Forget her spleen, and in my place appear;
Her love to me will make my Judith dear:
Oft I shall think, (such comfort lovers seek,)
Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
Then write on all occasions, always dwell
On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well,
And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style."
She answer'd "No," but answer'd with a smile.
"And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime,
When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance
To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,
When every lad would on my lass attend,
Choose not a smooth designer for a friend :
That fawning Philip!-nay, be not severe,
A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear."

Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!-it soon was full in sight;-
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;-
For, see-his friends come hastening to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach :
"Adieu-farewell!-remember!"-and what more
Affection taught was utter'd from the shore!
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart!
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still the dashing oar to trace,
Till all were silent!-for the youth she pray'd,
And softly then return'd the weeping maid.

They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled;

Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory :-" Man! what cheer?"
A sailor cried; "art thou at anchor here ?"
Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face:
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought
Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd :
"The Booths! yet live they?" pausing and op-
press'd;

Then spake again;-" Is there no ancient man,
David his name ?-assist me if you can.-
Flemmings there were-and Judith, doth she
live?"

The woman gazed, nor could an answer give;
Yet wondering stood, and all were silent by,
Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
The woman musing said,-" She knew full well
Where the old people came at last to dwell;
They had a married daughter and a son,
But they were dead, and now remain'd not one."
"Yes," said an elder, who had paused intent
On days long pass'd, "there was a sad event;-
One of these Booths-it was my mother's tale-
Here left his lass, I know not where to sail :
She saw their parting, and observed the pain
But never came th' unhappy man again."
"The ship was captured," Allen meekly said,
"And what became of the forsaken maid?"

But when return'd the youth ?-the youth no The woman answer'd: "I remember now,

more

Return'd exulting to his native shore;

But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man, with wither'd limbs and lame,
His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age
his frame :

Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,

She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
And of her lover's loss, and I have seen
The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been;
Yet in her grief she married, and was made
Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,
And early buried: but I know no more.

And hark! our friends are hastening to the shore."
Allen soon found a lodging in the town,

Willing his breathless form should blend with kin- | And walk'd, a man unnoticed, up and down.

dred clay.

In an autumnal eve he left the beach,

In such an eve he chanced the port to reach ;
He was alone; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many a year, his mind
Turn'd mournful back, half-sinking, half-resign'd.
No one was present; of its crew bereft.
A single boat was in the billows left;
Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away:

O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,
The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down :
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite :
"There," he observed, and new emotions felt,
"Was my first home; and yonder Judith dwelt:
Dead! dead are all! I long-I fear to know,"
He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:

This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face
He sometimes could among a number trace:
Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,
But of no favourites, and the rest were new;
A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,
Was reckon❜d boundless.-Could he living be?
Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business and a fortune fair.
No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,
With crutches went to take her dole of bread.
There was a friend whom he had left a boy
With hope to sail the master of a hoy ;

Him, after many a stormy day, he found

With his great wish, his life's whole purpose, crown'd.

This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face,-
Yours is, my friend," said he, "a woful case;
We cannot all succeed; I now command
The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;
But when we meet you shall your story tell
Of foreign parts-I bid you now farewell!"
Allen so long had left his native shore,
He saw but few whom he had seen before;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd-

“The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
He dwelt among us in his early years;
We see the name engraved upon the stones,
Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones."
Thus where he lived and loved-unhappy change!
He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.
But now a widow, in a village near,
Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;
Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came
Some strong emotions at the well-known name;
He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;
Then was she wedded, of his death assured,
And much of misery in her lot endured;

My good adviser taught me to be still,
Nor to make converts had I power or will.
I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,
And never mention'd Luther in my life;
I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd,
And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd:
Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,
And was a most obedient Catholic.

But I had money, and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound :
A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
Could not have read a more pernicious work;
To me pernicious, who if it were good
Or evil question'd not, nor understood:

Her husband died; her children sought their bread O! had I little but the book possess'd,

In various places, and to her were dead.
The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,
Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage :
Each had immediate confidence; a friend
Both now beheld, on whom they might depend :
"Now is there one to whom I can express
My nature's weakness and my soul's distress."
Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart-
"Let me not lose thee-never let us part:
So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,
It is not all distress to think and live."
Thus Allen spoke-for time had not removed
The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved;
Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,
Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.
To her, to her alone, his various fate,
At various times, 'tis comfort to relate;
And yet his sorrow-she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear.
First he related how he left the shore,
Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more:
Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed course,
They met and yielded to the Spanish force;
Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas they bore their prey,
Who grieving landed from their sultry bay;
And marching many a burning league, he found
Himself a slave upon a miner's ground:
There a good priest his native language spoke,
And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke ;
Kindly advanced him in his master's grace,
And he was station'd in an easier place:
There, hopeless ever to escape the land,
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand;
In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day
He saw his happy infants round him play;
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries;
E'en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,
But his fond Isabel demanded, "Why?"
Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,
And wept in pity for the English maid :
Thus twenty years were pass'd, and pass'd his views
Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose :
His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint
"His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;
Make all his children infidels, and found
An English heresy on Christian ground."

I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest."

Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seen
Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been :
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown
Are in an instant through the varnish shown.
He told their cruel mercy; how at last,
In Christian kindness for the merits past,
They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly
Or for his crime and contumacy die;

Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight:
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his
flight.

He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay :
There in the woods he wrought, and there, among
Some labouring seamen, heard his native tongue :
The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain
With joyful force; he long'd to hear again :
Again he heard; he seized an offer'd hand,
“And when beheld you last our native land?"
He cried, "and in what country? quickly say"-
The seamen answer'd-strangers all were they;
One only at his native port had been;
He, landing once, the quay and church had seen,
For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew.
Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,
Sail where they sail'd, and many a peril past,
They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast;
But him they found not, nor could one relate
Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.
This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd
For England's coast, again his fate prevail'd:
War raged, and he, an active man and strong,
Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.
By various shores he pass'd, on various seas,
Never so happy as when void of ease.-
And then he told how in a calm distress'd,
Day after day, his soul was sick of rest;
When, as a log upon the deep they stood,
Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;
Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas
Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the
trees:

He gazed, he pointed to the scenes :-"There stand
My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land;
See! there my dwelling-O! delicious scene

"Whilst I was poor," said Allen, "none would Of my best life-unhand me-are ye men?"

care

What my poor notions of religion were,

None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I pray'd,
If due obedience to the laws were paid:

And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind
Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind,
He told of bloody fights, and how at length
The rage of battle gave his spirit strength;

"Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,
And he was left half dead upon the coast;
But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men,
A fair subsistence by his ready pen.
"Thus," he continued, "pass'd unvaried years,
Without events producing hopes or fears.
Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,
But years advancing undermined his health;
Then oft-times in delightful dreams he flew
To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew:
He saw his parents, saw his favourite maid,
No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd;
And thus excited in his bosom rose

A wish so strong, it baffled his repose;
Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;
To view his native soil, and there to die.

He then described the gloom, the dread he
found,

When first he landed on the chosen ground,
Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd,
And how confused and troubled all appear'd;
His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd,
All views in future blighted and destroy'd;
His were a medley of bewildering themes,
Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.

Here his relation closes, but his mind
Flies back again some resting place to find;
Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees
His children sporting by those lofty trees,
Their mother singing in the shady scene,

TALE III.

THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

Pause then,

And weigh thy value with an even hand;
If thou beest rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough.

Merchant of Venice, act ii. sc. 7.

Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is, (for which I may go the finer,) I will live a bachelor. Much Ado about Nothing, act i. sc. 3. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.

Macbeth, act v. sc. 3.

His promises are, as he then was, mighty,
And his performance, as he now is, nothing.
Henry VIII. act iv. sc. 2.

GWYN was a farmer, whom the farmers all,
Who dwelt around, the Gentleman would call ;
Whether in pure humility or pride,

They only knew, and they would not decide.

Far different he from that dull plodding tribe,
Whom it was his amusement to describe;
Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod,
But treading still as their dull fathers trod;
Who lived in times when not a man had seen
Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine:
He was of those whose skill assigns the prize

Where the fresh springs burst o'er the lively For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;

green;

So strong his eager fancy, he affrights

The faithful widow by its powerful flights;

For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,

And cry-" "Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!

And who, in places where improvers meet,
To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;
Who in large mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms but as amusing things;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,

Where are my children?"-Judith grieves to hear | And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.

How the soul works in sorrows so severe;
Assiduous all his wishes to attend,

Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;
Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes
Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.
"Tis now her office; her attention see!
While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,
Careful she guards him from the glowing heat,
And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.

Two are the species in this genus known;
One, who is rich in his profession grown,
Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,
From fortune's favours and a favouring lease;
Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns ;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns;
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can-
This is the farmer made the gentleman.

The second species from the world is sent,

And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content;

Scenes

Of his best days, amid the vivid greens,
Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where every gale
Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring vale;
Smiles not his wife, and listen's as there comes
The night-bird's music from the thickening glooms?
And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,
Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly,

In books and men beyond the former read,
To farming solely by a passion led,
Or by a fashion: curious in his land;
Now planning much, now changing what he

plann'd ;

Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd,
And ever certain to succeed the next;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade-

When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? This is the gentleman, a farmer made.

This is the joy that now so plainly speaks
In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;
For he is listening to the fancied noise
Of his own children, eager in their joys:
All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss
Gives the expression, and the glow like this.
And now his Judith lays her knitting by,
These strong emotions in her friend to spy;
For she can fully of their nature deem-

But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,
And wakes and cries-" My God! 'twas but
dream."

Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew
Early in life, his reasons known to few;
Some disappointment said, some pure good sense,
The love of land, the press of indolence;
His fortune known, and coming to retire,
If not a farmer, men had call'd him 'squire
Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross'd the still tenor of his chosen life;
Much land he purchased, planted far around,
And let some portions of superfluous ground

a To farmers near him, not displeased to say,
'My tenants," nor “our worthy landlord," they.

Whose turn they take, whose purpose they im- Such forms men suffer, and from these they date

Creeds to reject, pretensions to deride,
And, following thee, to follow none beside."
Such was the speech; it struck upon the ear
Like sudden thunder, none expect to hear.
He saw men's wonder with a manly pride,
And gravely smiled at guest electrified:
"A farmer this!" they said; "O! let him seek
That place where he may for his country speak;
On some great question to harangue for hours,
While speakers hearing, envy nobler powers!"

Wisdom like this, as all things rich and rare,
Must be acquired with pains, and kept with care;
In books he sought it, which his friends might view,
When their kind host the guarding curtain drew.
There were historic works for graver hours,
And lighter verse, to spur the languid powers;
There metaphysics, logic there had place;
But of devotion not a single trace-
Save what is taught in Gibbon's florid page,
And other guides of this inquiring age;
There Hume appear'd, and near, a splendid book
Composed by Gay's good lord of Bolingbroke:
With these were mix'd the light, the free, the vain,
And from a corner peep'd the sage Tom Paine :
Here four neat volumes Chesterfield were named,
For manners much and easy morals famed ;
With chaste Memoirs of Females, to be read
When deeper studies had confused the head.

Such his resources, treasures where he sought
For daily knowledge till his mind was fraught:
Then when his friends were present, for their use
He would the riches he had stored produce;
He found his lamp burn clearer, when each day
He drew for all he purposed to display:
For these occasions, forth his knowledge sprung,
As mustard quickens on a bed of dung;
All was prepared, and guests allow'd the praise,
For what they saw he could so quickly raise.
Such this new friend; and when the year came
round,

The same impressive, reasoning sage was found;
Then, too, was seen the pleasant mansion graced
With a fair damsel-his no vulgar taste;
The neat Rebecca-sly, observant, still,
Watching his eye, and waiting on his will;
Simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek,
Her smiles spoke for her, she would seldom speak;
But watch'd each look, each meaning to detect,
And (pleased with notice) felt for all neglect.

With her lived Gwyn a sweet harmonious life,
Who, forms excepted, was a charming wife:
The wives indeed, so made by vulgar law,
Affected scorn, and censured what they saw;
And what they saw not, fancied; said 'twas sin,
And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn:
But he despised their rudeness, and would prove
Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love;
Fools as they were! could they conceive that
rings

And parsons' blessings were substantial things?"
They answered "Yes;" while he contemptuous
spoke

Of the low notions held by simple folk;
Yet, strange that anger in a man so wise
Should from the notions of these fools arise;
Can they so vex us, whom we so despise ?
Brave as he was, our hero felt a dread

If to his bosom fear a visit paid,

It was,
Hence sprang his orders; not that he desired
The things when done; obedience he required;
And thus, to prove his absolute command,
Ruled every heart, and moved each subject hand,
Assent he ask'd for every word and whim,
To prove that he alone was king of him.

lest he should be supposed afraid;

The still Rebecca, who her station knew,
With ease resign'd the honours not her due ;
Well pleased, she saw that men her board would

grace,

And wish'd not there to see a female face;
When by her lover she his spouse was styled,
Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled;
But when he wanted wives and maidens round
So to regard her, she grew grave and frown'd:
And sometimes whisper'd, "Why should you respect
These people's notions, yet their forms reject?"

Gwyn, though from marriage bond and fetter free,
Still felt abridgement in his liberty;
Something of hesitation he betray'd,
And in her presence thought of what he said.
Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk'd astray,
His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray;
To be at church, to sit with serious looks,
To read her Bible and her Sunday books:
She hated all those new and daring themes,
And call'd his free conjectures, "devil's dreams :"
She honour'd still the priesthood in her fall,
And claim'd respect and reverence for them all ;
Call'd them "of sin's destructive power the foes,
And not such blockheads as he might suppose."
Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes say
"Tis a kind fool, why vex her in her way?"
Her way she took, and still had more in view,
For she contrived that he should take it too.
The daring freedom of his soul, 'twas plain,
In part was lost in a divided reign;

A king and queen, who yet in prudence swayed
Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey'd.

Yet such our fate, that when we plan the best,
Something arises to disturb our rest:
For though in spirits high, in body strong,
Gwyn something felt-he knew not what-

wrong;

He wish'd to know, for he believed the thing,
If unremoved, would other evil bring:

She must perceive, of late he could not eat,
And when he walked, he trembled on his feet;
He had forebodings, and he seem'd as one
Stopp'd on the road, or threaten'd by a dun;
He could not live, and yet, should he apply
To those physicians-he must sooner die."

The mild Rebecca heard with some disdain,
And some distress, her friend and lord complain:
His death she fear'd not, but had painful doubt
What his distemper'd nerves might bring about;
With power like hers she dreaded an ally,
And yet there was a person in her eye;—
She thought, debated, fix'd; "Alas!" she said,
"A case like yours must be no more delay'd:
You hate these doctors, well! but were a friend
And doctor one, your fears would have an end:
My cousin Mollet-Scotland holds him now-
Is above all men skilful, all allow;
Of late a doctor, and within a while

Lest those who saw him kind should think him led; He means to settle in this favour'd isle ;