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To the light reading of unsettled youth; Novels grew tedious, but by choice or chance,

I still had interest in the wild romance:
There is an age, we know, when tales of love
Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve;
Then as we read we feel, and are indeed,
We judge, th' heroic men of whom we read;
But in our after-life these fancies fail,
We cannot be the heroes of the tale;
The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles
play

We cannot, cannot be so smart and gay. But all the mighty deeds and matchless powers

Of errant knights we never fancied ours, And thus the prowess of each gifted knight Must at all times create the same delight; Lovelace a forward youth might hope to

seem,

not

But not with Kent's discretion, for I grew
Fond of a creature whom my fancy drew;
A kind of beings who are never found
On middle earth, but grow on fairy-ground.

These found I not; but I had luck to find
A mortal woman of this fairy kind;
A thin, tall, upright, serious, slender maid,
Who in my own romantic regions stray'd;
From the world's glare to this sweet vale
retired,

To dwell unseen, unsullied, unadmired;
In all her virgin excellence, above
The gaze of crowds, and hopes of vulgar love.
We spoke of noble deeds in happier times,
Of glorious virtues, of debasing crimes:
Warm was the season, and the subject too,
And therefore warm in our discourse we grew.
Love made such haste, that ere a month
was flown

Since first we met, he had us for his own:
Riches are trifles in an hero's sight,
And lead to questions low and unpolite;
I nothing said of money or of land,
But bent my knee, and fondly ask'd her hand;
And the dear lady, with a grace divine,
Gave it, and frankly answer'd, it is thine.'

Our reading was not to romance confined,
But still it gave its colour to the mind;
Gave to our studies something of its force,
And made profound and tender our discourse;
Our subjects all, and our religion, took
The grave and solemn spirit of our book:
And who had seen us walk, or heard us read,
Would say: these lovers are sublime indeed.

But Lancelot never, that he could
dream;
Nothing reminds us in the magic page
Of old romance, of our declining age: I knew not why, but when the day was
If once our fancy mighty dragons slew,
named
This is no more than fancy now can do;
My ardent wishes felt a little tamed;
But when the heroes of a novel come,
My mother's sickness then awaked my grief,
Conquer'd and conquering, to a drawing-And yet, to own the truth, was some relief;

room,

We no more feel the vanity that sees Within ourselves what we admire in these, And so we leave the modern tale, to fly From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy.

Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose That queens would call me to subdue their foes;

But, by a voluntary weakness sway'd,
When fancy call'd, I willingly obey'd.
Such I became, and I believed my heart
Might yet be pierced by some peculiar dart
Of right heroic kind, and I could prove
Fond of some peerless nymph who deign'd
to love,
Some high-soul'd virgin, who had spent
her time

In studies grave, heroic and sublime;
Who would not like me less that I had spent
Years eight and forty, just the age of Kent;

It left uncertain that decisive time
That made my feelings nervous and sublime.
Still all was kindness, and at morn and eve
I made a visit, talk'd, and took my leave:
Kind were the lady's looks, her eyes were
bright,

And swam, I thought, in exquisite delight;
A lovely red suffused the virgin cheek,
And spoke more plainly than the tongue
could speak;

Plainly all seem'd to promise love and joy, Nor fear'd we ought that might our bliss destroy.

Engaged by business, I one morn delay'd
My usual call on the accomplish'd maid;
But soon, that small impediment removed,
I paid the visit that decisive proved;
For the fair lady had, with grieving heart,
So I believed, retired to sigh apart:

saw,

draw:

I saw her friend, and begg'd her to intreat | Bridges and churches, towers and halls, I My gentle nymph her sighing swain to meet. The gossip gone-What dæmon, in his spite Maids and madonnas, and could sketch and To love and man, could my frail mind excite, And lead me curious on, against all sense Yes, I had made a book, but that my pride of right? In the not making was more gratified. There met my eye, unclosed, a closet's door-There was one feeling upon foreign ground, Shame! how could I the secrets there That' more distressing than the rest was explore? found: Pride, honour, friendship, love, condemn'd That though with joy I should my country the deed,

And yet, in spite of all, I could proceed!
I went, I saw-Shall I describe the hoard
Of precious worth in seal'd deposits stored
Of sparkling hues? Enough-enough is told,
'Tis not for man such mysteries to unfold.
Thus far I dare-Whene'er those orbits

swam

see,

There none had pleasure in expecting me.

I now was sixty, but could walk and eat; My food was pleasant, and my slumbers sweet;

But what could urge me at a day so late In that blue liquid that restrain'd their flame, To think of women?-my unlucky fate. As showers the sunbeams-when the crim-It was not sudden; I had no alarms, But was attack'd when resting on my arms;

son glow

Of the red rose o'erspread those cheeks of Like the poor soldier; when the battle raged The man escaped, though twice or thrice engaged,

snow,

I saw, but not the cause-'twas not the red Of transient blush that o'er her face was spread;

'Twas not the lighter red, that partly streaks
The Catherine-pear, that brighten'd o'er
her cheeks,

Nor scarlet blush of shame—but such disclose
The velvet petals of the Austrian rose
When first unfolded, warm the glowing hue,
Nor cold as rouge, but deep'ning on the view:
Such were those cheeks-the causes unex-
plored

Were now detected in that secret hoard;
And ever to that rich recess would turn
My mind, and cause for such effect discern.
Such was my fortune, O! my friends, and
such

The end of lofty hopes that grasp'd too much.
This was, indeed, a trying time in life,
I lost at once a mother and a wife;
Yet compensation came in time for these,
And what I lost in joy, I gain'd in case.

But, said the Squire, did thus your courtship cease? Resign'd your mistress her betroth'd in peace?

Yes; and had sense her feelings to restrain,
Nor ask'd me once my conduct to explain;
But me she saw those swimming eyes explore,
And explanation she required no more:
Friend to the last, I left her with regret
Nay, leave her not, for we are neighbours yet.

But when it ended, in a quiet spot
He fell, the victim of a random-shot.

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Serenely happy, not to pierce and shake;
If she were tried for breaking human hearts.
Men would acquit her—she had not the arts;
Yet without art, at first without design,

These views extinct, I travell'd, not with She soon became the arbitress of mine;

taste,

But so that time ran wickedly to waste;
I penn'd some notes, and might a book have
made,

But I had no connexion with the trade;

Without pretensions—nay, without pretence.
But by a native strange intelligence
Women possess when they behold a man
Whom they can tease, and are assured they

can;

Then 'tis their soul's delight and pride to | And all their vain amazement that a man Like you should love-they wonder how

reign

O'er the fond slave, to give him case or pain, And stretch and loose by turns the weighty viewless chain.

Though much she knew, yet nothing could she prove;

I had not yet confess'd the crime of love;
But in an hour when guardian-angels sleep,
I fail'd the secret of my soul to keep;
And then I saw the triumph in those eyes
That spoke-Ay, now you are indeed my
prize.

I almost thought I saw compassion, too,
For all the cruel things she meant to do.
Well I can call to mind the managed air
That gave no comfort, that brought no
despair,

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their boy and girl I take, the mother's sake;

I feel a fondness for But though the dears some softening That in a dubious balance held the mind, To each side turning, never much inclined. I have no wishes for the father's right. thoughts excite She spoke with kindness-thought the honour high,

And knew not how to give a fit reply; She could not, would not, dared not, must not deem

Such language proof of aught but my

esteem; It made her proud-she never could forget My partial thoughts,-she felt her much in

debt:

She who had never in her life indulged
The thought of hearing what I now divulged,
I who had seen so many and so much,-
It was an honour-she would deem it such:
Our different years, indeed, would put an end
To other views, but still her father's friend
To her, she humbly hoped, would his regard
extend.

Thus saying nothing, all she meant to say,
She play'd the part the sex delights to play;
Now by some act of kindness giving scope
To the new workings of excited hope,
Then by an air of something like disdain,
But scarcely seen, repelling it again;
Then for a season, neither cold nor kind,
She kept a sort of balance in the mind,
And as his pole a dancer on the rope,
The equal poise on both sides kept me up.

Is it not strange that man can fairly view
Pursuit like this, and yet his point pursue?
While he the folly fairly will confess,
And even feel the danger of success?
But so it is, and nought the Circes care
How ill their victims with their poison fare,
When thus they trifle, and with quiet soul
Mix their ingredients in the maddening
bowl.

Their high regard, the softness of their air,
The pitying grief that saddens at a prayer,
Their grave petitions for the peace of mind
That they determine you shall never find,

Now all is quiet, and the mind susta'ns
Its proper comforts, its befitting pains;
The heart reposes; it has had its share
Of love, as much as it could fairly bear,
And what is left in life, that now demands
its care?

For oh, my friends, if this were all indeed, Could we believe that nothing would succeed; If all were but this daily dose of life, Without a care or comfort, child or wife; These walks for health with nothing more in view,

This doing nothing, and with labour too; This frequent asking when 'tis time to dine,

This daily dozing o'er the news and wine;
This age's riddle, when each day appears
So very long, so very short the years;
If this were all-but let me not suppose-
What then were life! whose virtues, trials,

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This cannot be-but why has Time a pace
That seems unequal in our mortal race?
Quick is that pace in early life, but slow,
Tedious and heavy, as we older grow;
But yet, though slow, the movements are
alike,

And with no force upon the memory strike,
And therefore tedious as we find them all,
They leave us nothing we in view recal;
But days that we so dull and heavy knew
Are now as moments passing in review,
And hence arises ancient men's report,
That days are tedious, and yet years are
short.

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me well

To hear thy spinster-friend her story tell;
And our attention would be nobly paid
Thus to compare the Bachelor and Maid.
Frank as she is, replied the Squire, nor onc
Is more disposed to show what she has done
With time, or time with her; yet all her care
And every trial she might not declare
To one a stranger; but to me, her friend,
She has the story of those trials penn'd;
These shalt thou hear, for well the maid I
know,

And will her efforts and her conquests show.
Jacques is abroad, and we alone shall dine,
And then to give this lady's tale be mine;
Thou wilt attend to this good spinster's life,
And grieve and wonder she is not a wife;
But if we judge by either words or looks
Her mode of life, her morals, or her books,
Her pure devotion, unaffected sense,
Her placid air, her mild benevolence,
Her gay good humour, and her manners free,
She is as happy as a maid can be;
If as a wife, I know not, and decline
Question like this, till I can judge of thine.
Then from a secret hoard drew forth the
Squire

His tale, and said: Attention I require-
My verse you may condemn, my theme you

must admire.

I to your kindness speak, let that prevail, And of my frailty judge as beings frail.—

My father dying, to my mother left
An infant charge, of all things else bereft;
Poor, but experienced in the world, she knew
What others did, and judged what she
could do;

Beauty she justly weigh'd, was never blind
To her own interest, and she read mankind:
She view'd my person with approving glance,
And judged the way my fortune to advance;
Taught me betimes that person to improve,
And make a lawful merchandize of love;
Bade me my temper in subjection keep,
And not permit my vigilance to sleep;
I was not one, a miss, who might presume
Now to be crazed by mirth, now sunk in
gloom;

Nor to be fretful, vapourish, or give way
To spleen and anger, as the wealthy may;
But I must please, and all I felt of pride,
Contempt, and hatred, I must cast aside.

'Have not one friend,' my mother cried, 'not one;

That bane of our romantic triflers shun;
Suppose her true, can she afford you aid?
Suppose her false, your purpose is betray'd;
And then in dubious points, and matters nice,
While you are writing on from post to post,
How can you profit by a child's advice?
Your hour is over, and a man is lost;
Girls of their hearts are scribbling; their
desires,

And what the folly of the heart requires, Dupes to their dreams-but I the truth impart,

Think nothing of it; to yourself be true,
You cannot, child, afford to have a heart;
And keep life's first great business in your
view ;-

Take it, dear Martha, for a useful rule,
She who is poor is ugly or a fool;
Or, worse than either, has a bosom fill'd
With soft emotions, and with raptures thrill'd.
Read not too much, nor write in verse or
prose,

For then you make the dull and foolish foes;
Yet those who do, deride not nor condemn,
It is not safe to raise up foes in them;
For though they harm you not, as block-
heads do,

Such her advice; full hard with her had dealt
There is some malice in the scribbling crew.'
The world, and she the usage keenly felt.

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When nought of chastity itself remain'd ; But there is danger-few have means to blind The keen-eyed world, and none to make it kind.

And one thing more-to free yourself from foes

Never a secret to your friend disclose; Secrets with girls, like loaded guns with boys,

Are never valued till they make a noise; To show how trusted, they their power display;

To show how worthy, they the trust betray;
Like pence in children's pockets secrets lie
In female bosoms-they must burn or fly.
Let not your heart be soften'd; if it be,
Let not the man his softening influence see;
For the most fond will sometimes tyrants
prove,

And wound the bosom where they trace the love.

But to your fortune look, on that depend For your life's comfort, comforts that attend On wealth alone-wealth gone, they have their end.'

Such were my mother's cares to mend my lot, And such her pupil they succeeded not.

It was conceived the person I had then Might lead to serious thoughts some wealthy

men,

Who having none their purpose to oppose
Would soon be won their wishes to disclose:
My mother thought I was the very child
By whom the old and amorous are beguiled;
So mildly gay, so ignorantly fair,
And pure, no doubt, as sleeping infants are:
Then I had lessons how to look and move,
And, I repeat, make merchandize of love.
Thrice it was tried if one so young could
bring

Old wary men to buy the binding ring;
And on the taper finger, to whose tip
The fond old swain would press his withering
lip,

Place the strong charm:—and one would win my heart

By re-assuming youth-a trying part;
Girls, he supposed, all knew the young were
bold,

And he would show that spirit in the old;
In boys they loved to hear the rattling tongue,
And he would talk as idly as the young;
He knew the vices our Lotharios boast,
And he would show of every vice the ghost,
The evil's self, without disguise or dress,
Vice in its own pure native ugliness;
Not as the drunkenness of slaves to prove
Vice hateful, but that seeing, I might love.
He drove me out, and I was pleased to see
Care of himself, it served as care for me;
For he would tell me, that he should not
spare

Man, horse, or carriage, if I were not there;
Provoked at last, my malice I obey'd,
And smiling said, 'Sir, I am not afraid.'
This check'd his spirit; but he said, 'Could

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My next admirer was of equal age,
And wish'd the child's affection to engage,
And keep the fluttering bird a victim in his
cage:

He had no portion of his rival's glee,
But gravely praised the gravity in me;
Religious, moral, both in word and deed,
But warmly disputatious in his creed :
Wild in his younger time, as we were told,
And therefore like a penitent when old.
Strange! he should wish a lively girl to look
Ipon the methods his repentance took.
Then he would say, he was no more a rake
To squander money for his passions' sake;
Yet, upon proper terms, as man discreet,
He with my mother was disposed to treat,
To whom he told, the price of beauty fell
la every market, and but few could sell;
That trade in India, once alive and brisk,
Was overdone, and scarcely worth the risk.

Then stoop'd to speak of board, and what for life

A wife would cost-if he should take a wife. Hardly he bargain'd, and so much desired, That we demurr'd ; and he,displeased, retired,

And now I hoped to rest, nor act again
The paltry part for which I felt disdain,
When a third lover came within our view,
And somewhat differing from the former two;
He had been much abroad, and he had seen
The world's weak side, and read the hearts
of men;

But all, it seem'd, this study could produce,
Was food for spleen, derision, and abuse;
He levell'd all, as one who had intent
To clear the vile and spot the innocent;
He praised my sense, and said I ought to be
From girl's restraint and nursery-maxims
free;

He praised my mother; but he judged her wrong

To keep us from th' admiring world so long; He praised himself; and then his vices named, And call'd them follies, and was not ashamed. He more than hinted that the lessons taught By priests were all with superstition fraught; And I must think them for the crowd design'd, Not to alarm the free and liberal mind. Wisdom with him was virtue. They were wrong

And weak, he said, who went not with the throng;

Man must his passions order and restrain
In all that gives his fellow-subjects pain;
But yet of guilt he would in pity speak,
And as he judged, the wicked were the weak.
Such was the lover of a simple maid,
Who seem'd to call his logic to his aid,
And to mean something: I will not pretend
To judge the purpose of my reasoning friend,
Who was dismiss'd, in quiet to complain
That so much labour was bestow'd in vain.

And now my mother seem'd disposed to try
A life of reason and tranquillity;
Ere this, her health and spirits were the
best,

Hers the day's trifling, and the nightly rest;
But something new was in her mind instill'd;
Unquiet thoughts the matron-bosom fill'd;
For five and forty peaceful years she bore
Her placid looks, and dress becoming wore:
She could a compliment with pleasure take,
But no absurd impression could it make.
Now were her nerves disorder'd: she was
weak,

And must the help of a physician seek ;
A Scotch physician, who had just began
To settle near us, quite a graceful man,
And very clever, with a soft address,
That would his meaning tenderly express.
Sick as my mother seem'd, when he inquired
If she was ill, he found her well attired;

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