Grows without ground;" but Cecil would not hear:

He seem'd some dreadful object to explore,
And fix'd his fearful eye upon the door,
Intensely longing for reply-the thing
That must to him his future fortune bring;
And now it brought! like Death's cold hand
it came-

"The lady was a stranger to the name!"

'Backward the lover in the carriage fell, Weak, but not fainting-"All," said he, "is well!

Return with me-I have no more to seek!" And this was all the woful man would speak.

'Quickly he settled all his worldly views, And sail'd from home, his fiercer pains to lose And nurse the milder-now with labour less He might his solitary world possess,

And taste the bitter-sweet of love in idleness. 'Greece was the land he chose; a mind decay'd

She did not mean-It was an evil hour, Her thoughts were guardless, and beyond her power;

And for one speech, and that in rashness made!

Have I no friend to soothe him and persuade? He must not leave me-He again will come, And we shall have one hope, one heart, one home!"

'But when she heard that he on foreign ground

Sought his lost peace, hers never more was found;

But still she felt a varying hope that love
Would all these slight impediments remove;-
"Has he no friend to tell him that our pride
Resents a moment and is satisfied?
Soon as the hasty sacrifice is made,
A look will soothe us, and a tear persuade;
Have I no friend to say Return again,
Reveal your wishes, and relieve her pain ? ""
'With suffering mind the maid her prospects

view'd,

6

That hourly varied with the varying mood; As past the day, the week, the month, the year,

The faint hope sicken'd, and gave place to fear.

'No Cecil came !" Come, peevish and unjust!"

stray'd;

There read, and walk'd, and mused,-there loved, and wept, and pray'd.

Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live,
But gave to study all his mind could give;
Till, with the dead conversing, he began
To lose the habits of a living man,
Save that he saw some wretched, them he
tried

To soothe,

-some doubtful, them he strove to guide;

Nor did he lose the mind's ennobling joy

Of that new state that death must not destroy;

Thy Ellen's voice could charm thee once, but thou

Canst nothing see or hear of Ellen now!"

Yes! she was right; the grave on him

was closed,

And there the lover and the friend reposed. The news soon reach'd her, and she then replied

In his own manner-" I am satisfied!"
To her a lover's legacy is paid,
The darling wealth of the devoted maid;
From this her best and favourite books she

buys,

was nigh,

To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh,
But hopes more new and strong confirm'd his

wish to die.

'Meantime poor Ellen in her cottage thought "That he would seek her-sure she should be sought

This is the fund that must relief impart.

'Such have the ten last years of Ellen been! Her very last that sunken eye has seen! That half angelic being still must fade Till all the angel in the mind be made ;And now the closing scene will shortly comeShe cannot visit sorrow at her home;

But still she feeds the hungry, still prepares The usual softeners of the peasant's cares, And though she prays not with the dying now,

'Such is my tale, dear Richard, but that

told

I must all comments on the text withhold; What is the sin of grief I cannot tell,

But to the cause of mercy I incline,
Or, O my Brother, what a fate is mine!'

Discourse on Jealousy-Of unsuspicious Men -Visit William and his wife-His Dwelling -Story of William and Fanny-Character of both-Their Contract-Fanny's Visit to an Aunt-Its Consequences-Her Father's William Expectation - His Death Wanderer-His Mode of Living-The Acquaintance he forms-Travels across the Kingdom-Whom he finds-The Event of their Meeting.

a

THE letters Richard in a morning read
To quiet and domestic comforts led;
And George, who thought the world could
not supply

Comfort so pure, reflected with a sigh;
Then would pursue the subject half in play,
Half earnest, till the sadness wore away.
They spoke of Passion's errors, Love's
disease,

His pains, afflictions, wrongs, and jealousies;
Of Herod's vile commandment-that his wife
Should live no more, when he no more had
life;

He could not bear that royal Herod's spouse Should, as a widow, make her second vows; Or that a mortal with his queen should wed, Or be the rival of the mighty dead.

'Herods,' said Richard, ' doubtless may be
found,

But haply do not in the world abound;
Ladies, indeed, a dreadful lot would have,
If jealousy could act beyond the grave:
No doubt Othellos every place supply,
Though every Desdemona does not die;
But there are lovers in the world, who live
Slaves to the sex, and every fault forgive.'
'I know,' said George, a happy man and
kind,

Who finds his wife is all he wish'd to find,
A mild, good man, who, if he nothing sees,
Will suffer nothing to disturb his ease;

Of good examples,-I will guide you there : Such man is William Bailey,-but his spouse Is virtue's self since she had made her vows: I speak of ancient stories, long worn out, That honest William would not talk about; But he will sometimes check her starting tear, And call her self-correction too severe.

In their own inn the gentle pair are placed, ! Where you behold the marks of William's taste:

They dwell in plenty, in respect, and peace,
Landlord and lady of the Golden Fleece :
Public indeed their calling,—but there come
No brawl, no revel to that decent room;
All there is still, and comely to behold,
Mild as the fleece, and pleasant as the gold;
But mild and pleasant as they now appear,
They first experienced many a troubled year;
And that, if known, might not command our
praise,

6

Like the smooth tenor of their present days... 'Our hostess, now so grave and steady

grown,

Has had some awkward trials of her own:
She was not always so resign'd and meek,-
Yet can I little of her failings speak;
Those she herself will her misfortunes deem,
And slides discreetly from the dubious theme;
But you shall hear the tale that I will tell,
When we have seen the mansion where they
dwell.'

They saw the mansion,-and the couple made

Obeisance due, and not without parade:

His honour, still obliging, took delight

To make them pleasant in each other's sight;

Nor was averse, ere yet he pledged his love,
To stray with damsels in the shady grove;
When he would tell them, as they walk'd
along,

How the birds sang, and imitate their song:
In fact, our rustic had his proper taste,
Was with peculiar arts and manners graced
And Absolon had been, had Absolon been
chaste.

'Frances, like William, felt her heart incline To neat attire-but Frances would be fine : Though small the farm, the farmer's daughter knew

Her rank in life, and she would have it too:
This, and this only, gave the lover pain,
He thought it needless, and he judged it vain :
Advice in hints he to the fault applied,
And talk'd of sin, of vanity, and pride.
""And what is proud," said Frances, "but to
stand

Singing at church, and sawing thus your hand?
Looking at heaven above, as if to bring
The holy angels down to hear you sing?
And when you write, you try with all your
skill,

And cry, no wonder that you wrote so ill!
For you were ever to yourself a rule,
And humbly add, you never were at school-
Is that not proud? And I have heard
beside,

The proudest creatures have the humblest pride:

If you had read the volumes I have hired, You'd see your fault, nor try to be admired; For they who read such books can always tell

The fault within, and read the mind as well." 'William had heard of hiring books before, He knew she read, and he inquired no more; On him the subject was completely lost, What he regarded was the time and cost; Yet that was trifling-just a present whim, "Novels and stories! what were they to him?" 'With such slight quarrels, or with those as slight,

They lived in love, and dream'd of its delight. Her duties Fanny knew, both great and small, And she with diligence observed them all; If e'er she fail'd a duty to fulfil, 'Twas childish error, not rebellious will; For her much reading, though it touch'd her heart,

Could neither vice nor indolence impart.

'Yet, when from William and her friends

retired,

She found her reading had her mind inspired With hopes and thoughts of high mysterious things,

Such as the early dream of kindness brings; And then she wept, and wonder'd as she read, And new emotions in her heart were bred: She sometimes fancied that when love was true 'Twas more than she and William ever knew ; More than the shady lane in summer-eve, More than the sighing when he took his leave; More than his preference when the lads advance

And choose their partners for the evening dance;

Nay,

more than midnight thoughts and morning dreams,

Or talk when love and marriage are the themes;

In fact, a something not to be defined,
Of all subduing, all commanding kind,
That fills the fondest heart, that rules the
proudest mind.

'But on her lover Fanny still relied, Her best companion, her sincerest guide, On whom she could rely, in whom she would confide.

'All jealous fits were past; in either now Were tender wishes for the binding vow; There was no secret one alone possess'd, There was no hope that warm'd a single breast;

Both felt the same concerns their thoughts employ,

And neither knew one solitary joy.

'Then why so easy, William? why consent To wait so long? thou wilt at last repent; "Within a month," does Care and Prudence say,

If all be ready, linger not a day;
Ere yet the choice be made, on choice debate,
But having chosen, dally not with fate.

'While yet to wait the pair were half content,
And half disposed their purpose to repent,
A spinster-aunt, in some great baron's place,
Would see a damsel, pride of all her race:
And Fanny, flatter'd by the matron's call,
Obey'd her aunt, and long'd to see the Hall;
For halls and castles in her fancy wrought,
And she accounts of love and wonder sought;
There she expected strange events to learn,
And take in tender secrets fond concern ;

There she expected lovely nymphs to view,
Perhaps to hear and meet their lovers too;
The Julias, tender souls! the Henrys kind
and true:

There she expected plottings to detect,
And-but I know not what she might expect
All she was taught in books to be her guide,
And all that nature taught the nymph beside.
'Now that good dame had in the castle dwelt
So long that she for all its people felt;
She kept her sundry keys, and ruled o'er all,
Female and male, domestics in the hall;
By her lord trusted, worthy of her trust,
Proud but obedient, bountiful but just.

'She praised her lucky stars, that in her place

She never found neglect, nor felt disgrace;
To do her duty was her soul's delight,
This her inferiors would to theirs excite,
This her superiors notice and requite;
To either class she gave the praises due,
And still more grateful as more favour'd grew:
Her lord and lady were of peerless worth,
In power unmatch'd, in glory and in birth;
And such the virtue of the noble race,
It reach'd the meanest servant in the place;
All, from the chief attendant on my lord
To the groom's helper, had her civil word;
From Miss Montregor, who the ladies taught,
To the rude lad who in the garden wrought;
From the first favourite to the meanest drudge,
Were no such women, heaven should be her
judge;

Whatever stains were theirs, let them reside
In that pure place, and they were mundified;
The sun of favour on their vileness shone,
And all their faults like morning mists were
gone.

'There was Lord Robert! could she have her choice,

But things appear in such a different light!" 'Her parents blest her, and as well became Their love advised her, that they might not blame;

They said, "If she should earl or countess meet

She should be humble, cautious, and discreet; Humble, but not abased, remembering all Are kindred sinners,-children of the fall; That from the earth our being we receive, And are all equal when the earth we leave."

'They then advised her in a modest way To make replies to what my lord might say; Her aunt would aid her, who was now become With nobles noble, and with lords at home.

'So went the pair; and William told at night Of a reception gracious and polite; He spake of galleries long and pictures tall, The handsome parlours, the prodigious hall; The busts, the statues, and the floors of stone, The storied arras, and the vast saloon,

| In which was placed an Indian chest and

screen,

With figures such as he had never seen :
He told of these as men enraptured tell,
And gave to all their praise, and all was well.
'Left by the lover, the desponding maid
Was of the matron's ridicule afraid;

voice;

So kind and gracious in his noble ways,
It was a pleasure speaking in his praise:
And Lady Catharine,-O! a prince's pride
Might by one smile of hers be gratified;
With her would monarchs all their glory
share,

And in her presence banish all their care.
'Such was the matron, and to her the maid
Was by her lover carefully convey'd.

'When William first the invitation read It some displeasure in his spirit bred,

The wonted firmness repossess'd her mind; Pleased by the looks of love her aunt display'd, Her fond professions, and her kind parade.

'In her own room, and with her niece apart, She gave up all the secrets of her heart; And, grown familiar, bid her Fanny come, Partake her cheer, and make herself at home.

'Shut in that room, upon its cheerful board She laid the comforts of no vulgar hoard; Then press'd the damsel both with love and pride,

For both she felt-and would not be denied.