Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease,
Prove it thy study and delight to please;
Not till these follies meet thy just disdain,
While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain.”
“This is severe! - Oh! maiden wilt not thou
Something for habits, manners, modes, allow?” -
“Yes! but allowing much, I much require,
In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire!”
“True, lovely Sybil; and, this point agreed,
Let me to those of greater weight proceed:
Thy father!” - “Nay,” she quickly interposed,
“Good doctor, here our conference is closed!”
Then left the Youth, who, lost in his retreat,
Pass’d the good matron on her garden-seat;
His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild
And calm, was hurried: - “My audacious child!”
Exclaim’d the dame, “I read what she has done
In thy displeasure - Ah! the thoughtless one:
But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man
Speak of the maid as mildly as you can:
Can you not seem to woo a little while
The daughter’s will, the father to beguile?
So that his wrath in time may wear away;
Will you preserve our peace, Josiah? say.”
“Yes! my good neighbour,” said the gentle youth,
“Rely securely on my care and truth;
And should thy comfort with my efforts cease,
And only then, - perpetual is thy peace.”
The dame had doubts: she well his virtues knew,
His deeds were friendly, and his words were true:
“But to address this vixen is a task
He is ashamed to take, and I to ask.”
Soon as the father from Josiah learn’d
What pass’d with Sybil, he the truth discern’d.
“He loves,” the man exclaim’d, “he loves, ’tis plain,
The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain?
She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried,
Born as she is of wilfulness and pride.”
With anger fraught, but willing to persuade,
The wrathful father met the smiling maid:
“Sybil,” said he, “I long, and yet I dread
To know thy conduct - hath Josiah fled?
And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air,
For his lost peace, betaken him to prayer?
Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress
By vile remarks upon his speech, address,
Attire, and voice?” - “All this I must confess.”
“Unhappy child! what labour will it cost
To win him back!” - “I do not think him lost.”
“Courts he then (trifler!) insult and disdain?” -
“No; but from these he courts me to refrain.”
“Then hear me, Sybil: should Josiah leave
Thy father’s house?” - “My father’s child would grieve.”
“That is of grace, and if he come again
To speak of love?” - “I might from grief refrain.”
“Then wilt thou, daughter, our design embrace?” -
“Can I resist it, if it be of Grace?”
“Dear child in three plain words thy mind express:
Wilt thou have this good youth?” - “Dear Father! yes.”
TALE VII.
THE WIDOW’S TALE.
Ah me! for aught that I could ever read,
Or ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth:
But either it was different in blood,
Or else misgrafted in respect of years,
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.
SHAKESPEARE, Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Oh! thou didst then ne’er love so heartily,
If thou rememberest not the slighest folly
That ever love did make thee run into.
As You Like It.
Cry the man mercy! love him, take his offer.
As You Like It.
-----------------------
To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down,
His only daughter, from her school in town;
A tender, timid maid! who knew not how
To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow:
Smiling she came, with petty talents graced,
A fair complexion, and a slender waist.
Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure,
Her father’s kitchen she could ill endure:
Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat,
And laid at once a pound upon his plate;
Hot from the field, her eager brother seized
An equal part, and hunger’s rage appeased;
The air surcharged with moisture, flagg’d around,
And the offended damsel sigh’d and frown’d;
The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid,
And fancy’s sickness seized the loathing maid:
But when the men beside their station took,
The maidens with them, and with these the cook;
When one huge wooden bowl before them stood,
Fill’d with huge balls of farinaceous food;
With bacon, mass saline, where never lean
Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen;
When from a single horn the party drew
Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new;
When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain
Soil’d by rude hinds who cut and came again -
She could not breathe; but with a heavy sigh,
Rein’d the fair neck, and shut th’ offended eye;
She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine,
And wonder’d much to see the creatures dine;
When she resolved her father’s heart to move,
If hearts of farmers were alive to love.
She now entreated by herself to sit
In the small parlour, if papa thought fit,
And there to dine, to read, to work alone -
“No!” said the Farmer in an angry tone;
“These are your school-taught airs; your mother’s pride
Would send you there; but I am now your guide. -
Arise betimes, our early meal prepare,
And, this despatch’d, let business be your care;
Look to the lasses, let there not be one
Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done;
In every household work your portion take,
And what you make not, see that others make:
At leisure times attend the wheel, and see
The whit’ning web besprinkled on the lea;
When thus employ’d, should our young neighbours view,
A useful lass, - you may have more to do.”
Dreadful were these commands; but worse than these
The parting hint - a Farmer could not please:
’Tis true she had without abhorrence seen
Young Harry Carr, when he was smart and clean:
But, to be married - be a farmer’s wife -
A slave! a drudge! - she could not for her life.
With swimming eyes the fretful nymph withdrew,
And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew;
There on her knees, to Heaven she grieving pray’d
For change of prospect to a tortured maid.
Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire
Had left him all industrious men require,
Saw the pale Beauty, - and her shape and air
Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear:
“For my small farm what can the damsel do?”
He said, - then stopp’d to take another view:
“Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn
Of household cares, - for what can beauty earn
By those small arts which they at school attain,
That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?”
This luckless Damsel look’d the village round,
To find a friend, and one was quickly found:
A pensive Widow, whose mild air and dress
Pleased the sad nymph, who wish’d her soul’s distress
To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess.
“What Lady that?” the anxious lass inquired,
Who then beheld the one she most admired:
“Here,” said the Brother, “are no ladies seen -
That is a widow dwelling on the Green;
A dainty dame, who can but barely live
On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give;
She happier days has known, but seems at ease,
And you may call her lady if you please:
But if you wish, good sister, to improve,
You shall see twenty better worth your love.”
These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught,
This useless Widow was the one she sought:
The father growl’d; but said he knew no harm
In such connexion that could give alarm;
“And if we thwart the trifler in her course,
’Tis odds against us she will take a worse.”
Then met the friends; the Widow heard the sigh
That ask’d at once compassion and reply: -
“Would you, my child, converse with one so poor,
Yours were the kindness - yonder is my door:
And, save the time that we in public pray,
From that poor cottage I but rarely stray.”
There went the nymph, and made her strong complaints,
Painting her woe as injured feeling paints.
“Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel,
Shock’d all day long, and sicken’d every meal;
Could you behold our kitchen (and to you
A scene so shocking must indeed be new),
A mind like yours, with true refinement graced,
Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste:
And yet, in truth, from such a polish’d mind
All base ideas must resistance find,
And sordid pictures from the fancy pass,
As the breath startles from the polish’d glass.
“Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene,
Without so pleasant, and within so clean;
These twining jess’mines, what delicious gloom
And soothing fragrance yield they to the room!
What lovely garden! there you oft retire,
And tales of woe and tenderness admire.
In that neat case your books, in order placed,
Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultur’d taste;
And thus, while all about you wears a charm,
How must you scorn the Farmer and the Farm!”
The Widow smiled, and “Know you not,” said she,
“How much these farmers scorn or pity me;
Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see?
True, their opinion alters not my fate,
By falsely judging of an humble state:
This garden you with such delight behold,
Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold;
These plants which please so well your livelier sense,
To mine but little of their sweets dispense:
Books soon are painful to my failing sight,
And oftener read from duty than delight;
(Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find
Both joy and duty in the act combined;)
But view me rightly, you will see no more
Than a poor female, willing to be poor;
Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers,
Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours,
Of never-tasted joys; - such visions shun,
My youthful friend, nor scorn the Farmer’s Son.”
“Nay,” said the Damsel, nothing pleased to see
A friend’s advice could like a Father’s be,
“Bless’d in your cottage, you must surely smile
At those who live in our detested style:
To my Lucinda’s sympathising heart
Could I my prospects and my griefs impart;,
She would console me; but I dare not show,
Ills that would wound her tender soul to know:
And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell
The secrets of the prison where I dwell;
For that dear maiden would be shock’d to feel
The secrets I should shudder to reveal;
When told her friend was by a parent ask’d,
‘Fed you the swine?’ - Good heaven! how I am task’d! -
What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief
That woos your pity and demands relief.”
“Trifles, my love: you take a false alarm;
Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm:
Duties in every state demand your care,
And light are those that will require it there.
Fix on the Youth a favouring eye, and these,
To him pertaining, or as his, will please.”
“What words,” the Lass replied, “offend my ear!
Try you my patience? Can you be sincere?
And am I told a willing hand to give
To a rude farmer, and with rustics live?
Far other fate was yours; - some gentle youth
Admir’d your beauty, and avow’d his truth;
The power of love prevail’d, and freely both
Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding oath;
And then the rival’s plot, the parent’s power,
And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour:
Ah! let not memory lose the blissful view,
But fairly show what love has done for you.”
“Agreed, my daughter; what my heart has known
Of Love’s strange power, shall be with frankness shown:
But let me warn you, that experience finds
Few of the scenes that lively hope designs.”
“Mysterious all,” said Nancy; “you, I know,
Have suffered much; now deign the grief to show, -
I am your friend, and so prepare my heart
In all your sorrows to receive a part.”
The Widow answer’d: “I had once, like you,
Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue;