TALE II. THE PARTING HOUR have loved, I did not take my leave of him, but had | Their years and woes, although they long Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him How I would think on him, at certain hours, Such thoughts and such; ... or ere I could' Give him that parting kiss, which I had set Betwixt two charming words-comes in my 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; They at an infant-school together play'd, fears; Each heart was anxious, till it could impart 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. To either parents not a day appear'd, Childish at first, they cared not to restrain; So while the waters rise, the children tread They said, we must not-dare not venture yet: All things prepared, on the expected day The younger sister, as he took his way, more; And there he found her-faithful, mournful, Weeping and waiting for a last adieu! And without pain, when they again should Now either spoke, as hope and fear impress'd ''Tis far!' And danger too-' it is a time of war: What then may happen in a year, when things At length a prospect came that seem'd to Of vast importance every moment brings ! smile, And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle ; But hark! an oar!' she cried, yet none appear'd 'Twas love's mistake, who fancied what it And she continued-' Do, my Allen, keep Would through all perils seek it,-by the Can I believe his love will lasting prove, Forget her spleen, and in my place appear; '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 ; Displeased she felt, and might in her reply And now the gunwale is within the reach; 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 ; 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?' Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with The woman gazed, nor could an answer give Was Allen landing in his native bay, Willing his breathless form should blend with The woman musing said-'She knew full kindred clay. In an autumnal eve he left the beach, 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 : Yet in her grief she married, and was made 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: 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. He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd In various places, and to her were dead. Labours to soothe the evils of his lot. 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, For that esteem'd; but nothing more he Still more to know, would Allen join the crew, None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate. pray'd, If due obedience to the laws were paid: But I had money, and these pastors found seen Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been : This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd By various shores he pass'd, on various seas, 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.' |