She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth and plae'd him in a chair:
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
Wien in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people---death has made them dear.
He nam'd his Friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd." Thou must go to rest;"
I go,' he said, but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound;
Then gaz'd affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!
5he plac'd a decent Stone his Grave above,
Neatly engrav'd---an offering of her Love;
For that she wronght, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to Duty and the Dead;
She would have griev'd, had friends presum'd to spare
The least assistance---'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if Observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seen, for she would not be found
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet Maid; nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials: thine are hard,
But short the time and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the Dead, but to the Living, live.
ERE Avarice first, the keen desire of Gain,
Rules in each Heart and works in every Brain; Alike the Veteran-Dames and Virgins feel,
Nor care what Grey-beards or what Striplings deal;
Sex, Age, and Station, vanish from their view,
And gold, their sov'reign Good, the mingled Crowd pursue.
Hence they are jealous, and as Rivals, keep
A watchful Eye on the beloved Heap;
Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still,
And mild Good-humour strives with strong Ill-will:
Till Prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,
They make their Grief, by their Suspicions known,
"Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,
"He'd rave to see you throw your Cards away;
"Not that I care a button---not a pin
"For what I lose; but we had Cards to win :
"A Saint in Heaven would grieve to see such Hand
"Cut up by one who will not understand."
Complain of me! and so you might indeed,
• If I had ventur'd on that foolish Lead,
That fatal Heart---but I forgot your Play---
Some Folk have ever thrown their Hearts away.'
"Yes, and their Diamonds: I have heard of one "Who made a Beggar of an only Son."
Better a Beggar, than to see him tied
To Art and Spite, to Insolence and Pride.'
"Sir, were I you, I'd strive to be polite,
Against my nature, for a single Night."
Against their Nature they might show their Skill
With small Success, who're Maids against their will,'
Is this too much? alas! my bashful Muse Cannot with half their Virulence abuse. And hark! at other tables discord reigns, With feign'd contempt for Losses and for Gains; Passions awhile are bridled; then they rage, In waspish Youth, and in resentful Age; With scraps of Insult---" Sir, when next you play, "Reflect whose Money 'tis you throw away. "No one on Earth can less such things regard, "But when one's Partner doesn't know a Card
I scorn Suspicion, Ma'am, but while you stand Behind that Lady, pray keep down your hand.'
• Good Heav'n, revoke! remember, if the Set 'Be lost, in honour you should pay the Debt."`
"There, there's your Money; but while I have life, "I'll never more sit down with Man and Wife;
They snap and snari indeed, but in the heat "Of all their Spleen, their Understandings meet; "They are Free-Masons, and have many a Sign, "That we, poor devils! never can divine:
May it be told, do ye divide the Amount, "Or goes it all to Family Account?"
E it agreed-the Poor who hither come,
Partake of Plenty, seldom found at home;
That airy Rooms and decent Beds are meant,
To give the Poor by day, by night, Content;
That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,
By the stern looks of lordly Overseer:
Grant that the Guardians of the Place attend,
And ready ear to each Petition lend;
That they desire the grieving poor to show
What ills they feel, what partial Acfs they know,
Not without promise, nay desire to heal
Each Wrong they suffer, and each Woe they feel.
Alas! their Sorrows in their Bosoms dwell,
They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;
They have no Evil in the Place to state,
And dare not say, it is the House they bate:
They own there's granted all such Place can give,
But live repining, for 'tis there they live.
Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,
No more must nurse upon the trembling knee
The lost-lov'd Daughter's infant Progeny :
Like Death's dread Mansion, this allows not place
For joyful Meetings of a kindred Race.
Is not the Matron there, to whom the Son
Was wont at each declining day to run;
He (when his toil was over) gave delight,
By lifting up the latch, and one "Good Night?"
Yes, she is here, but nightly to her door
The Son, still labouring, can return no more.
Widows are here, who in their Huts were left,
Of Husbands, Children, Plenty, Ease bereft;
Yet all that Grief within the humble Shed
Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble Bed :
But here, in all its force, remains the Grief,
And not one soft'ning object for relief.
Who can when here, the social Neighbour meet?
Who learn the Story current in the Street?
Who to the long-known Intimate impart
Facts they have learn'd or Feelings of the Heart?---
They talk indeed, but who can choose a Friend,
Or seek Companions at their journey's end?
Here are not those whom they, when Infants, knew;
Who, with like Fortune, up to Manhood grew;
Who, with like Troubles, at old Age arriv'd;
Who, like themselves, the Joy of Life surviv'd;
Whom Time and Custom so familiar made,
That Looks the Meaning in the Mind convey'd :
But here to Strangers, Words nor Looks impart
The various Movements of the suffering Heart;
Nor will that Heart with those Alliance own,
To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.
What, if no grievous Fears their Lives annoy,
Is it not worse no Prospects to enjoy ?
'Tis cheerless living in such bounded View,
With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;
Nothing to bring them Joy, to make them weep,-
The Day itself is, like the Night, asleep:
Or on the sameness, if a break be made,
'Tis by some Pauper to his Grave convey'd ;.
By smuggled News, from neighb'ring Village told,
News never true, or Truth a twelvemonth old;
By some new Inmate doom'd with them to dwell,
Or Justice come to see that all goes well;
Or change of Room, cr hour of Leave to crawl
On the black Foot-way winding with the Wall,
Till the stern Bell forbids, or Master's sterner call.
Here too the Mother sees her Children train'd,
Her Voice excluded and her feelings pain'd:
Who govern here, by general Rules must move,
Where ruthless Custom rends the Boud of Love.
Nations we know have Nature's Law transgress'd,
And snatch'd the infant from the Parent's breast;
VOL. LII,
3 A
But still for public good the Boy was train'd,
The Mother suffer'd, but the Matron gain'd:
Here Nature's outrage serves no cause to aid,
The Ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.
Then too I own it grieves me to behold
Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,
By all for Care and Industry approv'd,
For truth respected and for temper lov'd;
And who by sickness and misfortune try'd,
Gave Want its worth and Poverty its pride:
I own it grieves me to behold them sent
From their old Home; 'tis Pain, 'tis Punishment,
To leave each scene familiar, every Face,
For a new People and a stranger Race;
For those who, sunk in Sloth and dead to Shame,
From Scenes of Guilt with daring Spirits came;
Men, just and guileless, at such Manners start,
And bless their God that Time has fenc'd their Heart,
Confirm'd their Virtue, and expell'd the Fear
Of Vice in Minds so simple and sincere.
Here the good Pauper, losing all the Praise
By worthy Deeds acquir'd in better days,
Breathes a few Months, then to his Chamber led,
Expires, while Strangers prattle round his Bed.
The grateful Hunter, when his Horse is old,
Wills not the useless Favourite to be sold;
He knows his former Worth, and gives him place
In some fair Pasture, till he's run his Race:
But has the Labourer, has the Seaman done
Less worthy Service, though not dealt to one?
Shall we not then contribute to their Ease,
In their old Haunts where ancient Objects please?
That, till their Sight shall fail them, they may trace
The well-known Prospect and the long lov'd Face.
The Oak, in distant Ages seen,
With far-stretch'd Boughs and Foliage fresh and green,
Though now its bare and forky Branches show
How much it lacks the vital Warmth below,
The stately Ruin yet our Wonder gains,
Nay, moves our Pity, without thought of Pains:
Much more shall real Wants and Cares of Age
Our gentler passions in their cause engage;-
Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of Years,
What venerable ruin Man appears!
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