And what is proud, said Frances, but to stand Singing at church, and sawing thus your hand? Looking at heaven above, as if to bring And cry, no wonder that you wrote so ill! If you had read the volumes I have hired, The fault within, and read the mind as well. William had heard of hiring books before, He knew she read, and he inquired no more; On him the subject was completely lost, What he regarded was the time and cost; Yet that was trifling—just a present whim, Novels and stories! what were they to him? With such slight quarrels, or with those And she with diligence observed them all; Could neither vice nor indolence impart. She found her reading had her mind inspired With hopes and thoughts of high mysterious things, Such as the early dream of kindness brings; And then she wept, and wonder'd as she read, And new emotions in her heart were bred : She sometimes fancied that when love was true Twas more than she and William ever knew; More than the shady lane in summer-eve, More than the sighing when he took his leave; More than his preference when the lads advance And choose their partners for the evening- In fact, a something not to be defined, But on her lover Fanny still relied, confide. All jealous fits were past; in either now Were tender wishes for the binding vow; There was no secret one alone possess'd, There was no hope that warm'd a single breast; Both felt the same concerns their thoughts employ, And neither knew one solitary joy. While yet to wait the pair were half content, And half disposed their purpose to repent, A spinster-aunt, in some great baron's place, Would see a damsel, pride of all her race: And Fanny, flatter'd by the matron's call, Obey'd her aunt, and long'd to see the Hall; For halls and castles in her fancy wrought, And she accounts of love and wonder sought; There she expected strange events to learn, And take in tender secrets fond concern; There she expected lovely nymphs to view, Perhaps to hear and meet their lovers too; The Julias, tender souls! the Henrys kind and true: There she expected plottings to detect, And- but I know not what she might expect All she was taught in books to be her guide, And all that nature taught the nymph beside. Now that good dame had in the castle dwelt She never found neglect, nor felt disgrace; Her lord and lady were of peerless worth, Were no such women, heaven should be The sun of favour on their vileness shone, And all their faults like morning-mists were gone. There was Lord Robert! could she have her choice, From the world's masters he should have her voice; So kind and gracious in his noble ways, And in her presence banish all their care. When William first the invitation read He was by fondness, not by fear distress'd; Her lasting love, her life that would not last; Her power! her place! what interest! what respect She had acquired—and shall we her neglect? No, Frances, no! he answer'd, you are right; But things appear in such a different light! Her parents blest her, and as well became Their love advised her, that they might not blame; They said: If she should earl or countess meet She should be humble, cautious, and discreet; So went the pair; and William told at night The storied arras, and the vast saloon, screen, With figures such as he had never seen: The wonted firmness repossess'd her mind; Pleased by the looks of love her aunt display'd, Her fond professions, and her kind parade. In her own room, and with her niece apart, She gave up all the secrets of her heart; And, grown familiar, bid her Fanny come, Partake her cheer, and make herself at home. Shut in that room, upon its cheerful board She laid the comforts of no vulgar hoard; Then press'd the damsel both with love and pride, For both she felt—and would not be denied. Grace she pronounced before and after meat, And bless'd her God that she could talk and eat; Then with new glee she sang her patron's praise He had no paltry arts, no pimping ways; She had the roast and boil'd of every day, That sent the poor with grateful hearts away; And she was grateful-Come, my darling, think Of them you love the best, and let us drink. And now she drank the healths of those above, Her noble friends, whom she must ever love; But not together, not the young and old, But one by one, the number duly told; And told their merits too-there was not one Who had not said a gracious thing or done; Nor could she praise alone, but she would take A cheerful glass for every favourite's sake, And all were favourites-till the rosy check Spoke for the tongue that nearly ceased to speak; That rosy cheek that now began to shine, And show the progress of the rosy wine: But there she ended-felt the singing head, Then pray'd as custom will'd, and so to bed. The morn was pleasant, and the ancient maid With her fair niece about the mansion stray'd; There was no room without th' appropriate tale Of blood and murder, female sprite or male; She told of many an heiress, many a toast, ensue But wine and cake-the dame was frighten'd too. The aunt and nicce now walk'd about the | Moved by his grief, the father sought the grounds, And sometimes met the gentry in their rounds; Do let us turn! the timid girl exclaim'd— Turn! said the aunt, of what are you ashamed? What is there frightful in such looks as those? What is it, child, you fancy or suppose? My lord has something about love to say; There! let them pass-Why, yes, indeed 'tis woe, William would lose another day, and go; And in his look the pair his tale discern'd; Yanny was gone!-her aunt was sick in bed, Dying, she said-none cared if she were dead; Her charge, his darling, was decoy'd, was fled! But at what time, and whither, and with whom, None seem'd to know-all surly, shy, or dumb. Each blamed himself, all blamed the crring maid; They vow'd revenge; they cursed their fate, and pray'd. : place, Ask’d for his girl, and talk'd of her disgrace; Spoke of the villain, on whose cursed head He pray'd that vengeance might be amply shed; Then sought his sister, and beheld her grief, Her pain, her danger,—this was no relief. Where is my daughter? bring her to my sight!' 'Brother, I'm rack'd and tortured day and night.' 'Talk not to me! What grief have you to tell, Is your soul rack'd, or is your bosom hell? Where is my daughter? She would take her oath For her right doing, for she knew them both, And my young lord was honour.'-Woman, cease! And give your guilty conscience no such peace You've sold the wretched girl, you have betray'd your niece.'— The Lord be good! and oh! the pains that My lord appear'd, perhaps by pity moved, And kindly said he no such things approved, Nay, he was angry with the foolish boy, Who might his pleasures at his case enjoy; The thing was wrong-he hoped the farm did well, The angry father doom'd the farm to hell; He then desired to see the villain-son, Though my lord warn'd him such excess to shun; Told him he pardon'd, though he blamed such rage, And bade him think upon his state and age. Think! yes, my lord! but thinking drives me mad Give me my child!-Where is she to be had? I'm old and poor, but I with both can feel, Will both the father and the child destroy? So, for your great ones Justice slumbers The pear-tree shade, the jasmine's lovely Thought not of that-his crime has made them one, In guilt united-She shall be his wife, gloom, With its long twigs that blossom'd in the room; But she was happy, and the tears that fell Or I th' avenger that will take his life! Check'd as she was by pity, love, and shame. And what of William?-William from the Yet there he stray'd, because he wish'd to shun The world he hated, where his part was done; As if, though lingering on the earth, he there Had neither hope nor calling, tie nor care. At length a letter from the daughter came, Frances subscribed, and that the only name; She pitied much her parents, spoke of fate, And begg'd them to forget her, not to hate; Said she had with her all the world could give, And only pray'd that they in peace should live, That which is done, is that we're born to do, This she was taught, and she believed it true; True, that she lived in pleasure and delight, But often dream'd and saw the farm by night; The boarded room that she had kept so neat, And all her roses in the window-seat; William, who wrought for bread, and never sought More than the day demanded when he wrought, Was to a sister call'd, of all his race Than he required, who was content before. With their minds' sufferings, age, and growing pain, That ancient couple could not long remain, Nor long remain'd; and in their dying groan The suffering youth perceived himself alone; For of his health or sickness, peace or care, He knew not one in all the world to share; Now every scene would sad reflections give, And most his home, and there he could not live; There every walk would now distressing prove, And of his loss remind him, and his love. With the small portion by his sister left He roved about as one of peace bereft, And by the body's movements hoped to find A kind of wearied stillness in the mind, And sooner bring it to a sleepy state, As rocking infants will their pains abate. Thus careless, lost, unheeding where he went, Nine weary years the wandering lover spent. His sole employment, all that could amuse, Was his companions on the road to choose; With such he travell'd through the passing day, Friends of the hour, and walkers by the way; And from the sick, the poor, the halt, the blind, He learn'd the sorrows of his suffering kind. He learn'd of many how unjust their fate, For their connexions dwelt in better state; They had relations famous, great or rich, Learned or wise, they never scrupled which; But while they cursed these kindred churls, would try To build their fame, and for their glory lie Others delighted in misfortunes strange, The sports of Fortune in her love for change But some would freely on his thoughts intrude, And thrust themselves 'twixt him and solitude: They would his faith and of its strength demand, William had now across the kingdom sped, To th' Eastern Ocean from St. David's head; And wandering late, with various thoughts oppress'd, 'Twas midnight ere he reach'd his place of rest, A village-inn, that one way-faring friend Could from experience safely recommend, Where the kind hostess would be more intent On what he needed than on what he spent ; Her husband, once a heathen, she subdued, And with religious fear his mind imbued; Though his conviction came too late to save An erring creature from an early grave. Since that event, the cheerful widow grew In size and substance,her the brethren knew And many friends were hers, and lovers not a few; But either love no more could warm her heart, Or no man came who could the warmth impart. William drew near, and saw the comely look Of the good lady, bending o'er her book; Hymns it appear'd,-for now a pleasing sound Seem'd as a welcome in his wanderings found: He enter'd softly, not as they who think That they may act the ruffian if they drink, And who conceive, that for their paltry pence They may with rules of decency dispense; Far unlike these was William,-he was kind, And all his soul's prime motions understand: | Exacting nothing, and to all resign'd. |