TALE II.THE PARTING HOUR.
THE PARTING HOUR.
I did not take my leave of him, but hadMost pretty things to say: ere I could tell himHow I would think of him, at certain hours,Such thoughts and such [...................] or ere I couldGive him that parting kiss, which I had setBetwixt two charming words—comes in my father—Cymbeline, Act I. Scene 3.Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,And careful hours with Time’s deformèd handHave written strange defeatures [in] my face.Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.Oh! if thou be the same [Ægeon], speak,And speak unto the same [Æmilia].Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.I ran it through, ev’n from my boyish daysTo the very moment that [he bade] me tell it,Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents, by flood, and field;Of being taken by [the] insolent foeAnd sold to slavery.Othello, Act I. Scene 3.An old man, broken with the storms of [state],Is come to lay his weary bones among [ye];Give him a little earth for charity.Henry VIII.Act IV. Scene 2.
I did not take my leave of him, but hadMost pretty things to say: ere I could tell himHow I would think of him, at certain hours,Such thoughts and such [...................] or ere I couldGive him that parting kiss, which I had setBetwixt two charming words—comes in my father—Cymbeline, Act I. Scene 3.Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,And careful hours with Time’s deformèd handHave written strange defeatures [in] my face.Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.Oh! if thou be the same [Ægeon], speak,And speak unto the same [Æmilia].Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.I ran it through, ev’n from my boyish daysTo the very moment that [he bade] me tell it,Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents, by flood, and field;Of being taken by [the] insolent foeAnd sold to slavery.Othello, Act I. Scene 3.An old man, broken with the storms of [state],Is come to lay his weary bones among [ye];Give him a little earth for charity.Henry VIII.Act IV. Scene 2.
I did not take my leave of him, but hadMost pretty things to say: ere I could tell himHow I would think of him, at certain hours,Such thoughts and such [...................] or ere I couldGive him that parting kiss, which I had setBetwixt two charming words—comes in my father—Cymbeline, Act I. Scene 3.
Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,And careful hours with Time’s deformèd handHave written strange defeatures [in] my face.Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.
Oh! if thou be the same [Ægeon], speak,And speak unto the same [Æmilia].Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.
I ran it through, ev’n from my boyish daysTo the very moment that [he bade] me tell it,Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents, by flood, and field;Of being taken by [the] insolent foeAnd sold to slavery.Othello, Act I. Scene 3.
An old man, broken with the storms of [state],Is come to lay his weary bones among [ye];Give him a little earth for charity.Henry VIII.Act IV. Scene 2.
TALE II.
THE PARTING HOUR.
Minutely trace man’s life; year after year,Through all his days let all his deeds appear,And then, though some may in that life be strange,Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change;The links that bind those various deeds are seen,And no mysterious void is left between.But let these binding links be all destroy’d,All that through years he suffer’d or enjoy’d;Let that vast gap be made, and then behold—This was the youth, and he is thus when old;10Then we at once the work of Time survey,And in an instant see a life’s decay:Pain[s] mix’d with pity in our bosoms rise,And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair— }A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,}Watching his looks with kind and pensive air; }No wife, nor sister she, nor is the nameNor kindred of this friendly pair the same;Yet so allied are they, that few can feel20Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal,Their years and woes, although they long have loved,Keep their good name and conduct unreproved;Thus life’s small comforts they together share,And while life lingers for the grave prepare.No other subjects on their spirits press,Nor gain such int’rest as the past distress;Grievous events that from the mem’ry driveLife’s common cares, and those alone survive,Mix with each thought, in every action share,30Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,Allen his name, was more than common joy;And as the child grew up, there seem’d in himA more than common life in every limb;A strong and handsome stripling he became,And the gay spirit answer’d to the frame;A lighter, happier lad was never seen,For ever easy, cheerful, or serene;His early love he fix’d upon a fair40And gentle maid—they were a handsome pair.They at an infant-school together play’d,Where the foundation of their love was laid;The boyish champion would his choice attendIn every sport, in every fray defend.As prospects open’d and as life advanced,They walk’d together, they together danced;On all occasions, from their early years,They mix’d their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;Each heart was anxious, till it could impart50Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;As years increased, unnumber’d petty warsBroke out between them; jealousies and jars;Causeless indeed, and follow’d by a peace,That gave to love—growth, vigour, and increase.Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,Domestic thoughts young Allen’s hours employ’d;Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,Rather intent the matron’s part to learn;Thus early prudent and sedate they grew,60While lovers, thoughtful—and, though children, true.To either parents not a day appear’d,When with this love they might have interfered:Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;And strong at last, they saw restriction vain;Nor knew they when that passion to reprove—Now idle fondness, now resistless love.So, while the waters rise, the children treadOn the broad estuary’s sandy bed;But soon the channel fills, from side to side70Comes danger rolling with the deep’ning tide;Yet none who saw the rapid current flowCould the first instant of that danger know.The lovers waited till the time should comeWhen they together could possess a home:In either house were men and maids unwed,Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.Then Allen’s mother of his favourite maidSpoke from the feelings of a mind afraid:“Dress and amusements were her sole employ,”80She said—“entangling her deluded boy;”And yet, in truth, a mother’s jealous loveHad much imagined and could little prove;Judith had beauty—and, if vain, was kind,Discreet, and mild, and had a serious mind.Dull was their prospect—when the lovers met,They said, we must not—dare not venture yet:“Oh! could I labour for thee,” Allen cried,“Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied?On my own arm I could depend, but they}90Still urge obedience—must I yet obey?”}Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg’d delay. }At length a prospect came that seem’d to smile,And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle.A kinsman there a widow’s hand had gain’d,“Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain’d;Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.”The elder brothers, who were not in love,Fear’d the false seas, unwilling to remove;100But the young Allen, an enamour’d boy,Eager an independence to enjoy,Would through all perils seek it—by the sea—Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.The faithful Judith his design approved;For both were sanguine, they were young and loved.The mother’s slow consent was then obtain’d;The time arrived, to part alone remain’d.All things prepared, on the expected dayWas seen the vessel anchor’d in the bay.110From her would seamen in the evening come,To take th’ advent’rous Allen from his home;With his own friends the final day he pass’d,And every painful hour, except the last.The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,To make the moments with less sorrow pass;Intent the mother look’d upon her son,And wish’d th’ assent withdrawn, the deed undone;The younger sister, as he took his way,Hung on his coat, and begg’d for more delay:120But his own Judith call’d him to the shore,Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more;—And there he found her—faithful, mournful, true,Weeping and waiting for a last adieu!The ebbing tide had left the sand, and thereMoved with slow steps the melancholy pair:Sweet were the painful moments—but how sweet,And without pain, when they again should meet!Now either spoke, as hope and fear impress’dEach their alternate triumph in the breast.130Distance alarm’d the maid—she cried, “’Tis far!”And danger too—“it is a time of war.Then, in those countries are diseases strange,And women gay, and men are prone to change;What, then, may happen in a year, when thingsOf vast importance every moment brings!But hark! an oar!” she cried, yet none appear’d—’Twas love’s mistake, who fancied what it fear’d;And she continued—“Do, my Allen, keepThy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;140Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail,And stand in safety where so many fail;And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;Can I believehislove will lasting prove,Who has no rev’rence for the God I love?I know thee well! how good thou art and kind;But strong the passions that invade thy mind.—Now, what to me hath Allen to commend?”—“Upon my mother,” said the youth, “attend;150Forget 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 dwellOn 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;160When with our youthful neighbours ’tis thy chanceTo 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 replyHave 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;170For, see!—his friends come hast’ning to the beach,And now the gunwale is within the reach;“Adieu!—farewell!—remember!”—and what moreAffection 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.180They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,And Judith’s hours in pensive pleasure fled.But when return’d the youth?—the youth no moreReturn’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,}Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. }In an autumnal eve he left the beach,191In such an eve he chanced the port to reach.He was alone; he press’d the very placeOf 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 mindTurn’d mournful back, half sinking, half resign’d.No one was present; of its crew bereft,A single boat was in the billows left;200Sent 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 townA drowsy peal of distant bells came down;From the tall houses here and there, a lightServed some confused remembrance to excite:“There,” he observed, and new emotions felt,“Was my first home—and yonder Judith dwelt;210Dead! 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 noiseOf merry tumult and of vulgar joys:Seamen returning to their ship, were come,With idle numbers straying from their home;Allen among them mix’d, and in the oldStrove some familiar features to behold;While fancy aided memory;—“Man! what cheer?”A sailor cried; “Art thou at anchor here?”220Faintly he answer’d, and then tried to traceSome youthful features in some aged face;A swarthy matron he beheld, and thoughtShe might unfold the very truths he sought;Confused and trembling, he the dame address’d:“The Booths! yet live they?” pausing and oppress’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;230Yet wond’ring stood, and all were silent by,Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.The woman musing said—“She knew full wellWhere 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 intentOn days long past, “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;240She 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?”The woman answer’d: “I remember now,She used to tell the lasses of her vow,And of her lover’s loss, and I have seenThe gayest hearts grow sad where she has been;Yet in her grief she married, and was madeSlave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey’d250And early buried—but I know no more.And hark! our friends are hast’ning to the shore.”Allen soon found a lodging in the town,And walk’d, a man unnoticed, up and down.This house, and this, he knew, and thought a faceHe 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?260Or lived his son? for one he had, the heirTo 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 foundWith 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;270We cannot all succeed; I now commandThe Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;But when we meet, you shall your story tellOf 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, castA pitying look, oft speaking as they pass’d:—“The man is Allen Booth, and it appearsHe dwelt among us in his early years;280We 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 cameSome strong emotions at the well-known name;He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay’dTen troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;290Then was she wedded, of his death assured,And much of mis’ry in her lot endured;Her husband died; her children sought their breadIn 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 friendBoth now beheld, on whom they might depend:“Now is there one to whom I can expressMy nature’s weakness and my soul’s distress.”300Allen 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 removedThe 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;310And yet his sorrow she too loves to hearWhat 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 foundHimself a slave upon a miner’s ground:320There 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 dayHe saw his happy infants round him play;Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,Waved o’er his seat, and soothed his reveries;330E’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 viewsOf 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 foundAn English heresy on Christian ground.”340“Whilst I was poor,” said Allen, “none would careWhat 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:My good adviser taught me to be still,Nor to make converts had I power or will.I preached 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;350Their forms I follow’d, whether well or sick,And was a most obedient Catholic.But I had money, and these pastors foundMy notions vague, heretical, unsound:A wicked book they seized; the very TurkCould not have read a more pernicious work;To me pernicious, who if it were goodOr evil question’d not, nor understood:Oh! had I little but the book possess’d,I might have read it, and enjoy’d my rest.”360Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seenCrimes that by poverty conceal’d had been:Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknownAre 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,}370All 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, amongSome lab’ring seamen, heard his native tongue.The sound, one moment, broke upon his painWith 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 cry’d, “and in what county? quickly say!”—380The 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 relateAught of his will, his wish, or his estate.This grieved not Allen; then again he sail’d390For 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 seas400Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees.He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:—“There standMy wife, my children, ’tis my lovely land;See! there my dwelling—oh! delicious sceneOf my best life—unhand me—are ye men?”And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the windBrush’d the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.He told of bloody fights, and how at lengthThe rage of battle gave his spirits strength.’Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,410And 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 dream he flewTo England’s shore, and scenes his childhood knew:He saw his parents, saw his fav’rite maid,420No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay’d;And, thus excited, in his bosom roseA 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,430All views in future blighted and destroy’d:His were a medley of bewild’ring themes,Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.Here his relation closes, but his mindFlies back again, some resting-place to find;Thus silent, musing through the day, he seesHis children sporting by those lofty trees,Their mother singing in the shady scene,Where the fresh springs burst o’er the lively green;—So strong his eager fancy, he affrights440The faithful widow by its powerful flights;For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,And cry—“’Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!Where are my children?”—Judith grieves to hearHow 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 takesIts flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.’Tis now her office; her attention see!450While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,Careful she guards him from the glowing heat,And pensive muses at her Allen’s feet.And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenesOf his best days, amid the vivid greens,Fresh with unnumber’d rills, where ev’ry galeBreathes the rich fragrance of the neighb’ring vale;Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comesThe night-bird’s music from the thickening glooms?And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,}460Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly,}When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? }This is the joy that now so plainly speaksIn the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;For he is list’ning to the fancied noiseOf his own children, eager in their joys:All this he feels, a dream’s delusive blissGives the expression, and the glow like this.And now his Judith lays her knitting by,These strong emotions in her friend to spy;470For she can fully of their nature deem——}But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,}And wakes and cries—“My God! ’twas but a dream.” }
Minutely trace man’s life; year after year,Through all his days let all his deeds appear,And then, though some may in that life be strange,Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change;The links that bind those various deeds are seen,And no mysterious void is left between.But let these binding links be all destroy’d,All that through years he suffer’d or enjoy’d;Let that vast gap be made, and then behold—This was the youth, and he is thus when old;10Then we at once the work of Time survey,And in an instant see a life’s decay:Pain[s] mix’d with pity in our bosoms rise,And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair— }A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,}Watching his looks with kind and pensive air; }No wife, nor sister she, nor is the nameNor kindred of this friendly pair the same;Yet so allied are they, that few can feel20Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal,Their years and woes, although they long have loved,Keep their good name and conduct unreproved;Thus life’s small comforts they together share,And while life lingers for the grave prepare.No other subjects on their spirits press,Nor gain such int’rest as the past distress;Grievous events that from the mem’ry driveLife’s common cares, and those alone survive,Mix with each thought, in every action share,30Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,Allen his name, was more than common joy;And as the child grew up, there seem’d in himA more than common life in every limb;A strong and handsome stripling he became,And the gay spirit answer’d to the frame;A lighter, happier lad was never seen,For ever easy, cheerful, or serene;His early love he fix’d upon a fair40And gentle maid—they were a handsome pair.They at an infant-school together play’d,Where the foundation of their love was laid;The boyish champion would his choice attendIn every sport, in every fray defend.As prospects open’d and as life advanced,They walk’d together, they together danced;On all occasions, from their early years,They mix’d their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;Each heart was anxious, till it could impart50Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;As years increased, unnumber’d petty warsBroke out between them; jealousies and jars;Causeless indeed, and follow’d by a peace,That gave to love—growth, vigour, and increase.Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,Domestic thoughts young Allen’s hours employ’d;Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,Rather intent the matron’s part to learn;Thus early prudent and sedate they grew,60While lovers, thoughtful—and, though children, true.To either parents not a day appear’d,When with this love they might have interfered:Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;And strong at last, they saw restriction vain;Nor knew they when that passion to reprove—Now idle fondness, now resistless love.So, while the waters rise, the children treadOn the broad estuary’s sandy bed;But soon the channel fills, from side to side70Comes danger rolling with the deep’ning tide;Yet none who saw the rapid current flowCould the first instant of that danger know.The lovers waited till the time should comeWhen they together could possess a home:In either house were men and maids unwed,Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.Then Allen’s mother of his favourite maidSpoke from the feelings of a mind afraid:“Dress and amusements were her sole employ,”80She said—“entangling her deluded boy;”And yet, in truth, a mother’s jealous loveHad much imagined and could little prove;Judith had beauty—and, if vain, was kind,Discreet, and mild, and had a serious mind.Dull was their prospect—when the lovers met,They said, we must not—dare not venture yet:“Oh! could I labour for thee,” Allen cried,“Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied?On my own arm I could depend, but they}90Still urge obedience—must I yet obey?”}Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg’d delay. }At length a prospect came that seem’d to smile,And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle.A kinsman there a widow’s hand had gain’d,“Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain’d;Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.”The elder brothers, who were not in love,Fear’d the false seas, unwilling to remove;100But the young Allen, an enamour’d boy,Eager an independence to enjoy,Would through all perils seek it—by the sea—Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.The faithful Judith his design approved;For both were sanguine, they were young and loved.The mother’s slow consent was then obtain’d;The time arrived, to part alone remain’d.All things prepared, on the expected dayWas seen the vessel anchor’d in the bay.110From her would seamen in the evening come,To take th’ advent’rous Allen from his home;With his own friends the final day he pass’d,And every painful hour, except the last.The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,To make the moments with less sorrow pass;Intent the mother look’d upon her son,And wish’d th’ assent withdrawn, the deed undone;The younger sister, as he took his way,Hung on his coat, and begg’d for more delay:120But his own Judith call’d him to the shore,Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more;—And there he found her—faithful, mournful, true,Weeping and waiting for a last adieu!The ebbing tide had left the sand, and thereMoved with slow steps the melancholy pair:Sweet were the painful moments—but how sweet,And without pain, when they again should meet!Now either spoke, as hope and fear impress’dEach their alternate triumph in the breast.130Distance alarm’d the maid—she cried, “’Tis far!”And danger too—“it is a time of war.Then, in those countries are diseases strange,And women gay, and men are prone to change;What, then, may happen in a year, when thingsOf vast importance every moment brings!But hark! an oar!” she cried, yet none appear’d—’Twas love’s mistake, who fancied what it fear’d;And she continued—“Do, my Allen, keepThy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;140Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail,And stand in safety where so many fail;And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;Can I believehislove will lasting prove,Who has no rev’rence for the God I love?I know thee well! how good thou art and kind;But strong the passions that invade thy mind.—Now, what to me hath Allen to commend?”—“Upon my mother,” said the youth, “attend;150Forget 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 dwellOn 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;160When with our youthful neighbours ’tis thy chanceTo 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 replyHave 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;170For, see!—his friends come hast’ning to the beach,And now the gunwale is within the reach;“Adieu!—farewell!—remember!”—and what moreAffection 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.180They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,And Judith’s hours in pensive pleasure fled.But when return’d the youth?—the youth no moreReturn’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,}Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. }In an autumnal eve he left the beach,191In such an eve he chanced the port to reach.He was alone; he press’d the very placeOf 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 mindTurn’d mournful back, half sinking, half resign’d.No one was present; of its crew bereft,A single boat was in the billows left;200Sent 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 townA drowsy peal of distant bells came down;From the tall houses here and there, a lightServed some confused remembrance to excite:“There,” he observed, and new emotions felt,“Was my first home—and yonder Judith dwelt;210Dead! 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 noiseOf merry tumult and of vulgar joys:Seamen returning to their ship, were come,With idle numbers straying from their home;Allen among them mix’d, and in the oldStrove some familiar features to behold;While fancy aided memory;—“Man! what cheer?”A sailor cried; “Art thou at anchor here?”220Faintly he answer’d, and then tried to traceSome youthful features in some aged face;A swarthy matron he beheld, and thoughtShe might unfold the very truths he sought;Confused and trembling, he the dame address’d:“The Booths! yet live they?” pausing and oppress’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;230Yet wond’ring stood, and all were silent by,Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.The woman musing said—“She knew full wellWhere 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 intentOn days long past, “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;240She 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?”The woman answer’d: “I remember now,She used to tell the lasses of her vow,And of her lover’s loss, and I have seenThe gayest hearts grow sad where she has been;Yet in her grief she married, and was madeSlave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey’d250And early buried—but I know no more.And hark! our friends are hast’ning to the shore.”Allen soon found a lodging in the town,And walk’d, a man unnoticed, up and down.This house, and this, he knew, and thought a faceHe 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?260Or lived his son? for one he had, the heirTo 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 foundWith 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;270We cannot all succeed; I now commandThe Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;But when we meet, you shall your story tellOf 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, castA pitying look, oft speaking as they pass’d:—“The man is Allen Booth, and it appearsHe dwelt among us in his early years;280We 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 cameSome strong emotions at the well-known name;He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay’dTen troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;290Then was she wedded, of his death assured,And much of mis’ry in her lot endured;Her husband died; her children sought their breadIn 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 friendBoth now beheld, on whom they might depend:“Now is there one to whom I can expressMy nature’s weakness and my soul’s distress.”300Allen 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 removedThe 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;310And yet his sorrow she too loves to hearWhat 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 foundHimself a slave upon a miner’s ground:320There 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 dayHe saw his happy infants round him play;Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,Waved o’er his seat, and soothed his reveries;330E’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 viewsOf 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 foundAn English heresy on Christian ground.”340“Whilst I was poor,” said Allen, “none would careWhat 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:My good adviser taught me to be still,Nor to make converts had I power or will.I preached 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;350Their forms I follow’d, whether well or sick,And was a most obedient Catholic.But I had money, and these pastors foundMy notions vague, heretical, unsound:A wicked book they seized; the very TurkCould not have read a more pernicious work;To me pernicious, who if it were goodOr evil question’d not, nor understood:Oh! had I little but the book possess’d,I might have read it, and enjoy’d my rest.”360Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seenCrimes that by poverty conceal’d had been:Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknownAre 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,}370All 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, amongSome lab’ring seamen, heard his native tongue.The sound, one moment, broke upon his painWith 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 cry’d, “and in what county? quickly say!”—380The 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 relateAught of his will, his wish, or his estate.This grieved not Allen; then again he sail’d390For 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 seas400Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees.He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:—“There standMy wife, my children, ’tis my lovely land;See! there my dwelling—oh! delicious sceneOf my best life—unhand me—are ye men?”And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the windBrush’d the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.He told of bloody fights, and how at lengthThe rage of battle gave his spirits strength.’Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,410And 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 dream he flewTo England’s shore, and scenes his childhood knew:He saw his parents, saw his fav’rite maid,420No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay’d;And, thus excited, in his bosom roseA 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,430All views in future blighted and destroy’d:His were a medley of bewild’ring themes,Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.Here his relation closes, but his mindFlies back again, some resting-place to find;Thus silent, musing through the day, he seesHis children sporting by those lofty trees,Their mother singing in the shady scene,Where the fresh springs burst o’er the lively green;—So strong his eager fancy, he affrights440The faithful widow by its powerful flights;For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,And cry—“’Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!Where are my children?”—Judith grieves to hearHow 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 takesIts flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.’Tis now her office; her attention see!450While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,Careful she guards him from the glowing heat,And pensive muses at her Allen’s feet.And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenesOf his best days, amid the vivid greens,Fresh with unnumber’d rills, where ev’ry galeBreathes the rich fragrance of the neighb’ring vale;Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comesThe night-bird’s music from the thickening glooms?And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,}460Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly,}When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? }This is the joy that now so plainly speaksIn the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;For he is list’ning to the fancied noiseOf his own children, eager in their joys:All this he feels, a dream’s delusive blissGives the expression, and the glow like this.And now his Judith lays her knitting by,These strong emotions in her friend to spy;470For she can fully of their nature deem——}But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,}And wakes and cries—“My God! ’twas but a dream.” }