P. WHAT I have ask'd are questions that relate

To those once known, that I might learn their fate.

This wealthy Uncle ;-who could mix with them

Whom his strong sense and feeling must condemn,

And in their follies his amusement find,
Yet never lose the vigour of his mind—

6

At length, Presume not (said he) on our blood;

Treat with politeness him whom you advise, Nor think I fear your doting prophecies;' And fame has told of many an angry word, When anger this, and that contempt had stirr❜d.

'Boy! thou wilt beg thy bread, I plainly see.'

Upbraid not, Uncle! till I beg of thee.'

Oh! thou wilt run to ruin and disgrace.' 'What! and so kind an Uncle in the place?' "Nay, for I hold thee stranger to my blood.' 'Then must I treat thee as a stranger would: For if you throw the tie of blood aside, You must the roughness of your speech abide.' 'What! to your father's Brother do you give A challenge?-Mercy! in what times we live!' Now, I confess, the youth who could supply Thus that poor Spinster, and could thus defy

Had something still to win esteem and love.
Perhaps he lives not; but he seem'd not made
To pass through life entirely in the shade.
F. Suppose you saw him,--does your mind
retain

So much, that you would know the man again?
Yet hold in mind, he may have felt the press
Of grief or guilt, the withering of distress;
He now may show the stamp of woe and pain,
And nothing of his lively cast remain.

Survey these features-see if nothing there May old impressions on your mind repair! Is there not something in this shattered frame Like to that

P. No! not like it, but the same; That eye so brilliant, and that smile so gay, Are lighted up, and sparkle through decay.

But may I question? Will you that allow ? There was a difference, and there must be now; And yet, permitted, I would gladly hear What must have pass'd in many a troubled year.

F. Then hear my tale; but I the price demand;

That understood, I too must understand Thy wanderings through, or sufferings in the land;

And, if our virtues cannot much produce, Perhaps our errors may be found of use.

To all the wealth my Father's care laid by, I added wings, and taught it how to fly. To him that act had been of grievous sight, But he survived not to behold the flight. Strange doth it seem to grave and sober minds; How the dear vice the simple votary blinds, So that he goes to ruin smoothly on, And scarcely feels he's going, till he's gone. I had made over, in a lucky hour, Funds for my Aunt, and placed beyond my power:

The rest was flown, I speak it with remorse, And now a pistol seem'd a thing in course.

But though its precepts I had not obey'd, Thoughts of my Bible made me much afraid Of such rebellion, and though not content, I must live on when life's supports were spent; Nay, I must eat, and of my frugal Aunt Must grateful take what gracious she would grant;

And true, she granted, but with much dis

course;

Oh! with what words did she her sense enforce !

Great was her wonder, in my need that I Should on the prop myself had raised rely— I, who provided for her in my care, 'Must be assured how little she could spare!' I stood confounded, and with angry tone, With rage and grief, that blended oath and groan,

I fled her presence-yet I saw her air Of resignation, and I heard her prayer; 'Now Heaven,' she utter'd, ' make his burden light!'

And I, in parting, cried, 'Thou hypocrite!' But I was wrong-she might have meant to pray;

Though not to give her soul-her cash-away. Of course, my Uncle would the spendthrift shun;

So friends on earth I now could reckon none.
One morn I rambled, thinking of the past,
Far in the country-Did you ever fast
Through a long summer's day? or, sturdy,
go

To pluck the crab, the bramble, and the sloe,
The hyp, the cornel, and the beech, the food
And the wild solace of the gypsy brood?
To pick the cress embrown'd by summer sun,
From the dry bed where streams no longer
run?

Have you, like school-boy, mingling play and toil,

Dug for the ground-nut, and enjoy'd the spoil ?

Or chafed with feverish hand the ripening wheat,

Resolved to fast, and yet compelled to eat? Say, did you this, and drink the crystal spring,

And think yourself an abdicated king, Driv'n from your state by a rebellious race? And in your pride contending with disgrace,

Could you your hunger in your anger lose,
And call the ills you bear the ways you choose?
Thus on myself depending, I began
To feel the pride of a neglected man;
Not yet correct, but still I could command
Unshaken nerves, and a determined hand.
'Lo! men at work!' I said, ' and I a man
Can work! I feel it is my pride, I can.'
This said, I wander'd on, and join'd the poor,
Assumed a labourer's dress, and was no more
Than labour made-Upon the road I broke
Stones for my bread, and startled at the stroke;
But every day the labour seem'd more light,
And sounder, sweeter still the sleep of every
night.

'Thus will I live,' I cried, ' nor more return
To herd with men, whose love and hate Ispurn.
All creatures toil; the beast, if tamed or free,
Must toil for daily sustenance like me;
The feather'd people hunt as well as sing,
And catch their flying food upon the wing.
The fish, the insect, all who live, employ
Their powers to keep on life, or to enjoy,
Their life th' enjoyment; thus will I proceed,
A man from man's detested favours freed.'
Thus was I reasoning, when at length there

came

A gift, a present, but without a name.
That Spinster-witch, has she then found a way
To cure her conscience, and her Nephew pay,
And sends her pittance? Well, and let it buy
What sweetens labour; need I this deny ?
I thank her not; it is as if I found
The fairy-gift upon this stony ground.'

Still I wrought on; again occurred the day, And then the same addition to my pay.

Then, lo! another Friend, if not the same, For that I knew not, with a message came'Canst keep accounts ? the man was pleased to ask

2

'I could not cash!--but that the harder task.' 'Yet try,' he said; and I was quickly brought, To Lawyer Snell, and in his office taught. Not much my pay, but my desires were less, And I for evil days reserved th' excess.

Such day occurr'd not: quickly came there

one,

When I was told my present work was done :
My Friend then brought me to a building large,
And gave far weightier business to my charge.
There I was told I had accounts to keep,
Of those vast Works, where wonders never
sleep,

pins,

Made up the complex mass that ever spins.
There, at my desk, in my six feet of room,
I noted every power of every loom;
Sounds of all kinds I heard from mortal
lungs-

Eternal battle of unwearied tongues,

The jar of men and women, girls and boys, And the huge Babel's own dull whirring, grinding noise.

My care was mark'd, and I had soon in charge

Important matters, and my pay was large.
I at my fortune marvell'd; it was strange,
And so the outward and the inward change,
Till to the Power who gives and takes away'
I turn'd in praise, and taught my soul to pray.
Another came! I come,' he said, ' to show,
Your unknown Friend-have you a wish to
know?'

Much I desired, and forth we rode, and found
My Uncle dying, but his judgment sound.
The good old man, whom I abused, had been
The guardian power, directing but unseen;
And thus the wild but grateful boy he led
To take new motives at his dying bed.

The rest you judge-I now have all I needAnd now the tale you promised!--Come, proceed.

P. 'Tis due, I own, but yet in mercy spare: Alas! no Uncle was my guide-my care Was all my own; no guardian took a share. I, like Columbus, for a world unknown'Twas no great effort-sacrificed my own

The earth productive, or the sky serene.

But this is past-and I at length am come To see what changes have been wrought at home;

Happy in this, that I can set me down
At worst a stranger in my native town.
F. Then be it so! but mean you not to

show

How time has pass'd ? for we expect to know: And if you tell not, know you we shall trace Your movements for ourselves from place to place.

Your wants, your wishes, all you've sought or seen,

Shall be the food for our remark and spleen.
So, warn'd in time, the real page unfold,
And let the Truth, before the Lie, be told.
P. This might be done; but wonders
I have none,

All my adventures are of Self alone.
F. What then? I grant you, if your way

was clear,

All smooth and right-we've no desire to hear; But if you've lewd and wicked things to tell, Low passions, cruel deeds, nay crimes-'tis well:

Who would not listen ?-—

P. Hark! I hear the bell.
It calls to dinner with inviting sound,
For now we know where dinners may be
found,

And can behold and share the glad repast,
Without a dread that we behold our last..
F. Come then, shy friend, let doleful sub-

jects cease, And thank our God that we can dine in peace.

FROM BELVOIR CASTLE [About 1782]

OH! had I but a little hut,

That I might hide my head in; Where never guest might dare molest Unwelcome or unbidden.

I'd take the jokes of other folks,
And mine should then succeed 'em,
Nor would I chide a little pride,
Or heed a little freedom.

THE LADIES OF THE LAKE WRITTEN ON VISITING NORMANSTON IN THE YEAR 1785

SHALL I, who oft have woo'd the Muse
For gentle Ladies' sake,

So fair a theme as this refuse

The Ladies of the Lake?

Hail, happy pair! 'tis yours to share
Life's elegance and ease;

The bliss of wealth without the care,
The will and power to please,-
To please, but not alone our eyes,

Nor yet alone our mind;

Your taste, your goodness, charm the wise-
Your manners all mankind.

The pleasant scenes that round you glow,
Like caskets fraught with gold,
Though beauteous in themselves, yet owe
Their worth to what they hold.
Trees may be found, and lakes, as fair;
Fresh lawns, and gardens green;
But where again the Sister-pair
Who animate the scene?
Where sense of that superior kind,
Without man's haughty air?
And where, without the trifling mind,
The softness of the fair?
Folly, with wealth, may idly raise

Her hopes to shine like you,
And humble flattery sound her praise,
Till she believes it true;

But wealth no more can give that grace
To souls of meaner kind,
Than summer's fiery sun can chase
Their darkness from the blind.

INFANCY-A FRAGMENT
[Date uncertain]

WHO on the new-born light can back return,
And the first efforts of the soul discern—
Waked by some sweet maternal smile, no more
To sleep so long or fondly as before?
No! Memory cannot reach, with all her
power,

To that new birth, that life-awakening hour.
No! all the traces of her first employ
Are keen perceptions of the senses' joy,
And their distaste-what then could they
impart ?—

That figs were luscious, and that rods had smart.

But, though the Memory in that dubious

way

Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day,
And thus encounters, in the doubtful view,
With imperfection and distortion too;
Can she not tell us, as she looks around,
Of good and evil, which the most abound?
Alas! and what is earthly good? 'tis lent
Evil to hide, to soften, to prevent,

By scenes and shows that cheat the wandering eye,

While the more pompous misery passes by; Shifts and amusements that awhile succeed, And heads are turn'd, that bosoms may not

bleed :

For what is Pleasure, that we toil to gain? 'Tis but the slow or rapid flight of Pain. Set Pleasure by, and there would yet remain, For every nerve and sense the sting of Pain: Set Pain aside, and fear no more the sting, And whence your hopes and pleasures can ye bring?

No there is not a joy beneath the skies, That from no grief nor trouble shall arise.

Why does the Lover with such rapture fly To his dear mistress ?-He shall show us whyBecause her absence is such cause of grief That her sweet smile alone can yield relief. Why, then, that smile is Pleasure :-True, yet still

"Tis but the absence of the former ill: For, married, soon at will he comes and goes; Then pleasures die, and pains become repose, And he has none of these, and therefore none of those.

Yes! looking back as early as I can,
I see the griefs that seize their subject Man,
That in the weeping Child their early reign
began:

Yes! though Pain softens, and is absent since,
He still controls me like my lawful prince.
Joys I remember, like phosphoric light
Or squibs and crackers on a gala night.
Joys are like oil; if thrown upon the tide
Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside:
Griefs are like waters on the river thrown,
They mix entirely, and become its own.
Of all the good that grew of early date,
I can but parts and incidents relate:
A guest arriving, or a borrow'd day
From school, or schoolboy triumph at some
play:

And these from Pain may be deduced; for

these

Small craft-and they oft touch'd on either side.

It was my first-born joy. I heard them say,
'Let the child go; he will enjoy the day.'
For children ever feel delighted when
They take their portion, and enjoy with men.
Give him the pastime that the old partake,
And he will quickly top and taw forsake.

The linnet chirp'd upon the furze as well,
To my young sense, as sings the nightingale.
Without was paradise-because within
Was a keen relish, without taint of sin.
A town appear'd,-and where an infant
went,

Could they determine, on themselves intent?
I lost my way, and my companions me,
And all, their comforts and tranquillity.
Mid-day it was, and, as the sun declined,
The good, found early, I no more could find :
The men drank much, to whet the appetite;
And, growing heavy, drank to make them
light;

Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite.

Their cheerfulness did but a moment last; Something fell short, or something overpast. The lads play'd idly with the helm and oar, And nervous women would be set on shore, Till' civil dudgeon' grew, and peace would smile no more.

Now on the colder water faintly shone

please.

But it was Misery stung me in the day Death of an infant sister made a prey; For then first met and moved my early fears, A father's terrors, and a mother's tears. Though greater anguish I have since endured,

Some heal'd in part, some never to be cured; Yet was there something in that first-born ill,

So new, so strange, that memory feels it still!

That my first grief: but, oh! in after-years Were other deaths, that call'd for other tears. No! that I cannot, that I dare not, paintThat patient sufferer, that enduring saint, Holy and lovely-but all words are faint. But here I dwell not-let me, while I can, Go to the Child, and lose the suffering Man. Sweet was the morning's breath, the inland tide,