His prudence half resisted, half obey'd, And scorn kept still the guardians of the maid:

Cecilia never on the subject spoke,
She seem'd as one who from a dream awoke;
So all was peace, and soon the married pair
Fix'd with fair fortune in a mansion fair.
'Five years had past, and what was Henry
then?

The most repining of repenting men;
With a fond, teasing, anxious wife, afraid
Of all attention to another paid;
Yet powerless she her husband to amuse,
Lives but t'entreat, implore, resent, accuse;
Jealous and tender, conscious of defects,
She merits little, and yet much expects;
She looks for love that now she cannot see,
And sighs for joy that never more can be;
On his retirements her complaints intrude,
And fond reproof endears his solitude:
While he her weakness (once her kindness)
sees,

And his affections in her languor freeze;
Regret, uncheck'd by hope, devours his mind,
He feels unhappy, and he grows unkind.

"Fool! to be taken by a rosy cheek, And eyes that cease to sparkle or to speak; Fool! for this child my freedom to resign, When one the glory of her sex was mine; While from this burthen to my soul I hide, To think what Fate has dealt, and what denied. "What fiend possess'd me when I tamely gave

My forced assent to be an idiot's slave?
Her beauty vanish'd, what for me remains?
Th' eternal clicking of the galling chains:
Her person truly I may think my own,
Seen without pleasure, without triumph
shown:

Doleful she sits, her children at her knees, And gives up all her feeble powers to please; Whom I, unmoved, or moved with scorn, behold,

Melting as ice, as vapid and as cold."

'Such was his fate, and he must yet endure The self-contempt that no self-love can cure: Some business call'd him to a wealthy town When unprepared for more than Fortune's frown;

There at a house he gave his luckless name,
The master absent, and Cecilia came;
Unhappy man! he could not, dared not
speak,

But look'd around, as if retreat to seek :
This she allow'd not; but, with brow severe,
Ask'd him his business, sternly bent to hear;
He had no courage, but he view'd that face
As if he sought for sympathy and grace;
As if some kind returning thought to trace:
In vain; not long he waited, but with air,
That of all grace compell'd him to despair,
She rang the bell, and, when a servant came,
Left the repentant traitor to his shame;
But, going, spoke, "Attend this person out,
And if he speaks, hear what he comes about!"
Then, with cool curtesy, from the room with-
drew,

That seem'd to say, "Unhappy man, adieu!"

Thus will it be when man permits a vice First to invade his heart, and then entice; When wishes vain and undefined arise, And that weak heart deceive, seduce, sur

prise;

When evil Fortune works on Folly's side, And rash Resentment adds a spur to Pride; Then life's long troubles from those actions

come,

In which a moment may decide our doom.'

Nor, save by his fair life, to charge so strong replied.

Still, though he bade them not on aught rely That was their own, but all their worth deny, They call'd his pure advice his cold morality; And though he felt that earnestness and zeal, That made some portion of his hearers feel, Nay, though he loved the minds of men to lead To the great points that form the Christian's creed,

Still he offended, for he would discuss

Points that to him seem'd requisite for us;
And urge his flock to virtue, though he knew
The very heathen taught the virtues too:
Nor was this moral minister afraid
To ask of inspiration's self the aid
Of truths by him so sturdily maintain'd,
That some confusion in the parish reign'd;
'Heathens,' they said, ' can tell us right from
wrong,

But to a Christian higher points belong.' Yet Jacques proceeded, void of fear and shame,

In his old method, and obtain'd the name
Of Moral Preacher-yet they all agreed,
Whatever error had defiled his creed,
His life was pure, and him they could com-
mend,

Not as their guide, indeed, but as their friend:
Truth, justice, pity, and a love of peace,
Were his but there must approbation cease;
He either did not, or he would not see,
That if he meant a favourite priest to be
He must not show, but learn of them, the way
To truth-he must not dictate, but obey:
They wish'd him not to bring them further
light,

But to convince them that they now were right,

And to assert that justice will condemn
All who presumed to disagree with them:
In this he fail'd; and his the greater blame,
For he persisted, void of fear or shame.

Him Richard heard, and by his friendly aid
Were pleasant views observed and visits paid;
He to peculiar people found his way,
And had his question answer'd,' Who are they?'
Twice in the week came letters, and delight
Beam'd in the eye of Richard at the sight;
Letters of love, all full and running o'er,
The paper fill'd till it could hold no more;
Cross'd with discolour'd ink, the doublings full,
No fear that love should find abundance dull;

Love reads unsated all that love inspires, When most indulged, indulgence still requires; Look what the corners, what the crossings tell, And lifts each folding for a fond farewell. George saw and smiled- To lovers we

allow

All this o'erflowing, but a husband thou! A father too; can time create no change? Married, and still so foolish ?—very strange! What of this wife or mistress is the art ? 'The simple truth, my brother, to impart, Her heart, whene'er she writes, feels writing to a heart.'

'Fortune, dear Richard, is thy friend-a

wife

Like thine must soften every care of life, And all its woes-I know a pair, whose lives Run in the common track of men and wives; And half their worth, at least, this pair would give

Could they like thee and thy Matilda live.

They were, as lovers, of the fondest kind, With no defects in manner or in mind; In habit, temper, prudence, they were those Whom, as examples, I could once propose; Now this, when married, you no longer trace, But discontent and sorrow in the place : Their pictures, taken as the pair I saw In a late contest, I have tried to draw; 'Tis but a sketch, and at my idle time I put my couple in the garb of rhyme: Thou art a critic of the milder sort, And thou wilt judge with favour my report. Let me premise, twelve months have flown away,

Swiftly or sadly, since the happy day.

'Let us suppose the couple left to spend Some hours without engagement or a friend; And be it likewise on our mind impress'd, They pass for persons happy and at rest; Their love by Hymen crown'd, and all their prospects bless'd.

'Love has slow death and sudden: wretches

prove

That fate severe-the sudden death of love;
It is as if, on day serenely bright,
Came with its horrors instantaneous night;
Others there are with whom love dies away
In gradual waste and unperceived decay;
Such is that death of love that nature finds
Most fitted for the use of common minds,

Sweet influence not its own in every place Was found, and there was found in all things grace;

Thy shrubs and plants were seen new bloom to bear,

Not the Arabian sweets so fragrant were, Nor Eden's self, if aught with Eden might compare.

You went the church-way walk, you reach'd the farm,

And gave the grass and babbling springs a charm ;

Crop, whom you rode,-sad rider though

you be,

Thenceforth was more than Pegasus to me:
Have I not woo'd your snarling cur to bend
To me the paw and greeting of a friend?
And all his surly ugliness forgave,
Because, like me, he was my Emma's slave?
Think you, thus charm'd, I would the spell
revoke ?

Alas! my love, we married, and it broke!

Yet no deceit or falsehood stain'd my breast, What I asserted might a saint attest; Fair, dear, and good thou wert, nay, fairest, dearest, best:

Nor shame, nor guilt, nor falsehood I avow, But 'tis by heaven's own light I see thee

now;

And if that light will all those glories chase, 'Tis not my wish that will the good replace. E. O sir, this boyish tale is mighty well, But 'twas your falsehood that destroy'd the spell :

Speak not of nature, 'tis an evil mind That makes you to accustom'd beauties blind;

The good we have, by grief for that we lose;
But let us both the very truth confess;
This must relieve the ill, and may redress.
E. O much I fear! I practised no deceit,
Such as I am I saw you at my feet;
If for a goddess you a girl would take,

plain you find.

H. And I alone?-O! Emma, when I pray'd

For grace from thee, transported and afraid,
Now raised to rapture, now to terror doom'd,
Was not the goddess by the girl assumed ?
Did not my Emma use her skill to hide-
Let us be frank-her weakness and her
pride?

Did she not all her sex's arts pursue,
To bring the angel forward to my view?
Was not the rising anger oft suppress'd?
Was not the waking passion hush'd to rest?
And when so mildly sweet you look'd and
spoke,

Did not the woman deign to wear a cloak?

sight, I might have seen her-Think you not I might?

E. O! this is glorious!-while your passion lives,

To the loved maid a robe of grace it gives; And then, unjust! beholds her with surprise,

Unrobed, ungracious, when the passion dies. H. For this, my Emma, I to Heaven appeal,

I felt entirely what I seem'd to feel;
Thou wert all precious in my sight, to me
The being angels are supposed to be;
And am I now of my deception told,
Because I'm doom'd a woman to behold ?
E. Sir! in few words I would a question
ask-

Mean these reproaches that I wore a mask?
Mean you that I by art or caution tried
To show a virtue, or a fault to hide ?

H. I will obey you-When you seem'd to feel

Those books we read, and praised them with

such zeal,

Approving all that certain friends approved, Was it the pages, or the praise you loved? Nay, do not frown-I much rejoiced to find Such early judgment in such gentle mind; But, since we married, have you deign'd to look

On the grave subjects of one favourite book? Or have the once-applauded pages power T'engage their warm approver for an hour? Nay, hear me further-When we view'd that dell,

Where lie those ruins-you must know it well

When that worn pediment your walk delay'd,

And the stream gushing through the arch decay'd;

When at the venerable pile you stood,
Till the does ventured on our solitude,
We were so still! before the growing day
Call'd us reluctant from our seat away-
Tell me, was all the feeling you express'd
The genuine feeling of my Emma's breast?
Or was it borrow'd, that her faithful slave
The higher notion of her taste might have?
So may I judge, for of that lovely scene
The married Emma has no witness been;

to grow.

Once more permit me- -Well, I know, you feel

For suffering men, and would their sufferings heal,

But when at certain huts you chose to call,
At certain seasons, was compassion all ?
I there beheld thee, to the wretched dear
As angels to expiring saints appear
When whispering hope-I saw an infant
press'd

And hush'd to slumber on my Emma's breast!

Hush'd be each rude suggestion!-Well I know,

With a free hand your bounty you bestow;
And to these objects frequent comforts send,
But still they see not now their pitying friend.
A merchant, Emma, when his wealth he
states,

Though rich, is faulty if he over-rates
His real store; and, gaining greater trust
For the deception, should we deem him just?
If in your singleness of heart you hide
No flaw or frailty, when your truth is tried,
And time has drawn aside the veil of love,
We may be sorry, but we must approve;
The fancied charms no more our praise
compel,

But doubly shines the worth that stands so well.

E. O precious are you all, and prizes too, Or could we take such guilty pains for you? Believe it not-As long as passion lasts, A charm about the chosen maid it casts; And the poor girl has little more to do Than just to keep in sight as you pursue: Chance to a ruin leads her; you behold, And straight the angel of her taste is told; Chance to a cottage leads you, and you trace A virtuous pity in the angel's face ; She reads a work you chance to recommend, And likes it well-at least, she likes the

friend;

But when it chances this no more is done, She has not left one virtue-No! not one!

But be it said, good sir, we use such art, Is it not done to hold a fickle heart, And fix a roving eye?-Is that design Shameful or wicked that would keep you mine?