dread,

Unless he felt and fear'd to be misled ?

She came, she spake he calmly heard her

case,

:

And plainly told her 'twas a want of grace; Bade her such fancies and affections check, And wear a thicker muslin on her neck.' Abased, his human foes the combat fled, And the stern clerk yet higher held his head. They were indeed a weak, impatient set, But their shrewd prompter had his engines yet;

Had various means to make a mortal trip, Who shunn'd a flowing bowl and rosy lip; And knew a thousand ways his heart to move, Who flies from banquets and who laughs at love.

Thus far the playful Muse has lent her aid, But now departs, of graver theme afraid; Her may we seek in more appropriate time,There is no jesting with distress and crime.

Our worthy clerk had now arrived at fame, Such as but few in his degree might claim; But he was poor, and wanted not the sense That lowly rates the praise without the pence: He saw the common herd with reverence treat The weakest burgess whom they chanced to meet;

While few respected his exalted views,
And all beheld his doublet and his shoes:
None, when they meet, would to his parts allow
(Save his poor boys) a hearing or a bow:
To this false judgment of the vulgar mind,
He was not fully, as a saint, resign'd;
He found it much his jealous soul affect,
To fear derision and to find neglect.

The year was bad, the christening-fees were small,

The weddings few, the parties paupers all: Desire of gain with fear of want combined, Raised sad commotion in his wounded mind; Wealth was in all his thoughts, his views, his dreams,

6

And knew my need, how freely they'd bestow; But though they know not, these remain the

same;

And are a strong, although a secret claim : To me, alas! the want and worth are known, Why then, in fact, 'tis but to take my

own.'

Thought after thought pour'd in, a tempting train,

Suppose it done,-who is it could complain? How could the poor? for they such trifles share,

As add no comfort, as suppress no care;

But many a pittance makes a worthy heap,What says the law? that silence puts to sleep :

Nought then forbids, the danger could we shun,

And sure the business may be safely done.

'But am I earnest ?-earnest? No.-I say, If such my mind, that I could plan a way; Let me reflect ;-I've not allow'd me time To purse the pieces, and if dropp'd they'd chime :

Fertile is evil in the soul of man,— He paused,―said Jachin, 'They may drop on bran.

Why then 'tis safe and (all consider’d) just,

schemes.

Alas! how often erring mortals keep The strongest watch against the foes who sleep;

While the more wakeful, bold and artful foe Is suffer'd guardless and unmark'd to go.

Once in a month the sacramental bread Our clerk with wine upon the table spread;

The old and widows may their trifles miss,
There must be evil in a good like this:
But I'll be kind-the sick I'll visit twice,
When now but once, and freely give advice.
Yet let me think again :'-Again he tried,
For stronger reasons on his passion's side,
And quickly these were found, yet slowly he
complied.

The morning came: the common service done,

Shut every door,-the solemn rite begun,-
And, as the priest the sacred sayings read,
The clerk went forward, trembling as he tread;
O'er the tall pew he held the box, and heard
The offer'd piece, rejoicing as he fear'd:
Just by the pillar, as he cautious tripp'd,
And turn'd the aile, he then a portion slipp'd
From the full store, and to the pocket sent,
But held a moment-and then down it went.
The priest read on, on walk'd the man
afraid,

Till a gold offering in the plate was laid;
Trembling he took it, for a moment stopp'd,
Then down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd;
Amazed he started, for th' affrighted man,
Lost and bewilder'd, thought not of the bran;
But all were silent, all on things intent
Of high concern, none ear to money lent;
So on he walk'd, more cautious than before,
And gain'd the purposed sum and one piece

more.

Practice makes perfect;-when the month came round,

He dropp'd the cash, nor listen'd for a sound;
But yet, when last of all th' assembled flock,
He ate and drank,-it gave th' electric shock:
Oft was he forced his reasons to repeat,
Ere he could kneel in quiet at his seat;
But custom soothed him-ere a single year
All this was done without restraint or fear:
Cool and collected, easy and composed,
He was correct till all the service closed;
Then to his home, without a groan or sigh,
Gravely he went, and laid his treasure by.
Want will complain: some widows had
express'd

A doubt if they were favour'd like the rest;
The rest described with like regret their dole,
And thus from parts they reason'd to the

whole;

When all agreed some evil must be done,
Or rich men's hearts grew harder than a stone.
Our easy vicar cut the matter short;
He would not listen to such vile report.
All were not thus-there govern'd in that
year

A stern stout churl, an angry overseer;
A tyrant fond of power, loud, lewd, and most

severe :

Him the mild vicar, him the graver clerk, Advised, reproved, but nothing would he mark,

The clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook :

His pocket then was emptied on the place;
All saw his guilt; all witness'd his disgrace:
He fell, he fainted, not a groan, a look,
Escaped the culprit; 'twas a final stroke-
A death-wound never to be heal'd—a fall
That all had witness'd, and amazed were all.
As he recover'd, to his mind it came,
I owe to Satan this disgrace and shame: '
All the seduction now appear'd in view;
'Let me withdraw,' he said, and he withdrew;
No one withheld him, all in union cried,
E'en the avenger,- We are satisfied:
For what has death in any form to give,
Equal to that man's terrors, if he live?

He lived in freedom, but he hourly saw
How much more fatal justice is than law;
He saw another in his office reign,
And his mild master treat him with disdain;
He saw that all men shunn'd him, some
reviled,

The harsh pass'd frowning, and the simple smiled;

The town maintain'd him, but with some reproof,

And clerks and scholars proudly kept aloof.'

In each lone place, dejected and dismay'd, Shrinking from view, his wasting form he laid; Or to the restless sea and roaring wind Gave the strong yearnings of a ruin'd mind: On the broad beach, the silent summer-day, Stretch'd on some wreck, he wore his life away; Or where the river mingles with the sea, Or on the mud-bank by the elder-tree, Or by the bounding marsh-dyke, there was he:

And when unable to forsake the town,

'Yes,' in his better moments, he replied,

Too ill for this, he lay beside the door, Compell'd to hear the reasoning of the poor: He look'd so pale, so weak, the pitying crowd Their firm belief of his repentance vow'd; They saw him then so ghastly and so thin, That they exclaim'd, 'Is this the work of sin ?'

While yet untempted, I was safe and well;
Temptation came; I reason'd, and I fell :
To be man's guide and glory I design'd,
A rare example for our sinful kind;
But now my weakness and my guilt I see,
And am a warning-man, be warn'd by me!'
He said, and saw no more the human face;
To a lone loft he went, his dying place,
And, as the vicar of his state inquired,
Turn'd to the wall and silently expired!

ELLEN ORFORD

Patience and sorrow strove

Who should express her goodliest.

SHAKSPEARE, Lear, Act iv, Sc. 3. No charms she now can boast,'-'tis true, But other charmers wither too :

And she is old,'-the fact I know, And old will other heroines grow; But not like them has she been laid, In ruin'd castle, sore dismay'd; Where naughty man and ghostly spright, Fill'd her pure mind with awe and dread, Stalk'd round the room, put out the light, And shook the curtains round her bed. No cruel uncle kept her land, No tyrant father forced her hand;

She had no vixen virgin-aunt,
Without whose aid she could not eat,
And yet who poison'd all her meat,

With gibe and sneer and taunt.
Yet of the heroine she'd a share,
She saved a lover from despair,
And granted all his wish, in spite
Of what she knew and felt was right:
But heroine then no more,

She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd,
And humbly took the parish aid,

And dwelt among the poor.

The Widow's Cottage-Blind Ellen one-Hers not the Sorrows or Adventures of Heroines -What these are, first described-Deserted Wives; rash Lovers; courageous Damsels: in desolated Mansions; in grievous Perplexity-These Evils, however severe, of short Duration-Ellen's Story-Her Employment in Childhood-First Love; first Adventure; its miserable Termination An idiot Daughter-A Husband-Care in

OBSERVE yon tenement, apart and small,
Where the wet pebbles shine upon the wall;
Where the low benches lean beside the door,
And the red paling bounds the space before;
Where thrift and lavender, and lad's-love1
bloom,-

That humble dwelling is the widow's home;
There live a pair, for various fortunes known,
But the blind Ellen will relate her own ;-
Yet ere we hear the story she can tell,
On prouder sorrows let us briefly dwell.

I've often marvel'd, when by night, by day,
I've mark'd the manners moving in my way,
And heard the language and beheld the lives
Of lass and lover, goddesses and wives,
That books, which promise much of life to give,
Should show so little how we truly live.

To me it seems, their females and their men Are but the creatures of the author's pen; Nay, creatures borrow'd and again convey'd From book to book-the shadows of a shade: Life, if they'd search, would show them many

Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold,
And plots are laid and histories are told.
Time have I lent-I would their debt were
less-

To flow'ry pages of sublime distress;
And to the heroine's soul-distracting fears
I early gave my sixpences and tears:
Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales,
To Darnley-Cottages and Maple-Vales,
And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born
sigh,

When Henry pass'd and gazed in passing by;
Till I beheld them pacing in the park,
Close by a coppice where 'twas cold and dark;
When such affection with such fate appear'd,
Want and a father to be shunn'd and fear'd,
Without employment, prospect, cot, or cash,
That I have judged th' heroic souls were rash.
Now shifts the scene, the fair in tower
confined,

In all things suffers but in change of mind;
Now woo'd by greatness to a bed of state,
Now deeply threaten'd with a dungeon's
grate;

Till suffering much and being tried enough, She shines, triumphant maid!—temptationproof.

Then was I led to vengeful monks, who mix With nymphs and swains, and play unpriestly tricks;

Then view'd banditti who in forest wide, And cavern vast, indignant virgins hide; Who, hemm'd with bands of sturdiest rogues about,

Find some strange succour, and come virgins

out.

I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls, I've stalked by moonlight through deserted halls,

And when the weary world was sunk to rest, I've had such sights as-may not be express'd.

Lo! that chateau, the western tower decay'd,

The peasants shun it,-they are all afraid; For there was done a deed!-could walls reveal,

Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel! Most horrid was it :-for, behold, the floor Has stain of blood, and will be clean no more: Hark to the winds! which through the wide

saloon

And the long passage send a dismal tune,

Music that ghosts delight in ;--and now heed Yon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the deed;

See! with majestic sweep she swims alone
Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan:
Though windows rattle, and though tap'stries
shake,

And the feet falter every step they take,
'Mid moans and gibing sprights she silent goes,
To find a something, which will soon expose
The villanies and wiles of her determined foes:
And, having thus adventured, thus endured,
Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured.
Much have I fear'd, but am no more afraid,
When some chaste beauty, by some wretch
betray'd,

Is drawn away with such distracted speed,
That she anticipates a dreadful deed :
Not so do I-Let solid walls impound
The captive fair, and dig a moat around;
Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,
And keepers cruel, such as never feel;
With not a single note the purse supply,
And when she begs, let men and maids deny:
Be windows those from which she dares not
fall,

And help so distant, 'tis in vain to call;
Still means of freedom will some power devise,
And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize.

To Northern Wales, in some sequester'd

spot,

I've follow'd fair Louisa to her cot;
Where, then a wretched and deserted bride,
The injured fair-one wish'd from man to hide;
Till by her fond repenting Belville found,
By some kind chance-the straying of a hound,
He at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain,
For the relenting dove flew back again.

There's something rapturous in distress or, oh!

Could Clementina bear her lot of wo? Or what she underwent could maiden undergo ?

The day was fix'd; for so the lover sigh'd, So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied ; When, tale most dreadful! every hope

adieu,

For the fond lover is the brother too :
All other griefs abate; this monstrous grief
Has no remission, comfort, or relief;
Four ample volumes, through each page
disclose,-

Good Heaven protect us! only woes on woes;

Till some strange means afford a sudden view Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu ! 2 Now should we grant these beauties all endure

Severest pangs, they've still the speediest cure; Before one charm be wither'd from the face, Except the bloom, which shall again have place,

In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace;

And life to come, we fairly may suppose,
One light, bright contrast to these wild dark

woes.

These let us leave, and at her sorrows look, Too often seen, but seldom in a book; Let her who felt, relate them :-on her chair The heroine sits-in former years, the fair, Now aged and poor; but Ellen Orford knows, That we should humbly take what Heaven bestows.

'My father died—again my mother wed, And found the comforts of her life were fled; Her angry husband, vex'd through half his years

By loss and troubles, fill'd her soul with fears: Their children many, and 'twas my poor place To nurse and wait on all the infant-race; Labour and hunger were indeed my part, And should have strengthen'd an erroneous heart.

'Sore was the grief to see him angry come, And, teased with business, make distress at home :

The father's fury and the children's cries
I soon could bear, but not my mother's sighs;
For she look'd back on comforts, and would

say,

"I wrong'd thee, Ellen," and then turn away: Thus for my age's good, my youth was tried, And this my fortune till my mother died.

'So, amid sorrow much and little cheerA common case, I pass'd my twentieth year; For these are frequent evils; thousands share An equal grief--the like domestic care.

"Then in my days of bloom, of health and youth,

One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth:

We often met, he dreading to be seen, And much I question'd what such dread might mean;

Yet I believed him true; my simple heart And undirected reason took his part.

'Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive? Can I such wrong of one so kind believe, Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when I grieve?

'He dared not marry, but we met to prove What sad encroachments and deceits has love: Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew, I let him see that I was wretched too; When less my caution, I had still the pain Of his or mine own weakness to complain.

Happy the lovers class'd alike in life,
Or happier yet the rich endowing wife;
But most aggrieved the fond believing maid,
Of her rich lover tenderly afraid :
You judge th' event; for grievous was my
fate,

Painful to feel, and shameful to relate:
Ah! sad it was my burthen to sustain,
When the least misery was the dread of pain;
When I have grieving told him my disgrace,
And plainly mark'd indifference in his face.
Hard! with these fears and terrors to