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.

Till all is gather'd, and the wintry blast Moans o'er the place of love and pleasure past.

So 'tis with beauty,-such the opening

grace

reach'd the farm,

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;

You seek the faults yourself, and then complain you find.

H. I sought them not; but, madam, 'tis in vain

The course of love and nature to restrain; Lo! when the buds expand the leaves are green,

Then the first opening of the flower is seen; Then comes the honied breath and rosy smile,

That with their sweets the willing sense beguile;

But, as we look, and love, and taste, and praise,

And the fruit grows, the charming flower decays;

And, lo! the falling off of beauty's flower; So, through all nature is the progress made,— The bud, the bloom, the fruit,—and then we fade.

Then sigh no more, we might as well

retain

The year's gay prime as bid that love remain, That fond, delusive, happy, transient spell, That hides us from a world wherein we dwell, And forms and fits us for that fairy ground, Where charming dreams and gay conceits abound;

Till comes at length th' awakening strife and

care,

That we, as tried and toiling men, must share. E. O! sir, I must not think that heaven

approves

Ungrateful man or unrequited loves;
Nor that we less are fitted for our parts
By having tender souls and feeling hearts.

H. Come, my dear friend, and let us not

refuse

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, 'Tis you yourself the disappointment make. 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?

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 ;

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?

If I confess the art, I would proceed
To say of such that every maid has need.
Then when you flatter-in your language-
praise,

In our own view you must our value raise;
And must we not, to this mistaken man,
Appear as like his picture as we can ?
If you will call-nay, treat us as divine,
Must we not something to your thoughts in-
cline ?

If men of sense will worship whom they love,
Think you the idol will the error prove?
What! show him all her glory is pretence,
And make an idiot of this man of sense?
Then, too, suppose we should his praise
refuse,

And clear his mind, we may our lover lose;
In fact, you make us more than nature makes,
And we, no doubt, consent to your mistakes;
You will, we know, until the frenzy cools,
Enjoy the transient paradise of fools;
But fancy fled, you quit the blissful state,
And truth for ever bars the golden gate.

H. True! but how ill each other to upbraid,

'Tis not our fault that we no longer staid; No sudden fate our lingering love supprest, It died an easy death, and calmly sank to rest:

To either sex is the delusion lent,

And when it fails us, we should rest content, 'Tis cruel to reproach, when bootless to repent.

E. Then wise the lovers who consent to wait,

And always lingering, never try the state;
But hurried on, by what they call their pain
And I their bliss, no longer they refrain;
To ease that pain, to lose that bliss, they run
To the church magi, and the thing is done;
A spell is utter'd, and a ring applied,
And forth they walk a bridegroom and a
bride,

To find this counter-charm, this marriage rite,
Has put their pleasant fallacies to flight!
But tell me, Henry, should we truly strive,
May we not bid the happy dream revive?

H. Alas! they say when weakness or when vice

Expels a foolish pair from Paradise,
The guardian power to prayer has no regard,
The knowledge once obtain'd, the gate is
barr'd;

Or could we enter we should still repine,
Unless we could the knowledge too resign.
Yet let us calmly view our present fate,
And make a humbler Eden of our state;
With this advantage, that what now we gain,
Experience gives, and prudence will retain.
E. Ah! much I doubt-when you in fury

broke

That lovely vase by one impassion'd stroke,
And thousand china-fragments met my sight,
Till rising anger put my grief to flight;
As well might you the beauteous jar repiece,
As joy renew and bid vexation cease.

H. Why then 'tis wisdom, Emma, not to keep

These griefs in memory; they had better sleep.

There was a time when this heaven-guarded isle,

Whose valleys flourish-nay, whose mountains smile,

Was sterile, wild, deform'd, and beings rude Creatures scarce wilder than themselves pursued;

The sea was heard around a waste to howl, The night-wolf answer'd to the whooting owl, And all was wretched-Yet who now surveys The land, withholds his wonder and his praise? Come, let us try and make our moral view Improve like this-this have we power to do.

E. O! I'll be all forgetful, deaf and dumb, And all you wish, to have these changes come. H. And come they may, if not as heretofore,

We cannot all the lovely vase restore;
What we beheld in Love's perspective glass
Has pass'd away-one sigh! and let it pass-
It was a blissful vision, and it fled,
And we must get some actual good instead :
Of good and evil that we daily find,
That we must hoard, this banish from the

mind;

The food of Love, that food on which he thrives,

To find must be the business of our lives; And when we know what Love delights to

see,

We must his guardians and providers be.

As careful peasants, with incessant toil, Bring earth to vines in bare and rocky soil, And, as they raise with care each scanty heap, Think of the purple clusters they shall

reap;

So those accretions to the mind we'll bring, Whence fond regard and just esteem will spring;

Then, though we backward look with some regret

On those first joys, we shall be happy yet. Each on the other must in all depend, The kind adviser, the unfailing friend; Through the rough world we must each other aid,

Leading and led, obeying and obey'd;

Favour'd and favouring, eager to believe What should be truth-unwilling to perceive What might offend-determined to remove What has offended; wisely to improve What pleases yet, and guard returning love. Nor doubt, my Emma, but in many an hour Fancy, who sleeps, shall wake with all her power;

And we shall pass-though not perhaps

remain

To fairy-land, and feel its charm again.

Lovers

Flight to Gretna Green-Return no moreThe Doctor and his Lady-Belwood and his wife-The Doctor reflects-Goes to his Sonin-law-His Reception and Return.

I MET,' said Richard, when return'd to dine, 'In my excursion, with a friend of mine; Friend! I mistake,—but yet I knew him well, Ours was the village where he came to dwell; He was an orphan born to wealth, and then Placed in the guardian-care of cautious men ; When our good parent, who was kindness all, Fed and caress'd him when he chose to call; And this he loved, for he was always one For whom some pleasant service must be done,

Or he was sullen-He would come and play
At his own time, and at his pleasure stay;
But our kind parent soothed him as a boy
Without a friend; she loved he should enjoy
A day of ease, and strove to give his mind
employ :

She had but seldom the desired success,
And therefore parting troubled her the less;
Two years he there remain'd, then went his
way,

I think to school, and him I met to-day.

'I heard his name, or he had past unknown, And, without scruple, I divulged my own; His words were civil, but not much express'd, "Yes! he had heard I was my brother's guest;

Why he could not a social neighbour be.
He envied you, he said, your quiet life,
And me a loving and contented wife;
You, as unfetter'd by domestic bond,
Me, as a husband and a father fond:
I was about to speak, when to the right
The road then turn'd, and lo! his house in
sight.

"Adieu!" he said, nor gave a word or sign Of invitation-" Yonder house is mine; Your brother's I prefer, if I might chooseBut, my dear sir, you have no time to lose."

'Say, is he poor? or has he fits of spleen? Or is he melancholy, moped, or mean? So

cold, so distant- -I bestow'd some pains

Upon the fever in my Irish veins.'

'Well, Richard, let your native wrath be
tamed,

The man has half the evils you have named;
He is not poor, indeed, nor is he free
From all the gloom and care of poverty.'

'But is he married ? '-' Hush! the bell,

my friend;

That business done, we will to this attend; And, o'er our wine engaged, and at our ease, We may discourse of Belwood's miseries; Not that his sufferings please me-No, indeed;

But I from such am happy to be freed.' Their speech, of course, to this misfortune led,

A weak young man improvidently wed. 'Weak,' answer'd Richard; but we do