Widow'd and poor, her angry father gave,
Mix'd with reproach, the pittance of a slave;
Forgetful brothers pass'd her, but she knew
Her humbler friends, and to their home withdrew;
The good old vicar to her sire applied

For help, and help'd her when her sire denied ;
When in few years death stalk'd through bower
and hall,

Sires, sons, and sons of sons, were buried all :
She then abounded, and had wealth to spare
For softening grief she once was doom'd to share:
Thus train'd in misery's school, and taught to feel,
She would rejoice an orphan's woes to heal :
So Jessy thought, who look'd within her breast,
And thence conceived how bounteous minds are
bless'd.

From her vast mansion look'd the lady down
On humbler buildings of a busy town;
Thence came her friends of either sex, and all
With whom she lived on terms reciprocal :
They pass'd the hours with their accustom'd ease,
As guests inclined, but not compell'd to please;
But there were others in the mansion found,
For office chosen, and by duties bound;
Three female rivals, each of power possess'd,
Th' attendant maid, poor friend, and kindred guest.
To these came Jessy, as a seaman thrown
By the rude storm upon a coast unknown
The view was flattering, civil seem'd the race,
But all unknown the dangers of the place. [freed,
Few hours had pass'd, when, from attendants
The lady utter'd-" This is kind indeed;
Believe me, love! that I for one like you
Have daily pray'd, a friend discreet and true;
O! wonder not that I on you depend,
You are mine own hereditary friend.
Hearken, my Jessy, never can I trust
Beings ungrateful, selfish, and unjust;
But you are present, and my load of care
Your love will serve to lighten and to share :
Come near me, Jessy; let not those below
Of my reliance on your friendship know;
Look as they look, be in their freedoms free-
But all they say do you convey to me."

Here Jessy's thoughts to Colin's cottage flew, And with such speed she scarce their absence knew.

"Jane loves her mistress, and should she depart, I lose her service, and she breaks her heart;

A pleasant humour has the girl: her smile
And cheerful manner tedious hours beguile :
But well observe her, ever near her be,
Close in your thoughts, in your professions free.
Again, my Jessy, hear what I advise,
And watch a woman ever in disguise;
Issop, that widow, serious, subtle, sly-
But what of this-I must have company :
She markets for me, and although she makes
Profit, no doubt, of all she undertakes,
Yet she is one I can to all produce,
And all her talents are in daily use;
Deprived of her, I may another find
As sly and selfish, with a weaker mind:
But never trust her, she is full of art,
And worms herself into the closet heart;
Seem then, I pray you, careless in her sight,
Nor let her know, my love, how we unite.

'Do, my good Jessy, cast a view around,
And let no wrong within my house be found;
That girl associates with I know not who
Are her companions, nor what ill they do ;
'Tis then the widow plans, 'tis then she tries
Her various arts and schemes for fresh supplies;
'Tis then, if ever, Jane her duty quits,
And, whom I know not, favours and admits :
O! watch their movements all; for me 'tis hard,
Indeed is vain, but you may keep a guard;
And I, when none your watchful glance deceive,
May make my will, and think what I shall leave."
Jessy, with fear, disgust, alarm, surprise,
Heard of these duties for her ears and eyes;
Heard by what service she must gain her bread,
And went with scorn and sorrow to her bed.

Jane was a servant fitted for her place,
Experienced, cunning, fraudful, selfish, base;
Skill'd in those mean humiliating arts

That make their way to proud and selfish hearts;
By instinct taught, she felt an awe, a fear,
For Jessy's upright, simple character;
Whom with gross flattery she a while assail'd,
And then beheld with hatred when it fail'd;
Yet trying still upon her mind for hold,
She all the secrets of the mansion told;
And to invite an equal trust, she drew
Of every mind a bold and rapid view;
But on the widow'd friend with deep disdain,
And rancorous envy, dwelt the treacherous Jane :--
In vain such arts; without deceit or pride,

My ways and wishes, looks and thoughts she With a just taste and feeling for her guide,

knows,

And duteous care by close attention shows:
But is she faithful? in temptation strong?
Will she not wrong me? ah! I fear the wrong:
Your father loved me; now, in time of need,
Watch for my good, and to his place succeed.
"Blood doesn't bind-that girl, who every day
Eats of my bread, would wish my life away;
I am her dear relation, and she thinks
To make her fortune, an ambitious minx!
She only courts me for the prospect's sake,
Because she knows I have a will to make;
Yes, love! my will delay'd, I know not how-
But you are here, and I will make it now.
"That idle creature, keep her in your view,
See what she does, what she desires to do;
On her young mind may artful villains prey,
And to my plate and jewels find a way;

"Good Heaven! that one so jealous, envious, Proud, and yet envions, she disgusted sees

And pauper's lot! but pitying, I forgive;
How, simple Jessy, do you think to live?
Have I not power to help you, foolish maid?
To my concerns be your attention paid;
With cheerful mind th' allotted duties take,
And recollect I have a will to make."

Jessy, who felt as liberal natures feel,
When thus the baser their designs reveal,
Replied, "Those duties were to her unfit,
Nor would her spirit to her tasks submit."
In silent scorn the lady sat a while,
And then replied with stern contemptuous
smile,-

"Think you, fair madam, that you came to
share

Fortunes like mine without a thought or care?
A guest, indeed! from every trouble free,
Dress'd by my help, with not a care for me;
When I a visit to your father made,
I for the poor assistance largely paid;
To his domestics I their tasks assign'd,
I fix'd the portion for his hungry hind;
And had your father (simple man!) obey'd
My good advice, and watch'd as well as

pray'd,

He might have left you something with his prayers,

And lent some colour for these lofty airs.

"In tears, my love! O, then, my soften'd
heart

Cannot resist; we never more will part;
I need your friendship, I will be your friend,
And thus determined, to my will attend."

Jessy went forth, but with determined soul
To fly such love, to break from such control;
"I hear enough," the trembling damsel cried;
"Flight be my care, and Providence my guide:
Ere yet a prisoner, I escape will make;
Will, thus display'd, th' insidious arts forsake,
And, as the rattle sounds, will fly the fatal
snake."

Jessy her thanks upon the morrow paid, Prepared to go, determined, though afraid. "Ungrateful creature," said the lady," this

Could I imagine ?-are you frantic, miss?

What! leave your friend, your prospects-is it true?"

This Jessy answer'd by a mild "Adieu!"

And, once secured, she never shall depart

Till I have proved the firmness of her heart;
Then when she dares not, would not, cannot go,
I'll make her feel what 'tis to use me so."

The pensive Colin in his garden stray'd,
But felt not then the beauties it display'd;
There many a pleasant object met his view,
A rising wood of oaks behind it grew;
A stream ran by it, and the village green
And public road were from the gardens seen;
Save where the pine and larch the boundary
made,

And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade.
The mother sat beside the garden door,
Dress'd as in times ere she and hers were poor;
The broad-laced cap was known in ancient
days,

When madam's dress compell'd the village

praise;

And still she look'd as in the times of old,
Ere his last farm the erring husband sold;
While yet the mansion stood in decent state,
And paupers waited at the well-known gate.

"Alas! my son!" the mother cried, "and why,
That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh?
True, we are poor, but thou hast never felt
Pangs to thy father for his error dealt;
Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain,
For ever raised, and ever found in vain.
He rose unhappy! from his fruitless schemes,
As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams;
But thou wert then, my son, a playful child,
Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild,
Listening at times to thy poor mother's sighs,
With curious looks and innocent surprise;
Thy father dying, thou, my virtuous boy,
My comfort always, waked my soul to joy;
With the poor remnant of our fortune left,
Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft :
Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air,

The dame replied, "Then houseless may you Have cast a smile on sadness and despair:

rove,

The starving victim to a guilty love;

Branded with shame, in sickness doom'd to nurse
An ill-form'd cub, your scandal and your curse;
Spurn'd by its scoundrel father, and ill fed
By surly rustics with the parish bread !—
Relent you not ?-speak-yet I can forgive;
Still live with me."-"With you," said Jessy,
"live?

No! I would first endure what you describe,
Rather than breathe with your detested tribe,
Who long have feign'd, till now their very
hearts

Are firmly fix'd in their accursed parts;
Who all profess esteem, and feel disdain,
And all, with justice, of deceit complain;
Whom I could pity, but that, while I stay,
My terror drives all kinder thoughts away;

Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space
The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace;
And all around us wonder when they find
Such taste and strength, such skill and power

combined;

There is no mother, Colin, no, not one
But envies me so kind, so good a son;
By thee supported on this failing side,
Weakness itself awakes a parent's pride:
I bless the stroke that was my grief before,
And feel such joy that 'tis disease no more;
Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth,
And soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health;
The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise,
like thee were youth in earlier days;

And say,
While every village maiden cries, How gay,
How smart, how brave, how good is Colin

Grey!'

Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know
Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow;
Fain would I think that Jessy still may come
To share the comforts of our rustic home:
She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid,
When thou hast kindly brought the vicar aid-
When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain,
O! I have seen her-she will come again.'

The matron ceased; and Colin stood the while
Silent, but striving for a grateful smile;
He then replied, "Ah! sure, had Jessy stay'd,
And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade,
The tenderest duty and the fondest love
Would not have fail'd that generous heart to
move;

A grateful pity would have ruled her breast,
And my distresses would have made me blest.
"But she is gone, and ever has in view
Grandeur and taste; and what will then ensue?
Surprise, and then delight, in scenes so fair and

new:

TALE XIV.

THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE.

I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not;

Fool! of thyself speak well:-Fool! do not flatter.
My Conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale.
Richard III. act v. sc. 3.

My Conscience is but a kind of hard Conscience....
The fiend gives the more friendly counsel.

Merchant of Venice, act ii. sc. 2.

Thou hast it now-and I fear
Thou play'dst most foully for it.

Macbeth, act iii. sc. 1.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Rase out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Soft! I did but dream

Ib. act v. sc. 3.

O! coward Conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
Richard III. act v. se. 3.

For many a day, perhaps for many a week,
Home will have charms, and to her bosom speak;
But thoughtless ease, and affluence, and pride,
Seen day by day, will draw the heart aside :
And she at length, though gentle and sincere,
Will think no more of our enjoyment here."
Sighing he spake-but hark! he hears the ap- And various questions could with skill maintain;
proach

Of rattling wheels! and lo! the evening coach;
Once more the movement of the horses' feet
Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat;
Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight
Drawn him to gaze beside his gate at night;
And when with rapid wheels it hurried by,
He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh;
And could the blessing have been bought, what

sum

Had he not offer'd, to have Jessy come!

She came he saw her bending from the door,
Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more;
Lost in his joy-the mother lent her aid
T'assist and to detain the willing maid;
Who thought her late, her present home to make,
Sure of a welcome for the vicar's sake:
But the good parent was so pleased, so kind,
So pressing Colin, she so much inclined,
That night advanced; and then so long detain'd,
No wishes to depart she felt, or feign'd;

Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce
remain'd.

Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere ;
Here was content and joy, for she was here:
In the mild evening, in the scene around,
The maid, now free, peculiar beauties found;
Blended with village tones, the evening gate
Gave the sweet night-bird's warblings to the vale;
The youth imbolden'd, yet abash'd, now told
His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold;
The mother smiling whisper'd-" Let him go
And seek the license!" Jessy answer'd, "No :"
But Colin went. I know not if they live
With all the comforts wealth and plenty give:
But with pure joy to envious souls denied,
To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride;
And village maids of happy couples say,
"They live like Jessy Bourn and Colin Grey."

A SERIOUS toyman in the city dwelt,
Who much concern for his religion felt;
Reading, he changed his tenets, read again,

Papist and quaker if we set aside,
He had the road of every traveller tried ;
There walk'd a while, and on a sudden turn'd
Into some by-way he had just discern'd:
He had a nephew, Fulham-Fulham went
His uncle's way, with every turn content;
He saw his pious kinsman's watchful care,
And thought such anxious pains his own might

spare,

And he, the truth obtain'd, without the toil, might
share.

In fact, young Fulham, though he little read,
Perceived his uncle was by fancy led;
And smiled to see the constant care he took,
Collating creed with creed, and book with book.
At length the senior fix'd; I pass the sect
He call'd a church, 'twas precious and elect;
Yet the seed fell not in the richest soil,
For few disciples paid the preacher's toil;
All in an attic room were wont to meet,
These few disciples at their pastor's feet;
With these went Fulham, who, discreet and grave,
Follow'd the light his worthy uncle gave;
Till a warm preacher found a way t' impart
Awakening feelings to his torpid heart:
Some weighty truths, and of unpleasant kind,
Sank, though resisted, in his struggling mind;
He wish'd to fly them, but compell'd to stay,
Truth to the waking Conscience found her way;
For though the youth was call'd a prudent lad,
And prudent was, yet serious faults he had;
Who now reflected-" Much am I surprised,
I find these notions cannot be despised;
No! there is something I perceive at last,
Although my uncle cannot hold it fast;
Though I the strictness of these men reject,
Yet I determine to be circumspect ;
This man alarms me, and I must begin
To look more closely to the things within;