 
 Together with the estates, of a remote 
 
 Kinsman : but our high-spirited youth 
 
 Selby. 
 
 Yes 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Disdaining 
 For sordid pelf to truck the family honours^ 
 At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style, 
 
 And answer'd only to the name of 
 
 Selby. 
 
 What 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Of Halford 
 
THE wife's trial. 141 
 
 Selby. 
 A Huntington to Halford changed so soon ! 
 Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells. 
 As well as bad, and can by a backward charm 
 Unniffle the foul storm she has just been raising. [Aside. 
 
 [He makes the signal. 
 My frank, fair spoken Widow! let this kiss, 
 Which yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks, 
 Till I can think on greater. 
 
 Enter Lucy and Katherine. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Interrupted ! 
 Selby. 
 My sister here ! and see, where with her comes 
 My serpent gliding in an angel's form. 
 To taint the new-born Eden of our joys. 
 Why should we fear them ? We'll not stir a foot, 
 Nor coy it for their pleasures. 
 
 [He courts the V/idow. 
 
142 THE WIFES TRIAL. 
 
 Lucy {to Katherine). 
 
 This your free, 
 And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me 
 For ever to you ; and it shall go hard, 
 But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart, 
 That now seems blindly straying ; or at worst, 
 In me you have still a sister. — Some wives, brother. 
 Would think it strange, to catch their husbands thus 
 Alone with a trim widow ; but your Katherine 
 Is arm'd, I think, with patience. 
 Katherine. 
 
 I am fortified 
 With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs, 
 If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me ; 
 Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest, 
 As now I think he does it but in seeming, 
 To that ill woman. 
 
 Selby. 
 Good words, gentle Kate, 
 And not a thought irreverent of our Widow. 
 
THE WIFE'S TRIAL, 143 
 
 Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time, 
 
 But most uncourteous on our wedding day, 
 
 When we should shew most hospitable. — Some wine. 
 
 [Wine is brought. 
 I am for sports. And now I do remember, 
 The old Egyptians at their banquets placed 
 A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them, 
 With images of cold mortality. 
 To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant. 
 I like the custom well : and ere we crown 
 With freer mirth the day, I shall propose, 
 In calmest recollection of our spirits. 
 We drink the solemn * Memory of the dead' — r 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 Or the supposed dead — [Aside to him. 
 
 Selby. 
 
 Pledge me, good wife — 
 
 [ShefiUs, 
 Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er. 
 
 Katherine. 
 I catch the awful import of your words ; 
 
144 THE wife's trial. 
 
 And, though I could accuse you of unkindness, 
 
 Yet as your lawful and obedient wife, 
 
 While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading, 
 
 Nor I much longer may have leave to use it) 
 
 I calmly take the office you impose ; 
 
 And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness. 
 
 Whom I in heav'n or earth may have offended. 
 
 Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness, 
 
 I pledge you, sir — ^The Memory of the Dead ! 
 
 [She drinks kneeling. 
 Selby. 
 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like 
 My former loving Kate. 
 
 Mrs, Frampton. 
 
 Does he relent ? [Aside. 
 
 Selby. 
 That ceremony past, we give the day 
 To unabated sport. And, in requital 
 Of certain stories, and quaint allegories. 
 Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me 
 To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend 
 
THE wife's trial. 145 
 
 Her patient hearing, I will here recite 
 
 A Parable ; and, the more to suit her taste, 
 
 The scene is laid in the East. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 
 I long to hear it. 
 Some tale, to fit his wife. [Aside. 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 Now, comes my Trial. 
 Lucy. 
 The hour of your deliverance is at hand, 
 If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister. 
 
 Selby. 
 " The Sultan Haroun "— Stay— O now I have it — 
 " The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had 
 A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits. 
 That he reserved them for his proper gust ; 
 And through the Palace it was Death proclaimed 
 To any one that should purloin the same." 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 A heavy petiance for so light a fault — 
 
146 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Selby. 
 Pray you, be silent, else you put me out. 
 '* A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd, 
 Detected in the act a brother page, 
 Of his own years, that was his bosom friend ; 
 And thenceforth he became that other's lord, 
 And like a tyrant he demean'd himself, 
 Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse ; 
 And when that poor means fail'd, held o'er his head 
 Threats of impending death in hideous forms ; 
 Till the small culprit on his nightly couch 
 Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe 
 In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake." 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 I like not this beginning — 
 
 Selby. 
 
 Pray you, attend. 
 *' The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps, 
 And took the youthful pleasures from his days, 
 And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow. 
 
THE wife's trial. 147 
 
 That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned 
 
 To a pale skeleton of what he was ; 
 
 And would have died, but for one lucky chance." 
 
 Katherine. 
 Oh! 
 
 Mrs. Fuampton. 
 Your wife — she faints — some cordial — smell to this. 
 
 Selby. 
 Stand off. My sister best will do that office. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 Are all his tempting speeches come to this ? {Aside. 
 
 Selby. 
 What ail'd my wife ? 
 
 Katherine. 
 
 A warning faintness, sir, 
 Seized on my spirits, when you came to where 
 You said " a lucky chance." I am better now, 
 Please you go on. 
 
 Selby. 
 The sequel shall be brief. ' 
 L 2 
 
148 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Katherine. 
 But, brief or long, I feel my fate hangs on it. 
 
 [Aside, 
 Selby. 
 " One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid, 
 Close by an arbour where the two boys talk'd, 
 (As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns 
 Would play the eaves-dropper, to learn the truth, 
 Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,) 
 O'erheard their dialogue ; and heard enough 
 To judge aright the cause, and know his cue. 
 The following day a Cadi was dispatched 
 To summon both before the judgment seat ; 
 The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear, 
 And the informing friend, who readily, 
 fired with fair promises of large reward, 
 And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed." 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 What did the Caliph to the offending boy. 
 That had so grossly err'd ? 
 
THE wife's trial. 149 
 
 Seluy. 
 
 His sceptred hand 
 He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd, 
 And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts, 
 And he became once more his favourite page. 
 
 Mrs. Frampton. 
 But for that other — 
 
 Selby. 
 He dismissed him straight, 
 From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph's love, 
 To the bare cottage on the withering moor, 
 Where friends, tum'd fiends, and hollow confidants, 
 And widows, hide, who, in a husband's ear 
 Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth ; 
 And told him not that Robin Halford died 
 Some moons before his marriage-bells were rung. 
 Too near dishonour hast thou trod, dear wife, 
 And on a dangerous cast our fates were set ; 
 But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest. 
 Hath interposed to save it gracious too. 
 
150 THE wife's trial. 
 
 Your penance is — to dress your cheek in smiles, 
 
 And to be once again my merry Kate. — 
 
 Sister, your hand. 
 
 Your wager won makes me a happy man, 
 
 Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds. 
 
 The sky clears up after a dubious day. 
 
 Widow, your hand. I read a penitence 
 
 In this dejected brow ; and in this shame 
 
 Your fault is buried. You shall in with us, 
 
 And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare : 
 
 For, till this moment, I can joyful say. 
 
 Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 RHADBUnY AND EVANS, PniNTEUS, BOUVEUIIi STHIET, FLEET sTREEl' 
 
Nearly ready, 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH 56 SPLENDID ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 ITALY, 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 London: Edavaf.d Moxon, 64, New Bond Street j T. Cadell, 
 Strand ; and Jennings & Chaplin, Cheapside. 
 

 i9i 
 
 C. 1 
 
// 
 


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