The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe with his letters and journals, and his life, by his son. In eight volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V. |
| VI, VII. |
| VIII. |
 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe |  |
Still was my mother sad, her nerves relax'd,
And our small income for advice was tax'd;
When I, who long'd for change and freedom, cried,
Let sea and Sidmouth's balmy air be tried;
And so they were, and every neighbouring scene,
That make the bosom, like the clime, serene;
Yet were her teachers loth to yield assent;
And not without the warning voice we went;
And there was secret counsel all unknown
To me—but I had counsel of my own.
And our small income for advice was tax'd;
When I, who long'd for change and freedom, cried,
Let sea and Sidmouth's balmy air be tried;
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That make the bosom, like the clime, serene;
Yet were her teachers loth to yield assent;
And not without the warning voice we went;
And there was secret counsel all unknown
To me—but I had counsel of my own.
And now there pass'd a portion of my time
In ease delicious, and in joy sublime—
With friends endear'd by kindness—with delight,—
In all that could the feeling mind excite,
Or please, excited; walks in every place,
Where we could pleasure find and beauty trace,
Or views at night, where on the rocky steep
Shines the full moon, or glitters on the deep.
In ease delicious, and in joy sublime—
With friends endear'd by kindness—with delight,—
In all that could the feeling mind excite,
Or please, excited; walks in every place,
Where we could pleasure find and beauty trace,
Or views at night, where on the rocky steep
Shines the full moon, or glitters on the deep.
Yes, they were happy days; but they are fled!
All now are parted—part are with the dead!
Still it is pleasure, though 'tis mix'd with pain,
To think of joys that cannot live again!
Here cannot live; but they excite desire
Of purer kind, and heavenly thoughts inspire!
All now are parted—part are with the dead!
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To think of joys that cannot live again!
Here cannot live; but they excite desire
Of purer kind, and heavenly thoughts inspire!
And now my mother, weaken'd in her mind,
Her will, subdued before, to me resign'd.
Wean'd from her late directors, by degrees
She sank resign'd, and only sought for ease:
In a small town upon the coast we fix'd;
Nor in amusement with associates mix'd.
My years—but other mode will I pursue,
And count my time by what I sought to do.
Her will, subdued before, to me resign'd.
Wean'd from her late directors, by degrees
She sank resign'd, and only sought for ease:
In a small town upon the coast we fix'd;
Nor in amusement with associates mix'd.
My years—but other mode will I pursue,
And count my time by what I sought to do.
And was that mind at ease? could I avow
That no once leading thoughts engaged me now?
Was I convinced th' enthusiastic man
Had ruin'd what the loving boy began?
I answer doubting—I could still detect
Feelings too soft—yet him I could reject—
Feelings that came when I had least employ,
When common pleasures I could least enjoy—
When I was pacing lonely in the rays
Of a full moon, in lonely walks and ways—
When I was sighing o'er a tale's distress,
And paid attention to my Bible less.
That no once leading thoughts engaged me now?
Was I convinced th' enthusiastic man
Had ruin'd what the loving boy began?
I answer doubting—I could still detect
Feelings too soft—yet him I could reject—
Feelings that came when I had least employ,
When common pleasures I could least enjoy—
When I was pacing lonely in the rays
Of a full moon, in lonely walks and ways—
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And paid attention to my Bible less.
These found, I sought my remedies for these;
I suffer'd common things my mind to please,
And common pleasures: seldom walk'd alone,
Nor when the moon upon the waters shone;
But then my candles lit, my window closed,
My needle took, and with my neighbours prosed:
And in one year—nay, ere the end of one,
My labour ended, and my love was done.
I suffer'd common things my mind to please,
And common pleasures: seldom walk'd alone,
Nor when the moon upon the waters shone;
But then my candles lit, my window closed,
My needle took, and with my neighbours prosed:
And in one year—nay, ere the end of one,
My labour ended, and my love was done.
My heart at rest, I boldly look'd within,
And dared to ask it of its secret sin;
Alas! with pride it answer'd, “Look around,
“And tell me where a better heart is found.”
And then I traced my virtues: Oh! how few,
In fact, they were, and yet how vain I grew;
Thought of my kindness, condescension, ease,
My will, my wishes, nay, my power to please;
I judged me prudent, rational, discreet,
And void of folly, falsehood, and deceit;
I read, not lightly, as I some had known,
But made an author's meaning all my own;
In short, what lady could a poet choose
As a superior subject for his Muse?
And dared to ask it of its secret sin;
Alas! with pride it answer'd, “Look around,
“And tell me where a better heart is found.”
And then I traced my virtues: Oh! how few,
In fact, they were, and yet how vain I grew;
Thought of my kindness, condescension, ease,
My will, my wishes, nay, my power to please;
I judged me prudent, rational, discreet,
And void of folly, falsehood, and deceit;
I read, not lightly, as I some had known,
But made an author's meaning all my own;
In short, what lady could a poet choose
As a superior subject for his Muse?
So said my heart; and Conscience straight replied—
“I say the matter is not fairly tried:
“I am offended, hurt, dissatisfied;
“First of the Christian graces, let me see
“What thy pretensions to humility?
“Art thou prepared for trial? Wilt thou say,
“I am this being, and for judgment pray?
“And with the gallant Frenchman, wilt thou cry,
“When to thy judge presented, Thus am I—
“Thus was I form'd—these talents I possess'd—
“So I employ'd them—and thou know'st the rest?”
“I say the matter is not fairly tried:
“I am offended, hurt, dissatisfied;
“First of the Christian graces, let me see
“What thy pretensions to humility?
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“I am this being, and for judgment pray?
“And with the gallant Frenchman, wilt thou cry,
“When to thy judge presented, Thus am I—
“Thus was I form'd—these talents I possess'd—
“So I employ'd them—and thou know'st the rest?”
Thus Conscience; and she then a picture drew,
And bade me think and tremble at the view.
One I beheld—a wife, a mother—go
To gloomy scenes of wickedness and woe;
She sought her way through all things vile and base,
And made a prison a religious place:
Fighting her way—the way that angels fight
With powers of darkness—to let in the light;
Tell me, my heart, hast thou such victory won
As this, a sinner of thy sex, has done,
And calls herself a sinner? What art thou?
And where thy praise and exaltation now?
Yet is she tender, delicate, and nice,
And shrinks from all depravity and vice;
Shrinks from the ruffian gaze, the savage gloom,
That reign where guilt and misery find a home:
Guilt chain'd, and misery purchased; and with them
All we abhor, abominate, condemn—
The look of scorn, the scowl, th' insulting leer
Of shame, all fix'd on her who ventures here:
Yet all she braved! she kept her steadfast eye
On the dear cause, and brush'd the baseness by.
So would a mother press her darling child
Close to her breast, with tainted rags defiled.
And bade me think and tremble at the view.
One I beheld—a wife, a mother—go
To gloomy scenes of wickedness and woe;
She sought her way through all things vile and base,
And made a prison a religious place:
Fighting her way—the way that angels fight
With powers of darkness—to let in the light;
Tell me, my heart, hast thou such victory won
As this, a sinner of thy sex, has done,
And calls herself a sinner? What art thou?
And where thy praise and exaltation now?
Yet is she tender, delicate, and nice,
And shrinks from all depravity and vice;
Shrinks from the ruffian gaze, the savage gloom,
That reign where guilt and misery find a home:
Guilt chain'd, and misery purchased; and with them
All we abhor, abominate, condemn—
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Of shame, all fix'd on her who ventures here:
Yet all she braved! she kept her steadfast eye
On the dear cause, and brush'd the baseness by.
So would a mother press her darling child
Close to her breast, with tainted rags defiled.
But thou hast talents truly! say the ten:
Come, let us look at their improvement then.
What hast thou done to aid thy suffering kind,
To help the sick, the deaf, the lame, the blind?
Hast thou not spent thy intellectual force
On books abstruse, in critical discourse?
Wasting in useless energy thy days,
And idly listening to their common praise,
Who can a kind of transient fame dispense,
And say—“A woman of exceeding sense.”
Thus tried, and failing, the suggestions fled,
And a corrected spirit reign'd instead.
Come, let us look at their improvement then.
What hast thou done to aid thy suffering kind,
To help the sick, the deaf, the lame, the blind?
Hast thou not spent thy intellectual force
On books abstruse, in critical discourse?
Wasting in useless energy thy days,
And idly listening to their common praise,
Who can a kind of transient fame dispense,
And say—“A woman of exceeding sense.”
Thus tried, and failing, the suggestions fled,
And a corrected spirit reign'd instead.
My mother yet was living; but the flame
Of life now flash'd, and fainter then became;
I made it pleasant, and was pleased to see
A parent looking as a child to me.
Of life now flash'd, and fainter then became;
I made it pleasant, and was pleased to see
A parent looking as a child to me.
And now our humble place grew wond'rous gay;
Came gallant persons in their red array:
All strangers welcome there, extremely welcome they.
When in the church I saw enquiring eyes
Fix'd on my face with pleasure and surprise;
And soon a knocking at my door was heard;
And soon the lover of my youth appear'd—
Frederick, in all his glory, glad to meet,
And say, “his happiness was now complete.”
Came gallant persons in their red array:
All strangers welcome there, extremely welcome they.
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Fix'd on my face with pleasure and surprise;
And soon a knocking at my door was heard;
And soon the lover of my youth appear'd—
Frederick, in all his glory, glad to meet,
And say, “his happiness was now complete.”
He told his flight from superstitious zeal;
But first what torments he was doom'd to feel:—
“The tender tears he saw from women fall—
“The strong persuasions of the brethren all—
“The threats of crazed enthusiasts, bound to keep
“The struggling mind, and awe the straying sheep—
“From these, their love, their curses, and their creed,
“Was I by reason and exertion freed.”
But first what torments he was doom'd to feel:—
“The tender tears he saw from women fall—
“The strong persuasions of the brethren all—
“The threats of crazed enthusiasts, bound to keep
“The struggling mind, and awe the straying sheep—
“From these, their love, their curses, and their creed,
“Was I by reason and exertion freed.”
Then, like a man who often had been told
And was convinced success attends the bold,
His former purpose he renew'd, and swore
He never loved me half so well before:
Before he felt a something to divide
The heart, that now had not a love beside.
And was convinced success attends the bold,
His former purpose he renew'd, and swore
He never loved me half so well before:
Before he felt a something to divide
The heart, that now had not a love beside.
In earlier times had I myself amused,
And first my swain perplex'd, and then refused;—
Cure for conceit;—but now in purpose grave,
Strong and decisive the reply I gave.
Still he would come, and talk as idlers do,
Both of his old associates and his new;
Those who their dreams and reveries receive
For facts, and those who would not facts believe.
And first my swain perplex'd, and then refused;—
Cure for conceit;—but now in purpose grave,
Strong and decisive the reply I gave.
Still he would come, and talk as idlers do,
Both of his old associates and his new;
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For facts, and those who would not facts believe.
He now conceived that Truth was hidden, placed
He knew not where, she never could be traced;
“But in that every place, the world around,
“Might some resemblance of the nymph be found:
“Yet wise men knew these shadows to be vain,
“Such as our true philosophers disdain,—
“They laugh to see what vulgar minds pursue—
“Truth, as a mistress, never in their view—
“But there the shadow flies, and that, they cry, is true.”
He knew not where, she never could be traced;
“But in that every place, the world around,
“Might some resemblance of the nymph be found:
“Yet wise men knew these shadows to be vain,
“Such as our true philosophers disdain,—
“They laugh to see what vulgar minds pursue—
“Truth, as a mistress, never in their view—
“But there the shadow flies, and that, they cry, is true.”
Thus, at the college and the meeting train'd,
My lover seem'd his acmé to have gain'd;
With some compassion I essay'd a cure:
“If truth be hidden, why art thou so sure?”
This he mistook for tenderness, and cried,
“If sure of thee, I care not what beside!”
Compell'd to silence, I, in pure disdain,
Withdrew from one so insolent and vain:
He then retired; and I was kindly told,
“In pure compassion grew estranged and cold.”
My lover seem'd his acmé to have gain'd;
With some compassion I essay'd a cure:
“If truth be hidden, why art thou so sure?”
This he mistook for tenderness, and cried,
“If sure of thee, I care not what beside!”
Compell'd to silence, I, in pure disdain,
Withdrew from one so insolent and vain:
He then retired; and I was kindly told,
“In pure compassion grew estranged and cold.”
My mother died; but, in my grief, drew near
A bosom friend, who dried the useless tear:
We lived together: we combined our shares
Of the world's good, and learn'd to brave its cares:
We were “the Ladies of the Place,” and found
Protection and respect the country round;
We gave, and largely, for we wish'd to live
In good repute—for this 't is good to give;
Our annual present to the priest convey'd
Was kindly taken:—we in comfort pray'd;
There none molested in the crimson pew
The worthy ladies, whom the vicar knew:
And we began to think that life might be,
Not happy all, but innocently free.
A bosom friend, who dried the useless tear:
We lived together: we combined our shares
Of the world's good, and learn'd to brave its cares:
We were “the Ladies of the Place,” and found
Protection and respect the country round;
We gave, and largely, for we wish'd to live
In good repute—for this 't is good to give;
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Was kindly taken:—we in comfort pray'd;
There none molested in the crimson pew
The worthy ladies, whom the vicar knew:
And we began to think that life might be,
Not happy all, but innocently free.
My friend in early life was bound to one
Of gentle kindred, but a younger son.
He fortune's smile with perseverance woo'd,
And wealth beneath the burning sun pursued:
There, urged by love and youthful hope, he went,
Loth; but 't was all his fortune could present.
Of gentle kindred, but a younger son.
He fortune's smile with perseverance woo'd,
And wealth beneath the burning sun pursued:
There, urged by love and youthful hope, he went,
Loth; but 't was all his fortune could present.
From hence he wrote; and, with a lover's fears,
And gloomy fondness, talk'd of future years;
To her devoted, his Priscilla found
His faithful heart still suffering with its wound,
That would not heal. A second time she heard;
And then no more: nor lover since appear'd;
Year after year the country's fleet arrived,
Confirm'd her fear, and yet her love survived;
It still was living; yet her hope was dead,
And youthful dreams, nay, youth itself, was fled;
And he was lost: so urged her friends, so she
At length believed, and thus retired with me;
She would a dedicated vestal prove,
And give her virgin vows to heaven and love;
She dwelt with fond regret on pleasures past,
With ardent hope on those that ever last;
Pious and tender, every day she view'd
With solemn joy our perfect solitude;
Her reading, that which most delighted her,
That soothed the passions, yet would gently stir;
The tender, softening, melancholy strain,
That caused not pleasure, but that vanquish'd pain,
In tears she read, and wept, and long'd to read again.
But other worlds were her supreme delight,
And there, it seem'd, she long'd to take her flight:
Yet patient, pensive, arm'd by thoughts sublime,
She watch'd the tardy steps of lingering time.
And gloomy fondness, talk'd of future years;
To her devoted, his Priscilla found
His faithful heart still suffering with its wound,
That would not heal. A second time she heard;
And then no more: nor lover since appear'd;
Year after year the country's fleet arrived,
Confirm'd her fear, and yet her love survived;
It still was living; yet her hope was dead,
And youthful dreams, nay, youth itself, was fled;
And he was lost: so urged her friends, so she
At length believed, and thus retired with me;
She would a dedicated vestal prove,
And give her virgin vows to heaven and love;
She dwelt with fond regret on pleasures past,
With ardent hope on those that ever last;
Pious and tender, every day she view'd
With solemn joy our perfect solitude;
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That soothed the passions, yet would gently stir;
The tender, softening, melancholy strain,
That caused not pleasure, but that vanquish'd pain,
In tears she read, and wept, and long'd to read again.
But other worlds were her supreme delight,
And there, it seem'd, she long'd to take her flight:
Yet patient, pensive, arm'd by thoughts sublime,
She watch'd the tardy steps of lingering time.
My friend, with face that most would handsome call,
Possess'd the charm that wins the heart of all;
And, thrice entreated by a lover's prayer,
She thrice refused him with determined air.
“No! had the world one monarch, and was he
“All that the heart could wish its lord to be,—
“Lovely and loving, generous, brave, and true,—
“Vain were his hopes to waken hers anew!”
For she was wedded to ideal views,
And fancy's prospects, that she would not lose,
Would not forego, to be a mortal's wife,
And wed the poor realities of life.
Possess'd the charm that wins the heart of all;
And, thrice entreated by a lover's prayer,
She thrice refused him with determined air.
“No! had the world one monarch, and was he
“All that the heart could wish its lord to be,—
“Lovely and loving, generous, brave, and true,—
“Vain were his hopes to waken hers anew!”
For she was wedded to ideal views,
And fancy's prospects, that she would not lose,
Would not forego, to be a mortal's wife,
And wed the poor realities of life.
There was a day, ere yet the autumn closed,
When, ere her wintry wars, the earth reposed,
When from the yellow weed the feathery crown,
Light as the curling smoke, fell slowly down;
When the wing'd insect settled in our sight,
And waited wind to recommence her flight;
When the wide river was a silver sheet,
And on the ocean slept th' unanchor'd fleet;
When from our garden, as we look'd above,
There was no cloud, and nothing seem'd to move;
Then was my friend in ecstasies—she cried,
“There is, I feel there is, a world beside!
“Martha, dear Martha! we shall hear not then
“Of hearts distress'd by good or evil men,
“But all will constant, tender, faithful be—
“So had I been, and so had one with me;
“But in this world the fondest and the best
“Are the most tried, most troubled, and distress'd;
“This is the place for trial; here we prove,
“And there enjoy, the faithfulness of love.
When, ere her wintry wars, the earth reposed,
When from the yellow weed the feathery crown,
Light as the curling smoke, fell slowly down;
When the wing'd insect settled in our sight,
And waited wind to recommence her flight;
When the wide river was a silver sheet,
And on the ocean slept th' unanchor'd fleet;
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There was no cloud, and nothing seem'd to move;
Then was my friend in ecstasies—she cried,
“There is, I feel there is, a world beside!
“Martha, dear Martha! we shall hear not then
“Of hearts distress'd by good or evil men,
“But all will constant, tender, faithful be—
“So had I been, and so had one with me;
“But in this world the fondest and the best
“Are the most tried, most troubled, and distress'd;
“This is the place for trial; here we prove,
“And there enjoy, the faithfulness of love.
“Nay, were he here in all the pride of youth,
“With honour, valour, tenderness, and truth,
“Entirely mine, yet what could I secure,
“Or who one day of comfort could insure?
“No! all is closed on earth, and there is now
“Nothing to break th' indissoluble vow;
“But in that world will be th' abiding bliss,
“That pays for every tear and sigh in this.”
“With honour, valour, tenderness, and truth,
“Entirely mine, yet what could I secure,
“Or who one day of comfort could insure?
“No! all is closed on earth, and there is now
“Nothing to break th' indissoluble vow;
“But in that world will be th' abiding bliss,
“That pays for every tear and sigh in this.”
Such her discourse, and more refined it grew,
Till she had all her glorious dream in view;
And she would further in that dream proceed
Than I dare go, who doubtfully agreed:
Smiling I ask'd, again to draw the soul
From flight so high, and fancy to control,
“If this be truth, the lover's happier way
“Is distant still to keep the purposed day,
“The real bliss would mar the fancied joy,
“And marriage all the dream of love destroy.”
Till she had all her glorious dream in view;
And she would further in that dream proceed
Than I dare go, who doubtfully agreed:
Smiling I ask'd, again to draw the soul
From flight so high, and fancy to control,
“If this be truth, the lover's happier way
“Is distant still to keep the purposed day,
“The real bliss would mar the fancied joy,
“And marriage all the dream of love destroy.”
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She softly smiled, and as we gravely talk'd,
We saw a man who up the gravel walk'd,
Not quite erect, nor quite by age depress'd,
A travell'd man, and as a merchant dress'd;
Large chain of gold upon his watch he wore,
Small golden buckles on his feet he bore;
A head of gold his costly cane display'd,
And all about him love of gold betray'd.
We saw a man who up the gravel walk'd,
Not quite erect, nor quite by age depress'd,
A travell'd man, and as a merchant dress'd;
Large chain of gold upon his watch he wore,
Small golden buckles on his feet he bore;
A head of gold his costly cane display'd,
And all about him love of gold betray'd.
This comely man moved onward, and a pair
Of comely maidens met with serious air;
Till one exclaim'd, and wildly look'd around,
“O Heav'n, 'tis Paul!” and dropp'd upon the ground;
But she recover'd soon, and you must guess
What then ensued, and how much happiness.
Of comely maidens met with serious air;
Till one exclaim'd, and wildly look'd around,
“O Heav'n, 'tis Paul!” and dropp'd upon the ground;
But she recover'd soon, and you must guess
What then ensued, and how much happiness.
They parted lovers, both distress'd to part!
They met as neighbours, heal'd, and whole of heart:
She in his absence look'd to heaven for bliss,
He was contented with a world like this;
And she prepared in some new state to meet
The man now seeking for some snug retreat.
He kindly told her he was firm and true,
Nor doubted her, and bade her then adieu!
They met as neighbours, heal'd, and whole of heart:
She in his absence look'd to heaven for bliss,
He was contented with a world like this;
And she prepared in some new state to meet
The man now seeking for some snug retreat.
He kindly told her he was firm and true,
Nor doubted her, and bade her then adieu!
“What shall I do?” the sighing maid began,
“How lost the lover! O, how gross the man.”
For the plain dealer had his wish declared,
Nor she, devoted victim! could be spared:
He spoke as one decided; she as one
Who fear'd the love, and would the lover shun.
“O Martha, sister of my soul! how dies
“Each lovely view! for can I truth disguise,
“That this is he? No! nothing shall persuade,
“This is a man the naughty world has made,
“An eating, drinking, buying, bargaining man—
“And can I love him? No! I never can.
“What once he was, what fancy gave beside,
“Full well I know, my love was then my pride;
“What time has done, what trade and travel wrought,
“You see! and yet your sorrowing friend is sought;
“But can I take him?”—“Take him not,” I cried,
“If so averse—but why so soon decide?”
“How lost the lover! O, how gross the man.”
For the plain dealer had his wish declared,
Nor she, devoted victim! could be spared:
He spoke as one decided; she as one
Who fear'd the love, and would the lover shun.
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“Each lovely view! for can I truth disguise,
“That this is he? No! nothing shall persuade,
“This is a man the naughty world has made,
“An eating, drinking, buying, bargaining man—
“And can I love him? No! I never can.
“What once he was, what fancy gave beside,
“Full well I know, my love was then my pride;
“What time has done, what trade and travel wrought,
“You see! and yet your sorrowing friend is sought;
“But can I take him?”—“Take him not,” I cried,
“If so averse—but why so soon decide?”
Meantime a daily guest the man appear'd,
Set all his sail, and for his purpose steer'd:
Loud and familiar, loving, fierce, and free,
He overpower'd her soft timidity;
Who, weak and vain, and grateful to behold
The man was hers, and hers would be the gold;
Thus sundry motives, more than I can name,
Leagued on his part, and she a wife became.
Set all his sail, and for his purpose steer'd:
Loud and familiar, loving, fierce, and free,
He overpower'd her soft timidity;
Who, weak and vain, and grateful to behold
The man was hers, and hers would be the gold;
Thus sundry motives, more than I can name,
Leagued on his part, and she a wife became.
A home was offer'd, but I knew too well
What comfort was with married friends to dwell;
I was resign'd, and had I felt distress,
Again a lover offer'd some redress;
Behold, a hero of the buskin hears
My loss, and with consoling love appears;
Frederick was now a hero on the stage,
In all its glories, rhapsody, and rage;
Again himself he offer'd, offer'd all
That his a hero of the kind can call:
He for my sake would hope of fame resign,
And leave the applause of all the world for mine
Hard fate was Frederick's, never to succeed,
Yet ever try—but so it was decreed:
His mind was weaken'd; he would laugh and weep,
And swore profusely I had “murder'd sleep.”
Had quite unmann'd him, cleft his heart in twain,
And he should never “be himself again.”
What comfort was with married friends to dwell;
I was resign'd, and had I felt distress,
Again a lover offer'd some redress;
Behold, a hero of the buskin hears
My loss, and with consoling love appears;
Frederick was now a hero on the stage,
In all its glories, rhapsody, and rage;
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That his a hero of the kind can call:
He for my sake would hope of fame resign,
And leave the applause of all the world for mine
Hard fate was Frederick's, never to succeed,
Yet ever try—but so it was decreed:
His mind was weaken'd; he would laugh and weep,
And swore profusely I had “murder'd sleep.”
Had quite unmann'd him, cleft his heart in twain,
And he should never “be himself again.”
He was himself; weak, nervous, kind, and poor,
Ill dress'd and idle, he besieged my door,
Borrow'd,—or, worse, made verses on my charms,
And did his best to fill me with alarms;
I had some pity, and I sought the price
Of my repose—my hero was not nice;
There was a loan, and promise I should be
From all the efforts of his fondness free,
From hunger's future claims, or those of vanity.
“Yet,” said he, bowing, “do to study take!
“Oh! what a Desdemona wouldst thou make!”
Thus was my lover lost; yet even now
He claims one thought, and this we will allow.
Ill dress'd and idle, he besieged my door,
Borrow'd,—or, worse, made verses on my charms,
And did his best to fill me with alarms;
I had some pity, and I sought the price
Of my repose—my hero was not nice;
There was a loan, and promise I should be
From all the efforts of his fondness free,
From hunger's future claims, or those of vanity.
“Yet,” said he, bowing, “do to study take!
“Oh! what a Desdemona wouldst thou make!”
Thus was my lover lost; yet even now
He claims one thought, and this we will allow.
His father lived to an extreme old age,
But never kind!—his son had left the stage
And gain'd some office, but a humble place,
And that he lost! Want sharpen'd his disgrace,
Urged him to seek his father—but too late,
His jealous brothers watch'd and barr'd the gate.
But never kind!—his son had left the stage
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And that he lost! Want sharpen'd his disgrace,
Urged him to seek his father—but too late,
His jealous brothers watch'd and barr'd the gate.
The old man died: but there is one who pays
A moderate pension for his latter days,
Who, though assured inquiries will offend,
Is ever asking for this unknown friend;
Some partial lady, whom he hopes to find,
As to his wants so to his wishes kind.
A moderate pension for his latter days,
Who, though assured inquiries will offend,
Is ever asking for this unknown friend;
Some partial lady, whom he hopes to find,
As to his wants so to his wishes kind.
“Be still,” a cool adviser sometimes writes—
“Nay, but,” says he, “the gentle maid invites—
“Do, let me know the young! the soft! the fair!
“Old man,” 'tis answer'd, “take thyself to prayer!
“Be clean, be sober, to thy priest apply,
“And—dead to all around thee—learn to die!”
“Nay, but,” says he, “the gentle maid invites—
“Do, let me know the young! the soft! the fair!
“Old man,” 'tis answer'd, “take thyself to prayer!
“Be clean, be sober, to thy priest apply,
“And—dead to all around thee—learn to die!”
Now had I rest from life's strong hopes and fears,
And no disturbance mark'd the flying years;
So on in quiet might those years have pass'd
But for a light adventure, and a last.
And no disturbance mark'd the flying years;
So on in quiet might those years have pass'd
But for a light adventure, and a last.
A handsome Boy, from school-day bondage free,
Came with mamma to gaze upon the sea;
With soft blue eye he look'd upon the waves,
And talk'd of treacherous rocks, and seamen's graves:
There was much sweetness in his boyish smile,
And signs of feelings frank, that knew not guile.
Came with mamma to gaze upon the sea;
With soft blue eye he look'd upon the waves,
And talk'd of treacherous rocks, and seamen's graves:
There was much sweetness in his boyish smile,
And signs of feelings frank, that knew not guile.
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The partial mother, of her darling proud,
Besought my friendship, and her own avow'd;
She praised her Rupert's person, spirit, ease,
How fond of study, yet how form'd to please;
In our discourse he often bore a part,
And talk'd, heaven bless him! of his feeling heart;
He spoke of pleasures souls like his enjoy,
And hated Lovelace like a virtuous boy;
Besought my friendship, and her own avow'd;
She praised her Rupert's person, spirit, ease,
How fond of study, yet how form'd to please;
In our discourse he often bore a part,
And talk'd, heaven bless him! of his feeling heart;
He spoke of pleasures souls like his enjoy,
And hated Lovelace like a virtuous boy;
He felt for Clementina's holy strife,
And was Sir Charles as large and true as life:
For Virtue's heroines was his soul distress'd;
True love and guileless honour fill'd his breast,
When, as the subjects drew the frequent sigh,
The tear stood trembling in his large blue eye,
And softly he exclaim'd, “Sweet, sweetest sympathy!”
And was Sir Charles as large and true as life:
For Virtue's heroines was his soul distress'd;
True love and guileless honour fill'd his breast,
When, as the subjects drew the frequent sigh,
The tear stood trembling in his large blue eye,
And softly he exclaim'd, “Sweet, sweetest sympathy!”
When thus I heard the handsome stripling speak,
I smiled assent, and thought to pat his cheek:
But when I saw the feelings blushing there,
Signs of emotions strong, they said—forbear!
I smiled assent, and thought to pat his cheek:
But when I saw the feelings blushing there,
Signs of emotions strong, they said—forbear!
The Youth would speak of his intent to live
On that estate which heaven was pleased to give,
There with the partner of his joys to dwell,
And nurse the virtues that he loved so well;
The humble good of happy swains to share,
And from the cottage drive distress and care;
To the dear infants make some pleasures known,
And teach, he gravely said, the virtues to his own.
On that estate which heaven was pleased to give,
There with the partner of his joys to dwell,
And nurse the virtues that he loved so well;
The humble good of happy swains to share,
And from the cottage drive distress and care;
To the dear infants make some pleasures known,
And teach, he gravely said, the virtues to his own.
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He loved to read in verse, and verse-like prose,
The softest tales of love-inflicted woes;
When, looking fondly, he would smile and cry,
Is there not bliss in sensibility?”
The softest tales of love-inflicted woes;
When, looking fondly, he would smile and cry,
Is there not bliss in sensibility?”
We walk'd together, and it seem'd not harm
In linking thought with thought, and arm with arm,
Till the dear boy would talk too much of bliss,
And indistinctly murmur—“such as this.”
In linking thought with thought, and arm with arm,
Till the dear boy would talk too much of bliss,
And indistinctly murmur—“such as this.”
When no maternal wish her heart beguiled,
The lady call'd her son “the darling child;”
When with some nearer view her speech began,
She changed her phrase, and said, “the good young man!”
And lost, when hinting of some future bride,
The woman's prudence in the mother's pride.
The lady call'd her son “the darling child;”
When with some nearer view her speech began,
She changed her phrase, and said, “the good young man!”
And lost, when hinting of some future bride,
The woman's prudence in the mother's pride.
Still decent fear and conscious folly strove
With fond presumption and aspiring love;
But now too plain to me the strife appear'd,
And what he sought I knew, and what he fear'd;
The trembling hand and frequent sigh disclosed
The wish that prudence, care, and time opposed.
With fond presumption and aspiring love;
But now too plain to me the strife appear'd,
And what he sought I knew, and what he fear'd;
The trembling hand and frequent sigh disclosed
The wish that prudence, care, and time opposed.
Was I not pleased, will you demand?—Amused
By boyish love, that woman's pride refused?
This I acknowledge, and, from day to day,
Resolved no longer at such game to play;
Yet I forbore, though to my purpose true,
And firmly fix'd to bid the youth adieu.
There was a moonlight eve, serenely cool,
When the vast ocean seem'd a mighty pool;
Save the small rippling waves that gently beat,
We scarcely heard them falling, at our feet
His mother absent, absent every sound,
And every sight, that could the youth confound;
The arm, fast lock'd in mine, his fear betray'd,
And when he spoke not, his designs convey'd;
He oft-times gasp'd for breath, he tried to speak,
And studying words, at last had words to seek.
By boyish love, that woman's pride refused?
This I acknowledge, and, from day to day,
Resolved no longer at such game to play;
Yet I forbore, though to my purpose true,
And firmly fix'd to bid the youth adieu.
292
When the vast ocean seem'd a mighty pool;
Save the small rippling waves that gently beat,
We scarcely heard them falling, at our feet
His mother absent, absent every sound,
And every sight, that could the youth confound;
The arm, fast lock'd in mine, his fear betray'd,
And when he spoke not, his designs convey'd;
He oft-times gasp'd for breath, he tried to speak,
And studying words, at last had words to seek.
Silent the boy, by silence more betray'd,
And fearing lest he should appear afraid,
He knelt abruptly, and his speech began—
“Pity the pangs of an unhappy man.”
And fearing lest he should appear afraid,
He knelt abruptly, and his speech began—
“Pity the pangs of an unhappy man.”
“Be sure,” I answer'd, “and relieve them too—
“But why that posture? What the woes to you?
“To feel for others' sorrows is humane,
“But too much feeling is our virtue's bane.
“But why that posture? What the woes to you?
“To feel for others' sorrows is humane,
“But too much feeling is our virtue's bane.
“Come, my dear Rupert! now your tale disclose,
“That I may know the sufferer and his woes,
“Know there is pain that wilful man endures,
“That our reproof and not our pity cures;
“For though for such assumed distress we grieve,
“Since they themselves as well as us deceive,
“Yet we assist not.”—The unhappy youth,
Unhappy then, beheld not all the truth.
“That I may know the sufferer and his woes,
“Know there is pain that wilful man endures,
“That our reproof and not our pity cures;
“For though for such assumed distress we grieve,
“Since they themselves as well as us deceive,
“Yet we assist not.”—The unhappy youth,
Unhappy then, beheld not all the truth.
“O! what is this?” exclaim'd the dubious boy,
“Words that confuse the being they destroy?
“So have I read the gods to madness drive
“The man condemn'd with adverse fate to strive;
“O! make thy victim, though by misery, sure,
“And let me know the pangs I must endure;
“For, like the Grecian warrior, I can pray
“Falling, to perish in the face of day.”
“Words that confuse the being they destroy?
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“The man condemn'd with adverse fate to strive;
“O! make thy victim, though by misery, sure,
“And let me know the pangs I must endure;
“For, like the Grecian warrior, I can pray
“Falling, to perish in the face of day.”
“Pretty, my Rupert; and it proves the use
“Of all that learning which the schools produce:
“But come, your arm—no trembling, but attend
“To sober truth, and a maternal friend.
“Of all that learning which the schools produce:
“But come, your arm—no trembling, but attend
“To sober truth, and a maternal friend.
“You ask for pity?”—“O! indeed I do.”
“Well then, you have it, and assistance too:
“Suppose us married!”—“O! the heavenly thought!”
“Nay—nay, my friend, be you by wisdom taught;
“For wisdom tells you, love would soon subside,
“Fall, and make room for penitence and pride;
“Then would you meet the public eye, and blame
“Your private taste, and be o'erwhelm'd with shame:
“How must it then your bosom's peace destroy
“To hear it said, ‘The mother and her boy!’
“And then, to show the sneering world it lies,
“You would assume the man, and tyrannize;
“Ev'n Time, Care's general soother, would augment
“Your self-reproaching, growing discontent.
“Well then, you have it, and assistance too:
“Suppose us married!”—“O! the heavenly thought!”
“Nay—nay, my friend, be you by wisdom taught;
“For wisdom tells you, love would soon subside,
“Fall, and make room for penitence and pride;
“Then would you meet the public eye, and blame
“Your private taste, and be o'erwhelm'd with shame:
“How must it then your bosom's peace destroy
“To hear it said, ‘The mother and her boy!’
“And then, to show the sneering world it lies,
“You would assume the man, and tyrannize;
“Ev'n Time, Care's general soother, would augment
“Your self-reproaching, growing discontent.
“Add twenty years to my precarious life,
“And lo! your aged, feeble, wailing wife;
“Displeased, displeasing, discontented, blamed;
“Both, and with cause, ashaming and ashamed:
“When I shall bend beneath a press of time,
“Thou wilt be all erect in manhood's prime;
“Then wilt thou fly to younger minds t' assuage
“Thy bosom's pain, and I in jealous age
“Shall move contempt, if still; if active, rage:
“And though in anguish all my days are past,
“Yet far beyond thy wishes they may last;
“May last till thou, thy better prospects fled,
“Shall have no comfort when thy wife is dead.
“And lo! your aged, feeble, wailing wife;
“Displeased, displeasing, discontented, blamed;
“Both, and with cause, ashaming and ashamed:
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“Thou wilt be all erect in manhood's prime;
“Then wilt thou fly to younger minds t' assuage
“Thy bosom's pain, and I in jealous age
“Shall move contempt, if still; if active, rage:
“And though in anguish all my days are past,
“Yet far beyond thy wishes they may last;
“May last till thou, thy better prospects fled,
“Shall have no comfort when thy wife is dead.
“Then thou in turn, though none will call thee old
“Wilt feel thy spirit fled, thy bosom cold;
“No strong or eager wish to wake the will,
“Life will appear to stagnate and be still,
“As now with me it slumbers; O! rejoice
“That I attend not to that pleading voice;
“So will new hopes this troubled dream succeed,
“And one will gladly hear my Rupert plead.”
“Wilt feel thy spirit fled, thy bosom cold;
“No strong or eager wish to wake the will,
“Life will appear to stagnate and be still,
“As now with me it slumbers; O! rejoice
“That I attend not to that pleading voice;
“So will new hopes this troubled dream succeed,
“And one will gladly hear my Rupert plead.”
Ask you, while thus I could the youth deny,
Was I unmoved?—Inexorable I,
Fix'd and determined: thrice he made his prayer,
With looks of sadness first, and then despair;
Thrice doom'd to bear refusal, not exempt,
At the last effort, from a slight contempt.
Was I unmoved?—Inexorable I,
Fix'd and determined: thrice he made his prayer,
With looks of sadness first, and then despair;
Thrice doom'd to bear refusal, not exempt,
At the last effort, from a slight contempt.
Did his distress, his pains, your joy excite?—
No; but I fear'd his perseverance might.
Was there no danger in the moon's soft rays,
To hear the handsome stripling's earnest praise?
Was there no fear that, while my words reproved
The eager youth, I might myself be moved?
Not for his sake alone I cried “Persist
No more,” and with a frown the cause dismiss'd.
No; but I fear'd his perseverance might.
Was there no danger in the moon's soft rays,
To hear the handsome stripling's earnest praise?
Was there no fear that, while my words reproved
The eager youth, I might myself be moved?
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No more,” and with a frown the cause dismiss'd.
Seek you th' event?—I scarcely need reply,
Love, unreturn'd, will languish, pine, and die:
We lived awhile in friendship, and with joy
I saw depart in peace the amorous boy.
Love, unreturn'd, will languish, pine, and die:
We lived awhile in friendship, and with joy
I saw depart in peace the amorous boy.
We met some ten years after, and he then
Was married, and as cool as married men;
He talk'd of war and taxes, trade and farms,
And thought no more of me, or of my charms
Was married, and as cool as married men;
He talk'd of war and taxes, trade and farms,
And thought no more of me, or of my charms
We spoke; and when, alluding to the past,
Something of meaning in my look I cast,
He, who could never thought or wish disguise,
Look'd in my face with trouble and surprise;
To kill reserve, I seized his arm, and cried,
“Know me, my lord!” when laughing, he replied,
Wonder'd again, and look'd upon my face,
And seem'd unwilling marks of time to trace;
But soon I brought him fairly to confess,
That boys in love judge ill of happiness.
Something of meaning in my look I cast,
He, who could never thought or wish disguise,
Look'd in my face with trouble and surprise;
To kill reserve, I seized his arm, and cried,
“Know me, my lord!” when laughing, he replied,
Wonder'd again, and look'd upon my face,
And seem'd unwilling marks of time to trace;
But soon I brought him fairly to confess,
That boys in love judge ill of happiness.
Love had his day—to graver subjects led,
My will is govern'd, and my mind is fed;
And to more vacant bosoms I resign
The hopes and fears that once affected mine.
My will is govern'd, and my mind is fed;
And to more vacant bosoms I resign
The hopes and fears that once affected mine.
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe | |