Ugly enough, poor soul! At ten yards' distance, you could hardly tell If it were man or woman, for her voice Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore A man's old coat and hat:- and then her face! There was a merry story told of her, How, when the press-gang came to take her husband, As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, Dress'd John up in her night-cap, and herself Put on his clothes, and went before the captain. JANE. And so they press'd a woman! GRANDMOTHER. 'Twas a trick She dearly loved to tell; and all the country Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel For miles around. All weathers and all hours She cross'd the hill, as hardy as her beasts, Bearing the wind, and rain, and drifting snow. And if she did not reach her home at night, She laid her down in the stable with her asses, And slept as sound as they did. HARRY. GRANDMOTHER. A guilty conscience haunted him; by day, HARRY. Was he hung, then? GRANDMOTHER, Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man! They said he look'd like one who never slept. Yes; and she loved her beasts. For though, poor He begged the prayers of all who saw his end, wretch, She was a terrible reprobate, and swore To the dumb creatures; never loaded them Ill used her beasts. He was a man who lived her: She laid an information; and one morning They found her in the stable, her throat cut From ear to ear, till the head only hung Just by a bit of skin. And met his death with fears that well might warn From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ. Westbury, 1798. III. HANNAH. PASSING across a green and lonely lane, A funeral met our view. It was not here Was that cool freshness, that discoloring shade She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains, And he who should have cherish'd her, far off Sail'd on the seas. Left thus a wretched one, Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues Were busy with her name. She had to bear The sharper sorrow of neglect from him Whom she had loved too dearly. Once he wrote; But only once that drop of comfort came To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; And when his parents had some tidings from him, There was no mention of poor Hannah there, Or 'twas the cold inquiry, more unkind Than silence. So she pined and pined away, And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd; Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest From labor, knitting there with lifted arms, Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother Omitted no kind office, working for her, Albeit her hardest labor barely earn'd Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay On the sick bed of poverty, worn out With her long suffering and those painful thoughts Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, That she could make no effort to express Affection for her infant; and the child, Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too Had grown indifferent to all things of earth, Finding her only comfort in the thought Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest. There had she now, in that last home, been laid, And all was over now,― sickness and grief, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence,— Their work was done. The school-boys, as they sport In the churchyard, for awhile might turn away From the fresh grave till grass should cover it; Nature would do that office soon; and none Who trod upon the senseless turf would think Of what a world of woes lay buried there! Burton, near Christ Church, 1797. IV. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. WOMAN. SIR, for the love of God, some small relief To a poor woman! TRAVELLER. Whither are you bound? "Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, No house for miles around us, and the way Dreary and wild. The evening wind already Tis a hard journey that I go upon To such a dismal end! TRAVELLER. He yet may live. But if the worst should chance, why, you must bear The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself, You will not in unpitied poverty A child who said his prayers more regular, TRAVELLER. But how came it He chose to be a Sailor? WOMAN. You shall hear, Sir. Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country, As he grew up, he used to watch the birds Amid the triumph of her victory, Remembers those who paid its price of blood, WOMAN. God reward them! God bless them! It will help me in my age, – But, Sir! it will not pay me for my child! TRAVELLER. Was he your only child? WOMAN. My only one, The stay and comfort of my widowhood, A dear, good boy !- When first he went to sea, TRAVELLER. Of this be sure — His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help The land affords, as rightly is his due, Ever at hand. How happen'd it he left you? Was a seafaring life his early choice? WOMAN. No, Sir! poor fellow, he was wise enough 'Tis an idle sort of task; so he built up Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe TRAVELLER. The choice at least Was kindly left him; and for broken laws This was, methinks, no heavy punishment. WOMAN. So I was told, Sir. And I tried to think so; TRAVELLER. Well! well! take comfort. He will be taken care of, if he lives; And should you lose your child, this is a country Where the brave Sailor never leaves a parent To weep for him in want. WOMAN. Sir, I shall want No succor long. In the common course of years I soon must be at rest; and 'tis a comfort, When grief is hard upon me, to reflect It only leads me to that rest the sooner. Westbury, 1798. Some ointment over them, and then away FATHER. And when there's such plain proof! I did but threaten her because she robb'd NATHANIEL. I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! She'd curse the music! And crooked with her years, without a child That she may go down easier to the grave, FATHER. What is she going? Well, God forgive her then, if she has dealt What brought her out in the snow, the poor old In the black art! I'll tell my dame of it, And she shall send her something. woman Ay, Charles! I knew that this would fix thine This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch. Complain? why, you are wealthy! All the parish That through the creeping weeds and nettles tall Look up to you. FATHER. Perhaps, Sir, I could tell Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. CURATE. You can afford a little to the poor; And then, what's better still, you have the heart FATHER. God forbid I should want charity! CURATE. Oh! 'tis a comfort To think at last of riches well employ'd! I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth Peers taller, lifting, column-like, a stem I led thee here, Charles, not without design; for this hath been The neatest comfortable dwelling-place! That when I read in those dear books which first How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, And death will be a blessing. You might send her Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, Some little matter, something comfortable, Or where the gentle Calidore at eve |