[1814.]
[1814.]
[1814.]
Yes, I behold again the place,The seat of joy, the source of pain;It brings in view the form and faceThat I must never see again.The night-bird’s song that sweetly floatsOn this soft gloom—this balmy air,Brings to the mind her sweeter notesThat I again must never hear.Lo! yonder shines that window’s light,My guide, my token, heretofore;10And now again it shines as bright,When those dear eyes can shine no more.Then hurry from this place away!It gives not now the bliss it gave;For Death has made its charm his prey,And joy is buried in her grave.
Yes, I behold again the place,The seat of joy, the source of pain;It brings in view the form and faceThat I must never see again.The night-bird’s song that sweetly floatsOn this soft gloom—this balmy air,Brings to the mind her sweeter notesThat I again must never hear.Lo! yonder shines that window’s light,My guide, my token, heretofore;10And now again it shines as bright,When those dear eyes can shine no more.Then hurry from this place away!It gives not now the bliss it gave;For Death has made its charm his prey,And joy is buried in her grave.
Yes, I behold again the place,The seat of joy, the source of pain;It brings in view the form and faceThat I must never see again.
Yes, I behold again the place,
The seat of joy, the source of pain;
It brings in view the form and face
That I must never see again.
The night-bird’s song that sweetly floatsOn this soft gloom—this balmy air,Brings to the mind her sweeter notesThat I again must never hear.
The night-bird’s song that sweetly floats
On this soft gloom—this balmy air,
Brings to the mind her sweeter notes
That I again must never hear.
Lo! yonder shines that window’s light,My guide, my token, heretofore;10And now again it shines as bright,When those dear eyes can shine no more.
Lo! yonder shines that window’s light,
My guide, my token, heretofore;10
And now again it shines as bright,
When those dear eyes can shine no more.
Then hurry from this place away!It gives not now the bliss it gave;For Death has made its charm his prey,And joy is buried in her grave.
Then hurry from this place away!
It gives not now the bliss it gave;
For Death has made its charm his prey,
And joy is buried in her grave.
FLIRTATION.
A Dialogue.(May, 1816.)
A Dialogue.(May, 1816.)
A Dialogue.
(May, 1816.)
From her own room, in summer’s softest eve,SteptCeliaforth, herDeliato receive—Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared:C.War and the waves my fav’rite Youth have spared;Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,My Charles will come——Do give me joy, my dear!D.I give you joy, and so may he; but still,’Tis right to question, if ’tis sure he will;A sailor’s open honest heart we prize;But honest sailors have their ears and eyes.10C.Oh! but he surely will on me depend,Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.D.Be not secure; the very best have foes,}And facts they would not to the world expose;}And these he may be told, if he converse with those.}C.Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincereAnd naked truth—and what have I to fear?D.I speak in friendship; and I do confessIf I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind,20Would you to him present the naked mind?If it were clear as crystal, yet it checksOne’s joy to think that he may fancy specks;And now, in five long years, we scarcely knowHow the mind gets them, and how large they grow.Let woman be as rigid as a nun,She cannot censures and surmises shun.Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—Your father’s rooms were not like sisters’ cells;Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars,30But well-dress’d captains, and approving squires.C.What these to me, admit th’ account be true?D.Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!C.Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;Flintham, the young solicitor, that wroteThose pretty verses, he began to dote;That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stopA moment with him, at my feet would drop;Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake,40}I to my favour often used to take—}And was, vile world! my character at stake?}If such reports my Sailor’s ear should reach,What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach;If without cause ill-judging men suspect,What may not all these harmless Truths effect?And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,What must we fear if conscious we are frail?And well you know, my friend, nor fear t’ impart,The tender frailties of the yielding heart.50D.Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;I not your frailties, but your suffering, share.You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;But, pray, beware how you my name accuse!C.Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,To do what long the public voice has done.What misses, then at school, forget the fall}Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall?}That was a first exploit, and we were witness all;}And that sad night, upon my faithful breast,60We wept together, till we sank to rest.You own’d your love——D.A girl, a chit, a child!Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled?C.Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,And say how many there have had a part!Six I remember; and, if Fame be true,The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.D.A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,Do use some small discretion in such lies!A Serjeant, Celia?——C.Handsome, smart, and clean.70Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,That might excuse you, had you giv’n your hand—But this your father could not understand.D.Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,As if you’d not a secret of your own!Yet would you tremble, should your Sailor knowWhat I, or my small cabinet, could show:He might suspect a heart with many a wound,Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled,80}The feeling ceases, and the love is dead;}But sense exists, and passion serves instead.}C.Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!Is thus my confidential faith repaid?Is this the counsel that we two have held,When duty trembled, and desire rebell’d;The sister-vows we made, through many a night,To aid each other in the arduous fightWith the harsh-minded powers who never thinkWhat nature needs, nor will at weakness wink?90And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot,}The wish oft whisper’d, the imagined lot,}The secret Hymen, the sequester’d cot?}And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,And join the world in censure of your friend?Oh! ’tis not right! as all with scorn must see,Although the certain mischief falls on me.D.Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restoreAnd make our friendship perfect as before;Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn,100And yet we dearly love their faults and them?So our reproofs to tender minds are shown:We treat their wanderings as we treat our own;We are each other’s conscience, and we tellOur friend her fault, because we wish her well;We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,Their answers practise, and their powers essay.By means like these they guard against surprise,110And all the puzzling questions that may rise.“Guilty or not?†His lawyer thus address’dA wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest.â€â€”“Why, then, my friend, we’ve nothing here to say,But you’re in danger! prithee heed your way!Youknow your truth,Iwhere your error lies:From your ‘Notguilty’ will your danger rise.â€â€”“Oh! but Iam, and I have here the gainOf wicked craftâ€â€”“Then let ithereremain;For we must guard it by a sure defence,120And not professions of your innocence;For that’s the way, whatever you suppose,To slip your neck within the ready noose.â€Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise,Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies;It is confess’d, that not the good and pureAre in this world of calumny secure—And therefore never let a lass relyUpon her goodness and her chastity!Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth130Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth;Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame,She grows discreet, and well defends her fame,And thus, offending, better makes her way—As Joseph Surface argues in the play—Than when in virtue’s strength she proudly stood,So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try}His own dear damsel—questioning how and why—}Let her be ready, arm’d with prompt reply;140}No hesitation let the man discern,But answer boldly, then accuse in turn:Some trifling points with candid speech confess’d,You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,And with your anger keep his malice down;Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heartTo sue for pardon, when you come to part.But let him have it; let him go in peace,And all inquiries of themselves will cease;150To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,Have a few tearsin pettoat the last—But this with care! for ’tis a point of doubt,If you should end with weeping or without.’Tis true you much affect him by your pain,But he may want to prove his power again;And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes—A girl is never handsome when she cries.Take it for granted, in a general way,The more you weep for men, the more you may.160Save your resources; for, though now you cryWith good effect, you may not by and by.It is a knack; and there are those that weepWithout emotion, that a man may sleep;Others disgust—’tis genius, not advice,That will avail us in a thing so nice.If you should love him, you have greater needOf all your care, and may not then succeed.For that’s our bane—we should be conquerors allWith hearts untouch’d—our feelings cause our fall.170But your experience aids you: you can hideYour real weakness in your borrow’d pride.But to the point—should so the Charge be laid,That nought against it fairly can be said—How would you act? You would not then confess?—C.Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!To mute contempt I would alone resortFor the Reporters, and for their Report.If he profess’d forgiveness, I would cry—“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I!180Such errors pardon! he that so would actWould, I am sure, be guilty of the fact.Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,I would not longer in your walks be seen;Could you such woman for a moment prize?You might forgive her, but you must despise.â€D.Bravo, my girl! ’tis then our sex command,When we can seize the weapon in their hand;When we their charge so manage, that ’tis foundTo save the credit it was meant to wound.190Those who by reasons their acquittal seek,Make the whole sex contemptible and weak;This, too, observe—that men of sense in loveDupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove;For all that knowledge lent them as a guide,Goes off entirely to the lady’s side;Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more,And gains perception that he lack’d before.His honest passion blinds the man of sense.While want of feeling is the fool’s defence;200Arm’d with insensibility he comes;When more repell’d, he but the more assumes,And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit;For, where we cannot conquer, we submit.But come, my love! let us examine now,}These Charges all—say, what shall we avow,}Admit, deny; and which defend, and how?}That old affair between your friend and you,When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu,May be forgotten; yet we should prepare210For all events—and are you guarded there?C.Oh! ’tis long since—I might the whole deny—“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!Charles, if ’tis pleasant to abuse your friend,Let there be something that she may defend;This is too silly—â€D.Well you may appearWith so much spirit—not a witness near;Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain,You may assume the airs of high disdain.But, for my Brother—night and morn were you220Together found, th’ inseparable two,Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—In the beech-wood—within the quarry madeBy hands long dead—within the silent glade,Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flowsBy the grey willows as they stand in rows—Shall I proceed? there’s not a quiet spotIn all the parish where the pair were notOft watch’d, oft seen. You must not so despise230This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?C.“Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!A friend’s relation! Why, the man is wild—A boy not yet at college! Come, this provesSome truth in you! This is a freak of Love’s:I must forgive it, though I know not howA thing so very simple to allow.Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy,And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?But I remember Delia—yet, to give240A thought to this is folly, as I live—But I remember Delia made her prayerThat I would try and give the Boy an air;Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;And since the lad is grown to man’s estate,We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.â€D.Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,Our father’s will compelled you both to part.C.Nay, this is needless—D.Oh! when you are tried,250And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?Oh! that’s the vice of which I still complain:Men could not triumph were not women vain.But now proceed—sayboyhoodin this case(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,And all your friends, that here indeed was love.For three long months you met as lovers meet,And half the town has seen him at your feet;Then, on the evil day that saw you part,260Your ashy looks betray’d your aching heart.With this against you——C.This, my watchful friend,Confess I cannot, therefore must defend.“Shelley! dear Charles, how enter’d he your mind?Well may they say that jealousy is blind!Of all the men who talk’d with me of love,His were the offers I could least approve;My father’s choice—and, Charles, you must agree}That my good father seldom thinks with me—}Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea!}It was so odious—when that man was near,271My father never could himself appear;Had I received his fav’rite with a frown,Upon my word he would have knock’d me down.â€D.Well! grant you durst not frown—but people sayThat you were dying when he went away.Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;And how explain it?—C.Oh! I’ll soon explain.“I sicken’d, say you, when the man was gone—Could I be well, if sickness would come on?280Fact follows fact; but is ‘t of Nature’s lawsThat one of course must be the other’s cause?Just as her husband tried his fav’rite gun,My cousin brought him forth his first-born son—The birth might either flash or fright succeed,But neither, sure, were causes of the deed.That Shelley left us, it is very true—That sickness found me, I confess it too;But that the one was cause, and one effect,Is a conceit I utterly reject.290You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please,That disappointment will bring on disease;But, if it should, I would be glad to knowIf ’tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow?A heart may suffer, if a lady doat;But will she feel her anguish in the throat?I’ve heard of pangs that tender folks endure,But not that linctuses and blisters cure.â€â€”Your thoughts, my Delia?D.What I think of this?Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss.300But there are humours; and, by them possess’d,A lover will not hearken to a jest.Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair,We know your father was indignant there:He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should pressFor explanation, what would you confess?You cannot there on his commands presume;Besides, you fainted in a public room;There own’d your flame, and, like heroic maid,The sovereign impulse of your will obey’d.310What, to your thinking, was the world’s disdain?You could retort its insolence again.Your boundless passion boldly you avow’d,And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud;Associates, servants, friends, alike can proveThe world-defying force of Celia’s love.Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison herWhom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer?And then that frantic quarrel at the ball—It must be known, and he will hear it all.320Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time,How best to answer what he thinks a crime;For what he thinks might have but little weight,If you could answer—C.Then I’ll answer straight—Not without Truth; for who would vainly tellA wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well?Had I not Fever? is not that the baneOf human wisdom? was I not insane?“Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the dayWhen it pleased Fate to take my wits away?330How can I answer for a thousand thingsThat this disorder to the sufferer brings?Is it not known, the men whom you dislikeAre those who now the erring fancy strike?Nor would it much surprise me, if ’twere true,That in those days of dread I slighted you.When the poor mind, illumined by no sparkOf reason’s light, was wandering in the dark,You must not wonder, if the vilest trainOf evil thoughts were printed on the brain;340Nor, if the loyal and the faithful proveFalse to their king, and faithless to their love.â€â€”Your thoughts on this?D.With some you may succeedBy such bold strokes; but they must love indeed.C.Doubt you his passion?—D.But in five long yearsThe passion settles—then the reason clears.Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined,But by and by grows sober and refined,And peers for facts; but, if one can’t relyOn truth, one takes one’s chance—you can but try.350Yet once again I must attention askTo a new Charge, and then resign my task.I would not hurt you; but confess at leastThat you were partial to that handsome Priest;Say what they will of his religious mind,He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind.Now, with his reverence you were daily seen,When it was winter and the weather keen,Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong,And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along—360That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal,You were too faithful or too fond to feel,Shielded from inward and from outward harmBy the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm—The winter-garden you could both admire,And leave his sisters at the parlour fire;You trusted not your speech these dames among—Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue!Did not your father stop the pure delightOf this perambulating Love at night?370It is reported, that his craft contrivedTo get the Priest with expedition wived,And sent away; for fathers will suspectHer inward worth, whose ways are incorrect—Patience, my dear! your Loverwillappear;At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer?“I hear,†says he—and he will look as grimAs if he heard his lass accusing him—“I hear, my Celia, your alluring looksKept the young Curate from his holy books.380Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray;}But ’tis their duty—not the better they;}’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay—}Or, let the very best be understood,They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.Now, they do say—but let me not offend—}You were too often with this pious friend,}And spent your timeâ€â€”—}C.“As people ought to spend.}And, sir, if you of some divine would askAid in your doubts, it were a happy task.390But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’dBy the dark meaning of a threat’ning text;You rather censure her who spends her timeIn search of Truth, as if it were a crime!Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,To whom should I, in my distress, appeal?A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must,}When you will need a faithful Priest to trust,}In conscience tender, but in counsel just.}Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive,400And, if I could, would keep your Love alive;But there are things that our attention claim,More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!â€D.“But why in secret?†he will ask you—C.“Why?Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy,Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun;What one confesses should be heard by one.Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so longWith such companions, that you will be wrong.We fill our minds from those with whom we live,410And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive;But learn your peace and my good name to prize,And fears of fancy let us both despise!â€D.Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance—You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance.’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just;The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust—Will he himself appear, or will he send,Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend?We need not ask—behold! his servant comes:420His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes.Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you spaceTo arm your mind, and rectify your face.Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heartFeels all that his can dictate or impart.Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy taleConveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?It is his sister’s writing, but the sealIs red: he lives. What is it that you feel?C.Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat,430Or never trust him if we chance to meet—The fickle wretch! that from our presence fliesTo any flirt that any place supplies,And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here—“Married at Guernsey!!!â€â€”Oh! the Villain, dear!
From her own room, in summer’s softest eve,SteptCeliaforth, herDeliato receive—Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared:C.War and the waves my fav’rite Youth have spared;Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,My Charles will come——Do give me joy, my dear!D.I give you joy, and so may he; but still,’Tis right to question, if ’tis sure he will;A sailor’s open honest heart we prize;But honest sailors have their ears and eyes.10C.Oh! but he surely will on me depend,Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.D.Be not secure; the very best have foes,}And facts they would not to the world expose;}And these he may be told, if he converse with those.}C.Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincereAnd naked truth—and what have I to fear?D.I speak in friendship; and I do confessIf I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind,20Would you to him present the naked mind?If it were clear as crystal, yet it checksOne’s joy to think that he may fancy specks;And now, in five long years, we scarcely knowHow the mind gets them, and how large they grow.Let woman be as rigid as a nun,She cannot censures and surmises shun.Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—Your father’s rooms were not like sisters’ cells;Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars,30But well-dress’d captains, and approving squires.C.What these to me, admit th’ account be true?D.Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!C.Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;Flintham, the young solicitor, that wroteThose pretty verses, he began to dote;That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stopA moment with him, at my feet would drop;Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake,40}I to my favour often used to take—}And was, vile world! my character at stake?}If such reports my Sailor’s ear should reach,What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach;If without cause ill-judging men suspect,What may not all these harmless Truths effect?And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,What must we fear if conscious we are frail?And well you know, my friend, nor fear t’ impart,The tender frailties of the yielding heart.50D.Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;I not your frailties, but your suffering, share.You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;But, pray, beware how you my name accuse!C.Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,To do what long the public voice has done.What misses, then at school, forget the fall}Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall?}That was a first exploit, and we were witness all;}And that sad night, upon my faithful breast,60We wept together, till we sank to rest.You own’d your love——D.A girl, a chit, a child!Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled?C.Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,And say how many there have had a part!Six I remember; and, if Fame be true,The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.D.A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,Do use some small discretion in such lies!A Serjeant, Celia?——C.Handsome, smart, and clean.70Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,That might excuse you, had you giv’n your hand—But this your father could not understand.D.Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,As if you’d not a secret of your own!Yet would you tremble, should your Sailor knowWhat I, or my small cabinet, could show:He might suspect a heart with many a wound,Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled,80}The feeling ceases, and the love is dead;}But sense exists, and passion serves instead.}C.Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!Is thus my confidential faith repaid?Is this the counsel that we two have held,When duty trembled, and desire rebell’d;The sister-vows we made, through many a night,To aid each other in the arduous fightWith the harsh-minded powers who never thinkWhat nature needs, nor will at weakness wink?90And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot,}The wish oft whisper’d, the imagined lot,}The secret Hymen, the sequester’d cot?}And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,And join the world in censure of your friend?Oh! ’tis not right! as all with scorn must see,Although the certain mischief falls on me.D.Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restoreAnd make our friendship perfect as before;Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn,100And yet we dearly love their faults and them?So our reproofs to tender minds are shown:We treat their wanderings as we treat our own;We are each other’s conscience, and we tellOur friend her fault, because we wish her well;We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,Their answers practise, and their powers essay.By means like these they guard against surprise,110And all the puzzling questions that may rise.“Guilty or not?†His lawyer thus address’dA wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest.â€â€”“Why, then, my friend, we’ve nothing here to say,But you’re in danger! prithee heed your way!Youknow your truth,Iwhere your error lies:From your ‘Notguilty’ will your danger rise.â€â€”“Oh! but Iam, and I have here the gainOf wicked craftâ€â€”“Then let ithereremain;For we must guard it by a sure defence,120And not professions of your innocence;For that’s the way, whatever you suppose,To slip your neck within the ready noose.â€Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise,Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies;It is confess’d, that not the good and pureAre in this world of calumny secure—And therefore never let a lass relyUpon her goodness and her chastity!Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth130Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth;Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame,She grows discreet, and well defends her fame,And thus, offending, better makes her way—As Joseph Surface argues in the play—Than when in virtue’s strength she proudly stood,So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try}His own dear damsel—questioning how and why—}Let her be ready, arm’d with prompt reply;140}No hesitation let the man discern,But answer boldly, then accuse in turn:Some trifling points with candid speech confess’d,You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,And with your anger keep his malice down;Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heartTo sue for pardon, when you come to part.But let him have it; let him go in peace,And all inquiries of themselves will cease;150To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,Have a few tearsin pettoat the last—But this with care! for ’tis a point of doubt,If you should end with weeping or without.’Tis true you much affect him by your pain,But he may want to prove his power again;And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes—A girl is never handsome when she cries.Take it for granted, in a general way,The more you weep for men, the more you may.160Save your resources; for, though now you cryWith good effect, you may not by and by.It is a knack; and there are those that weepWithout emotion, that a man may sleep;Others disgust—’tis genius, not advice,That will avail us in a thing so nice.If you should love him, you have greater needOf all your care, and may not then succeed.For that’s our bane—we should be conquerors allWith hearts untouch’d—our feelings cause our fall.170But your experience aids you: you can hideYour real weakness in your borrow’d pride.But to the point—should so the Charge be laid,That nought against it fairly can be said—How would you act? You would not then confess?—C.Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!To mute contempt I would alone resortFor the Reporters, and for their Report.If he profess’d forgiveness, I would cry—“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I!180Such errors pardon! he that so would actWould, I am sure, be guilty of the fact.Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,I would not longer in your walks be seen;Could you such woman for a moment prize?You might forgive her, but you must despise.â€D.Bravo, my girl! ’tis then our sex command,When we can seize the weapon in their hand;When we their charge so manage, that ’tis foundTo save the credit it was meant to wound.190Those who by reasons their acquittal seek,Make the whole sex contemptible and weak;This, too, observe—that men of sense in loveDupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove;For all that knowledge lent them as a guide,Goes off entirely to the lady’s side;Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more,And gains perception that he lack’d before.His honest passion blinds the man of sense.While want of feeling is the fool’s defence;200Arm’d with insensibility he comes;When more repell’d, he but the more assumes,And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit;For, where we cannot conquer, we submit.But come, my love! let us examine now,}These Charges all—say, what shall we avow,}Admit, deny; and which defend, and how?}That old affair between your friend and you,When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu,May be forgotten; yet we should prepare210For all events—and are you guarded there?C.Oh! ’tis long since—I might the whole deny—“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!Charles, if ’tis pleasant to abuse your friend,Let there be something that she may defend;This is too silly—â€D.Well you may appearWith so much spirit—not a witness near;Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain,You may assume the airs of high disdain.But, for my Brother—night and morn were you220Together found, th’ inseparable two,Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—In the beech-wood—within the quarry madeBy hands long dead—within the silent glade,Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flowsBy the grey willows as they stand in rows—Shall I proceed? there’s not a quiet spotIn all the parish where the pair were notOft watch’d, oft seen. You must not so despise230This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?C.“Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!A friend’s relation! Why, the man is wild—A boy not yet at college! Come, this provesSome truth in you! This is a freak of Love’s:I must forgive it, though I know not howA thing so very simple to allow.Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy,And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?But I remember Delia—yet, to give240A thought to this is folly, as I live—But I remember Delia made her prayerThat I would try and give the Boy an air;Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;And since the lad is grown to man’s estate,We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.â€D.Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,Our father’s will compelled you both to part.C.Nay, this is needless—D.Oh! when you are tried,250And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?Oh! that’s the vice of which I still complain:Men could not triumph were not women vain.But now proceed—sayboyhoodin this case(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,And all your friends, that here indeed was love.For three long months you met as lovers meet,And half the town has seen him at your feet;Then, on the evil day that saw you part,260Your ashy looks betray’d your aching heart.With this against you——C.This, my watchful friend,Confess I cannot, therefore must defend.“Shelley! dear Charles, how enter’d he your mind?Well may they say that jealousy is blind!Of all the men who talk’d with me of love,His were the offers I could least approve;My father’s choice—and, Charles, you must agree}That my good father seldom thinks with me—}Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea!}It was so odious—when that man was near,271My father never could himself appear;Had I received his fav’rite with a frown,Upon my word he would have knock’d me down.â€D.Well! grant you durst not frown—but people sayThat you were dying when he went away.Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;And how explain it?—C.Oh! I’ll soon explain.“I sicken’d, say you, when the man was gone—Could I be well, if sickness would come on?280Fact follows fact; but is ‘t of Nature’s lawsThat one of course must be the other’s cause?Just as her husband tried his fav’rite gun,My cousin brought him forth his first-born son—The birth might either flash or fright succeed,But neither, sure, were causes of the deed.That Shelley left us, it is very true—That sickness found me, I confess it too;But that the one was cause, and one effect,Is a conceit I utterly reject.290You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please,That disappointment will bring on disease;But, if it should, I would be glad to knowIf ’tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow?A heart may suffer, if a lady doat;But will she feel her anguish in the throat?I’ve heard of pangs that tender folks endure,But not that linctuses and blisters cure.â€â€”Your thoughts, my Delia?D.What I think of this?Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss.300But there are humours; and, by them possess’d,A lover will not hearken to a jest.Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair,We know your father was indignant there:He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should pressFor explanation, what would you confess?You cannot there on his commands presume;Besides, you fainted in a public room;There own’d your flame, and, like heroic maid,The sovereign impulse of your will obey’d.310What, to your thinking, was the world’s disdain?You could retort its insolence again.Your boundless passion boldly you avow’d,And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud;Associates, servants, friends, alike can proveThe world-defying force of Celia’s love.Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison herWhom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer?And then that frantic quarrel at the ball—It must be known, and he will hear it all.320Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time,How best to answer what he thinks a crime;For what he thinks might have but little weight,If you could answer—C.Then I’ll answer straight—Not without Truth; for who would vainly tellA wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well?Had I not Fever? is not that the baneOf human wisdom? was I not insane?“Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the dayWhen it pleased Fate to take my wits away?330How can I answer for a thousand thingsThat this disorder to the sufferer brings?Is it not known, the men whom you dislikeAre those who now the erring fancy strike?Nor would it much surprise me, if ’twere true,That in those days of dread I slighted you.When the poor mind, illumined by no sparkOf reason’s light, was wandering in the dark,You must not wonder, if the vilest trainOf evil thoughts were printed on the brain;340Nor, if the loyal and the faithful proveFalse to their king, and faithless to their love.â€â€”Your thoughts on this?D.With some you may succeedBy such bold strokes; but they must love indeed.C.Doubt you his passion?—D.But in five long yearsThe passion settles—then the reason clears.Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined,But by and by grows sober and refined,And peers for facts; but, if one can’t relyOn truth, one takes one’s chance—you can but try.350Yet once again I must attention askTo a new Charge, and then resign my task.I would not hurt you; but confess at leastThat you were partial to that handsome Priest;Say what they will of his religious mind,He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind.Now, with his reverence you were daily seen,When it was winter and the weather keen,Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong,And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along—360That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal,You were too faithful or too fond to feel,Shielded from inward and from outward harmBy the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm—The winter-garden you could both admire,And leave his sisters at the parlour fire;You trusted not your speech these dames among—Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue!Did not your father stop the pure delightOf this perambulating Love at night?370It is reported, that his craft contrivedTo get the Priest with expedition wived,And sent away; for fathers will suspectHer inward worth, whose ways are incorrect—Patience, my dear! your Loverwillappear;At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer?“I hear,†says he—and he will look as grimAs if he heard his lass accusing him—“I hear, my Celia, your alluring looksKept the young Curate from his holy books.380Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray;}But ’tis their duty—not the better they;}’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay—}Or, let the very best be understood,They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.Now, they do say—but let me not offend—}You were too often with this pious friend,}And spent your timeâ€â€”—}C.“As people ought to spend.}And, sir, if you of some divine would askAid in your doubts, it were a happy task.390But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’dBy the dark meaning of a threat’ning text;You rather censure her who spends her timeIn search of Truth, as if it were a crime!Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,To whom should I, in my distress, appeal?A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must,}When you will need a faithful Priest to trust,}In conscience tender, but in counsel just.}Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive,400And, if I could, would keep your Love alive;But there are things that our attention claim,More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!â€D.“But why in secret?†he will ask you—C.“Why?Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy,Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun;What one confesses should be heard by one.Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so longWith such companions, that you will be wrong.We fill our minds from those with whom we live,410And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive;But learn your peace and my good name to prize,And fears of fancy let us both despise!â€D.Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance—You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance.’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just;The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust—Will he himself appear, or will he send,Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend?We need not ask—behold! his servant comes:420His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes.Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you spaceTo arm your mind, and rectify your face.Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heartFeels all that his can dictate or impart.Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy taleConveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?It is his sister’s writing, but the sealIs red: he lives. What is it that you feel?C.Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat,430Or never trust him if we chance to meet—The fickle wretch! that from our presence fliesTo any flirt that any place supplies,And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here—“Married at Guernsey!!!â€â€”Oh! the Villain, dear!
From her own room, in summer’s softest eve,SteptCeliaforth, herDeliato receive—Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared:C.War and the waves my fav’rite Youth have spared;Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,My Charles will come——Do give me joy, my dear!D.I give you joy, and so may he; but still,’Tis right to question, if ’tis sure he will;A sailor’s open honest heart we prize;But honest sailors have their ears and eyes.10C.Oh! but he surely will on me depend,Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.D.Be not secure; the very best have foes,}And facts they would not to the world expose;}And these he may be told, if he converse with those.}C.Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincereAnd naked truth—and what have I to fear?D.I speak in friendship; and I do confessIf I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind,20Would you to him present the naked mind?If it were clear as crystal, yet it checksOne’s joy to think that he may fancy specks;And now, in five long years, we scarcely knowHow the mind gets them, and how large they grow.Let woman be as rigid as a nun,She cannot censures and surmises shun.Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—Your father’s rooms were not like sisters’ cells;Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars,30But well-dress’d captains, and approving squires.C.What these to me, admit th’ account be true?D.Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!C.Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;Flintham, the young solicitor, that wroteThose pretty verses, he began to dote;That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stopA moment with him, at my feet would drop;Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake,40}I to my favour often used to take—}And was, vile world! my character at stake?}If such reports my Sailor’s ear should reach,What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach;If without cause ill-judging men suspect,What may not all these harmless Truths effect?And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,What must we fear if conscious we are frail?And well you know, my friend, nor fear t’ impart,The tender frailties of the yielding heart.50D.Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;I not your frailties, but your suffering, share.You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;But, pray, beware how you my name accuse!C.Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,To do what long the public voice has done.What misses, then at school, forget the fall}Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall?}That was a first exploit, and we were witness all;}And that sad night, upon my faithful breast,60We wept together, till we sank to rest.You own’d your love——D.A girl, a chit, a child!Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled?C.Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,And say how many there have had a part!Six I remember; and, if Fame be true,The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.D.A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,Do use some small discretion in such lies!A Serjeant, Celia?——C.Handsome, smart, and clean.70Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,That might excuse you, had you giv’n your hand—But this your father could not understand.D.Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,As if you’d not a secret of your own!Yet would you tremble, should your Sailor knowWhat I, or my small cabinet, could show:He might suspect a heart with many a wound,Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled,80}The feeling ceases, and the love is dead;}But sense exists, and passion serves instead.}C.Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!Is thus my confidential faith repaid?Is this the counsel that we two have held,When duty trembled, and desire rebell’d;The sister-vows we made, through many a night,To aid each other in the arduous fightWith the harsh-minded powers who never thinkWhat nature needs, nor will at weakness wink?90And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot,}The wish oft whisper’d, the imagined lot,}The secret Hymen, the sequester’d cot?}And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,And join the world in censure of your friend?Oh! ’tis not right! as all with scorn must see,Although the certain mischief falls on me.D.Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restoreAnd make our friendship perfect as before;Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn,100And yet we dearly love their faults and them?So our reproofs to tender minds are shown:We treat their wanderings as we treat our own;We are each other’s conscience, and we tellOur friend her fault, because we wish her well;We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,Their answers practise, and their powers essay.By means like these they guard against surprise,110And all the puzzling questions that may rise.“Guilty or not?†His lawyer thus address’dA wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest.â€â€”“Why, then, my friend, we’ve nothing here to say,But you’re in danger! prithee heed your way!Youknow your truth,Iwhere your error lies:From your ‘Notguilty’ will your danger rise.â€â€”“Oh! but Iam, and I have here the gainOf wicked craftâ€â€”“Then let ithereremain;For we must guard it by a sure defence,120And not professions of your innocence;For that’s the way, whatever you suppose,To slip your neck within the ready noose.â€Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise,Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies;It is confess’d, that not the good and pureAre in this world of calumny secure—And therefore never let a lass relyUpon her goodness and her chastity!Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth130Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth;Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame,She grows discreet, and well defends her fame,And thus, offending, better makes her way—As Joseph Surface argues in the play—Than when in virtue’s strength she proudly stood,So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try}His own dear damsel—questioning how and why—}Let her be ready, arm’d with prompt reply;140}No hesitation let the man discern,But answer boldly, then accuse in turn:Some trifling points with candid speech confess’d,You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,And with your anger keep his malice down;Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heartTo sue for pardon, when you come to part.But let him have it; let him go in peace,And all inquiries of themselves will cease;150To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,Have a few tearsin pettoat the last—But this with care! for ’tis a point of doubt,If you should end with weeping or without.’Tis true you much affect him by your pain,But he may want to prove his power again;And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes—A girl is never handsome when she cries.Take it for granted, in a general way,The more you weep for men, the more you may.160Save your resources; for, though now you cryWith good effect, you may not by and by.It is a knack; and there are those that weepWithout emotion, that a man may sleep;Others disgust—’tis genius, not advice,That will avail us in a thing so nice.If you should love him, you have greater needOf all your care, and may not then succeed.For that’s our bane—we should be conquerors allWith hearts untouch’d—our feelings cause our fall.170But your experience aids you: you can hideYour real weakness in your borrow’d pride.But to the point—should so the Charge be laid,That nought against it fairly can be said—How would you act? You would not then confess?—C.Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!To mute contempt I would alone resortFor the Reporters, and for their Report.If he profess’d forgiveness, I would cry—“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I!180Such errors pardon! he that so would actWould, I am sure, be guilty of the fact.Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,I would not longer in your walks be seen;Could you such woman for a moment prize?You might forgive her, but you must despise.â€D.Bravo, my girl! ’tis then our sex command,When we can seize the weapon in their hand;When we their charge so manage, that ’tis foundTo save the credit it was meant to wound.190Those who by reasons their acquittal seek,Make the whole sex contemptible and weak;This, too, observe—that men of sense in loveDupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove;For all that knowledge lent them as a guide,Goes off entirely to the lady’s side;Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more,And gains perception that he lack’d before.His honest passion blinds the man of sense.While want of feeling is the fool’s defence;200Arm’d with insensibility he comes;When more repell’d, he but the more assumes,And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit;For, where we cannot conquer, we submit.But come, my love! let us examine now,}These Charges all—say, what shall we avow,}Admit, deny; and which defend, and how?}That old affair between your friend and you,When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu,May be forgotten; yet we should prepare210For all events—and are you guarded there?C.Oh! ’tis long since—I might the whole deny—“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!Charles, if ’tis pleasant to abuse your friend,Let there be something that she may defend;This is too silly—â€D.Well you may appearWith so much spirit—not a witness near;Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain,You may assume the airs of high disdain.But, for my Brother—night and morn were you220Together found, th’ inseparable two,Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—In the beech-wood—within the quarry madeBy hands long dead—within the silent glade,Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flowsBy the grey willows as they stand in rows—Shall I proceed? there’s not a quiet spotIn all the parish where the pair were notOft watch’d, oft seen. You must not so despise230This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?C.“Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!A friend’s relation! Why, the man is wild—A boy not yet at college! Come, this provesSome truth in you! This is a freak of Love’s:I must forgive it, though I know not howA thing so very simple to allow.Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy,And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?But I remember Delia—yet, to give240A thought to this is folly, as I live—But I remember Delia made her prayerThat I would try and give the Boy an air;Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;And since the lad is grown to man’s estate,We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.â€D.Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,Our father’s will compelled you both to part.C.Nay, this is needless—D.Oh! when you are tried,250And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?Oh! that’s the vice of which I still complain:Men could not triumph were not women vain.But now proceed—sayboyhoodin this case(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,And all your friends, that here indeed was love.For three long months you met as lovers meet,And half the town has seen him at your feet;Then, on the evil day that saw you part,260Your ashy looks betray’d your aching heart.With this against you——C.This, my watchful friend,Confess I cannot, therefore must defend.“Shelley! dear Charles, how enter’d he your mind?Well may they say that jealousy is blind!Of all the men who talk’d with me of love,His were the offers I could least approve;My father’s choice—and, Charles, you must agree}That my good father seldom thinks with me—}Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea!}It was so odious—when that man was near,271My father never could himself appear;Had I received his fav’rite with a frown,Upon my word he would have knock’d me down.â€D.Well! grant you durst not frown—but people sayThat you were dying when he went away.Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;And how explain it?—C.Oh! I’ll soon explain.“I sicken’d, say you, when the man was gone—Could I be well, if sickness would come on?280Fact follows fact; but is ‘t of Nature’s lawsThat one of course must be the other’s cause?Just as her husband tried his fav’rite gun,My cousin brought him forth his first-born son—The birth might either flash or fright succeed,But neither, sure, were causes of the deed.That Shelley left us, it is very true—That sickness found me, I confess it too;But that the one was cause, and one effect,Is a conceit I utterly reject.290You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please,That disappointment will bring on disease;But, if it should, I would be glad to knowIf ’tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow?A heart may suffer, if a lady doat;But will she feel her anguish in the throat?I’ve heard of pangs that tender folks endure,But not that linctuses and blisters cure.â€â€”Your thoughts, my Delia?D.What I think of this?Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss.300But there are humours; and, by them possess’d,A lover will not hearken to a jest.Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair,We know your father was indignant there:He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should pressFor explanation, what would you confess?You cannot there on his commands presume;Besides, you fainted in a public room;There own’d your flame, and, like heroic maid,The sovereign impulse of your will obey’d.310What, to your thinking, was the world’s disdain?You could retort its insolence again.Your boundless passion boldly you avow’d,And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud;Associates, servants, friends, alike can proveThe world-defying force of Celia’s love.Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison herWhom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer?And then that frantic quarrel at the ball—It must be known, and he will hear it all.320Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time,How best to answer what he thinks a crime;For what he thinks might have but little weight,If you could answer—C.Then I’ll answer straight—Not without Truth; for who would vainly tellA wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well?Had I not Fever? is not that the baneOf human wisdom? was I not insane?“Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the dayWhen it pleased Fate to take my wits away?330How can I answer for a thousand thingsThat this disorder to the sufferer brings?Is it not known, the men whom you dislikeAre those who now the erring fancy strike?Nor would it much surprise me, if ’twere true,That in those days of dread I slighted you.When the poor mind, illumined by no sparkOf reason’s light, was wandering in the dark,You must not wonder, if the vilest trainOf evil thoughts were printed on the brain;340Nor, if the loyal and the faithful proveFalse to their king, and faithless to their love.â€â€”Your thoughts on this?D.With some you may succeedBy such bold strokes; but they must love indeed.C.Doubt you his passion?—D.But in five long yearsThe passion settles—then the reason clears.Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined,But by and by grows sober and refined,And peers for facts; but, if one can’t relyOn truth, one takes one’s chance—you can but try.350Yet once again I must attention askTo a new Charge, and then resign my task.I would not hurt you; but confess at leastThat you were partial to that handsome Priest;Say what they will of his religious mind,He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind.Now, with his reverence you were daily seen,When it was winter and the weather keen,Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong,And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along—360That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal,You were too faithful or too fond to feel,Shielded from inward and from outward harmBy the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm—The winter-garden you could both admire,And leave his sisters at the parlour fire;You trusted not your speech these dames among—Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue!Did not your father stop the pure delightOf this perambulating Love at night?370It is reported, that his craft contrivedTo get the Priest with expedition wived,And sent away; for fathers will suspectHer inward worth, whose ways are incorrect—Patience, my dear! your Loverwillappear;At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer?“I hear,†says he—and he will look as grimAs if he heard his lass accusing him—“I hear, my Celia, your alluring looksKept the young Curate from his holy books.380Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray;}But ’tis their duty—not the better they;}’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay—}Or, let the very best be understood,They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.Now, they do say—but let me not offend—}You were too often with this pious friend,}And spent your timeâ€â€”—}C.“As people ought to spend.}And, sir, if you of some divine would askAid in your doubts, it were a happy task.390But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’dBy the dark meaning of a threat’ning text;You rather censure her who spends her timeIn search of Truth, as if it were a crime!Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,To whom should I, in my distress, appeal?A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must,}When you will need a faithful Priest to trust,}In conscience tender, but in counsel just.}Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive,400And, if I could, would keep your Love alive;But there are things that our attention claim,More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!â€D.“But why in secret?†he will ask you—C.“Why?Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy,Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun;What one confesses should be heard by one.Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so longWith such companions, that you will be wrong.We fill our minds from those with whom we live,410And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive;But learn your peace and my good name to prize,And fears of fancy let us both despise!â€D.Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance—You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance.’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just;The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust—Will he himself appear, or will he send,Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend?We need not ask—behold! his servant comes:420His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes.Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you spaceTo arm your mind, and rectify your face.Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heartFeels all that his can dictate or impart.Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy taleConveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?It is his sister’s writing, but the sealIs red: he lives. What is it that you feel?C.Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat,430Or never trust him if we chance to meet—The fickle wretch! that from our presence fliesTo any flirt that any place supplies,And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here—“Married at Guernsey!!!â€â€”Oh! the Villain, dear!
From her own room, in summer’s softest eve,
SteptCeliaforth, herDeliato receive—
Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared:
C.War and the waves my fav’rite Youth have spared;
Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,
My Charles will come——Do give me joy, my dear!
D.I give you joy, and so may he; but still,
’Tis right to question, if ’tis sure he will;
A sailor’s open honest heart we prize;
But honest sailors have their ears and eyes.10
C.Oh! but he surely will on me depend,
Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.
D.Be not secure; the very best have foes,}
And facts they would not to the world expose;}
And these he may be told, if he converse with those.}
C.Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincere
And naked truth—and what have I to fear?
D.I speak in friendship; and I do confess
If I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:
If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind,20
Would you to him present the naked mind?
If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks
One’s joy to think that he may fancy specks;
And now, in five long years, we scarcely know
How the mind gets them, and how large they grow.
Let woman be as rigid as a nun,
She cannot censures and surmises shun.
Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—
Your father’s rooms were not like sisters’ cells;
Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars,30
But well-dress’d captains, and approving squires.
C.What these to me, admit th’ account be true?
D.Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!
C.Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,
Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;
Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote
Those pretty verses, he began to dote;
That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop
A moment with him, at my feet would drop;
Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake,40}
I to my favour often used to take—}
And was, vile world! my character at stake?}
If such reports my Sailor’s ear should reach,
What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach;
If without cause ill-judging men suspect,
What may not all these harmless Truths effect?
And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,
What must we fear if conscious we are frail?
And well you know, my friend, nor fear t’ impart,
The tender frailties of the yielding heart.50
D.Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;
I not your frailties, but your suffering, share.
You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;
But, pray, beware how you my name accuse!
C.Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,
To do what long the public voice has done.
What misses, then at school, forget the fall}
Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall?}
That was a first exploit, and we were witness all;}
And that sad night, upon my faithful breast,60
We wept together, till we sank to rest.
You own’d your love——
D.A girl, a chit, a child!
Am I for this, and by a friend, reviled?
C.Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,
And say how many there have had a part!
Six I remember; and, if Fame be true,
The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.
D.A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,
Do use some small discretion in such lies!
A Serjeant, Celia?——
C.Handsome, smart, and clean.70
Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,
That might excuse you, had you giv’n your hand—
But this your father could not understand.
D.Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,
As if you’d not a secret of your own!
Yet would you tremble, should your Sailor know
What I, or my small cabinet, could show:
He might suspect a heart with many a wound,
Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;
That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled,80}
The feeling ceases, and the love is dead;}
But sense exists, and passion serves instead.}
C.Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!
Is thus my confidential faith repaid?
Is this the counsel that we two have held,
When duty trembled, and desire rebell’d;
The sister-vows we made, through many a night,
To aid each other in the arduous fight
With the harsh-minded powers who never think
What nature needs, nor will at weakness wink?90
And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot,}
The wish oft whisper’d, the imagined lot,}
The secret Hymen, the sequester’d cot?}
And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,
And join the world in censure of your friend?
Oh! ’tis not right! as all with scorn must see,
Although the certain mischief falls on me.
D.Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restore
And make our friendship perfect as before;
Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn,100
And yet we dearly love their faults and them?
So our reproofs to tender minds are shown:
We treat their wanderings as we treat our own;
We are each other’s conscience, and we tell
Our friend her fault, because we wish her well;
We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,
Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.
Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,
Their answers practise, and their powers essay.
By means like these they guard against surprise,110
And all the puzzling questions that may rise.
“Guilty or not?†His lawyer thus address’d
A wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest.â€â€”
“Why, then, my friend, we’ve nothing here to say,
But you’re in danger! prithee heed your way!
Youknow your truth,Iwhere your error lies:
From your ‘Notguilty’ will your danger rise.â€â€”
“Oh! but Iam, and I have here the gain
Of wicked craftâ€â€”“Then let ithereremain;
For we must guard it by a sure defence,120
And not professions of your innocence;
For that’s the way, whatever you suppose,
To slip your neck within the ready noose.â€
Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise,
Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies;
It is confess’d, that not the good and pure
Are in this world of calumny secure—
And therefore never let a lass rely
Upon her goodness and her chastity!
Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth130
Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth;
Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame,
She grows discreet, and well defends her fame,
And thus, offending, better makes her way—
As Joseph Surface argues in the play—
Than when in virtue’s strength she proudly stood,
So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.
Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try}
His own dear damsel—questioning how and why—}
Let her be ready, arm’d with prompt reply;140}
No hesitation let the man discern,
But answer boldly, then accuse in turn:
Some trifling points with candid speech confess’d,
You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.
Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,
And with your anger keep his malice down;
Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heart
To sue for pardon, when you come to part.
But let him have it; let him go in peace,
And all inquiries of themselves will cease;150
To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,
Have a few tearsin pettoat the last—
But this with care! for ’tis a point of doubt,
If you should end with weeping or without.
’Tis true you much affect him by your pain,
But he may want to prove his power again;
And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes—
A girl is never handsome when she cries.
Take it for granted, in a general way,
The more you weep for men, the more you may.160
Save your resources; for, though now you cry
With good effect, you may not by and by.
It is a knack; and there are those that weep
Without emotion, that a man may sleep;
Others disgust—’tis genius, not advice,
That will avail us in a thing so nice.
If you should love him, you have greater need
Of all your care, and may not then succeed.
For that’s our bane—we should be conquerors all
With hearts untouch’d—our feelings cause our fall.170
But your experience aids you: you can hide
Your real weakness in your borrow’d pride.
But to the point—should so the Charge be laid,
That nought against it fairly can be said—
How would you act? You would not then confess?—
C.Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!
To mute contempt I would alone resort
For the Reporters, and for their Report.
If he profess’d forgiveness, I would cry—
“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I!180
Such errors pardon! he that so would act
Would, I am sure, be guilty of the fact.
Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,
I would not longer in your walks be seen;
Could you such woman for a moment prize?
You might forgive her, but you must despise.â€
D.Bravo, my girl! ’tis then our sex command,
When we can seize the weapon in their hand;
When we their charge so manage, that ’tis found
To save the credit it was meant to wound.190
Those who by reasons their acquittal seek,
Make the whole sex contemptible and weak;
This, too, observe—that men of sense in love
Dupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove;
For all that knowledge lent them as a guide,
Goes off entirely to the lady’s side;
Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more,
And gains perception that he lack’d before.
His honest passion blinds the man of sense.
While want of feeling is the fool’s defence;200
Arm’d with insensibility he comes;
When more repell’d, he but the more assumes,
And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit;
For, where we cannot conquer, we submit.
But come, my love! let us examine now,}
These Charges all—say, what shall we avow,}
Admit, deny; and which defend, and how?}
That old affair between your friend and you,
When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu,
May be forgotten; yet we should prepare210
For all events—and are you guarded there?
C.Oh! ’tis long since—I might the whole deny—
“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!
Charles, if ’tis pleasant to abuse your friend,
Let there be something that she may defend;
This is too silly—â€
D.Well you may appear
With so much spirit—not a witness near;
Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain,
You may assume the airs of high disdain.
But, for my Brother—night and morn were you220
Together found, th’ inseparable two,
Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—
In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—
In the beech-wood—within the quarry made
By hands long dead—within the silent glade,
Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flows
By the grey willows as they stand in rows—
Shall I proceed? there’s not a quiet spot
In all the parish where the pair were not
Oft watch’d, oft seen. You must not so despise230
This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?
C.“Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!
A friend’s relation! Why, the man is wild—
A boy not yet at college! Come, this proves
Some truth in you! This is a freak of Love’s:
I must forgive it, though I know not how
A thing so very simple to allow.
Pray, if I meet my cousin’s little boy,
And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?
But I remember Delia—yet, to give240
A thought to this is folly, as I live—
But I remember Delia made her prayer
That I would try and give the Boy an air;
Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—
A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;
And since the lad is grown to man’s estate,
We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.â€
D.Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,
Our father’s will compelled you both to part.
C.Nay, this is needless—
D.Oh! when you are tried,250
And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?
Oh! that’s the vice of which I still complain:
Men could not triumph were not women vain.
But now proceed—sayboyhoodin this case
(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.
But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,
And all your friends, that here indeed was love.
For three long months you met as lovers meet,
And half the town has seen him at your feet;
Then, on the evil day that saw you part,260
Your ashy looks betray’d your aching heart.
With this against you——
C.This, my watchful friend,
Confess I cannot, therefore must defend.
“Shelley! dear Charles, how enter’d he your mind?
Well may they say that jealousy is blind!
Of all the men who talk’d with me of love,
His were the offers I could least approve;
My father’s choice—and, Charles, you must agree}
That my good father seldom thinks with me—}
Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea!}
It was so odious—when that man was near,271
My father never could himself appear;
Had I received his fav’rite with a frown,
Upon my word he would have knock’d me down.â€
D.Well! grant you durst not frown—but people say
That you were dying when he went away.
Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;
And how explain it?—
C.Oh! I’ll soon explain.
“I sicken’d, say you, when the man was gone—
Could I be well, if sickness would come on?280
Fact follows fact; but is ‘t of Nature’s laws
That one of course must be the other’s cause?
Just as her husband tried his fav’rite gun,
My cousin brought him forth his first-born son—
The birth might either flash or fright succeed,
But neither, sure, were causes of the deed.
That Shelley left us, it is very true—
That sickness found me, I confess it too;
But that the one was cause, and one effect,
Is a conceit I utterly reject.290
You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please,
That disappointment will bring on disease;
But, if it should, I would be glad to know
If ’tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow?
A heart may suffer, if a lady doat;
But will she feel her anguish in the throat?
I’ve heard of pangs that tender folks endure,
But not that linctuses and blisters cure.â€â€”
Your thoughts, my Delia?
D.What I think of this?
Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss.300
But there are humours; and, by them possess’d,
A lover will not hearken to a jest.
Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair,
We know your father was indignant there:
He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should press
For explanation, what would you confess?
You cannot there on his commands presume;
Besides, you fainted in a public room;
There own’d your flame, and, like heroic maid,
The sovereign impulse of your will obey’d.310
What, to your thinking, was the world’s disdain?
You could retort its insolence again.
Your boundless passion boldly you avow’d,
And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud;
Associates, servants, friends, alike can prove
The world-defying force of Celia’s love.
Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison her
Whom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer?
And then that frantic quarrel at the ball—
It must be known, and he will hear it all.320
Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time,
How best to answer what he thinks a crime;
For what he thinks might have but little weight,
If you could answer—
C.Then I’ll answer straight—
Not without Truth; for who would vainly tell
A wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well?
Had I not Fever? is not that the bane
Of human wisdom? was I not insane?
“Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the day
When it pleased Fate to take my wits away?330
How can I answer for a thousand things
That this disorder to the sufferer brings?
Is it not known, the men whom you dislike
Are those who now the erring fancy strike?
Nor would it much surprise me, if ’twere true,
That in those days of dread I slighted you.
When the poor mind, illumined by no spark
Of reason’s light, was wandering in the dark,
You must not wonder, if the vilest train
Of evil thoughts were printed on the brain;340
Nor, if the loyal and the faithful prove
False to their king, and faithless to their love.â€â€”
Your thoughts on this?
D.With some you may succeed
By such bold strokes; but they must love indeed.
C.Doubt you his passion?—
D.But in five long years
The passion settles—then the reason clears.
Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined,
But by and by grows sober and refined,
And peers for facts; but, if one can’t rely
On truth, one takes one’s chance—you can but try.350
Yet once again I must attention ask
To a new Charge, and then resign my task.
I would not hurt you; but confess at least
That you were partial to that handsome Priest;
Say what they will of his religious mind,
He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind.
Now, with his reverence you were daily seen,
When it was winter and the weather keen,
Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong,
And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along—360
That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal,
You were too faithful or too fond to feel,
Shielded from inward and from outward harm
By the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm—
The winter-garden you could both admire,
And leave his sisters at the parlour fire;
You trusted not your speech these dames among—
Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue!
Did not your father stop the pure delight
Of this perambulating Love at night?370
It is reported, that his craft contrived
To get the Priest with expedition wived,
And sent away; for fathers will suspect
Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect—
Patience, my dear! your Loverwillappear;
At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer?
“I hear,†says he—and he will look as grim
As if he heard his lass accusing him—
“I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks
Kept the young Curate from his holy books.380
Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray;}
But ’tis their duty—not the better they;}
’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay—}
Or, let the very best be understood,
They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.
Now, they do say—but let me not offend—}
You were too often with this pious friend,}
And spent your timeâ€â€”—}
C.“As people ought to spend.}
And, sir, if you of some divine would ask
Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task.390
But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’d
By the dark meaning of a threat’ning text;
You rather censure her who spends her time
In search of Truth, as if it were a crime!
Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,
To whom should I, in my distress, appeal?
A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must,}
When you will need a faithful Priest to trust,}
In conscience tender, but in counsel just.}
Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive,400
And, if I could, would keep your Love alive;
But there are things that our attention claim,
More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!â€
D.“But why in secret?†he will ask you—
C.“Why?
Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy,
Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun;
What one confesses should be heard by one.
Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long
With such companions, that you will be wrong.
We fill our minds from those with whom we live,410
And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive;
But learn your peace and my good name to prize,
And fears of fancy let us both despise!â€
D.Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance—
You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance.
’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just;
The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust—
Will he himself appear, or will he send,
Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend?
We need not ask—behold! his servant comes:420
His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes.
Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you space
To arm your mind, and rectify your face.
Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heart
Feels all that his can dictate or impart.
Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy tale
Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?
It is his sister’s writing, but the seal
Is red: he lives. What is it that you feel?
C.Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat,430
Or never trust him if we chance to meet—
The fickle wretch! that from our presence flies
To any flirt that any place supplies,
And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here—
“Married at Guernsey!!!â€â€”Oh! the Villain, dear!