have loved,

father

Cymbeline, Act i, Scene 3. O, grief hath changed mesince you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. Comedy of Errors, Act v, Scene 1. Oh! if thou be'st the same Aegeon, speak, And speak unto the same Aemilia.

Comedy of Errors, Act v, Scene 1. I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days To 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 foe And 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.

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 beholdThis was the youth, and he is thus when old; Then we at once the work of Time survey, And in an instant see a life's decay; Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise, And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise. Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pairA sleeping man; a woman in her chair, Watching his looks with kind and pensive air; No wife, nor sister she, nor is the name Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same; Yet so allied are they, that few can feel Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal

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 drive Life's common cares, and those alone survive, Mix with each thought, in every action share, Darken 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 him

A 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 fair
And 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 attend
In 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 impart
Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;
As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars
Broke 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, While lovers, thoughtful-and though children, true.

Forget 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 dwell
On 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; When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance

To 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.'

Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd.

No one was present; of its crew bereft, A single boat was in the billows left; Sent 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 town A drowsy peal of distant bells came down : From the tall houses here and there, a light Served some confused remembrance to excite: There,' he observed, and new emotions felt, my first home-and yonder Judith dwelt ;

more

Affection 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.

They parted, thus by hope and fortune led, And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled; But when return'd the youth ?-the youth no

more

Return'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 :

Dead! 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 noise Of 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 old Strove some familiar features to behold; While fancy aided memory :-' Man! what cheer ? '

A sailor cried; Art thou at anchor here ? ' Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace Some youthful features in some aged face: A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought She 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?'

Was Allen landing in his native bay,

kindred clay.

In an autumnal eve he left the beach,
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach:
He was alone; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace;

well

Where 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 intent On 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 :
She 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 seen
The gayest hearts grow sad where she has
been;

Yet in her grief she married, and was made
Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd
And 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 face

He 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?
Or lived his son ? for one he had, the heir
To 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 found
With 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 ; We cannot all succeed; I now command The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land; But when we meet, you shall your story tell Of 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, cast A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'dThe man is Allen Booth, and it appears He dwelt among us in his early years; We 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 came
Some strong emotions at the well-known
name;

He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;
Then was she wedded, of his death assured,
And much of mis'ry in her lot endured;
Her husband died; her children sought their
bread

In 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 friend
Both now beheld, on whom they might depend:
Now is there one to whom I can express
My nature's weakness and my soul's distress.'
Allen 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 removed
The 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;
And yet his sorrow-she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the
tear.

First he related how he left the shore, Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no

In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day He saw his happy infants round him play; Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees, Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries; E'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 views

Of 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 found An English heresy on Christian ground.' 'Whilst I was poor,' said Allen,

would care

6

What my poor notions of religion were;

none

seen,

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 preach'd 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,
Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,
And was a most obedient Catholic.

But I had money, and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound:
A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
Could not have read a more pernicious work;
To me pernicious, who if it were good
Or 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.'
Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was

seen

Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been :
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown
Are 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,
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his
flight.

This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd
For 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

seas

Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees:

He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:- There stand

My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land; See! there my dwelling-oh! delicious scene Of my best life-unhand me-are ye men

And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.

He told of bloody fights, and how at length The rage of battle gave his spirits strength: 'Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost, And 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.'