The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe :: :: University of Virginia Library

When her lord died, who had so kind a heart,
That any woman would have grieved to part,
It had such influence on his widow's mind,
That she the pleasures of the world resign'd,
Young as she was, and from the busy town
Came to the quiet of a village down;
Not as insensible to joys, but still
With a subdued but half-rebellious will;
For she had passions warm, and feeling strong,
With a right mind, that dreaded to be wrong;—
Yet she had wealth to tie her to the place
Where it procures delight and veils disgrace;
Yet she had beauty to engage the eye,
A widow still in her minority;
Yet she had merit worthy men to gain,
And yet her hand no merit could obtain;
For, though secluded, there were trials made,
When he who soften'd most could not persuade;
Awhile she hearken'd as her swain proposed,
And then his suit with strong refusal closed.

“Thanks, and farewell!—give credit to my word,
“That I shall die the widow of my lord;

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“'T is my own will, I now prefer the state,—
“If mine should change, it is the will of fate.”

Such things were spoken, and the hearers cried,
“'T is very strange,—perhaps she may be tried.”

The lady pass'd her time in taking air,
In working, reading, charities, and prayer;
In the last duties she received the aid
Of an old friend, a priest, with whom she pray'd;
And to his mansion with a purpose went,
That there should life be innocently spent;
Yet no cold vot'ress of the cloister she,
Warm her devotion, warm her charity;
The face the index of a feeling mind,
And her whole conduct rational and kind.

Though rich and noble, she was pleased to slide
Into the habits of her reverend guide,
And so attended to his girls and boys,
She seem'd a mother in her fears and joys;
On her they look'd with fondness, something check'd
By her appearance, that engaged respect;
For still she dress'd as one of higher race,
And her sweet smiles had dignity and grace.

George was her favourite, and it gave her joy
To indulge and to instruct the darling boy;
To watch, to soothe, to check the forward child,
Who was at once affectionate and wild;
Happy and grateful for her tender care,
And pleased her thoughts and company to share.

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George was a boy with spirit strong and high,
With handsome face, and penetrating eye;
O'er his broad forehead hung his locks of brown,
That gave a spirit to his boyish frown;
“My little man,” were words that she applied
To him, and he received with growing pride;
Her darling even from his infant years
Had something touching in his smiles and tears;
And in his boyish manners he began
To show the pride that was not made for man;
But it became the child, the mother cried,
And the kind lady said it was not pride.

George, to his cost, though sometimes to his praise,
Was quite a hero in these early days,
And would return from heroes just as stout,
Blood in his crimson cheek, and blood without.
“What! he submit to vulgar boys and low,
“He bear an insult, he forget a blow!
“They call'd him Parson—let his father bear
“His own reproach, it was his proper care;
“He was no parson, but he still would teach
“The boys their manners, and yet would not preach.”

The father, thoughtful of the time foregone,
Was loth to damp the spirit of his son;
Rememb'ring he himself had early laurels won;
The mother, frighten'd, begg'd him to refrain,
And not his credit or his linen stain;
While the kind friend so gently blamed the deed,
He smiled in tears, and wish'd her to proceed;

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For the boy pleased her, and that roguish eye
And daring look were cause of many a sigh,
When she had thought how much would such quick temper try:
And oft she felt a kind of gathering gloom,
Sad, and prophetic of the ills to come.

Years fled unmark'd: the lady taught no more
Th' adopted tribe as she was wont before;
But by her help the school the lasses sought,
And by the Vicar's self the boy was taught;
Not unresisting when that cursed Greek
Ask'd so much time for words that none will speak.

“What can men worse for mortal brain contrive
“Than thus a hard dead language to revive!
“Heav'ns, if a language once be fairly dead,
“Let it be buried, not preserved and read,
“The bane of every boy to decent station bred;
“If any good these crabbed books contain,
“Translate them well, and let them then remain;
“To one huge vault convey the useless store,
“Then lose the key, and never find it more.”

Something like this the lively boy express'd,
When Homer was his torment and his jest.

“George,” said the father, “can at pleasure seize
“The point he wishes, and with too much ease;
“And hence, depending on his powers and vain,
‘He wastes the time that he will sigh to gain.”

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The partial widow thought the wasted days
He would recover, urged by love and praise;
And thus absolved, the boy, with grateful mind,
Repaid a love so useful and so blind:
Her angry words he loved, although he fear'd,
And words not angry doubly kind appear'd.

George, then on manhood verging, felt the charms
Of war, and kindled at the world's alarms;
Yet war was then, though spreading wide and far,
A state of peace to what has since been war;
'T was then some dubious claim at sea or land,
That placed a weapon in a warrior's hand:
But in these times the causes of our strife
Are hearth and altar, liberty and life.

George, when from college he return'd, and heard
His father's questions, cool and shy appear'd.
“Who had the honours?”—“Honour!” said the youth,
“Honour at college—very good, in truth!”—
“What hours to study did he give?”—He gave
Enough to feel they made him like a slave—
In fact, the Vicar found if George should rise
'T was not by college rules and exercise.

“At least the time for your degree abide,
“And be ordain'd,” the man of peace replied;
“Then you may come and aid me while I keep,
“And watch, and shear th' hereditary sheep;

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“Choose then your spouse.”—That heard the youth, and sigh'd,
Nor to aught else attended or replied.

George had of late indulged unusual fears
And dangerous hopes: he wept unconscious tears;—
Whether for camp or college, well he knew
He must at present bid his friends adieu;
His father, mother, sisters, could he part
With these, and feel no sorrow at his heart?
But from that lovely lady could he go?
That fonder, fairer, dearer mother?—No!
For while his father spoke, he fix'd his eyes
On that dear face, and felt a warmth arise,
A trembling flush of joy, that he could ill disguise—
Then ask'd himself from whence this growing bliss,
This new-found joy, and all that waits on this?
Why sinks that voice so sweetly in mine ear?
What makes it now a livelier joy to hear?
Why gives that touch—still, still do I retain
The fierce delight that tingled through each vein—
Why at her presence with such quickness flows
The vital current?—Well a lover knows.

O! tell me not of years,—can she be old?
Those eyes, those lips, can man unmoved behold?
Has time that bosom chill'd? are cheeks so rosy cold?
No, she is young, or I her love t' engage
Will grow discreet, and that will seem like age;
But speak it not; Death's equalising arm
Levels not surer than Love's stronger charm.

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That bids all inequalities be gone,
That laughs at rank, that mocks comparison.

There is not young or old, if Love decrees,
He levels orders, he confounds degrees;
There is not fair, or dark, or short, or tall,
Or grave, or sprightly—Love reduces all;
He makes unite the pensive and the gay,
Gives something here, takes something there away;
From each abundant good a portion takes,
And for each want a compensation makes;
Then tell me not of years—Love, power divine,
Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine.

And she, in truth, was lovely—Time had strown
No snows on her, though he so long had flown;
The purest damask blossom'd in her cheek,
The eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak;
Her pleasing person she with care adorn'd,
Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorn'd;
Nor held it wrong these graces to renew,
Or give the fading rose its opening hue;
Yet few there were who needed less the art
To hide an error, or a grace impart.

George, yet a child, her faultless form admired,
And call'd his fondness love, as truth required;
But now, when conscious of the secret flame,
His bosom's pain, he dared not give the name;
In her the mother's milder passion grew,
Tender she was, but she was placid too;

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From him the mild and filial love was gone,
And a strong passion came in triumph on.

“Will she,” he cried, “this impious love allow?
“And, once my mother, be my mistress now?
“The parent-spouse, how far the thought from her,
“And how can I the daring wish aver?
“When first I speak it, how will those dear eyes
“Gleam with awaken'd horror and surprise;
“Will she not, angry and indignant, fly
“From my imploring call, and bid me die?
“Will she not shudder at the thought, and say,
“My son! and lift her eyes to heaven, and pray?

“Alas! I fear—and yet my soul she won
“While she with fond endearments call'd me son!
“Then first I felt—yet knew that I was wrong—
“This hope, at once so guilty and so strong:
“She gave—I feel it now—a mother's kiss,
“And quickly fancy took a bolder bliss;
“But hid the burning blush, for fear that eye
“Should see the transport, and the bliss deny:
“O! when she knows the purpose I conceal,
“When my fond wishes to her bosom steal,
“How will that angel fear? How will the woman feel?

“And yet, perhaps, this instant, while I speak,
“She knows the pain I feel, the cure I seek;
“Better than I she may my feelings know,
“And nurse the passion that she dares not show;
“She reads the look,—and sure my eyes have shown
“To her the power and triumph of her own,—

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“And in maternal love she veils the flame
“That she will heal with joy, yet hear with shame.

“Come, let me then—no more a son—reveal
“The daring hope, and for her favour kneel;
“Let me in ardent speech my meanings dress,
“And, while I mourn the fault, my love confess;
“And, once confess'd, no more that hope resign,
“For she or misery henceforth must be mine.
“O! what confusion shall I see advance
“On that dear face, responsive to my glance!
“Sure she can love!”

In fact, the youth was right;
She could, but love was dreadful in her sight;
Love like a spectre in her view appear'd,
The nearer he approach'd the more she fear'd.

But knew she, then, this dreaded love? She guess'd
That he had guilt—she knew he had not rest:
She saw a fear that she could ill define,
And nameless terrors in his looks combine;
It is a state that cannot long endure,
And yet both parties dreaded to be sure.

All views were past of priesthood and a gown,
George, fix'd on glory, now prepared for town;
But first this mighty hazard must be run,
And more than glory either lost or won:

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Yet, what was glory? Could he win that heart
And gain that hand, what cause was there to part?
Her love afforded all that life affords—
Honour and fame were phantasies and words.

But he must see her—She alone was seen
In the still evening of a day serene:
In the deep shade beyond the garden walk
They met, and, talking, ceased and fear'd to talk;
At length she spoke of parent's love,—and now
He hazards all—“No parent, lady, thou!
“None, none to me! but looks so fond and mild
“Would well become the parent of my child.”

She gasp'd for breath—then sat as one resolved
On some high act, and then the means revolved.

“It cannot be, my George, my child, my son!
“The thought is misery!—Guilt and misery shun:
“Far from us both be such design, O, far!
“Let it not pain us at the awful bar,
“Where souls are tried, where known the mother's part
“That I sustain, and all of either heart.
“To wed with thee I must all shame efface,
“And part with female dignity and grace:
“Was I not told, by one who knew so well
“This rebel heart, that it must not rebel?
“Were I not warn'd, yet Reason's voice would cry,
“‘Retreat, resolve, and from the danger fly!’
“If Reason spoke not, yet would woman's pride—
“A woman will by better counsel guide;

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“And should both Pride and Prudence plead in vain,
“There is a warning that must still remain,
“And, though the heart rebell'd, would ever cry ‘Refrain.’”

He heard, he grieved—so check'd, the eager youth
Dared not again repeat th' offensive truth,
But stopp'd, and fix'd on that loved face an eye
Of pleading passion, trembling to reply:
And that reply was hurried, was express'd
With bursts of sorrow from a troubled breast;
He could not yet forbear the tender suit,
And dare not speak—his eloquence was mute.

But this not long, again the passion rose
In him, in her the spirit to oppose:
Yet was she firm; and he, who fear'd the calm
Of resolution, purposed to alarm,
And make her dread a passion strong and wild—
He fear'd her firmness while her looks were mild:
Therefore he strongly, warmly urged his prayer,
Till she, less patient, urged him to forbear.

“I tell thee, George, as I have told before,
“I feel a mother's love, and feel no more;
“A child I bore thee in my arms, and how
“Could I—did prudence yield,—receive thee now?”

At her remonstrance hope revived, for oft
He found her words severe, her accents soft;

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In eyes that threaten'd tears of pity stood,
And truth she made as gracious as she could;—
But, when she found the dangerous youth would seek
His peace alone, and still his wishes speak,
Fearful she grew, that, opening thus his heart,
He might to hers a dangerous warmth impart:
All her objections slight to him appear'd,—
But one she had, and now it must be heard.

“Yes, it must be! and he shall understand
“What powers, that are not of the world, command;
“So shall he cease, and I in peace shall live—”
Sighing she spoke—“that widowhood can give!”
Then to her lover turn'd, and gravely said,
“Let due attention to my words be paid:
“Meet me to-morrow, and resolve t' obey;”
Then named the hour and place, and went her way.
Before that hour, or moved by spirit vain
Of woman's wish to triumph and complain;
She had his parents summon'd, and had shown
Their son's strong wishes, nor conceal'd her own:
“And do you give,” she said, “a parent's aid
“To make the youth of his strange love afraid;
“And, be it sin or not, be all the shame display'd.”

The good old Pastor wonder'd, seem'd to grieve,
And look'd suspicious on this child of Eve:
He judged his boy, though wild, had never dared
To talk of love, had not rebuke been spared;
But he replied, in mild and tender tone,
“It is not sin, and therefore shame has none.”

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The different ages of the pair he knew,
And quite as well their different fortunes too:
A meek, just man; but difference in his sight
That made the match unequal made it right:
“His son, his friend united, and become
“Of his own hearth—the comforts of his home—
“Was it so wrong? Perhaps it was her pride
“That felt the distance, and the youth denied?”

The blushing widow heard, and she retired,
Musing on what her ancient friend desired;
She could not, therefore, to the youth complain,
That his good father wish'd him to refrain;
She could not add, “Your parents, George, obey,
“They will your absence”—no such will had they.

Now, in th' appointed minute met the pair,
Foredoom'd to meet: George made the lover's pray'r,—
That was heard kindly; then the lady tried
For a calm spirit, felt it, and replied.

“George, that I love thee why should I suppress?
“For 't is a love that virtue may profess—
“Parental,—frown not,—tender, fix'd, sincere;
“Thou art for dearer ties by much too dear,
“And nearer must not be, thou art so very near:
“Nay, does not reason, prudence, pride, agree,
“Our very feelings, that it must not be?
“Nay, look not so,—I shun the task no more,
“But will to thee thy better self restore.

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“Then hear, and hope not; to the tale I tell
“Attend! obey me, and let all be well:
“Love is forbad to me, and thou wilt find
“All thy too ardent views must be resign'd;
“Then from thy bosom all such thoughts remove,
“And spare the curse of interdicted love.
“If doubts at first assail thee, wait awhile,
“Nor mock my sadness with satiric smile:
“For, if not much of other worlds we know,
“Nor how a spirit speaks in this below,
“Still there is speech and intercourse; and now
“The truth of what I tell I first avow,
“True will I be in all, and be attentive thou.