"But why that smile? is loss like yours
so light.
That it can aught like merriment excite?
Well, he is rich, we know, and can afford
To please his fancy, and to keep his word;
To him 'tis nothing; had he now a fear,
He must the meanest of his sex appear;
But the true honour, as I judge the case,
Is, both to feel the evil, and embrace."
Here Barlow stopp'd, a little vex'd to see No fear or hope, no dread or ecstasy: Calmly she spoke-" Your prospects, sir, and mine
Are not the same,—their union I decline;
Could I believe the hand for which you strove
Had yet its value, did you truly love,
I had with thanks address'd you, and replied,
Wait till your feelings and my own subside,
Watch your affections, and, if still they live,
What pride denies, my gratitude shall give;
Ev'n then, in yielding, I had first believed
That I conferr'd the favour, not received.
""You I release—nay, hear me—I impart
Joy to your soul,—I judge not of your heart.
Think'st thou a being, to whom God has lent
A feeling mind, will have her bosom rent
By man's reproaches? Sorrow will be thine,
For all thy pity prompts thee to resign!
Think'st thou that meekness' self would con-
descend
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Bow'd to correction, like an humbled child, Who feels the parent's kindness, and who knows
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Such the correction he, who loves, bestows. Attending always, but attending more When sorrow ask'd his presence, than before, Tender and ardent, with the kindest air Came Bloomer, fortune's error to repair; Words sweetly soothing spoke the happy youth,
With all the tender earnestness of truth.
'There was no doubt of his intention nowHe will his purpose with his love avow: So judged the maid; yet, waiting, she admired
His still delaying what he most desired;
Till, from her spirit's agitation free,
She might determine when the day should be.
With such facility the partial mind
Can the best motives for its favourites find.
Of this he spake not, but he stay'd beyond
His usual hour ;—attentive still and fond ;--
The hand yet firmer to the hand he prest,
And the eye rested where it loved to rest;
Then took he certain freedoms, yet so small
That it was prudish so the things to call;
Things they were not-" Describe "—that
none can do,
To take the husband when she scorns the They had been nothing had they not been
Forgive the frankness, and rejoice for life,
Thou art not burden'd with so poor a wife.
""Go! and be happy-tell, for the applause
Of hearts like thine, we parted, and the cause
Give, as it pleases." With a foolish look
That a dull school-boy fixes on his book
That he resigns, with mingled shame and joy ;
So Barlow went, confounded like the boy.
Jane, while she wept to think her sister's
pain
Was thus increased, felt infinite disdain ;
Bound as she was, and wedded by the ties
Of love and hope, that care and craft despise;
She could but wonder that a man, whose taste
And zeal for money had a Jew disgraced,
Should love her sister; yet with this surprise,
She felt a little exultation rise;
Hers was a lover who had always held
This man as base, by generous scorn impell'd;
And yet, as one, of whom for Lucy's sake
He would a civil distant notice take.
There was a moment's softness, and it Can see consign'd to shame the trusting fair,
Discretion slept, or so the lover dream'd;
And watching long the now confiding maid,
He thought her guardless, and grew less
afraid;
Led to the theme that he had shunn'd before,
He used a language he must use no more-
For if it answers, there is no more need,
And no more trial, should it not succeed.
'Then made he that attempt, in which to
fail
Is shameful,-still more shameful to prevail.
'Then was there lightning in that eye that
shed
Its beams upon him,-and his frenzy fled;
Abject and trembling at her feet he laid,
Despised and scorn'd by the indignant maid,
Whose spirits in their agitation rose,
Him, and her own weak pity, to oppose:
As liquid silver in the tube mounts high,
Then shakes and settles as the storm goes by.
While yet the lover stay'd, the maid was
strong,
But when he fled, she droop'd and felt the
Felt the alarming chill, th' enfeebled breath, Closed the quick eye, and sank in transient death.
That so employment may contend with care; Not power, but will, she shows, and looks about
On her small people, who come in and out;
And seems of what they need, or she can do,
in doubt.
There sits the chubby crew on seats around,
While she, all rueful at the sight and sound,
Shrinks from the free approaches of the tribe,
Whom she attempts lamenting to describe,
So Lucy found her; and then first that breast Knew anger's power, and own'd the stranger guest. "And is this love? Ungenerous! Has With stains the idlers gather'd in their way, The simple stains of mud, and mould, and clay,
Been mean and abject? Is no being true?"
For Lucy judged that, like her prudent swain,
Bloomer had talk'd of what a man might
gain;
She did not think a man on earth was found,
A wounded bosom, while it bleeds, to wound;
Thought not that mortal could be so unjust,
As to deprive affliction of its trust;
Thought not a lover could the hope enjoy,
That must the peace, he should promote, de-
stroy;
Thought not, in fact, that in the world were
those,
Who, to their tenderest friends, are worse
than foes,
Who win the heart, deprive it of its care,
Then plant remorse and desolation there.
Ah! cruel he, who can that heart deprive
Of all that keeps its energy alive;
Their school, and something gather'd from
Of that bad Bank, keeps poverty in check;
And true respect, and high regard, are theirs,
The children's profit, and the parents' prayers.
With Lucy rests the one peculiar care,
That few must see, and none with her may
share;
""Oh! my dear Lucy, I had thought to live
With all the comforts easy fortunes give;
A wife caressing, and caress'd,—a friend,
Whom he would guide, advise, consult, defend,
And make his equal;—then I fondly thought
Among superior creatures to be brought;
And while with them, delighted to behold
No eye averted, and no bosom cold ;-
More dear than hope can be, more sweet than Then at my home, a mother, to embrace
For her sad sister needs the care of love
That will direct her, that will not reprove,
But waits to warn for Jane will walk alone,
Will sing in low and melancholy tone;
Will read or write, or to her plants will run
To shun her friends,-alas! her thoughts to
shun.
'It is not love alone disturbs her rest, But loss of all that ever hope possess'd; Friends ever kind, life's lively pleasures, ease, When her enjoyments could no longer please; These were her comforts then! she has no more of these.
My--Oh! my sister, it was surely base!
I might forget the wrong; I cannot the dis-
grace.
"Oh! when I saw that triumph in his
eyes,
I felt my spirits with his own arise;
I call'd it joy, and said, the generous youth
Laughs at my loss-no trial for his truth;
It is a trifle he can not lament,
A sum but equal to his annual rent;
And yet that loss, the cause of every ill,
Has made me poor, and him—”
"O! poorer still; Poorer, my Jane, and far below thee now: 'Wrapt in such thoughts, she feels her The injurer he,-the injured sufferer thou; And shall such loss afflict thee ?""Lose I not
But knows 'tis true, that she has lost her way;
For Lucy's smile will check the sudden flight,
And one kind look let in the wonted light.
'Fits of long silence she endures, then talks
Too much with too much ardour, as she
walks ;
But still the shrubs that she admires dispense
Their balmy freshness to the hurried sense,
And she will watch their progress, and attend
Her flowering favourites as a guardian friend;
To sun or shade she will her sweets remove,
"And here," she says,
66 I may with safety
love."
But there are hours when on that bosom
steals
A rising terror,-then indeed she feels ;Feels how she loved the promised good, and how
She feels the failure of the promise now.
"That other spoiler did as robbers do, Made poor our state, but not disgraceful too. This spoiler shames me, and I look within To find some cause that drew him on to sin; He and the wretch who could thy worth forsake
Are the fork'd adder and the loathsome snake;
Thy snake could slip in villain-fear away,
But had no fang to fasten on his prey.
With him what fortune could in life allot?
Lose I not hope, life's cordial, and the views
Of an aspiring spirit ?-O! I lose
Whate'er the happy feel, whate'er the san-
guine choose.
"Would I could lose this bitter sense of
And sleep in peace-but it will not be long!
And here is something, Lucy, in my brain,
I know not what-it is a cure for pain;
But is not death!-no beckoning hand I see,
No voice I hear that comes alone to me;
It is not death, but change; I am not now
As I was once,-nor can I tell you how;
Nor is it madness-ask, and you shall find
In my replies the soundness of my mind:
O! I should be a trouble all day long;
A very torment, if my head were wrong."
'At times there is upon her features seen,
What moves suspicion-she is too serene.
Such is the motion of a drunken man,
Who steps sedately, just to show he can.
Absent at times she will her mother call,
And cry at mid-day," then good night to all."
But most she thinks there will some good
From something done, or what she is to do;
Long wrapt in silence, she will then assume An air of business, and shake off her gloom; Then cry exulting, "O! it must succeed, There are ten thousand readers-all men read: There are my writings,―you shall never spend Your precious moments to so poor an end; Our peasants' children may be taught by those, Who have no powers such wonders to compose; So let me call them,-what the world allows, Surely a poet without shame avows;
Come, let us count what numbers we believe
Will buy our work-Ah! sister, do you grieve?
You weep; there's something I have said
amiss,
And vex'd my sister-What a world is this!
And how I wander !-Where has fancy run?
Is there no poem? Have I nothing done?
Forgive me, Lucy, I had fix'd my eye,
And so my mind, on works that cannot die;
Marmion and Lara yonder in the case,
And so I put me in the poet's place.
"Still, be not frighten'd; it is but a
dream;
I am not lost, bewilder'd though I seem;
I will obey thee-but suppress thy fear-
I am at ease,-then why that silly tear?"
'Jane, as these melancholy fits invade
The busy fancy, seeks the deepest shade;
She walks in ceaseless hurry, till her mind
Will short repose in verse and music find;
Then her own songs to some soft tune she sings,
And laughs, and calls them melancholy things;
Not frenzy all; in some her erring Muse
Will sad, afflicting, tender strains infuse:
Sometimes on death she will her lines compose,
Or give her serious page of solemn prose;
And still those favourite plants her fancy
please,
And give to care and anguish rest and ease.
"Let me not have this gloomy view,
About my room, around my bed;
But morning roses, wet with dew,
To cool my burning brows instead.
As flowers that once in Eden grew,
Let them their fragrant spirits shed,
And every day the sweets renew,
Till I, a fading flower, am dead.
"Oh! let the herbs I loved to rear Give to my sense their perfumed breath; Let them be placed about my bier,
And grace the gloomy house of death.
I'll have my grave beneath an hill, Where, only Lucy's self shall know; Where runs the pure pellucid rill
Upon its gravelly bed below; There violets on the borders blow, And insects their soft light display, Till, as the morning sun-beams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay.
"That is the grave to Lucy shown,
The soil a pure and silver sand, The green cold moss above it grown, Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand: In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,
There let my maiden form be laid, Nor let my changed clay be spurned, Nor for new guest that bed be made. "There will the lark,—the lamb, in sport, In air,-on earth,-securely play, And Lucy to my grave resort,
As innocent, but not so gay.
I will not have the churchyard ground,
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.
"With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earth-worms
creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey;
I will not have the bell proclaim
When those sad marriage rites begin,
And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.
Say not, it is beneath my care; I cannot these cold truths allow; These thoughts may not afflict me there, But, O! they vex and tease me now. Raise not a turf, nor set a stone, That man a maiden's grave may trace, But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
And let affection find the place.
"O! take me from a world I hate, Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold; And, in some pure and blessed state, Let me my sister minds behold: From gross and sordid views refined, Our heaven of spotless love to share, For only generous souls design'd,
And not a man to meet us there." 93 2
BOOK IX. THE PRECEPTOR HUSBAND
The Morning Ride-Conversation-Character 'At least they form'd his wishes, they were of one whom they meet-His early Habits and Mode of thinking-The Wife whom he would choose-The one chosen-His
Attempts to teach-In History-In Botany -The Lady's Proficiency-His Complaint --Her Defence and Triumph-The Trial
'WHOм pass'd we musing near the woodman's shed,
Whose horse not only carried him but led, That his grave rider might have slept the time,
Or solved a problem, or composed a rhyme? A more abstracted man within my view Has never come-He recollected you.' 'Yes, he was thoughtful-thinks the whole day long,
Deeply, and chiefly that he once thought wrong;
He thought a strong and kindred mind to trace
In the soft outlines of a trifler's face.
'Poor Finch! I knew him when at school
-a boy
Who might be said his labours to enjoy ;
So young a pedant that he always took
The girl to dance who most admired her book;
And would the butler and the cook surprise,
Who listen'd to his Latin exercise;
The matron's self the praise of Finch avow'd,
He was so serious, and he read so loud:
But yet, with all this folly and conceit,
The lines he wrote were elegant and neat;
And early promise in his mind appear'd
Of noble efforts when by reason clear'd.
And when he spoke of wives, the boy
would say,
His should be skill'd in Greek and algebra; For who would talk with one to whom his themes,
The favourite views on which his mind was
He quaintly said, how happy must they prove, Who, loving, study-or who, studious, love; Who feel their minds with sciences imbued, And their warm hearts by beauty's force subdued.
'His widow'd mother, who the world had seen,
And better judge of either sex had been, Told him that just as their affairs were placed, In some respects, he must forego his taste; That every beauty, both of form and mind,. Must be by him, if unendow'd, resign'd; That wealth was wanted for their joint affairs; His sisters' portions, and the Hall's repairs.
'The son assented-and the wife must bring Wealth, learning, beauty, ere he gave the ring;
But as these merits, when they all unite,
Are not produced in every soil and site;
And when produced are not the certain gain
Of him who would these precious things
obtain ;
Our patient student waited many a year,
Nor saw this phoenix in his walks appear.
But as views mended in the joint estate,
He would a something in his points abate;
Give him but learning, beauty, temper, sense,
And he would then the happy state commence.
The mother sigh'd, but she at last agreed,
And now the son was likely to succeed;
Wealth is substantial good the fates allot,
We know we have it, or we have it not;
But all those graces, which men highly rate,
Their minds themselves imagine and create;
And therefore Finch was in a way to find
A good that much depended on his mind.
'He look'd around, observing, till he saw
Augusta Dallas! when he felt an awe
And favourite studies, were no more than Of so much beauty and commanding grace,
For this, though courteous, gentle, and humane,
The boys contemn'd and hated him as vain, Stiff and pedantic.-'
'Did the man enjoy, In after life, the visions of the boy?'
That well became the honours of her race:
This lady never boasted of the trash
That commerce brings: she never spoke of
cash;
The gentle blood that ran in every vein
At all such notions blush'd in pure dis
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