A serious friend our cautious youth possess'd, And at his table sat a welcome guest; Both unemploy'd, it was their chief delight To read what free and daring authors write; Authors who loved from common views to soar, And seek the fountains never traced before; Truth they profess'd, yet often left the true And beaten prospect, for the wild and new. His chosen friend his fiftieth year had seen, His fortune easy, and his air serene; Deist and atheist call'd; for few agreed What were his notions, principles, or creed ; His mind reposed not, for he hated rest, But all things made a query or a jest ; Perplex'd himself, he ever sought to prove That man is doom'd in endless doubt to rove; Himself in darkness he profess'd to be, And would maintain that not a man could see. The youthful friend, dissentient, reason'd still Of the soul's prowess, and the subject will; Of virtue's beauty, and of honour's force, And a warm zeal gave life to his discourse : Since from his feelings all his fire arose, And he had interest in the themes he chose. The friend, indulging a sarcastic smile, Said, "Dear enthusiast! thou wilt change thy style, When man's delusions, errors, crimes, deceit, No more distress thee, and no longer cheat." Yet lo! this cautious man, so coolly wise. On a young beauty fix'd unguarded eyes; And her he married: Edward at the view Bade to his cheerful visits long adieu; But haply err'd, for this engaging bride No mirth suppress'd, but rather cause supplied: And when she saw the friends, by reasoning long, Confused if right, and positive if wrong, With playful speech and smile, that spoke delight, She made them careless both of wrong or right.

This gentle damsel gave consent to wed, With school, and school-day dinners in her head: She now was promised choice of daintiest food, And costly dress, that made her sovereign good; With walks on hilly heath to banish spleen, And summer visits when the roads were clean. All these she loved, to these she gave consent, And she was married to her heart's content. Their manner this; the friends together read, Till books a cause for disputation bred; Debate then follow'd, and the vapour'd child Declared they argued till her head was wild; And strange to her it was that mortal brain Could seek the trial, or endure the pain.

Then as the friend reposed, the younger pair Sat down to cards, and play'd beside his chair; Till he, awaking, to his books applied, Or heard the music of th' obedient bride; If mild the evening, in the fields they stray'd, And their own flock with partial eye survey'd ; But oft the husband, to indulgence prone, Resumed his book, and bade them walk alone. "Do, my kind Edward! I must take mine ease, Name the dear girl the planets and the trees; Tell her what warblers pour their evening song, What insects flutter, as you walk along; Teach her to fix the roving thoughts, to bind The wandering sense, and methodize the mind." This was obey'd; and oft when this was done, They calmly gazed on the declining sun ;

In silence saw the glowing landscape fade,
Or, sitting, sang beneath the arbour's shade:
Till rose the moon, and on each youthful face
Shed a soft beauty, and a dangerous grace.

When the young wife beheld in long debate The friends, all careless as she seeming sate; It soon appear'd, there was in one combined The nobler person and the richer mind; He wore no wig, no grizzly beard was seen, And none beheld him careless or unclean; Or watch'd him sleeping: we indeed have heard Of sleeping beauty, and it has appear'd; 'Tis seen in infants; there indeed we find The features soften'd by the slumbering mind; But other beauties, when disposed to sleep, Should from the eye of keen inspector keep; The lovely nymph who would her swain surprise May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes; Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes, And all the homely features homelier makes; So thought our wife, beholding with a sigh Her sleeping spouse, and Edward smiling by. A sick relation for the husband sent, Without delay the friendly skeptic went; Nor fear'd the youthful pair, for he had seen The wife untroubled, and the friend serene; No selfish purpose in his roving eyes, No vile deception in her fond replies: So judged the husband, and with judgment true, For neither yet the guilt or danger knew.

What now remain'd? but they again should play Th' accustom'd game, and walk th' accustom'd way;

With careless freedom should converse or read,
And the friend's absence neither fear nor heed;
But rather now they seem'd confused, constrain'd,
Within their room still restless they remain'd,
And painfully they felt, and knew each other

pain'd.

Ah! foolish men! how could ye thus depend,
One on himself, the other on his friend?

The youth with troubled eye the lady saw,
Yet felt too brave, too daring to withdraw;
While she, with tuneless hand the jarring keys
Touching, was not one moment at her ease:
Now would she walk, and call her friendly guide,
Now speak of rain, and cast her cloak aside;
Seize on a book, unconscious what she read,
And, restless still, to new resources fled;
Then laugh'd aloud, then tried to look serene,
And ever changed, and every change was seen.
Painful it is to dwell on deeds of shame;
The trying day was past, another came;
The third was all remorse, confusion, dread,
And, (all too late!) the fallen hero fled.

Then felt the youth, in that seducing time, How feebly honour guards the heart from crime: Small is his native strength; man needs the stay, The strength imparted in the trying day; For all that honour brings against the force Of headlong passion, aids its rapid course; Its slight resistance but provokes the fire, As wood-work stops the flame, and then conveys it higher.

The husband came; a wife by guilt made bold, Had, meeting, soothed him, as in days of old; But soon this fact transpired; her strong distress, And his friend's absence, left him naught to guess.

him write

"

[be:

"I cannot pardon, and I will not fight;
Thou art too poor a culprit for the laws,
And I too faulty to support my cause;
All must be punish'd; I must sigh alone,
At home thy victim for her guilt atone;
And thou, unhappy! virtuous now no more,
Must loss of fame, peace, purity deplore;
Sinners with praise will pierce thee to the heart,
And saints, deriding, tell thee what thou art.
Such was his fall; and Edward, from that time,
Felt in full force the censure and the crime;
Despised, ashamed; his noble views before,
And his proud thoughts, degraded him the more;
Should he repent—would that conceal his shame?
Could peace be his? It perish'd with his fame :
Himself he scorn'd, nor could his crime forgive;
He fear'd to die, yet felt ashamed to live:
Grieved, but not contrite, was his heart; oppress'd,
Not broken; not converted, but distress'd;
He wanted will to bend the stubborn knee,
He wanted light the cause of ill to see,
To learn how frail is man, how humble then should
For faith he had not, or a faith too weak
To gain the help that humbled sinners seek ;
Else had he pray'd-to an offended God
His tears had flown a penitential flood;
Though far astray, he would have heard the call
Of mercy-"Come! return, thou prodigal ;"
Then, though confused, distress'd, ashamed, afraid,
Still had the trembling penitent obey'd;
Though faith have fainted, when assail'd by fear,
Hope to the soul had whisper'd, "Persevere!"
Till in his Father's house an humbled guest,
He would have found forgiveness, comfort, rest.
But all this joy was to our youth denied
By his fierce passions and his daring pride,
And shame and doubt impell'd him in a course,
Once so abhorr'd, with unresisted force.
Proud minds and guilty, whom their crimes oppress,
Fly to new crimes for comfort and redress;
So found our fallen youth a short relief
In wine, the opiate guilt applies to grief,-
From fleeting mirth that o'er the bottle lives,
From the false joy its inspiration gives;
And from associates pleased to find a friend,
With powers to lead them, gladden, and defend,
In all those scenes where transient ease is found,
For minds whom sins oppress, and sorrows wound.
Wine is like anger; for it makes us strong,
Blind, and impatient, and it leads us wrong;
The strength is quickly lost, we feel the error long :
Thus led, thus strengthen'd in an evil cause,
For folly pleading, sought the youth applause;
Sad for a time, then eloquently wild,
He gayly spoke as his companions smiled;
Lightly he rose, and with his former grace
Proposed some doubt, and argued on the case;
Fate and foreknowledge were his favourite themes,
How vain man's purpose, how absurd his schemes;
"Whatever is, was ere our birth decreed;
We think our actions from ourselves proceed,
And idly we lament th' inevitable deed;
It seems our own, but there's a power above
Directs the motion, nay, that makes us move;
Nor good nor evil can you beings name,
Who are but rooks and castles in the game;

Till, bagg'd or buried, all are swept away."

Such were the notions of a mind to ill
Now prone, but ardent and determined still:
Of joy now eager, as before of fame,
And screen'd by folly when assail'd by shame,
Deeply he sank; obey'd each passion's call,
And used his reason to defend them all.

Shall I proceed, and step by step relate
The odious progress of a sinner's fate?
No-let me rather hasten to the time
(Sure to arrive) when misery waits on crime.

With virtue, prudence fled; what Shore possess d
Was sold, was spent, and he was now distress'd:
And Want, unwelcome stranger, pale and wan,
Met with her haggard looks the hurried man;
His pride felt keenly what he must expect
From useless pity and from cold neglect.

Struck by new terrors, from his friends he fled, And wept his woes upon a restless bed; Retiring late, at early hour to rise, With shrunken features, and with bloodshot eyes: If sleep one moment closed the dismal view, Fancy her terrors built upon the true; And night and day had their alternate woes, That baffled pleasure, and that mock'd repose; Till to despair and anguish was consign'd The wreck and ruin of a noble mind.

Now seized for debt, and lodged within a jail, He tried his friendships, and he found them fail; Then fail'd his spirits, and his thoughts were all Fix'd on his sins, his sufferings, and his fall: His ruffled mind was pictured in his face, Once the fair seat of dignity and grace : Great was the danger of a man so prone To think of madness, and to think alone; Yet pride still lived, and struggled to sustain The drooping spirit and the roving brain; But this too fail'd: a friend his freedom gave, And sent him help the threatening world to brave, Gave solid counsel what to seek or flee, But still would stranger to his person be: In vain! the truth determined to explore, He traced the friend whom he had wrong'd before. This was too much; both aided and advised By one who shunn'd him, pitied, and despised: He bore it not; 'twas a deciding stroke, And on his reason like a torrent broke: In dreadful stillness he appear'd a while, With vacant horror and a ghastly smile; Then rose at once into the frantic rage, That force controll'd not, nor could love assuage. Friends now appear'd, but in the man was seen The angry maniac, with vindictive mien; Too late their pity gave to care and skill The hurried mind and ever-wandering will; Unnoticed pass'd all time, and not a ray Of reason broke on his benighted way; But now he spurn'd the straw in pure disdain, And now laugh'd loudly at the clinking chain. Then as its wrath subsided, by degrees The mind sank slowly to infantine ease; To playful folly, and to causeless joy, Speech without aim, and without end, employ; He drew fantastic figures on the wall, And gave some wild relation of them all; With brutal shape he join'd the human face, And idiot smiles approved the motley race.

Not for his virtues to be praised alone,
But for a modest mien and humble tone;
Assenting always, but as if he meant
Only to strength of reasons to assent:
For was he stubborn, and retain'd his doubt,

Till the more subtle 'squire had forced it out;

Nay, still was right, but he perceived, that strong And powerful minds could make the right the wrong."

dwelt,

The faithful friend his apprehensions felt;

It would rejoice his faithful heart to find
A lady suited to his master's mind;

But who deserved that master? who would prove
That hers was pure, uninterested love?
Although a servant, he would scorn to take
A countess, till she suffer'd for his sake;
Some tender spirit, humble, faithful, true,
Such, my dear master! must be sought for you.
Six months had pass'd, and not a lady seen
With just this love, 'twixt fifty and fifteen;
All seem'd his doctrine or his pride to shun,
All would be wooed, before they would be won;
When the chance naming of a race and fair,
Our 'squire disposed to take his pleasure there :
The friend profess'd," Although he first began
To hint the thing, it seem'd a thoughtless plan:
The roads, he fear'd, were foul, the days were short,
The village far, and yet there might be sport."

"What! you of roads and starless nights afraid?
You think to govern! you to be obey'd!"
Smiling he spoke, the humble friend declared
His soul's obedience, and to go prepared.

The place was distant, but with great delight They saw a race, and hail'd the glorious sight: The 'squire exulted, and declared the ride Had amply paid, and he was satisfied. They gazed, they feasted, and, in happy mood, Homeward return'd, and hastening as they rode; For short the day, and sudden was the change From light to darkness, and the way was strange; Our hero soon grew peevish, then distress'd; He dreaded darkness, and he sigh'd for rest: Going, they pass'd a village, but, alas! Returning, saw no village to repass; The 'squire remember'd too a noble hall, Large as a church, and whiter than its wall: This he had noticed as they rode along, And justly reason'd that their road was wrong. George, full of awe, was modest in reply, "The fault was his, 'twas folly to deny; And of his master's safety were he sure, There was no grievance he would not endure." This made his peace with the relenting 'squire, Whose thoughts yet dwelt on supper and a fire; When, as they reach'd a long and pleasant green, Dwellings of men, and next a man were seen.

My friend," said George, "to travellers astray Point out an inn, and guide us on the way."

The man look'd up; "Surprising! can it be My master's son? as I'm alive, 'tis he."

"How! Robin," George replied," and are we near My father's house? how strangely things appear! Dear sir, though wanderers, we at last are right: Let us proceed, and glad my father's sight; We shall at least be fairly lodged and fed, I can ensure a supper and a bed;

He heard the jack turn round, the busy dame
Produced her damask; and with supper came
The daughter, dress'd with care, and full of maid-
en shame.

Surprised, our hero saw the air and dress,
And strove his admiration to express ;
Nay! felt it too-for Harriet was, in truth,
A tall fair beauty in the bloom of youth;
And from the pleasure and surprise, a grace
Adorn'd the blooming damsel's form and face;
Then too, such high respect and duty paid
By all-such silent reverence in the maid;
Venturing with caution, yet with haste, a glance;
Loath to retire, yet trembling to advance,
Appear'd the nymph, and in her gentle guest
Stirr'd soft emotions till the hour of rest :
Sweet was his sleep, and in the morn again
He felt a mixture of delight and pain.
"How fair, how gentle," said the 'squire, “how
meek,

And yet how sprightly, when disposed to speak!
Nature has bless'd her form, and Heaven her mind,
But in her favours Fortune is unkind;
Poor is the maid-nay, poor she cannot prove
Who is enrich'd with beauty, worth, and love."
The 'squire arose, with no precise intent
To go or stay, uncertain what he meant :
He moved to part; they begg'd him first to dine;
And who could then escape from love and wine?
As came the night, more charming grew the fair
And seem'd to watch him with a two-fold care :
On the third morn, resolving not to stay,
Though urged by love, he bravely rode away.
Arrived at home, three pensive days he gave
To feelings fond and meditations grave;
Lovely she was, and, if he did not err,
As fond of him as his fond heart of her;
Still he delay'd, unable to decide
Which was the master passion, love or pride:
He sometimes wonder'd how his friend could make
And then exulted in, the night's mistake;
Had she but fortune, "Doubtless then," he cried,
"Some happier man had won the wealthy bride."
While thus he hung in balance, now inclined
To change his state, and then to change his mind.
That careless George dropp'd idly on the ground
A letter, which his crafty master found;
The stupid youth confess'd his fault, and pray'd
The generous 'squire to spare a gentle maid;
Of whom her tender mother, full of fears,
Had written much; "She caught her oft in tears,
For ever thinking on a youth above
Her humble fortune: still she own'd not love;
Nor can define, dear girl! the cherish'd pain,
But would rejoice to see the cause again:
That neighbouring youth, whom she endured be-

fore,

She now rejects, and will behold no more: