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
The holy angels down to hear you sing?
And when you write, you try with all your
skill,

And cry, no wonder that you wrote so ill!
For you were ever to yourself a rule,
And humbly add, you never were at school-
Is that not proud?—And I have heard beside,
The proudest creatures have the humblest
pride:

If you had read the volumes I have hired,
You'd see your fault, nor try to be admired;
For they who read such books can always
tell

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
as slight,
They lived in love, and dream'd of its delight.
Her duties Fanny knew, both great and
small,

And she with diligence observed them all;
If e'er she fail'd a duty to fulfil,
Twas childish error, not rebellious will;
For her much reading, though it touch'd
her heart,

Could neither vice nor indolence impart.
Yet, when from William and her friends
retired,

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-
dance;
Nay, more than midnight - thoughts and
morning-dreams,
Or talk when love and marriage are the
themes;

In fact, a something not to be defined,
Of all subduing, all commanding kind,
That fills the fondest heart, that rules the
proudest mind.

But on her lover Fanny still relied,
Her best companion, her sincerest guide,
On whom she could rely, in whom she would

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.
Then why so easy, William? why consent
To wait so long? thou wilt at last repent;
Within a month, does Care and Prudence say:
If all be ready, linger not a day;
Ere yet the choice be made, on choice debate,
But having chosen, dally not with fate.

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
So long that she for all its people felt;
She kept her sundry keys, and ruled o'er all,
Female and male, domestics in the hall;
By her lord trusted, worthy of her trust,
Proud but obedient, bountiful but just.
She praised her lucky stars, that in her
place

She never found neglect, nor felt disgrace;
To do her duty was her soul's delight,
This her inferiors would to theirs excite,
This her superiors notice and requite;
To either class she gave the praises due,
And still more grateful as more favour'd
grew:

Her lord and lady were of peerless worth,
In power unmatch'd, in glory and in birth;
And such the virtue of the noble race,
It reach'd the meanest servant in the place;
All, from the chief attendant on my lord
To the groom's helper, had her civil word;
From Miss Montregor, who the ladies taught,
To the rude lad who in the garden wrought;
From the first favourite to the meanest
drudge,

Were no such women, heaven should be
her judge;
Whatever stains were theirs, let them reside
In that pure place, and they were mundified;

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,
It was a pleasure speaking in his praise:
And Lady Catharine,-O! a prince's pride
Might by one smile of hers be gratified;
With her would monarchs all their glory
share,

And in her presence banish all their care.
Such was the matron, and to her the maid
Was by her lover carefully convey'd.

When William first the invitation read
It some displeasure in his spirit bred,
Not that one jealous thought the man
possess'd,

He was by fondness, not by fear distress'd;
But when his Fanny to his mind convey'd
The growing treasures of the ancient maid,
The thirty years, come Junc, of service
past,

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;
Humble, but not abased, remembering all
Are kindred sinners,-children of the fall;
That from the earth our being we receive,
And are all equal when the earth we leave.
They then advised her in a modest way
To make replies to what my Lord might say;
Her aunt would aid her, who was now become
With nobles noble, and with lords at home.

So went the pair; and William told at night
Of a reception gracious and polite;
He spake of galleries long and pictures tall,
The handsome parlours, the prodigious hall;
The busts, the statues, and the floors of
stone,

The storied arras, and the vast saloon,
In which was placed an Indian chest and

screen,

With figures such as he had never seen:
He told of these as men enraptured tell,
And gave to all their praise, and all was well.
Left by the lover, the desponding maid
Was of the matron's ridicule afraid;
But when she heard a welcome frank and
kind,

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;
There was no picture that th’historie dame
Pass'd by and gave not its peculiar fame;
The births, the visits, weddings, burials, all
That chanced for ages at the noble Hall.
These and each revolution she could state.
And give strange anecdotes of love and hate:
This was her first delight, her pride, her
boast,

She told of many an heiress, many a toast,
Of Lady Ellen's flight, of Lord Orlando's
ghost;
The maid turn'd pale, and what should then

ensue

But wine and cake-the dame was frighten'd

too.

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?
Look at Lord Robert, see if you can trace
More than true honour in that handsome
face!
What! you must think, by blushing in that
way,

My lord has something about love to say;
But I assure you that he never spoke
Such things to me in carnest or in joke,
And yet I meet him in all sorts of times,
When wicked men are thinking of their
crimes.

There! let them pass-Why, yes, indeed 'tis

woe,

William would lose another day, and go;
Yet if she should be wilful and remain,
He had no power to take her home again
But he would go: He went, and he
return'd,-

And in his look the pair his tale discern'd;
Stupid in grief, it seem'd not that he knew
How he came home, or what he should
pursue:

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,
And so shall he that could a daughter steal!
Think you, my lord, I can be so bereft
And feel no vengeance for the villain's theft?
Old if I am, could I the robber meet
I'd lay his breathless body at my feet-
Was that a smile, my lord? think you
your boy

Will both the father and the child destroy?
My lord replied—I'm sorry from my soul !
But boys are boys, and there is no control.

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
As she was writing had no grief to tell;
We weep when we are glad, we sigh when
we are well.
A bill inclosed, that they beheld with pain
And indignation, they return'd again;
There was no mention made of William's
name,

And what of William?-William from the
time
Appear'd partaker both of grief and crime;
He cared for nothing, nothing he pursued,
But walk'd about in melancholy mood;
He ceased to labour,- all he loved before
He now neglected, and would see no more;
He said his flute brought only to his mind
When he was happy, and his Fanny kind;
And his loved walks, and every object near,
And every evening-sound she loved to hear,
The shady lane, broad heath, and starry sky,
Brought home reflections, and he wish'd to
die:

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
The last, and dying in a distant place;
In tender terror he approach'd her bed,
Beheld her sick, and buried her when dead:
He was her heir, and what she left was
more,

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