Come, my dear friend, discard that look of

care,

All things were made to be, as all things are;
All to seek pleasure as the end design'd,
The only good in matter or in mind;
So was I taught by one, who gave me all
That my experienced heart can wisdom call.
I saw thee young, love's soft obedient slave,
And many a sigh to my young lover gave;
And I had, spite of cowardice or cow,
Return'd thy passion, and exchanged my vow;
But while I thought to bait the amorous
hook,

One set for me my eager fancy took;
There was a crafty eye, that far could see,
And through my failings fascinated me:
Mine was a childish wish, to please my boy;
His a design, his wishes to enjoy.
O! we have both about the world been tost,
Thy gain I know not-I, they cry, am lost;
So let the wise ones talk; they talk in vain,
And are mistaken both in loss and gain;
"Tis gain to get whatever life affords,
"Tis loss to spend our time in empty words.
I was a girl, and thou a boy wert then,
Nor aught of women knew, nor I of men;
But I have traffick'd in the world, and thou,
Doubtless, canst boast of thy experience now;
Let us the knowledge we have gain'd produce,
And kindly turn it to our common use.'

Thus spoke the siren in voluptuous style, While I stood gazing and perplex'd the while, Chain'd by that voice, confounded by that smile.

And then she sang, and changed from grave to gay,

Till all reproach and anger died away.

My Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take

The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth,

O! cast it from thy thought away; Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done,

Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive,

Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live, But that we meet, and that we love.

And then she moved my pity; for she wept, And told her miseries till resentment slept; For when she saw she could not reason blind, She pour'd her heart's whole sorrows on my mind,

With features graven on my soul, with sighs Seen but not heard, with soft imploring eyes, And voice that needed not, but had the aid Of powerful words to soften and persuade.

O! I repent me of the past; and sure
Grief and repentance make the bosom pure;
Yet meet thee not with clean and single heart,
As on the day we met!-and but to part,
Ere I had drank the cup that to my lip
Was held, and press'd till I was forced to sip:
I drank indeed, but never ceased to hate,-
It poison'd, but could not intoxicate:
T'excuse my fall I plead not love's excess,
But a weak orphan's need and loneliness.
I had no parent upon earth--no door
Was oped to me-young, innocent, and poor,
Vain, tender, and resentful-and my friend
Jealous of one who must on her depend,
Making life misery-You could witness then
That I was precious in the eyes of men;
So, made by them a goddess, and denied
Respect and notice by the women's pride;
Here scorn'd, there worshipp'd-will it
strange appear,

Allured and driven, that I settled here?
Yet loved it not; and never have I pass'd
One day, and wish'd another like the last.
There was a fallen angel, I have read,
For whom their tears the sister-angels shed,
Because, although she ventured to rebel,
She was not minded like a child of hell.—
Such is my lot! and will it not be given
To grief like mine, that I may think of
heaven?

Behold how there the glorious creatures shine,

And all my soul to grief and hope resign?'
I wonder'd, doubting-and is this a fact,
I thought; or part thou art disposed to act?
Is it not written: He, who came to save
Sinners, the sins of deepest dye forgave?
That he his mercy to the sufferers dealt,
And pardon'd error when the ill was felt?
Yes! I would hope, there is an eye that reads
What is within, and sees the heart that
bleeds-

But who on earth will one so lost deplore,
And who will help that lost one to restore?
Who will on trust the sigh of grief receive;
| And—all things warring withbelief—believe?”

Soften'd, I said-Be mine the hand and heart,
If with your world you will consent to part.'
She would-she tried-Alas! she did not
know

How deeply rooted evil habits grow:
She felt the truth upon her spirits press,
But wanted ease, indulgence, show, excess,
Voluptuous banquets, pleasures-not refined,
But such as soothe to sleep th' opposing
mind

She look'd for idle vice, the time to kill,
And subtle, strong apologies for ill;

And thus her yielding, unresisting soul
Sank, and let sin confuse her and control:
Pleasures that brought disgust yet brought
relief,

And minds she hated help'd to war with grief.

Thus then she perish'd?'-Nay-but thus she proved Slave to the vices that she never loved: But while she thus her better thoughts opposed,

And woo'd the world, the world's deceptions closed:

I had long lost her; but I sought in vain To banish pity:-still she gave me pain, Still I desired to aid her to direct,

And wish'd the world, that won her, to reject: Nor wish'd in vain-there came, at length, request

That I would see a wretch with grief opprest,

By guilt affrighted and I went to trace Once more the vice-worn features of that face,

That sin-wreck'd being! and I saw her laid
Where never worldly joy a visit paid:
That world receding fast! the world to come
Conceal'd in terror, ignorance, and gloom;
Sins, sorrow, and neglect: with not a spark
Of vital hope,-all horrible and dark—‍
It frighten'd me! I thought, and shall not I
Thus feel? thus fear?—this danger can I fly?
Do I so wisely live that I can calmly die?

The wants I saw I could supply with ease, But there were wants of other kind than these;

Th' awakening thought, the hope-inspiring

view

The doctrines awful, grand, alarming, true Most painful to the soul, and yet most healing too:

Still I could something offer, and could send
For other aid-a more important friend,
Whose duty call'd him, and his love no less,
To help the grieving spirit in distress;
To save in that sad hour the drooping prey,
And from its victim drive despair away.
All decent comforts round the sick were seen;
The female helpers quiet, sober, clean;
Her kind physician with a smile appear'd,
And zealous love the pious friend endear'd:
While I, with mix'd sensations, could inquire,
Hast thou one wish, one unfulfill'd desire?
Speak every thought, nor unindulged depart,
If I can make thee happier than thou art.
Yes! there was yet a female friend, an old
And grieving nurse! to whom it should be
told-

If I would tell-that she, her child, had
fail'd,
And turn'd from truth! yet truth at length
prevail'd.

'Twas in that chamber, Richard, I began To think more deeply of the end of man: Was it to jostle all his fellows by, To run before them, and say, here am I, Fall down, and worship? Was it, life throughout,

With circumspection keen to hunt about
As spaniels for their game, where might be
found

Abundance more for coffers that abound?
Or was it life's enjoyments to prefer,
Like this poor girl, and then to die like her?
No! He, who gave the faculties, design'd
Another use for the immortal mind:
There is a state in which it will appear
With all the good and ill contracted here;
With gain and loss, improvement and defect;
And then, my soul! what hast thou to expect
For talents laid aside, life's waste, and time's
neglect?

Still as I went came other change--the frame
And features wasted, and yet slowly came
The end; and so inaudible the breath,
And still the breathing, we exclaim'd—'tis
death!

But death it was not: when, indeed, she died,
I sat and his last gentle stroke espied:
When-as it came-or did my fancy trace
That lively, lovely flushing o'er the face?
Bringing back all that my young heart
impress'd!

It came and went! She sigh'd, and was

at rest!

Home I return'd, with spirits in that state
Of vacant woe, I strive not to relate,
Nor how, deprived of all her hope and
strength,

My soul turn'd feebly to the world at length.
I travell'd then till health again resumed
Its former seat—I must not say re-bloom'd;
And then I fill'd, not loth, that favourite place
That has enrich'd some seniors of our race;
Patient and dull I grew; my uncle's praise
Was largely dealt me on my better days;
A love of money-other love at rest-
Came creeping on, and settled in my breast;
The force of habit held me to the oar,
Till I could relish what I scorn'd before:

arose;

This place, the scene of infant bliss, I chose, And here I find relief, and here I seek repose. Yet much is lost, and not yet much is found, But what remains, I would believe, is sound; That first wild passion, that last mean desire, Are felt no more; but holier hopes require A mind prepared and steady-my reform Has fears like his, who, suffering in a storm, Is on a rich but unknown country cast, The future fearing, while he feels the past; But whose more cheerful mind, with hope imbued,

Sees through receding clouds the rising good.

BOOK VIII.

THE SISTERS.

beauty

THE morning shone in cloudless
bright;
Richard his letters read with much delight;
George from his pillow rose in happy tone,
His bosom's lord sat lightly on his throne:
They read the morning news-they saw
the sky
Inviting call'd them, and the earth was dry.
The day invites us, Brother, said the Squire;
Come, and I'll show thee something to admire:
We still may beauty in our prospects trace;
If not, we have them in both mind and face.
'Tis but two miles--to let such women live
Unseen of him, what reason can I give?
Why should not Richard to the girls be

known?

Would I have all their friendship for my own?

Brother, there dwell, yon northern hill below, Two favourite maidens, whom 'tis good to know;

Young, but experienced; dwellers in a cot, Where they sustain and dignify their lot,

The best good girls in all our world below—
O! you must know them-Come! and you
shall know.
But lo! the morning wastes-here, Jacob,
stir-

If Phœbe comes, do you attend to her;
And let not Mary get a chattering press
Of idle girls to hear of her distress:
Ask her to wait till my return-and hide
From her meek mind your plenty and your
pride;

Nor vex a creature, humble, sad, and still, By your coarse bounty, and your rude goodwill.

This said, the Brothers hasten'd on their way, With all the foretaste of a pleasant day. The morning purpose in the mind had fix'd The leading thought, and that with others mix'd.

How well it is, said George, when we possess
The strength that bears us up in our distress;
And need not the resources of our pride,
Our fall from greatness and our wants to hide ;
But have the spirit and the wish to show,

We know our wants as well as others know.
'Tis true, the rapid turns of fortune's wheel
Make even the virtuous and the humble feel:
They for a time must suffer, and but few
Can bear their sorrows and our pity too.
Hence all these small expedients, day by day,
Are used to hide the evils they betray:
When, if our pity chances to be seen,
The wounded pride retorts, with anger keen,
And man's insulted grief takes refuge in his
spleen.

When Timon's board contains a single dish,
Timon talks much of market-men and fish,
Forgetful servants, and th' infernal cook,
Who always spoil'd whate'er she undertook.
But say, it tries us from our height to fall,
Yet is not life itself a trial all?

And not a virtue in the bosom lives,
That gives such ready pay as patience gives;
That pure submission to the ruling mind,
Fix'd, but not forced; obedient, but not blind;
The will of heaven to make her own she tries,
Or makes her own to heaven a sacrifice.
And is there aught on earth so rich or rare,
Whose pleasures may with virtue's pains
compare?

This fruit of patience, this the pure delight,
That 'tis a trial in her Judge's sight;
Her part still striving duty to sustain,
Not spurning pleasure, not defying pain;
Never in triumph till her race be won,
And never fainting till her work be done.

With thoughts like these they reach'd the village-brook,

And saw a lady sitting with her book;
And so engaged she heard not, till the men
Were at her side, nor was she frighten'd
then;

Τ

But to her friend, the Squire, his smile return'd,

Through which the latent sadness he discern'd.

The stranger-brother at the cottage-door
Was now admitted, and was strange no more:
Then of an absent sister he was told,
Whom they were not at present to behold;
Something was said of nerves, and that
disease,

Whose varying powers on mind and body seize,

Enfeebling both!-Here chose they to remain
One hour in peace, and then return'd again.
I know not why, said Richard, but I feel
The warmest pity on my bosom steal
For that dear maid! How well her looks

express

Lucy loved all that grew upon the ground, And loveliness in all things living found; The gilded fly, the fern upon the wall, Were nature's works, and admirable all; Pleased with indulgence of so cheap a kind, Its cheapness never discomposed her mind. Jane had no liking for such things as these, Things pleasing her must her superiors please;

The costly flower was precious in her eyes, That skill can vary, or that money buys; Her taste was good, but she was still afraid, Till fashion sanction'd the remarks she made. The sisters read, and Jane with some delight, The satires keen that fear or rage excite, That men in power attack, and ladies high, And give broad hints that we may know them by.

ness!

A resignation that is so entire,
It feels not now the stirrings of desire;
What now to her is all the world esteems?
She is awake, and cares not for its dreams;
But moves while yet on earth, as one above
Its hopes and fears-its loathing and its love.
But shall I learn, said he, these sisters'
fate?

And found his Brother willing to relate.

The girls were orphans early; yet I saw, When young, their father his profession law;

He left them but a competence, a store That made his daughters neither rich nor poor;

Not rich, compared with some who dwelt around;

Not poor, for want they neither fear'd nor found;

Their guardian uncle was both kind and just, One whom a parent might in dying trust; Who, in their youth, the trusted store improved,

And, when he ceased to guide them, fondly loved.

These sister-beauties were in fact the grace Of yon small town,-it was their native place;

Like Saul's famed danghters were the lovely twain,

As Micah, Lucy, and as Merab, Jane:
For this was tall, with free commanding air,
And that was mild, and delicate, and fair.
Jane had an arch delusive smile, that charm'd
And threaten'd too; alluring, it alarm'd;
The smile of Lucy her approval told,
Cheerful, not changing; neither kind nor cold.
When children, Lucy love alone possess'd,
Jane was more punish'd and was more caress'd;
If told the childish wishes, one bespoke
A lamb, a bird, a garden, and a brook;
The other wish'd a joy unknown, a rout
Or crowded ball, and to be first led out.

And trust the magic of the Ratcliffe-wand. In her religion—for her mind, though light, Was not disposed our better views to slightHer favourite authors were a solemn kind, Who fill with dark mysterious thoughts the mind;

And who with such conceits her fancy plied,

Became her friend, philosopher, and guide.
She made the Progress of the Pilgrim one
To build a thousand pleasant views upon;
All that connects us with a world above
She loved to fancy, and she long'd to prove;
Well would the poet please her, who could
lead

Her fancy forth, yet keep untouch'd her creed.
Led by an early custom, Lucy spied,
When she awaked, the Bible at her side;
That, ere she ventured on a world of care,
She might for trials, joys or pains prepare,
For every dart a shield, a guard for every

snare.

She read not much of high heroic deeds, Where man the measure of man's power exceeds;

But gave to luckless love and fate severe
Her tenderest pity and her softest tear.
She mix'd not faith with fable, but she
trod

Right onward, cautious in the ways of God;
Nor did she dare to launch on seas unknown,
In search of truths by some adventurers
shown,

But her own compass used, and kept a course her own. The maidens both their loyalty declared, And in the glory of their country shared;