University of Virginia Library

Into the wood they went. Sophia turn'd.
Maria wander'd on; nor stays her foot,
Till to the margin of a brook she comes
Swell'd by the morning's rain. Thro' the dark wood
Its troubled torrent ran, and falling hoarse
From a green bank on little rocks below
Made music not ungrateful to her ear.
She look'd about, and saw no friend behind.
She shut her book, and on a painted bench,
Erected long ago by some rude hind
Under a poplar's shade that overhung
The huddling brook, she sat her down, and sobb'd
Till sorrow had its fill; then wip'd her eyes,
And lean'd her arm against the poplar's bark,
Her head against her arm. The other hand
Held fast the book and tear-dipt handkerchief.
She look'd upon the brook, and mus'd awhile,
Watching the bubbles as they rose and burst.
At length persuasive rest her eyelids clos'd,
And all in graceful negligence reclin'd
She slept, if sleep it may be call'd, that fill'd
Her troubled mind with images of woe
And death.

Meanwhile in sad and thoughtful mood
Thrice round his garden Adriano walk'd.
He shook the drooping lilac, rais'd the pea,
Supported the gay stock, and brush'd the dew
From the full budded pink. With tender hand
Maria's shelter'd flower-pots he cheer'd,
Removing aught might hurt the cautious bud
Of balsams, myrtles, roses, or the plant
So finely sensitive. At length he turns,
And seeks the maids he left, but finds them not.
Deserted was the cottage, only Frisk,
For ever faithful, at the threshold slept.
Wide open stood the door, and seem'd to tell
Whither the maids were gone. He drew it to,
And, Frisk before him, sought the custom'd walk
Through the dark wood. Sophia soon he saw
(Her book was open, but she read it not)
In thoughtful posture now, now walking brisk,
And now in warm distress looking to heav'n,
The tears fast falling down her fluster'd cheek.

“What reads my child?” he cried; “some tender “tale
“Of virtuous suff'ring?” Startled at the voice,
She shut her book, and wiping her warm cheek
Put it away disorder'd. “Let me see,”
Said Adriano kindly; “let me see
“What tale has pow'r to wring exhausted grief
“To such a flood of woe!” He seiz'd the book,
And found it Werter's Sorrows. “Aye, my child,
“A wretched tale, but not to be believ'd.
“O pestilent example, to describe
“As worthy pity and the fair one's tears
“Deeds by no arguments to be excus'd.
“Who kills himself, involves him in the guilt
“Of foulest murder. True, no written law
“Commands our strict forbearance; but be sure
“The laws of nature are the laws of God;
“And he, who said Thou shalt not murder, made
“This universal law that binds our hands
“From mischief to ourselves. Else why so strong
“The love of being and the fear of death?
“Why stands the tortur'd sick on the grave's brink,
“And trembles to step in? Why linger I,
“Assur'd that nothing painful waits me there?
“'Tis God's decree engrav'd upon the heart
“To make us wait with patience, till he comes,
“Undraws the curtain, and dispels the gloom,
“And takes us to his bosom, and rewards
“Our constancy and truth. That mortal then,
“Who shuns the suff'rance of impending ills,
“Is cowardly and rash. For what more rash
“Than wilfully to spoil a noble work
“God made, and said, let live? What more betrays
“Rank cowardice, than tim'rously to shake
“And fly distracted at a foe's approach?
“Can there be aught more painful, than to lose
“An amiable wife? in one short hour
“To fall from affluence and joy and peace,
“To poverty and grief? Can there be felt
“Heavier misfortune, than to lose a son,
“And find myself a beggar at his death;
“Forc'd into solitude without a friend,
“And only one poor little weeping child
“To be the sad companion of my grief?
“Yet am I living still, and kiss the hand
“That smote me so severely. Tell me not
“That life has pains too heavy to support.
“Look towards Calvary, and learn from thence
“The noblest fortitude is still to bear
“Accumulated ills, and never faint.
“We may avoid them, if we can with honour;
“But, God requiring, let weak man submit,
“And drink the bitter draught, and not repine.
“Had Cato been a Christian, he had died
“By inches, rather than have ta'en the sword
“And fall'n unlike his master.”

“Yes, good Sir,”
Answer'd Sophia, with a downcast eye,
Turning the leaves, “and he, who feels like me,
“Would sooner bear all human woes in one,
“Than fly to death for succour, and destroy
“A parent's peace for life.”

“'Tis justly said,”
Cried Adriano, at the pious thought
Touch'd with affection, “and the man who dies,
“Provok'd to madness by adult'rous love,
“Ignobly dies. A more disgraceful end
“No sentence could inflict.

“And she who loves,”
Replied Sophia, “and divides her heart,
“Giving it not entire to him she weds,
“Deserves no pity, suffer what she will.”

“Doubtless” said he: “O it delights me much
“To find such sense in woman, she can see
“The fatal tendency of tales like these.
“'Tis thus the arch deceiver, busy still
“To ruin man, besets the female heart,
“Insinuates evil counsel, and inflames
“The hungry passions, that like arid flax
“Catch at a spark, and mount into a blaze.
“The passions heated, reason strives in vain;
“Her empire's lost, and the distracted soul
“Becomes the sport of devils, wholly bent
“To turn and wind it in a world of sin.”

“'Twere dang'rous then,” cried she, “however good,
“To trust our judgment in a tale like this?”

“Dang'rous indeed,” said he; “for what young maid
“Can so distinguish between good and ill,
“As not to love and practise both alike,
“When both are painted lovely? Trust me, child,
“There lurks a serpent in this flow'ry path
“Shall sting thee to the quick. Better desist,
“And enter not at all, than be seduc'd
“By its best fruits, till appetite increase,
“And step by step the cautious foot advance,
“Till no return be found. The thirsty tongue
“May taste the spring it nauseates and abhors,
“Till custom makes it sweet. And frequent use
“May so befool the sense, to make it long,
“And drain the cup, and drink the pois'nous dregs,
“Rather than quit it for the draught of health.”

“If then,” rejoin'd Sophia, “tales like these
“Ought never to attract a female's eye,
“Tell me, good Sir, for I have long'd to ask,
“What shall we read?”

“What read, my child?” said he,
“Read thy Creator in his word and works.
“Follow Philosophy, and hear her speak
“Of other peopled worlds, and other suns
“Enlight'ning worlds unheard of. See her draw
“The ample circle, and describe the laws
“Of this our little universe, which lies
“Within the ken of our assisted eye.
“Be with her when she turns the spotted globe,
“And shews the cause of seasons, day and night,
“In equal portions dealt to all mankind.
“Attend her to the field, with studious eye
“Closely examining whate'er she sees.
“Hear her discourse of wisdom in the brute,
“The fish, the fowl, the insect, plant and flow'r,
“In ev'ry particle alive or dead,
“From the cloud-cover'd mountain's highest peak
“Down to the center. Follow History,
“And hear her justify the ways of God,
“Requiting evil, and rewarding good,
“And holding up to honour and esteem
“The great example. Follow Poetry,
“And mark her epic song and tragic act,
“And only leave her when indecent mirth
“Turns wit to madness. I could tell thee, child,
“Would time permit, a thousand wholesome paths,
“Where profit only with amusement dwells,
“And where no danger lurks. Be such as Grey,
“Or More's attentive daughter. From his lips
“A family grew wife, and ev'ry ear
“Drank pure instruction. Like a summer sun
“On all about him his benignant ray
“Shed happy influence, and ev'ry child,
“Improv'd and cherish'd by the glowing beam,
“Shone like a planet. Chiefly she the first,
“The morning star, how exquisite her charms,
“For ever near and dancing in his smiles,
“And shining most the parent orb eclips'd.
“Be such as Bacon's mother, skill'd to rear
“Her infant prodigy; or such as she
“The gallant Sidney's sister, learn'd and good,
“Whose like ere death shall kill, expiring time
“Shall throw a dart at him, and shut the grave.
“Learn by what arts ingenious Packington
“To lasting honour rose; how Masham won
“Locke's just regard; how pious Norton's child
“In early greatness died; how Astell shone
“The glory of her age. Seek these, my child,
“And let none go beyond thee. To excel
“Be all thy wish at morning, noon, and night.
“But shun the flow'ry path where no good dwells,
“And guard thy virtue as a precious gem
“Much envied and soon lost. Another time,
“If yet the wood, the cottage, and the down
“Have charms to stay thee, Gilbert gone for ever,
“I will instruct thee farther. Live with me,
“And be Maria's friend, and eat my bread,
“And be my second daughter.”

“Thanks, good Sir,”
Sophia said, and in one modest look
Convey'd such gratitude as angels feel
In the great world above. And now again
Grief swell'd her heart, and tears ran down her cheek.

“Come,” said the careful father, “weep no more.
“Go to the cot, ere chilly ev'ning come,
“And the damp wood affect thee. Where's my daughter?”