Chapter XVI: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (5)

Yes!—twenty years have pass’d, and I am come,
Unknown, unwelcomed, to my early home;
A stranger, striving in my walks to trace
The youthful features in some aged face.
On as I move, some curious looks I read;
We pause a moment, doubt, and then proceed.
They’re like what once I saw, but not the same;
I lose the air, the features, and the name. 70
Yet something seems like knowledge, but the change
Confuses me, and all in him is strange.
That bronzed old Sailor, with his wig awry—
Sure he will know me! No, he passes by.
They seem like me in doubt; but they can call
Their friends around them—I am lost to all.
The very place is alter’d. What I left
Seems of its space and dignity bereft:
The streets are narrow, and the buildings mean;
Did I, or Fancy, leave them broad and clean? 80
The ancient church, in which I felt a pride,
As struck by magic, is but half as wide;
The tower is shorter, the sonorous bell
Tells not the hour as it was wont to tell;
The market dwindles, every shop and stall
Sinks in my view; there’s littleness in all.
Mine is the error; prepossess’d I see;
And all the change I mourn is change in me.
One object only is the same; the sight
Of the wide Ocean by the moon’s pale light, 90
With her long ray of glory, that we mark
On the wild waves when all beside is dark.
This is the work of Nature, and the eye
In vain the boundless prospect would descry:
What mocks our view cannot contracted be;
We cannot lessen what we cannot see.
Would I could now a single Friend behold,
Who would the yet mysterious facts unfold,
That Time yet spares, and to a stranger show
Th’ events he wishes, and yet fears to know! 100
Much by myself I might in listening glean,
Mix’d with the crowd, unmark’d if not unseen;
Uninterrupted, I might ramble on,
Nor cause an interest, nor a thought, in one.
For who looks backward to a being tost
About the world, forgotten long, and lost;
For whom, departing, not a tear was shed,
Who disappear’d, was missing, and was dead—
Save that he left no grave, where some might pass,
And ask each other who that being was! 110
I, as a ghost invisible, can stray
Among the crowd, and cannot lose my way;
My ways are where the voice of man is known,
Though no occasion offers for my own;
My eager mind to fill with food I seek,
And, like the ghost, await for one to speak.
See I not One whom I before have seen?
That face, though now untroubled and serene,
That air, though steady now, that look, though tame,
Pertain to one, whom, though I doubt to name, 120
Yet was he not a dashing youth and wild,
Proud as a man, and haughty when a child?
Talents were his; he was in nature kind,
With lofty, strong, and independent mind;
His father wealthy, but, in very truth,
He was a rash, untamed, expensive youth;
And, as I now remember the report,
Told how his father’s money he would sport.
Yet in his dress and manner now appears
No sign of faults that stain’d his earlier years; 130
Mildness there seems, and marks of sober sense,
That bear no token of that wild expense
Such as to ruin leads!—I may mistake,
Yet may, perchance, a useful friendship make.
He looks as one whom I should not offend,
Address’d as him whom I would make a friend.
Men with respect attend him.—He proceeds
To yonder public room—why, then he reads!
Suppose me right—a mighty change is wrought;
But Time ere now has care and caution taught. 140
May I address him? And yet, why afraid? }
Deny he may, but he will not upbraid; }
Nor must I lose him, for I want his aid. }
Propitious fate! beyond my hope I find }
A being well-inform’d, and much inclined }
To solve my many doubts, and ease my anxious mind. }
Now shall we meet, and he will give reply
To all I ask!—How full of fears am I;
Poor, nervous, trembling! what have I to fear? }
Have I a wife, a child, one creature here, 150}
Whose health would bring me joy, whose death would claim a tear? }
This is the time appointed, this the place:
Now shall I learn, how some have run their race
With honour, some with shame; and I shall know
How man behaves in Fortune’s ebb and flow;—
What wealth or want, what trouble, sorrow, joy,
Have been allotted to the [girl] and boy
Whom I left laughing at the ills of life—
Now the grave father, or the awful wife.
Then shall I hear, how tried the wise and good! 160}
How fall’n the house that once in honour stood! }
And moving accidents, from war and fire and flood! }
These shall I hear, if to his promise true;
His word is pledged to tell me all he knew
Of living men; and memory then will trace
Those who no more with living men have place,
As they were borne to their last quiet homes—
This shall I learn!—And lo! my Teacher comes.

TALE VII.

_THE SCHOOL-FELLOW._

I.

Yes! I must leave thee, brother of my heart,
The world demands us, and at length we part;
Thou whom that heart, since first it felt, approved—
I thought not why, nor question’d how I loved;
In my first thoughts, first notions, and first cares,
Associate; partner in my mind’s affairs,
In my young dreams, my fancies ill-express’d
But well conceived, and to the heart address’d—
A fellow-reader in the books I read;
A fellow-mourner in the tears I shed; 10
A friend, partaking every grief and joy;
A lively, frank, engaging, generous boy.
At school each other’s prompters, day by day
Companions in the frolic or the fray;
Prompt in disputes—we never sought the cause;
The laws of friendship were our only laws:
We ask’d not how or why the strife began,
But David’s foe was foe to Jonathan.
In after-years my Friend, the elder boy,
Would speak of Love, its tumult and its joy; 20
A new and strong emotion, thus imprest,
Prepared for pain to come the yielding breast;
For, though no object then the fancy found,
She dreamt of darts, and gloried at the wound;
Smooth verse and tender tales the spirit moved,
And ere the Chloes came the Strephons loved.
This is the Friend I leave; for he remains
Bound to his home by strong but viewless chains:
Nor need I fear that his aspiring soul
Will fail his adverse fortunes to controul, 30
Or lose the fame he merits; yet awhile
The clouds may lour—but then his sun will smile.
O Time, thou teller of men’s fortunes, lend
Thy aid, and be propitious to my Friend!
Let me behold him prosperous, and his name
Enroll’d among the darling sons of Fame;
In love befriend him, and be his the bride,
Proud of her choice, and of her lord the pride!
“So shall my little bark attendant sail”—
(As Pope has sung)—and prosperous be the gale! 40

II.

He is not here: the Youth I loved so well
Dwells in some place where kindred spirits dwell;
But I shall learn. Oh! tell me of my Friend,
With whom I hoped life’s evening-calm to spend;
With whom was spent the morn, the happy morn,
When gay conceits and glorious views are born;
With whom conversing I began to find
The early stirrings of an active mind,
That, done the tasks and lessons of the day, }
Sought for new pleasures in our untried way, 50}
And stray’d in fairy land, where much we long’d to stray. }
Here he abides not; could not surely fix
In this dull place, with these dull souls to mix;
He finds his place where lively spirits meet,
And loftier souls from baser kind retreat.
First, of my early Friend I gave the name,
Well known to me, and, as I judged, to Fame;
My grave informer doubted, then replied,
“That Lad!—why, yes!—some ten years since he died.”
_P._ Died! and unknown! the man I loved so well! 60
But is this all? the whole that you can tell
Of one so gifted?—
_F._ Gifted! why, in truth,
You puzzle me; how gifted was the Youth?
I recollect him, now—his long, pale face—
He dress’d in drab, and walk’d as in a race.
_P._ Good Heaven! what did I not of him expect!
And is this all indeed you recollect—
Of wit that charm’d me, with delightful ease— }
And gay good-humour that must ever please— }
His taste, his genius! know you nought of these? 70}
_F._ No, not of these:—but stop! in passing near,
I’ve heard his flute—it was not much to hear.
As for his genius—let me not offend;
I never had a genius for a friend,
And doubt of yours; but still, he did his best,
And was a decent Lad—there let him rest!
He lies in peace, with all his humble race,
And has no stone to mark his burial place;
Nor left he that which to the world might show
That he was one that world was bound to know, 80
For aught he gave it.—Here his story ends!
_P._ And is this all? This character my Friend’s!
That may, alas! be mine——“_a decent Lad!_”—
The very phrase would make a Poet mad!
And he is gone!—Oh! proudly did I think
That we together at that fount should drink;
Together climb the steep ascent of Fame;
Together gain an ever-during name,
And give due credit to our native home—
Yet here he lies, without a name or tomb; 90
Perhaps not honour’d by a single tear;
Just enter’d in a parish-register,
With common dust, forgotten to remain—
And shall I seek, what thou could’st not obtain—
A name for men when I am dead to speak?—
Oh! let me something more substantial seek;
Let me no more on man’s poor praise depend,
But learn one lesson from my buried Friend!

TALE VIII.

_BARNABY, THE SHOPMAN._

I.

Farewell! to _him_ whom, just across my way,
I see his shop attending day by day;
Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes
To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes.
Young though he is, yet careful there he stands,
Opening his shop with his own ready hands;
Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves,
Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves—
But yet preserves not: in his zeal for trade
He has his shop an ark for all things made; 10
And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye,
His sundry wares in strange confusion lie—
Delightful token of the haste that keeps
Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps;
Yet ere he rests, he takes them all away,
And order smiles on the returning day.
Most ready tradesman he of men! alive
To all that turns to money—he must thrive.
Obsequious, civil, loath t’ offend or trust,
And full of awe for greatness—thrive he must: 20
For well he knows to creep; and he in time,
By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb.
Pains-taking lad he was, and with his slate
For hours in useful meditation sate;
Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand,
To make him—hard the labour!—understand.
But, when of learning he enough possess’d
For his affairs, who would might learn the rest;
All else was useless, when he had obtain’d
Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain’d. 30
He envied no man for his learning: he
Who was not rich, was poor with BARNABY;
But he for envy has no thought to spare,
Nor love nor hate—his heart is in his ware.
Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies
In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise!
To him how bright the opening day, how blest
The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest!
To him the nation’s state is all unknown,
Whose watchful eye is ever on his own. 40
You talk of patriots, men who give up all,
Yea, life itself, at their dear country’s call:
He look’d on such as men of other date—
Men to admire, and not to imitate;
They as his Bible-Saints to him appear’d:
Lost to the world, but still to be revered.
Yet there’s a Widow, in a neighbouring street,
Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet;
Her’s house and land; and these are more delight
To him than learning, in the proverb’s spite. 50
The Widow sees at once the Trader’s views,
And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse.
Yet there are moments when a woman fails
In such design, and so the man prevails.
Love she has not; but, in a guardless hour,
May lose her purpose, and resign her power;
Yet all such hazard she resolves to run,
Pleased to be woo’d, and fearless to be won.
Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside,
Are kept and shown to feed a woman’s pride: 60
Old-fashion’d, ugly, call them what she will,
They serve as signs of her importance still.
She thinks they might inferior forms adorn
And does not love to hear them used with scorn;
Till, on some day when she has need of dress,
And none at hand to serve her in distress,
She takes th’ insulted robe, and turns about;
Long-hidden beauties one by one peer out.
“’Tis not so bad! see, Jenny—I declare,
’Tis pretty well, and then ’tis lasting wear; 70
And what is fashion?—if a woman’s wise,
She will the substance, not the shadow, prize;
’Tis a choice silk; and, if I put it on,
Off go these ugly trappings every one.”
The dress is worn; a friendly smile is raised,
But the good lady for her courage praised—
Till wonder dies.—The dress is worn with pride,
And not one trapping yet is cast aside.
Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews;
And on the seventh he worships Heav’n, and woos, 80
I leave thee, Barnaby; and if I see
Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be.

II.

But how is this? I left a thriving man,
Hight BARNABY, when he to trade began—
Trade his delight and hope; and, if alive,
Doubt I had none that Barnaby would thrive.
Yet here I see him, sweeping as before
The very dust from forth the very door.
So would a miser! but, methinks, the shop
Itself is meaner—has he made a stop? 90
I thought I should at least a burgess see,
And lo! ’tis but an older Barnaby;
With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare
As coats of his once begging kindred were;
Brush’d to the thread that is distinctly seen,
And beggarly would be, but that ’tis clean.
Why, how is this? Upon a closer view,
The shop is narrow’d; it is cut in two.
Is all that business from its station fled?
Why, Barnaby! thy very shop is dead! 100
Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate—
And what the fall from that predicted fate.

* * * * *

_F._ A common cause: it seems his lawful gains
Came slowly forth, and came with care and pains.
These he, indeed, was willing to bestow;
But still his progress to his point was slow,
And might be quicken’d, “could he cheat the eyes }
Of all those rascal officers and spies, }
The Customs’ greedy tribe, the wolves of the Excise.” }
Tea, coffee, spirits, laces, silks, and spice, 110
And sundry drugs that bear a noble price,
Are bought for little, but, ere sold, the things
Are deeply charged for duty of the king’s.
Now, if the servants of this king would keep
At a kind distance, or would wink or sleep,
Just till the goods in safety were disposed,
Why then his labours would be quickly closed.
True! some have thriven—but they the laws defied,
And shunn’d the powers they should have satisfied.
Their way he tried, and, finding some success, 120
His heart grew stouter, and his caution less;
Then—for why doubt, when placed in Fortune’s way?—
There was a bank, and that was sure to pay.
Yes, every partner in that thriving bank
He judged a man of a superior rank.
Were _he_ but one in a concern so grand—
Why, he might build a house, and buy him land;
Then, too, the Widow, whom he loved so well,
Would not refuse with such a man to dwell;
And, to complete his views, he might be made 130
A Borough-Justice, when he ceased to trade;
For he had known—well pleased to know—a mayor
Who once had dealt in cheese and vinegar.
Who hastens to be rich, resembles him
Who is resolved that he will quickly swim,
And trusts his full-blown bladders! He, indeed,
With these supported, moves along with speed;
He laughs at those whom untried depths alarm,
By caution led, and moved by strength of arm;
Till in mid-way, the way his folly chose, 140
His full-blown bladder bursts, and down he goes!
Or, if preserved, ’tis by their friendly aid
Whom he despised as cautious and afraid.
Who could resist? Not Barnaby. Success
Awhile his pride exalted—to depress.
Three years he pass’d in feverish hopes and fears,
When fled the profits of the former years;
Shook by the Law’s strong arm, all he had gain’d
He dropp’d—and hopeless, pennyless remain’d.
The cruel Widow, whom he yet pursued, 150
Was kind but cautious, then was stern and rude.
“Should wealth, now hers, from that dear man which came,
Be thrown away to prop a smuggler’s fame?”
She spake, insulting; and, with many a sigh,
The fallen Trader passed her mansion by.
Fear, shame, and sorrow, for a time endured,
Th’ adventurous man was ruin’d, but was cured—
His weakness pitied, and his once-good name
The means of his returning peace became.
He was assisted, to his shop withdrew, 160
Half let, half rented, and began anew
To smile on custom, that in part return’d,
With the small gains that he no longer spurn’d.
Warn’d by the past, he rises with the day,
And tries to sweep off sorrow.——_Sweep away!_

TALE IX.

_JANE._

I.

Known but of late, I yet am loth to leave
The gentle JANE, and wonder why I grieve—
Not for her wants, for she has no distress,
She has no suffering that her looks express,
Her air or manner—hers the mild good sense
That wins its way by making no pretence.
When yet a child, her dying mother knew
What, left by her, the widow’d man would do,
And gave her Jane, for she had power, enough
To live in ease—of love and care a proof. 10
Enabled thus, the maid is kind to all—
Is pious too, and that without a call.
Not that she doubts of calls that Heav’n has sent—
Calls to believe, or warnings to repent:
But that she rests upon the Word divine,
Without presuming on a dubious sign—
A sudden light, the momentary zeal
Of those who rashly hope, and warmly feel;
These she rejects not, nor on these relies,
And neither feels the influence nor denies. 20
Upon the sure and written Word she trusts,
And by the Law Divine her life adjusts;
She blames not her who other creed prefers,
And all she asks is charity for hers.
Her great example is her gracious Lord,
Her hope his promise, and her guide his Word;
Her quiet alms are known to God alone,
Her left hand knows not what her right has done;
Her talents, not the few, she well improves,
And puts to use in labour that she loves. 30
Pensive, though good, I leave thee, gentle maid,
In thee confiding, of thy peace afraid,
In a strange world to act a trying part,
With a soft temper, and a yielding heart!

II.

_P._ How fares my gentle Jane, with spirit meek,
Whose fate with some foreboding care I seek:
Her whom I pitied in my pride, while she,
For many a cause more weighty, pitied me;
For she has wonder’d how the idle boy
His head or hands would usefully employ— 40
At least for thee his grateful spirit pray’d,
And now to ask thy fortune is afraid.—
——How fares ‘the gentle Jane?—
_F._ Know first, she fares
As one who bade adieu to earthly cares;
As one by virtue guided, and who, tried
By man’s deceit, has never lost her guide.
Her age I knew not, but it seem’d the age
When Love is wont a serious war to wage
In female hearts,—when hopes and fears are strong,
And ’tis a fatal step to place them wrong; 50
For childish fancies now have ta’en their flight,
And love’s impressions are no longer light.
Just at this time—what time I do not tell—
There came a Stranger in the place to dwell;
He seem’d as one who sacred truth reveres,
And like her own his sentiments and years;
His person manly, with engaging mien;
His spirit quiet, and his looks serene.
He kept from all disgraceful deeds aloof,
Severely tried, and found temptation-proof: 60
This was by most unquestioned, and the few
Who made inquiry said report was true.
His very choice of our neglected place
Endear’d him to us—’twas an act of grace;
And soon to Jane, our unobtrusive maid,
In still respect was his attention paid;
Each in the other found what both approved,
Good sense and quiet manners: these they loved.
So came regard, and then esteem, and then
The kind of friendship women have with men: 70
At length t’was love, but candid, open, fair,
Such as became their years and character.
In their discourse religion had its place,
When he of doctrines talk’d, and she of grace:
He knew the different sects, the varying creeds,
While she, less learned, spake of virtuous deeds;
He dwelt on errors into which we fall,
She on the gracious remedy for all;
So between both, his knowledge and her own,
Was the whole Christian to perfection shown. 80
Though neither quite approved the other’s part—
Hers without learning, his without a heart—
Still to each other they were dear, were good,
And all these matters kindly understood;
For Jane was liberal, and her friend could trust,—
“He thinks not with me! but is fair and just.”
Her prudent lover to her man of law }
Show’d how he lived: it seem’d without a flaw; }
She saw their moderate means—content with what she saw. }
Jane had no doubts—with so much to admire, 90
She judged it insult farther to inquire.
The lover sought—what lover brooks delay?— }
For full assent, and for an early day— }
And he would construe well the soft consenting Nay! }
The day was near, and Jane, with book in hand,
Sat down to read—perhaps might understand;
For what prevented?—say, she seem’d to read;
When one there came, her own sad cause to plead;
A stranger she, who fearless named that cause,
A breach in love’s and honour’s sacred laws. 100
“In a far country, Lady, bleak and wild,
Report has reach’d me: how art thou beguiled!
Or dared he tell thee, that for ten sad years
He saw me struggling with fond hopes and fears?
“From my dear home he won me, blest and free,
To be his victim.”——“Madam, who is _he_?”
“Not yet thy husband, Lady; no! not yet;
For he has first to pay a mighty debt.”
“Speaks he not of religion?”—“So he speaks,
When he the ruin of his victim seeks. 110
How smooth and gracious were his words, how sweet—
The fiend his master prompting his deceit!
Me he with kind instruction led to trust
In one who seem’d so grave, so kind, so just.
Books to amuse me, and inform, he brought,
Like that old serpent with temptation fraught;
His like the precepts of the wise appear’d,
Till I imbibed the vice I had not fear’d.
By pleasant tales and dissertations gay,
He wiled the lessons of my youth away. 120
“Of moral duties he would talk, and prove
They gave a sanction, and commanded love;
His sober smile at forms and rites was shown,
To make my mind depraved, and like his own.
“But wilt thou take him? wilt thou ruin take,
With a grave robber, a religious rake?
’Tis not to serve thee, Lady, that I came—
’Tis not to claim him, ’tis not to reclaim—
But ’tis that he may for my wrongs be paid,
And feel the vengeance of the wretch he made. 130
“Not for myself I thy attention claim }
My children dare not take their father’s name; }
They know no parent’s love—love will not dwell with shame. }
What law would force, he not without it gives,
And hates each living wretch, because it lives!
Yet, with these sinful stains, the man is mine: }
How will he curse me for this rash design! }
Yes—I will bear his curse, but him will not resign. }
“I see thee grieved; but, Lady, what thy grief?
It may be pungent, but it must be brief. 140
Pious thou art; but what will profit thee,
Match’d with a demon, woman’s piety?
Not for thy sake my wrongs and wrath I tell,
Revenge I seek! but yet, I wish thee well.
And now I leave thee! Thou art warn’d by one,
The rock on which her peace was wreck’d to shun.”
The Lover heard; but not in time to stay
A woman’s vengeance in its headlong way.
Yet he essay’d, with no unpractised skill,
To warp the judgment, or at least the will; 150
To raise such tumults in the poor weak heart,
That Jane, believing all—yet should not dare to part.
But there was Virtue in her mind that strove
With all his eloquence, and all her love;
He told what hope and frailty dared to tell,
And all was answered by a stern _Farewell_!
Home with his consort he returned once more;
And they resumed the life they led before.
Not so our maiden. She, before resign’d, }
Had now the anguish of a wounded mind— 160}
And felt the languid grief that the deserted find. }
On him she had reposed each worldly view,
And when he fail’d, the world itself withdrew,
With all its prospects. Nothing could restore
To life its value; hope would live no more:
Pensive by nature, she can not sustain
The sneer of pity that the heartless feign;
But to the pressure of her griefs gives way,
A quiet victim, and a patient prey;
The one bright view that she had cherish’d dies, 170
And other hope must from the future rise.
She still extends to grief and want her aid,
And by the comfort she imparts, is paid.
Death is her soul’s relief; to him she flies
For consolation that this world denies.
No more to life’s false promises she clings, }
She longs to change this troubled state of things, }
Till every rising morn the happier prospect brings. }

TALE X.

_THE ANCIENT MANSION._

I.

To part is painful; nay, to bid adieu
Ev’n to a favourite spot is painful too.
That fine old Seat, with all those oaks around, }
Oft have I view’d with reverence so profound, }
As something sacred dwelt in that delicious ground. }
There, with its tenantry about, reside
A genuine English race, the country’s pride;
And now a Lady, last of all that race,
Is the departing spirit of the place.
Hers is the last of all that noble blood, 10
That flow’d through generations brave and good;
And, if there dwells a native pride in her,
It is the pride of name and character.
True, she will speak, in her abundant zeal,
Of stainless honour; that she needs must feel;
She must lament, that she is now the last
Of all who gave such splendour to the past.
Still are her habits of the ancient kind;
She knows the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind.
She holds, so she believes, her wealth in trust; 20
And being kind, with her, is being just.
Though soul and body she delights to aid,
Yet of her skill she’s prudently afraid;
So to her chaplain’s care she _this_ commends,
And, when _that_ craves, the village doctor sends.
At church attendance she requires of all
Who would be held in credit at the Hall;
A due respect to each degree she shows,
And pays the debt that every mortal owes;
’Tis by opinion that respect is led: 30
The rich esteem because the poor are fed.
Her servants all, if so we may describe
That ancient, grave, observant, decent tribe,
Who with her share the blessings of the Hall,
Are kind but grave, are proud but courteous all—
Proud of their lucky lot! behold, how stands
That grey-haired butler, waiting her commands;
The Lady dines, and every day he feels
That his good mistress falters in her meals.
With what respectful manners he entreats 40
That she would eat—yet Jacob little eats;
When she forbears, his supplicating eye
Intreats the noble dame once more to try.
Their years the same; and he has never known
Another place; and this he deems his own—
All appertains to him. Whate’er he sees
Is _ours_!—“our house, our land, our walks, our trees!”
But still he fears the time is just at hand,
When he no more shall in that presence stand;
And he resolves with mingled grief and pride, 50
To serve no being in the world beside.
“He has enough,” he says, with many a sigh,
“For him to serve his God, and learn to die:
He and his lady shall have heard their call,
And the new folk, the strangers, may have all.”
But, leaving these to their accustom’d way,
The Seat itself demands a short delay.
We all have interest there—the trees that grow }
Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe; }
They take, but largely pay, and equal grace bestow. 60}
They hide a part, but still, the part they shade
Is more inviting to our fancy made;
And, if the eye be robb’d of half its sight,
Th’ imagination feels the more delight.
These giant oaks by no man’s order stand;
Heaven did the work, by no man was it plann’d.
Here I behold no puny works of art; }
None give me reasons why these views impart }
Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the heart. }
These very pinnacles, and turrets small, 70
And windows dim, have beauty in them all.
How stately stand yon pines upon the hill;
How soft the murmurs of that living rill;
And o’er the park’s tall paling, scarcely higher,
Peeps the low Church and shows the modest spire.
Unnumber’d violets on those banks appear,
And all the first-born beauties of the year;
The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring
The large wild bees upon the labouring wing.
Then comes the Summer with augmented pride, 80
Whose pure small streams along the valleys glide;
Her richer Flora their brief charms display,
And, as the fruit advances, fall away.
Then shall th’ autumnal yellow clothe the leaf,
What time the reaper binds the burden’d sheaf;
Then silent groves denote the dying year,
The morning frost, and noon-tide gossamer;
And all be silent in the scene around—
All, save the distant sea’s uncertain sound,
Or here and there the gun, whose loud report 90
Proclaims to man that Death is but his sport.
And then the wintry winds begin to blow;
Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow;
When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue,
Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew;
The aged moss grows brittle on the pale;
The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale;
And every changing season of the year
Stamps on the scene its English character.
Farewell! a prouder Mansion I may see, 100
But much must meet in that which equals thee!

II.

I leave the town, and take a well-known way
To that old Mansion in the closing day,
When beams of golden light are shed around,
And sweet is every night and every sound.
Pass but this hill, and I shall then behold
The Seat so honour’d, no admired of old,
And yet admired——
Alas! I see a change,
Of odious kind, and lamentably strange.
Who had done this? The good old Lady lies 110
Within her tomb; but, who could this advise?
What barbarous hand could all this mischief do,
And spoil a noble house, to make it new?
Who had done this? Some genuine Son of Trade
Has all this dreadful devastation made;
Some man with line and rule, and evil eye,
Who could no beauty in a tree descry,
Save in a clump, when stationed by his hand,
And standing where his genius bade them stand;
Some true admirer of the time’s reform, 120
Who strips an ancient dwelling like a storm;
Strips it of all its dignity and grace,
To put his own dear fancies in their place.
He hates concealment: all that was enclosed
By venerable wood is now exposed,
And a few stripling elms all oaks appear,
Fenced round by boards, to keep them from the deer.
I miss the grandeur of the rich old scene,
And see not what these clumps and patches mean!
This shrubby belt that runs the land around 130
Shuts freedom out! what being likes a bound?
The shrubs indeed, and ill-placed flowers, are gay, }
And some would praise; I wish they were away, }
That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might stray. }
The things themselves are pleasant to behold,
But not like those which we beheld of old—
That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain, }
Unbound and unsubdued!—but sighs are vain; }
It is the rage of Taste—the rule and compass reign. }
As thus my spleen upon the view I fed, 140
A man approach’d me, by his grandchild led—
A blind old man, and she a fair young maid,
Listening in love to what her grandsire said.

And thus with gentle voice he spoke—
“Come lead me, lassie, to the shade,
Where willows grow beside the brook;
For well I know the sound it made,
When, dashing o’er the stony rill,
It murmur’d to St. Osyth’s Mill.”

The Lass replied—“The trees are fled, 150
They’ve cut the brook a straighter bed:
No shades the present lords allow,
The miller only murmurs now;
The waters now his mill forsake,
And form a pond they call a lake.”—

“Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,
And to the holy water bring;
A cup is fasten’d to the stone,
And I would taste the healing spring,
That soon its rocky cist forsakes, 160
And green its mossy passage makes.”—

“The holy spring is turn’d aside,
The rock is gone, the stream is dried;
The plough has levell’d all around,
And here is now no holy ground.”—

“Then, lass, thy grandsire’s footsteps guide
To Bulmer’s Tree, the giant oak,
Whose boughs the keeper’s cottage hide,
And part the church-way lane o’erlook;
A boy, I climb’d the topmost bough, 170
And I would feel its shadow now!

“Or, lassie, lead me to the west,
Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall,
Where rooks unnumber’d build their nest—
Deliberate birds, and prudent all:
Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,
But they’re a social multitude.”

“The rooks are shot, the trees are fell’d,
And nest and nursery all expell’d;
With better fate the giant-tree, 180
Old Bulmer’s Oak, is gone to sea.
The church-way walk is now no more,
And men must other ways explore;
Though this indeed promotion gains,
For this the park’s new wall contains;
And here I fear we shall not meet
A shade—although, perchance, a seat.”
“O then, my lassie, lead the way
To Comfort’s Home, the ancient inn:
That something holds, if we can pay— 190
Old David is our living kin;
A servant once, he still preserves
His name, and in his office serves.”

“Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David’s sorrows to relate!
But they were brief; not long before
He died, his office was no more.
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound.”

“O then,” the grieving Man replied, 200
“No further, lassie, let me stray;
Here’s nothing left of ancient pride,
Of what was grand, of what was gay;
But all is chang’d, is lost, is sold—
All, all that’s left is chilling cold.
I seek for comfort here in vain;
Then lead me to my cot again!”

TALE XI.

_THE MERCHANT._

I.

Lo! one appears, to whom if I should dare
To say _farewell_, the lordly man would stare,
Would stretch his goodly form some inches higher,
And then, without a single word, retire;
Or from his state might haply condescend
To doubt his memory—“Ha! your name, my friend?”
He is the master of these things we see:
Those vessels proudly riding by the quay;
With all those mountain heaps of coal that lie,
For half a county’s wonder and supply. 10
Boats, cables, anchors, all to him pertain—
A swimming fortune, all his father’s gain.
He was a porter on the quay, and one
Proud of his fortune, prouder of his son—
Who was ashamed of him, and much distress’d
To see his father was no better dress’d.
Yet for this parent did the son erect
A tomb—’tis whisper’d, he must not expect
The like for him, when he shall near it sleep—
Where we behold the marble cherubs weep. 20
There are no merchants who with us reside
In half his state—no wonder he has pride;
Then he parades around that vast estate,
As if he spurn’d the slaves that make him great;
Speaking in tone so high, as if the ware
Was nothing worth—at least not worth his care;
Yet should he not these bulky stores contemn,
For all his glory he derives from them;
And, were it not for that neglected store,
This great rich man would be extremely poor. 30
Generous men call him, for he deigns to give;
He condescends to say the poor must live.
Yet in his seamen not a sign appears
That they have much respect, or many fears;
With inattention they their patron meet,
As if they thought his dignity a cheat;
Or of himself as, having much to do
With their affairs, he very little knew;
As if his ways to them so well were known
That they might hear, and bow, and take their own. 40
He might contempt for men so humble feel,
But this experience taught him to conceal;
For sailors do not to a lord at land
As to their captain in submission stand;
Nor have mere pomp and pride, of look or speech,
Been able yet respect or awe to teach.
Guns, when with powder charged, will make a noise,
To frighten babes, and be the sport of boys;
But, when within men find there’s nothing more,
They shout contemptuous at the idle roar. 50
Thus will our lofty man to all appear,
With nothing charged that they respect or fear.
His Lady, too, to her large purse applies,
And all she fancies at the instant buys.
How bows the market, when from stall to stall
She walks, attended! how respectful all!
To her free orders every maid attends,
And strangers wonder what the woman spends.
There is an auction, and the people, shy,
Are loth to bid, and yet desire to buy. 60
Jealous they gaze with mingled hope and fear,
Of buying cheaply, and of paying dear.
They see the hammer with determined air
Seized for despatch, and bid in pure despair!
They bid—the hand is quiet as before—
Still stands old Puff till one advances more.—
Behold great madam, gliding through the crowd;
Hear her too bid—decisive tone and loud!
“Going! ’tis gone!” the hammer-holder cries—
“Joy to you, Lady! you have gain’d a prize.” 70
Thus comes and goes the wealth, that, saved or spent,
Buys not a moment’s credit or content.
_Farewell!_ your fortune I forbear to guess;
For chance, as well as sense, may give success.

II.

_P._ Say, what yon buildings, neat indeed, but low,
So much alike, in one commodious row?
_F._ You see our Alms-house: ancient men, decay’d,
Are here sustain’d, who lost their way in trade;
Here they have all that sober men require—
So thought the Poet—“meat, and clothes, and fire”; 80
A little garden to each house pertains,
Convenient each, and kept with little pains.
Here for the sick are nurse and medicine found;
Here walks and shaded alleys for the sound;
Books of devotion on the shelves are placed,
And not forbidden are the books of taste.
The Church is near them—in a common seat
The pious men with grateful spirit meet;
Thus from the world, which they no more admire,
They all in silent gratitude retire. 90
_P._ And is it so? Have all, with grateful mind,
The world relinquish’d, and its ways resign’d?
Look they not back with lingering love and slow,
And fain would once again the oft-tried follies know?
_F._ Too surely some! We must not think that all,
Call’d to be hermits, would obey the call;
We must not think that all forget the state
In which they moved, and bless their humbler fate;
But all may here the waste of life retrieve,
And, ere they leave the world, its vices leave. 100
See yonder man, who walks apart, and seems
Wrapt in some fond and visionary schemes;
Who looks uneasy, as a man oppress’d
By that large copper badge upon his breast.
His painful shame, his self-tormenting pride,
Would all that’s visible in bounty hide;
And much his anxious breast is swell’d with woe,
That where he goes his badge must with him go.
_P._ Who then is he? Do I behold aright?
My lofty Merchant in this humble plight! 110
Still has he pride?
_F._ If common fame be just,
He yet has pride—the pride that licks the dust;
Pride that can stoop, and feed upon the base
And wretched flattery of this humbling place;
Nay, feeds himself! his failing is avow’d:
He of the cause that made him poor is proud;
Proud of his greatness, of the sums he spent,
And honours shown him wheresoe’er he went.
Yes! there he walks, that lofty man is he,
Who was so rich; but great he could not be. 120
Now to the paupers who about him stand
He tells of wonders, by his bounty plann’d;
Tells of his traffic, where his vessels sail’d,
And what a trade he drove—before he fail’d;
Then what a failure, not a paltry sum,
Like a mean trader, but for half a plum;
His Lady’s wardrobe was apprised so high
At his own sale, that nobody would buy!—
“But she is gone,” he cries, “and never saw
The spoil and havoc of our cruel law; 130
My steeds, our chariot that so roll’d along,
Admired of all! they sold them for a song.
You all can witness what my purse could do;
And now I wear a badge like one of you,
Who in my service had been proud to live—
And this is all a thankless town will give.
I, who have raised the credit of that town,
And gave it, thankless as it is, renown—
Who’ve done, what no man there had done before,
Now hide my head within an Alms-house door— 140
Deprived of all—my wife, my wealth, my vote,
And in this blue defilement——_Curse the Coat!_”

TALE XII.

_THE BROTHER BURGESSES._

I.

Two busy BROTHERS in our place reside,
And wealthy each, his party’s boast and pride;
Sons of one father, of two mothers born,
They hold each other in true party-scorn.
JAMES is the one who for the people fights,
The sturdy champion of their dubious rights;
Merchant and seaman rough, but not the less
Keen in pursuit of his own happiness;
And what his happiness?—To see his store
Of wealth increase, till Mammon groans, “No more!” 10
JAMES goes to church—because his father went,
But does not hide his leaning to dissent;
Reasons for this, whoe’er may frown, he’ll speak—
Yet the old pew receives him once a week.
CHARLES is a churchman, and has all the zeal
That a strong member of his church can feel;
A loyal subject is the name he seeks;
He of “his King and Country” proudly speaks:
He says, his brother and a rebel-crew,
Minded like him, the nation would undo, 20
If they had power, or were esteem’d enough
Of those who had, to bring their plans to proof.
JAMES answers sharply—“I will never place
My hopes upon a Lordship or a Grace!
To some great man you bow, to greater he,
Who to the greatest bends his supple knee,
That so the manna from the head may drop,
And at the lowest of the kneelers stop.
Lords call you loyal, and on them you call
To spare you something from our plunder’d all: 30
If tricks like these to slaves can treasure bring,
Slaves well may shout them hoarse for ‘Church and King!’”
“Brother!” says Charles,—“yet ‘brother’ is a name
I own with pity, and I speak with shame—
One of these days you’ll surely lead a mob,
And then the hangman will conclude the job.”
“And would you, Charles, in that unlucky case, }
Beg for his life whose death would bring disgrace }
On you, and all the loyal of our race? }
Your worth would surely from the halter bring 40}
One neck, and I, a patriot, then might sing— }
A brother patriot I—‘God save our noble King!’” }
“James!” said the graver man, in manner grave—
“Your neck I could not, I your soul would save;
Oh! ere that day, alas, too likely! come,
I would prepare your mind to meet your doom,
That then the priest, who prays with that bad race
Of men, may find you not devoid of grace.”
These are the men who, from their seats above,
Hear frequent sermons on fraternal love; 50
Nay, each approves, and answers—“Very true!
Brother would heed it, were he not a Jew.”

II.

_P._ Read I aright? beneath this stately stone
THE BROTHERS rest in peace, their grave is one!
What friend, what fortune interfered, that they
Take their long sleep together, clay with clay?
How came it thus?—
_F._ It was their own request,
By both repeated, that they thus might rest.
_P._ ’Tis well! Did friends at length the pair unite?
Or was it done because the deed was right? 60
Did the cool spirit of enfeebling age
Chill the warm blood, and calm the party rage,
And kindly lead them, in their closing day,
To put their animosity away,
Incline their hearts to live in love and peace,
And bid the ferment in each bosom cease?
_F._ Rich men have runners, who will to and fro
In search of food for their amusement go;
Who watch their spirits, and with tales of grief
Yield to their melancholy minds relief; 70
Who of their foes will each mishap relate,
And of their friends the fall or failings state.
One of this breed—the Jackall who supplied
Our Burgess Charles with food for spleen and pride—
Before he utter’d what his memory brought,
On its effect, in doubtful matters, thought,
Lest he, perchance, in his intent might trip,
Or a strange fact might indiscreetly slip.—
But he, one morning, had a tale to bring,
And felt full sure he need not weigh the thing; 80
_That_ must be welcome! With a smiling face
He watch’d th’ accustom’d nod, and took his place.
“Well! you have news—I see it—Good, my friend,
No preface, Peter! Speak, man; I attend.”
“Then, sir, I’m told—nay, ’tis beyond dispute—
Our Burgess James is routed horse and foot;
He’ll not be seen; a clerk for him appears,
And their precautions testify their fears;
Before the week be ended you shall see,
That our famed patriot will a bankrupt be.”— 90
“Will he, by——! No, I will not be profane,
But _James_ a bankrupt! Boy, my hat and cane!
No! he’ll refuse my offers—Let me think!
So would I his; here, give me pen and ink!
There! that will do.—What! let my father’s son,
My brother, want, and I—away! and run;
Run, as for life, and then return—but stay
To take his message—now, away, away!”
The pride of James was shaken as he read—
The Brothers met—the angry spirit fled. 100
Few words were needed—in the look of each
There was a language words can never reach;
But, when they took each other’s hand, and press’d,
Subsiding tumult sank to endless rest;
Nor party wrath with quick affection strove,
Drown’d in the tears of reconciling love.
Affairs confused, and business at a stand,
Were soon set right by Charles’s powerful hand;
The rudest mind in this rude place enjoy’d
The pleasing thought of enmity destroy’d, 110
And so destroy’d, that neither spite nor spleen,
Nor peevish look from that blest hour were seen;
Yet each his party and his spirit kept,
Though all the harsh and angry passions slept.
_P._ And they too sleep! and, at their joint request,
Within one tomb, beneath one stone, they rest!

TALE XIII.

_THE DEAN’S LADY._

I.