Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas Fair,
The sweetest flower that ever blossomed there,
When Phoebe Dawson gaily crossed the green,
In haste to see, and happy to be seen:
Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired;
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired;
The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed,
And ease of heart her every look conveyed;
A native skill her simple robes expressed,
As with untutored elegance she dressed:
The lads around admired so fair a sight,
And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight;
Admirers soon of every age she gained,
Her beauty won them and her worth retained;
Envy itself could no contempt display,
They wished her well, whom yet they wished away.
Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place,
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;
But yet on Sunday-eve in freedom's hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power,
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.—
At length, the youth, ordained to move her breast,
Before the swains with bolder spirit pressed;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners, most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young;
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue ;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
He served the Squire, and brushed the coat he made:
Yet now, would Phœbe her consent afford,
Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;
With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth :-she sighed, and looked consent.
Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross the green,
Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen,-
Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,
Led by the lover, walked the silent maid:
Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile
Toyed by each bank and trifled at each stile;
Where, as he painted every blissful view,
And highly coloured what he strongly drew,
The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears,
Dimmed the false prospect with prophetic tears.-
Thus passed the allotted hours, till lingering late,
The lover loitered at the master's gate;
There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,
Till chidden-soothed-intreated-forced away;
He would of coldness, though indulged, complain
And oft retire and oft return again;
When, if his teasing vexed her gentle mind,
The grief assumed, compelled her to be kind!
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,
That she resented first and then forgave,
And to his grief and penance yielded more,
Than his presumption had required before.-
Oh! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain,
Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!
Lo! now with red rent cloak, and bonnet black,
And torn green gown loose hanging at her back,
One who an infant in her arms sustains,
And seems in patience striving with her pains;
Pinched are her looks, as one who pines for bread,
Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled;
Pale her parched lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again ;-
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;
For not alone that infant in her arms,
But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.
With water burdened, then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till in mid green, she trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground;
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,
While hope the mind, as strength the frame, forsakes.
For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.
And now her path but not her peace she gains,
Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains;
Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the floor,
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits:
In vain they come, she feels the inflating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distressed,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repressed;
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies,
With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd the calls of Nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, nor allured by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid,
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.
But who this child of weakness, want, and care?
'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair;
Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes,
Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies:
The faithless flatterer soon his vows forgot,
A captious tyrant or a noisy sot;
If present, railing, till he saw her pained;
If absent, spending what their labours gained;
Till that fair form in want and sickness pined,
And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.
At first was vengeance; but I long pursued
The pair, and I at last their misery viewed
In that vile garret, which I cannot paint.—
The sight was loathsome, and the smell was faint;
And there that wife,-whom I had loved so well,
And thought so happy, was condemned to dwell;
The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad
To see in dress beyond our station clad,
And to behold among our neighbours fine,
More than perhaps became a wife of mine;
And now among her neighbours to explore,
And see her poorest of the very poor!-
I would describe it, but I bore a part,
Nor can explain the feelings of my heart;
Yet
memory since has aided me to trace
The horrid features of that dismal place.
There she reclined unmoved, her bosom bare
To her companion's unimpassioned stare,
And my wild wonder!-Seat of virtue! chaste
As lovely once! O how wert thou disgraced!
Upon that breast, by sordid rags defiled,
Lay the wan features of a famished child ;-
That sin-born babe in utter misery laid,
Too feebly wretched e'en to cry for aid;
The ragged sheeting o'er her person drawn,
Served for the dress that hunger placed in pawn.
At the bed's feet the man reclined his frame:
Their chairs were perished to support the flame
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