please,

Pains and endeavour-not Matilda's ease;Not the pure lines of love! the guileless friend In all her freedom-What could this portend? 'Fancy!' said George, 'the self-tormentor's pain

And Richard still consented to remain.

'Ride you this fair cool morning?' said the squire:

Do-for a purchase I have made inquire, And with you take a will complacently t' admire:

Southward at first, dear Richard, make your way,

Cross Hilton Bridge, move on through

Breken Clay,

At Dunham Wood turn duly to the east,
And there your eyes upon the ocean feast;
Then ride above the cliff, or ride below,
You'll be enraptured, for your taste I know;
It is a prospect that a man might stay
To his bride hastening on his wedding-day;
At Tilburn Sluice once more ascend and view
A decent house; an ample garden too,
And planted well behind a lively scene, and
new;

A little taste, a little pomp display'd,
By a dull man, who had retired from trade
To enjoy his leisure-Here he came prepared
To farm, nor cost in preparation spared;
But many works he purchased, some he read,
And often rose with projects in his head,
Of crops in courses raised, of herds by
matching bred.

'We had just found these little humours out, Just saw-he saw not-what he was about; Just met as neighbours, still disposed to meet, Just learn'd the current tales of Dowling Street,

And were just thinking of our female friends, Saying "You know not what the man intends,

A rich, kind, hearty "-and it might be true
Something he wish'd, but had not time to do;
A cold ere yet the falling leaf! of small
Effect till then, was fatal in the fall;
And of that house was his possession brief-
Go; and guard well against the falling leaf.
'But hear me, Richard, looking to my ease,
Try if you can find something that will please;
Faults if you see, and such as must abide,
Say they are small, or say that I can hide;

way,

I'll take it kindly-that is well-be gay.

'Nor pass the pebbled cottage as you rise Above the sluice, till you have fix'd your eyes On the low woodbined window, and have seen, So fortune favour you, the ghost within; Take but one look, and then your way pursue, It flies all strangers, and it knows not you.'

Richard return'd, and by his Brother stood, Not in a pensive, not in pleasant mood; But by strong feeling into stillness wrought, As nothing thinking, or with too much thought;

Or like a man who means indeed to speak, But would his hearer should his purpose seek. When George-'What is it, Brother, you

would hide?

Or what confess ''Who is she?' he replied,

'That angel whom I saw, to whom is she allied?

Of this fair being let me understand, And I will praise your purchase, house and land.

'Hers was that cottage on the rising ground, West of the waves, and just beyond their sound;

'Tis larger than the rest, and whence, indeed,
You might expect a lady to proceed;
But O! this creature, far as I could trace,
Will soon be carried to another place.

'Fair, fragile thing! I said, when first my

"Art thou so much," I said, "to grief a prey?"

Till pity pain'd me, and I rode away.

'Tell me, my Brother, is that sorrow dread For the great change that bears her to the dead ?

Has she connexions? does she love?-I feel Pity and grief, wilt thou her woes reveal?' They are not lasting, Richard, they are

woes

Chastised and meek! she sings them to repose;

If not, she reasons; if they still remain, She finds resource, that none shall find in vain. 'Whether disease first grew upon regret, Or nature gave it, is uncertain yet, And must remain; the frame was slightly made,

That grief assail'd, and all is now decay'd!
'But though so willing from the world to
part,

I must not call her case a broken heart;
Nor dare I take upon me to maintain
That hearts once broken never heal again.'

'She was an only daughter, one whose sire Loved not that girls to knowledge should aspire;

But he had sons, and Ellen quickly caught Whatever they were by their masters taught; This, when the father saw-" It is the turn Of her strange mind," said he, "but let her learn ;

'Tis almost pity with that shape and faceBut is a fashion, and brings no disgrace; Women of old wrote verse, or for the stage Brought forth their works! they now are

reasoners sage,

And with severe pursuits dare grapple and

engage.

If such her mind, I shall in vain oppose, If not, her labours of themselves will close." 'Ellen, 'twas found, had skill without pretence,

And silenced envy by her meek good sense; That Ellen learnt, her various knowledge proved;

Soft words and tender looks, that Ellen loved; For he who taught her brothers found in her A constant, ready, eager auditor;

This he perceived, nor could his joy disguise, It tuned his voice, it sparkled in his eyes.

'Not very young, nor very handsome he, But very fit an Abelard to be; His manner and his meekness hush'd alarm In all but Ellen-Ellen felt the charm ; Hers was fond "filial love," she found delight To have her mind's dear father in her sight; 'But soon the borrow'd notion she resign'd! He was no father-even to the mind. 'But Ellen had her comforts-" He will speak,"

She said, "for he beholds me fond and weak; Fond, and he therefore may securely plead,— Weak, I have therefore of his firmness need; With whom my father will his Ellen trust, Because he knows him to be kind and just."

'Alas! too well the conscious lover knew The parent's mind, and well the daughter's too;

He felt of duty the imperious call,
Beheld his danger, and must fly or fall.
What would the parent, what his pupils think?
O! he was standing on perdition's brink :
In his dilemma flight alone remain'd,
And could he fly whose very soul was chain'd?
He knew she loved; she tried not to conceal
A hope she thought that virtue's self might
feel.

'Ever of her and her frank heart afraid, Doubting himself, he sought in absence, aid, And had resolved on flight, but still the act delay'd;

At last so high his apprehension rose, That he would both his love and labour close. ""While undisclosed my fear each instant

grows,

And I lament the guilt that no one knows, Success undoes me, and the view that cheers All other men, all dark to me appears!

'Thus as he thought, his Ellen at his side Her soothing softness to his grief applied; With like effect as water cast on flame, For he more heated and confused became, And broke in sorrow from the wondering maid,

Who was at once offended and afraid; Yet "Do not go!" she cried, and was awhile obey'd.

"Art thou then ill, dear friend?" she

666

And let her with her loving care attend
To all that vexes and disturbs her friend."
Nay, my dear lady! we have all our cares,
And I am troubled with my poor affairs:
Thou canst not aid me, Ellen; could it be
And might it, doubtless, I would fly to thee;
But we have sundry duties, and must all,
Hard as it may be, go where duties call-
Suppose the trial were this instant thine,
Could thou the happiest of thy views resign
At duty's strong command ? ""If thou
wert by,"

Said the unconscious maiden, "I would try!"— And as she sigh'd she heard the soft responsive sigh.

'And then assuming steadiness, "Adieu!" He cried, and from the grieving Ellen flew ; And to her father with a bleeding heart He went, his grief and purpose to impart; Told of his health, and did in part confess That he should love the noble maiden less. "The parent's pride to sudden rage gave way

"And the girl loves! that plainly you would say

And you with honour, in your pride, retire! Sir, I your prudence envy and admire." But here the father saw the rising frown, And quickly let his lofty spirit down.

'Long was he absent; as a guide to youth, With grief contending, and in search of truth, In courting peace, and trying to forget What was so deeply interesting yet.

'A friend in England gave him all the news, A sad indulgence that he would not lose; He told how Ellen suffer'd, how they sent The maid from home in sullen discontent, With some relation on the Lakes to live, In all the sorrow such retirements give; And there she roved among the rocks, and took Moss from the stone, and pebbles from the brook;

Gazed on the flies that settled on the flowers, And so consumed her melancholy hours.

'Again he wrote-The father then was dead, And Ellen to her native village fled, With native feeling-there she oped her door, Her heart, her purse, and comforted the poor, The sick, the sad,-and there she pass'd her days,

Deserving much, but never seeking praise, Her task to guide herself, her joy the fallen to raise.

Nor would she nicely faults and merits weigh, But loved the impulse of her soul t' obey; The prayers of all she heard, their sufferings view'd,

Nor turn'd from any, save when Love pursued; For though to love disposed, to kindness

prone,

She thought of Cecil, and she lived alone.

'Thus heard the lover of the life she past Till his return,-and he return'd at last; For he had saved, and was a richer man Than when to teach and study he began ; Something his father left, and he could fly To the loved country where he wish'd to die. ""And now," he said, "this maid with gentle mind

approve;

Much he lamented such a mind to lose,
And begg'd to learn if he could aid his views,
If such were form'd-then closed the short
account,

And to a shilling paid the full amount.

'So Cecil left the mansion, and so flew To foreign shores, without an interview; He must not say, I love-he could not say, Adieu !

She knew my motives, and she must approve
The man who dared to sacrifice his love
And fondest hopes to virtue: virtuous she,
Nor can resent that sacrifice in me."

'He reason'd thus, but fear'd, and sought the friend

In his own country, where his doubts must end;

They then together to her dwelling came,
And by a servant sent her lover's name,

Grows without ground; but Cecil would not hear:

He seem'd some dreadful object to explore, And fix'd his fearful eye upon the door, Intensely longing for reply-the thing

That must to him his future fortune bring; And now it brought! like Death's cold hand it came

"The lady was a stranger to the name!"

'Backward the lover in the carriage fell, Weak, but not fainting-"All," said he, "is well!

Return with me-I have no more to seek!" And this was all the woful man would speak. 'Quickly he settled all his worldly views, And sail'd from home, his fiercer pains to lose And nurse the milder-now with labour less He might his solitary world possess,

And taste the bitter-sweet of love in idleness. 'Greece was the land he chose; a mind decay'd

And ruin'd there through glorious ruin stray'd;

There read, and walk'd, and mused,-there loved, and wept, and pray'd.

Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live,
But gave to study all his mind could give;
Till, with the dead conversing, he began
To lose the habits of a living man,
Save that he saw some wretched, them he
tried

To soothe, some doubtful, them he strove to guide;

Nor did he lose the mind's ennobling joy

Of that new state that death must not

destroy;

was nigh,

To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh,
But hopes more new and strong confirm'd his

wish to die.

'Meantime poor Ellen in her cottage thought "That he would seek her-sure she should be sought

This is the fund that must relief impart.

'Such have the ten last years of Ellen been! Her very last that sunken eye has seen! That half angelic being still must fade Till all the angel in the mind be made ;— And now the closing scene will shortly comeShe cannot visit sorrow at her home;

But still she feeds the hungry, still prepares The usual softeners of the peasant's cares, And though she prays not with the dying now,

'Such is my tale, dear Richard, but that

told

I must all comments on the text withhold; What is the sin of grief I cannot tell,

But to the cause of mercy I incline,
Or, O my Brother, what a fate is mine!

He could not bear that royal Herod's spouse Should, as a widow, make her second vows; Or that a mortal with his queen should wed, Or be the rival of the mighty dead.

'Herods,' said Richard, 'doubtless may be found,

But haply do not in the world abound; Ladies, indeed, a dreadful lot would have, If jealousy could act beyond the grave: No doubt Othellos every place supply, Though every Desdemona does not die; But there are lovers in the world, who live Slaves to the sex, and every fault forgive.'.

'I know,' said George, a happy man and kind,

Who finds his wife is all he wish'd to find, A mild, good man, who, if he nothing sees, Will suffer nothing to disturb his ease;

;

Who, ever yielding both to smiles and sighs, Admits no story that a wife denies,She guides his mind, and she directs his eyes. 'Richard, there dwells within a mile a pair

Of good examples,—I will guide you there : Such man is William Bailey,-but his spouse Is virtue's self since she had made her vows: I speak of ancient stories, long worn out, That honest William would not talk about; But he will sometimes check her starting tear, And call her self-correction too severe.

"In their own inn the gentle pair are placed, Where you behold the marks of William's taste:

They dwell in plenty, in respect, and peace,
Landlord and lady of the Golden Fleece:
Public indeed their calling,-but there come
No brawl, no revel to that decent room;
All there is still, and comely to behold,
Mild as the fleece, and pleasant as the gold;
But mild and pleasant as they now appear,
They first experienced many a troubled year;
And that, if known, might not command our
praise,

Like the smooth tenor of their present days. 'Our hostess, now so grave and steady

grown,

Has had some awkward trials of her own:
She was not always so resign'd and meek,-
Yet can I little of her failings speak;
Those she herself will her misfortunes deem,
And slides discreetly from the dubious theme;
But you shall hear the tale that I will tell,
When we have seen the mansion where they
dwell.'

They saw the mansion,-and the couple made

Obeisance due, and not without parade: 'His honour, still obliging, took delight To make them pleasant in each other's sight;