The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

The house, the mortgag'd lands were sold,
Madam and Miss no more behold
The liv'ried train obedient wait
Behind their chair, or at their gate;
Compell'd, but not content, to own
A Villa in a Country Town;
Whose household state alone display'd
A curly foot-boy and a maid:
Where nought of finery was seen
But a Veranda, pink and green;
While humble neighbours as they pass,
Admire the drap'ry, through the glass,
Whose folds in wide luxuriance spread,
With fringe and tassels blue and red.
Here they deplor'd their hapless fate,
Their lowly fall and humbled state:
Chang'd the Barouche and four bright bays
For, now-and-then, an hired chaise:

From the world exil'd and the ton,
In their small house they liv'd alone,
Almost unseen, and quite unknown;
And, which is no uncommon lot,
By all their former friends forgot.
But it has been observ'd by men,
Who wrote it with a knowing pen,
That Pride, whatever ill o'ertakes us,
Is the last feeling that forsakes us;
And, beat in every other part,
Still keeps the fortress of the heart.
Thus, to the Vicar's humble wife,
They'd talk of fashionable life,
And number up, among their cousins,
Ladies and Duchesses by dozens;
Would quite surprize her with the story
Of all their former days of glory;
And then, in pride, return again
To some uneasy, cheerless strain—
“My daughter, who, in shape and feature,
“Is a bright Paragon of Nature:

“Form'd in the highest ranks to shine,
“I say it, though the girl is mine,
“Yet is she doom'd to pass her hour,
“Like some unheeded, beauteous flower
“That never is expos'd to view,
“And fades away where first it grew.
“Augusta sings, but no one hears her;
“Augusta plays, but no one cheers her;
“Augusta smiles, but no one sees:—
“We might as well be shrubs and trees!
“Such is our dull, inactive state,
“We little more than vegetate.
“What do we see in this poor town?
“Scarce any faces but our own;
“Unless, a rare and lucky chance,
“Of trav'ller gay we catch a glance.”

Dear Mistress Goodly, who had heard
Her husband preach the sacred word,
That doth the voice of comfort speak
To those who, with devotion, seek

In heav'nly mercy the relief
That's sure to heal our mortal grief;
Would say 'twas wisdom to submit
To what the Powers above thought fit;
And Patience taught in humble phrase,
With cheering hope of better days:
That Happiness doth not depend
Upon the wealth we have to spend;
That oft, the rich, with all their store,
Are not so happy as the poor;
That soon or late pale Death will come
To call them to one common Home;
And then, the great event will rest,
Not on the rich, but on the best.
—Thus when her Sermon she had done,
Had curtsied, and was fairly gone,
She furnish'd both Mamma and Daughter,
With an whole evening full of laughter.
—But, to be brief—these clouds were soon
Converted to an Honey Moon.