University of Virginia Library

The Honey Moon.

OF all the Follies that disgrace
The progress of the human race,
Few call for livelier ridicule,
Or more distinctly mark the fool,
Than when old age attempts to prove,
That still it has the power to love.—
It asks not youth, it asks not health,
To hoard accumulated wealth:
To the last stage of lengthen'd years,
The love of gold the Miser cheers;
And, on the day he tells fourscore,
He still can count his treasures o'er.—
While Reason lives, the hoary sage
May feel that Wisdom crowns his age;
And, to Life's most protracted hour,
He may enjoy the pride of Power.
But Nestor's self a fool would prove,
If he should turn his thoughts to love.
When Winter's Form, with trembling pace,
Attempts a sprightly, vernal grace,
Or, with a stamm'ring tongue, to tell,
He loves so true—he loves so well;
Or bids the blushing roses blow
Around his temples white with snow;
The careless, playful world may smile;
But rigid Reason will revile
The wand'ring strange from Nature's plan,
And see the Ideot in the Man.
Bring me the cap that Folly wears,
With jingling bells and lengthen'd ears,
And place it on the old man's head
Who babbles love, and longs to wed.
Youth is the season made for joy;
Let Cupid then his power employ;
Then all his soft delights improve,
While Hymen knits the bands of Love.
Sir Peter had grown old, when Fate
Depriv'd him of his ancient mate.
She was a chaste and careful wife,
Whose temper ne'er engender'd strife:
For she had that commanding soul
Which kept the Knight in due controul.
Between them no one ever heard
An unkind phrase, an angry word;
No one e'er witness'd a dispute;
For when she spoke the Knight was mute.
Thus pass'd their tranquil life away:
When she said yes, he ne'er said nay;
And would have thought it much amiss,
When she said nay, should he say yes.
At length this Dame, so good and kind,
Left life—and all the world behind.
Sir Peter wept o'er his disaster;
But, for the wound, he found a plaister;
He felt, at last, that he was Master.
But so it is with mortal state;
Or high or low, or small or great;
Contentment's seldom known to find
It's mansion in the human mind;
And soon the Knight began to own
'Twas comfortless to live alone;
Nay, that to soothe his irksome life,
He e'en would take another wife;
Would his deep mourning lay aside,
Dress himself smart, and get a Bride.
No sooner did this tale resound
From place to place the country round,
But ev'ry grave and maiden Lady
Who had escap'd her sprightly heigh-day,
Began to think she had a chance
Of joining in the nuptial dance.
The Widows too began to dream
Of a new matrimonial scheme;
But the old Knight had nought to say
To Maidens grave, or Widows gay:
He fill'd the neighbourhood with laughter,
By fixing on a Lawyer's daughter.
Miss Julia Docket had not seen
Of Summer seasons quite nineteen;
And 'twas not often that the Spring
Of life produced a fairer thing.
She had been taught, by rod and rule,
The graces of a Boarding-school:
Was of a country town the boast,
And of each neighb'ring 'Squire the toast.
But Julia had contriv'd to part
With that same Trinket call'd a Heart,
And it was now consign'd to rest
Within a gallant Major's breast;
Who, at the time, was trav'lling far
'Midst scenes of glory and of war.
But Love—when faithful, just and true,
Our worldly interest may subdue:
So, when Sir Peter paid his vows
And ask'd her to become his spouse,
She star'd awhile—then off she scouted;
Let fall a shower of tears—and pouted.
“My Hero is both brave and true,
Whom I love as I ought to do;
And when his duty call'd him o'er
The Ocean to Iberia's shore,
I pledg'd my faith that ne'er shall fail,
Till Death concludes the flatt'ring tale.
—The doting Knight shall not prevail.”—
Thus she exclaim'd, in language bold,
When to her wond'ring Sire she told
The offer of the Man of Gold.
“Don't be a fool,” old Docket said,
“Nor falsify your father's trade.
Does not a stately mansion wait,
To ope for you its willing gate,
Where wealth invites, and at whose door,
You'll see your daily coach-and-four?
While all the pleasure gold can buy,
A husband's fondness will supply.
Will you from Fashion turn aside,
And all the charms of titled pride,
Those wants and that distress to prove,
Which wait on poverty and love?
For should the vap'ring Major live,
Should he the chance of war survive,
Half-pay is all he has to give.
Besides, to ev'ry eye 'tis clear
Sir Peter cannot live a year.
Your settlements I shall prepare
With a paternal Lawyer's care.
I shall employ my cunning skill
To shape the am'rous Dotard's will;
And then I'll make a swinging bill:
Which, from pure love to you he'll pay
Without deduction or delay.
Be to his fondling follies blind;
Be to his humours very kind;
And take the wealth he'll leave behind.
You then will be, by Fortune's bounty,
The richest widow in the county.—”
Thus Docket's arguments assail'd
His daughter's mind, and they prevail'd.
Julia, at length, consents to wed,
But still the Major's in her head.
Hymen performs his formal part;
But still the Major's in her heart.
The wedding o'er, the days are spent
In plenteous feasts and merriment:
While many a minstrel doth unite
In song and dance throughout the night.
Sir Peter, us'd to live in quiet,
Could not maintain this scene of riot:
His health and spirits both were gone,
E'er half the Honey Moon had flown.
But, thus confin'd to gouty chair,
She nurs'd him with assiduous care;
Or tun'd her voice, or touch'd the lute,
Or read, as did his fancy suit.
Now, it was one fine afternoon,
That quite alone, and dinner done,
When, while Sir Peter plied the glass;
Julia, to make the moments pass,
Ask'd Fashion how she told her story
In Ackermann's Repository.
Where every month her whims display,
With graceful art, the bright array
That decks the Beauties of the day.
—Thus, as she read, a creaking sound
Call'd her to turn her head around;
When Henry at the window stood,
All pale, as if by grief subdued.
She was surpris'd,—but did not start.—
“You ever have possess'd my heart,—”
She fondly said;—“there, take my hand,
And mind, my friend, what I command.
Speak not a word,—but give good heed
To the short tale I now shall read.
That Dotard there, will never hear,
For drink has stopp'd his list'ning ear.
Nought but the cup his eye can see,
Which it now views with ecstacy.
Again, I tell you, give good heed
To what I am about to read.
Attend, while on the Page I look,
And hear the Wisdom of the Book.”