University of Virginia Library

To Mortal Man it is not given,
Such are the known decrees of Heaven,
Along the stream of life to glide, Nor feel the tumults of the tide:
The ebbing and the flowing wave Contend to bear him to the grave:
The smiling joy, the frowning care, In various change his bosom share,
And hope and fear alternate ply, While he fulfils his destiny.
Thus Syntax, as we all must own,
Had struggled long with Fortune's frown,
Nor did a flatt'ring hope portend That Fortune e'er would be his Friend.
Patient, 'tis true, his Lot he bore, For Virtue sage and Learning's lore,
Those faithful friends of worth distrest,
Would often soothe his aching breast;
Would his foreboding fancy cheer And sometimes check the rising tear.
But, after a long clouded day, The Sun broke forth with genial ray,
And mild prosperity display'd Its welcome form in smiles array'd.
Each virtue woo'd, each duty done, Time on swift pinions travels on,
Nor fears of future evil lour To dim with care the present hour.
—Thus Syntax and his darling wife No longer knew domestic strife;
And since it was their lot to bide By Keswick's Lake's admired side,
They might have claim'd, or I'm mistaken,
With conscience clear, the Flitch of Bacon;
A symbol that is known to prove, The perfect state of married love;
And which, when thus enjoy'd, is given,
As the first boon on this side Heaven.
Madam, who now had nought to fret her,
Of all her whims had got the better;
Among her higher neighbours, she Received and gave the frequent tea,
And every stated feast that came Display'd the hospitable dame;
While from the poor, in Parish Pride,
She ne'er was known to turn aside.
As in the millinery art She lov'd to be a little smart,
The Doctor, too, in better station,
Had somewhat chang'd his form and fashion;
Nay, to describe him à la Lettre, His outward show was rather better,
Than when he liv'd by Pedant Rule, A Curate with an humble School:
His coat was not to thread-bare worn,
His hat had not that squeeze forlorn,
And his queer wig would now unfurl
Something that might be call'd a curl:
Besides, his Dolly's pride, I ween,
Took no small pains to keep him clean.
—With eloquence and learning fraught,
He preach'd what his Great Master taught;
But no grave airs his hours molest, Joy was the inmate of his breast,
Which, in its various forms, he found The way to scatter all around.
Sage with the learned, with the 'Squire
He told his tale by winter's fire;
Or 'mid the pipe's surrounding smoke
He never fail'd, with pleasant joke,
To animate the social hour, When summer forms its verdant bower:
Never from contumelious pride, Was his old fiddle laid aside;
Oft did its sounding strings prolong The jocund air and merry song.
His pencil too performed its duty
In sketching many a landscape beauty:
Scarce rose a cot within the bound That his dominion did surround,
Whose whiten'd walls did not impart Some bounty of the Doctor's art.
—The parents to his Rev'rence bent,
The children smil'd where'er he went;
And, grateful praise, in warm acclaim,
Ne'er fail'd to wait upon his name.
Syntax was by the 'Squire caress'd
And oft exclaim'd, my lot how blest!
While Madam Worthy would commend His Dolly as her fav'rite friend.
In short, as sister and as brother, Their doors were open to each other.
'Twas thus four fleeting years were past
In happiness not made to last;
E'en though a darling hope appear'd,
And joy untold their bosoms cheer'd;
For Nature, without fuss or pother
Gave hints that she would be a mother:
At least th'obstetric Doctor Bone,
Had said this joy would be their own.
—Ye who have felt a parent's pleasure,
Alone can tell the mode, the measure
Of that delight which might inflame
The thoughts of Syntax and his Dame.
The news were spread, the neighbours smil'd,
His Rev'rence, by such hopes beguil'd,
Would offer up the secret prayer
That Heaven might bless him with an Heir,
A little Syntax, who would prove A father's pride, a mother's love;
And when well stor'd with Papa's knowledge,
Might be the wonder of a College.
Though Madam harbour'd in her breast A wish, by female hope imprest,
That, as the choicest boon of Heaven, A female cherub would be given
Which, when she dandled in her arms,
Might smile in all her Mother's charms:
But they contriv'd their wish to smother
And keep the secret from each other.
Thus Syntax with parental pride The curtain'd cradle fondly eyed,
And oft, with a foreboding joy,
Would think he saw the slumb'ring boy;
Nay sometimes thought, in fancy's ear,
The Nurse's lullabies were near.

The ale was brew'd, the heifer's life Waited the ready butcher's knife;
The one to crown the joyous bowl, The other to be roasted whole;
While all the anxious village pour Their wish for the prolific hour.
But be it told to Nature's shame The look'd-for period never came.
The allotted season now was pass'd,
The doubting Midwife stood aghast,
While Galen, 'mid a string of pauses
On Nature's whims and final causes;
Declaim'd with solemn look and air;—
Then calmly ventur'd to declare
With cautious whispering o'er and o'er,
He ne'er was so deceived before.
Th'unlook'd for tidings Syntax heard,
His face now red, now pale appear'd,
While the grave Doctor left the room, Fearful of his impending doom;
For Syntax, with those horrid graces,
Which rage will write on mortal faces,
Now wildly stamping round the floor,
Had kick'd the cradle through the door.
—Just as his darling hope miscarried, A couple waited to be married.
I will not heighten my distress By such a scene of happiness;
To-day, he cried, I will annoy Each source of matrimonial joy,
The bridal folk shall share my sorrow,
Nor will I wed them till to-morrow!
The Bridegroom bow'd in humble suit,
The Bride just whisper'd—“What a Brute!”
While the Clerk, trembling, pale and sad,
Fear'd that his Rev'rence was gone mad:
At least, he was not in a state Such holy rite to celebrate,
And they must see another Sun Before the wish'd-for work was done.
Amen declared, “I have a wife Who ne'er gave peace to married life;
Yet oft I've thought the nuptial boon Might come, alas, a day too soon;
And though you now so sad depart,
With downcast look and aching heart,
That Love has yielded to delay Its bands for one impatient day,
May the wish never come, Oh never!
That they had been delay'd for ever!”
Thus while the disappointed folk Stole off to meet the gen'ral joke,
And furnish out a village tale, O'er evening tea or milking-pail,
Sage Galen by mild reas'ning strove, And learned argument to prove,
That he had err'd where all might err, As Nature oft, he could aver,
Would symptomatic pranks betray,
Would swerve from ev'ry common way,
And into such stange whimsies stray,
That Esculapius, he believ'd, Were he on earth would be deceiv'd:
Where she had so perplex'd his knowledge,
It might have puzzled all the College.
I beg, he said, the learn'd Divine, Will think it not a fault of mine,
Nor tell the mishap to my shame, That he bears not a father's name:
With patience, and another year, A bouncing bantling may appear.
Syntax the obstetric Doctor eyed, And thus, with scornful look, replied:
“—You talk of Nature, let us learn
From those who could her ways discern,
Could from her deep concealments call her,
Nor let your boasted skill enthral her;
I tell you, Sir, the learned Bacon, Has truly said, or I'm mistaken,
That the Physician tribe await, With doubting art the sick man's fate,
While the sick man his lot endures, Till Physic kills, or Nature cures;
—The first great principle of Nature Is to produce a Human Creature;
Nor never will my mind believe, In this great work she would deceive.
Creation tells it, look around, And say, what is there to be found,
What in the world's stupendous plan,
That is not clearly made for man?
The beasts which in the forest rove,
The birds that haunt the shady grove,
That love the stream, that trace the field
Or the green-woods and thickets yield;
Nor these alone, the finny brood That swim the sea, or cleave the flood;
The yielding grain, the flower that blows,
What in Earth's pregnant bosom grows;
The Planets, in the Vault of Heaven, Are for man's use divinely given:
A being he, of beauteous mould, Which Angels may with joy behold;
Endued with various powers combin'd
That tell the wonders of his mind;
A life arrang'd by Heav'n's decree, His end an Immortality.
To such a task, to such great ends On which the living world depends,
Nature proceeds by certain rules Which may be seen by all but fools.
She may indeed, howe'er intent, Fail by untoward accident;
Or, if by ignorance pursued, May not be rightly understood,
But never, Sir, shall I believe It is her purpose to deceive;
And I refer this sad ado, Not to Dame Nature, but to you.
I think it true what Galen says, Though 'tis not in the Doctors' praise,
That Art is long, and knows to seize With eager grasp the daily fees.
While Life is short, and well it may,
When Life doth at your guess-work lay.”
He spoke, then to the Doctor threw, Th'expected fee, nor said adieu.
Again he sought the patient's bed With tender look and gentle tread;
“No more,” he whisper'd to the Nurse
“Will I pursue the Doctor's course;
The Booby Quack I have dismiss'd With his last guinea in his fist:
The phials now shall disembogue The liquids of the stupid rogue:
I'll leave the dear angelic creature, As Bacon doth advise, to Nature,
With those kind aids she does impart,
And have no dark recourse to art:
Of sago she shall frequent sip, Warm jelly now shall wet her lip,
And kitchen physic shall restore Her health to what it was before.”
His Rev'rence told them to prepare
For the appointed hour of prayer.
The cushion on the floor was spread, The book was plac'd upon the bed:
Calm and compos'd the patient lay As if she were inclined to pray;
To Health's first fount he did impart
The breathings of his anxious heart;
But she, who never fail'd to join In all these offices divine,
Ne'er made responses as he pray'd, Nor said Amen to what he said.
He made his off'ring to the skies, But she, alas! ne'er op'd her eyes.
Thus, as sleep seem'd to overtake her,
He gave his caution not to wake her;
When the Nurse, hanging o'er the bed,
Shriek'd out, “My Mistress, Sir, is dead!
Alas, alas, I fear to say, She ne'er will wake till Judgment-Day.”
—As if by some dire stroke subdued, For a short time aghast he stood:
Then, with a look that spoke despair,
He gaz'd on Death's pale victim there:
He kiss'd her lips no longer warm; He view'd her 'reft of ev'ry charm;
Her heart, alas, no longer beat; Cold was the source of vital heat;
Death was triumphant,—Life was o'er,
And his dear Dolly was no more.
—His agonizing bosom burns
He raves, and stamps, and prays by turns:
Grief made him wild, but not a tear Did on his pallid cheeks appear.
Into the chair his form he threw, “Adieu,” he said, “my Love adieu!”
The tears then came—the gushing flood
Stream'd down his cheeks and did him good:
They calm'd at least his furious mood.

There are, who eager to dispense What they possess of eloquence,
When sorrow comes contrive to flout it
By letting loose their speech about it,
And for a time, at least, dispel it If they are but allow'd to tell it.
Syntax was of this sect profest,— To talk, was what he lov'd the best,
And he would think that any blessing
Was in itself scarce worth possessing,
If it but chanc'd his tongue to tye And check his native fluency:
Nor thought he that a real ill,
Which did not make his tongue lay still;—
Nay, would almost sharp pain approve,
So it allow'd his tongue to move:
In talking now he sought relief, And thus he talk'd to ease his grief:—
“Alas, how are my hopes beguil'd!
This morn I look'd to have a child;
I thought to see her view the boy
With eyes that spoke a mother's joy;
But ah, no child has seen the light, And her eyes close in endless night.
Physic I hate thee, with thy ills, Thy solemn looks and noisome pills:
Thou base pretender,—foe to life,
'Tis thou hast robb'd me of my Wife!
The wretch impell'd by hunger's force,
Who steals a sheep, a pig, a horse,
Or breaks a window to purloin A pound of chops on which to dine,
Though for a week th'unwilling sinner
Had neither breakfast had, or dinner,
Yields to the dire decree of law And suffers by the Hang-man's paw;
While Doctors, on their fees intent, May kill by Act of Parliament.
—His heaving bosom inward groan'd
While he, in dubious accents moan'd;
Words of strange import from him broke,
And in half sentences he spoke:
By double disappointment crost His worried mind was almost lost.
—Now as he wildly pac'd the floor, A gentle knock assail'd the door,
To open it he quickly flew; The Parish-Clerk appear'd in view.
—“What want you, Amen?” Syntax cried,
Amen bow'd humbly, and replied,
“Jane Leggin's child, to tell I grieve, Has not another hour to live;
And she requests for her repose You'll christen it before it goes.”
The Doctor says,

The Parson left the Clerk aghast,
Then bang'd the door and lock'd it fast;
When instant hast'ning to the bed, He threw himself beside the dead.
The Nurse wept as her heart would break,
And strove, but all in vain, to speak.
“Leave not the room,” he said, “nor go,
While I shall thus indulge my woe;
With your loud grief breed not a riot,
But sit you down—and howl in quiet.”

Amen, with reverential awe, Told all he heard, and all he saw,
And as he hasten'd to the steeple He thus inform'd the curious people.
“The Doctor raves and no child's come,
And Madam's gone for ever home.
Nay, since his hopes are all miscarried,
No love-sick maiden will be married,
Nor will a babe, depend upon't, Be made a Christian at the Font,
Till Madam's buried, and his grief In pious thoughts has found relief.”
—The bell let loose its iron tongue, Amazement o'er the village hung;
Labour stood still and every thought
Was with the dismal tidings fraught.
As the poor people learn'd the tale,
Deep sighs and loud laments prevail,
And many a face was now bedew'd With the big tear of gratitude.
Beneath a spreading tree, that grew
In the church-yard, it was a yew;
Which it was said, had held its place,
Since the old time of Chevy-Chace;
Beneath its venerable shade, The village folk their councils weigh'd;
Sometimes would talk of private story
And sometimes boast of England's glory,
But now, alas, they all attend, To talk o'er Madam's dubious end,
When as the different tongues prevail, They hear the variegated tale:
But while the different thoughts escape,
In various words, in various shape;
Patrick, the Irish Pavior stood As motionless as log of wood.
—Bold Pat had serv'd in foreign wars,
And could display a host of scars,
All in the brunt of battle gain'd Where British arms and glory reign'd;
Besides, he had a flippant tongue Which like an aspen-leaf was hung,
And when the subject he approv'd With a most rapid instinct mov'd;
But while it fill'd the folks with wonder,
It sometimes stray'd into a blunder.
Chelsea's Out-Pensioner was he, And now by active industry,
With lab'ring pick-axe and with spade, The implements of former trade,
Chang'd as he was to village swain,
On Keswick's side he did maintain
A buxom wife, and children four, With promise of as many more.
Oft he had view'd the heaps of slain
With gory blood pollute the plain.
He'd seen Old England's flag unfurl'd
Amid its thunders that were hurl'd
On shores which bound the distant world;
And us'd to boast full many a day, He'd seen the Frenchmen run away,
And often with good sab'ring thwacks,
Had cut their coats from off their backs,—
And then without the least ado, Had cut their very backs in two,
—He told of Lakes of such a size, That, as he thought on't, to his eyes,
Keswick's, when to their bounds compar'd,
Was but a pond in farmer's yard:
He spoke of cataracts whose roar Was heard for twenty miles or more;
Nay, that they fell from such a height,
Their tops were seen quite out of sight;
And should e'en Keswick's Lake be drain'd
Of all the water it contain'd,
The mighty torrents they could pour, Would fill it full within an hour.
—His stories wild and droll conceit, Oft furnish'd out a various treat;
And young and old, when met to quaff
Their evening bowl did not but laugh,
And for a time forget their care, If Pat was merry and was there.
In short whoe'er he chanc'd to meet
Good-humour sprung beneath their feet;
Though when he saw pale sorrow near, For either eye he had a tear.
His thoughts were never fram'd with art,
His was the Language of the Heart:
Whate'er he said, whate'er he sung,
Deceit ne'er glanc'd upon his tongue;
For if by chance to please the folk, And laugh and wonder to provoke,
He blink'd at truth,—it was in joke
—He'd seen so much and been so far,
Could live in peace and talk of war,
That his experience gave him weight In village council and debate,
Such as, alas! was now display'd Beneath the yew-tree's gloomy shade:
And when the rest had ceas'd to speak,
Pat did his mournful silence break.
“—God pardon those who are to blame;
For the child's gone that never came;
Besides the worthy Lady's dead And the cold earth will rest her head;
Yes, faith as I've a soul to save, I will for nothing dig her grave,
Yes I would do it too as willing As if her hand had chuck'd a shilling;
And many a shilling she has given,
Which now will pave her way to Heaven.
Nay if 'tis true that Doctor Bone, Said she'd a child when she had none,
Heav'n gives the will, for which I thank it,
To toss the Doctor in a blanket;
While you for Madam Syntax' sake,
Would fight who should a corner take:
And I would see him flying now High as the yew-tree's topmost bough.
—If, my good friend, the Clerk says true,
The Vicar makes a sad to-do:
And roars and stamps and weeps, God bless him,
As if some spirit did possess him.
I do not wonder, for I know What 'tis to feel the parson's woe.
My first wife died ere I left Erin And went abroad a volunteering:
Nay, how I suffer'd in my mind When I left two dear babes behind;
But surely I did not neglect 'em, When I pray'd Heaven to protect 'em.
Is't not enough to make him rave, To lose a child he hop'd to have;
And then to mourn a charming wife, The joy and comfort of his life.
Oh! how can he his feelings smother,
He who has lost both one and t'other?
Good gentleman, I'm sure he'll grieve
From Midsummer to Lammas Eve:
No, his is not a common sorrow
That weeps to-day and smiles to-morrow:
It will I'm sure be many a day Before we once more see him gay;
Before he makes a Bull d'ye see, By way of compliment to me:
Before he talks of this and that, And smiles and calls me honest Pat:
I'll bless him, yes, with all my might,
For faith I hope he calls me right;
And now 'tis time to hold my tongue,
For Pat, I fear, has talk'd too long;
So I'll go home, as I'm a sinner, With a poor appetite for dinner;
And many a meal I might have wanted,
Had Madam not the favour granted.
My poor dear children do not know Why Mammy's eyelids overflow;
But Kate and I can grateful tell,
Madam's old shirts have clad them well.
While those babes smile, her knell is knoll'd,
And they are warm while she is cold,
But she enjoys a peaceful rest, Nor e'er will wake but to be blest.”
The death-bell ceas'd, the good folk parted,
With sober pace and heavy-hearted.
'Squire Worthy with his wife and daughter
Had been all day upon the water:
And Pat the pleasant party kenn'd Returning at the village end.
“Oho,” cried he, “by Jasus now
Must I not tell the when and how
Of all things since they went afloat, Upon the Lake in fishing boat!”
As they drew nigh the 'Squire spoke,
“Tell me, Pat, what's the public joke?
What are the people all about? For at each door a head is out:
Something has happen'd I presage,
That doth the gen'ral thought engage.”
“And faith,” cried Pat, “I'll tell you true,
Each head within your Honour's view
Has a good tongue that's cackling fast At what has in the village past.
Since fancy did your Honour take, To go a pleasuring on the Lake.
But 'tis no joke, a mournful matter Has caus'd this universal chatter.
I wish it were some foolish geer That now and then may happen here:
Some nonsense that is often play'd
'Twixt man and wife and man and maid;
That makes the pots and kettles sound
Rough music all the village round!
No, 'tis a melancholy story, Which I, to plaise you, lay before you;
Though while I do the tale impart I feel a thumping at my heart;
And if I know your Honour, you, With Ma'am, and Miss, will feel it too.
Good Madam Syntax, that dear Crature,
Has bid adieu to human nature.”
“What means the man,” 'Squire Worthy said.
“I only mane that Madam's dead:
And I am sure as I've a tongue,” Patrick replied, “her knell is rung.
I heard it, so did twenty more, Who in the church-yard talk'd it o'er.
Besides, Amen, our Clerk, declares
The Doctor raves, and stamps and stares,
Nay, he has even said, he swears;
That like a madman he is griev'd For a dead child that never liv'd.
Patrick may blunder, Sir, but I Ne'er to your Honour told a lie.
Believe me, Ladies, such the case is As sure as beauty's in your faces.”
The 'Squire with doubting pause, receiv'd it,
But Ma'am and Miss at once believ'd it,
Not that I shall presume to say,
Pat's courteous words had pav'd the way,
To quicken their humane belief Of this sad tale of death and grief;
For they, with kindest hearts endued, Requir'd no impulse to do good;
Their virtues were in daily view As the surrounding country knew.
They pray'd the 'Squire with speed to go And visit Syntax in his woe,
“Remove him from his present state,
And bring him to our mansion strait;
You have the power to controul him,
While we will study to console him.
If all be true that doth appear,
For our poor friend there's much to fear.
—We know what his fond hopes have been;
His rapt'rous moments we have seen,
As he look'd forward with delight To visions he had form'd so bright.
We dare not think when such distress
Has clos'd his views of happiness,
What fatal impulse may prevail, What fury may his thoughts assail;—
What such an irritable mind, Bereft of power to be resign'd,
And in wild sorrow's hurrying storm, May dictate to him to perform.
Away nor for reflection wait, You now, my dear, may be too late.”
The Ladies spoke, without delay
The 'Squire stepp'd nimbly on his way,
And to his view was soon display'd A sight so horribly array'd,
That, in the chamber as he stood, It seem'd almost to freeze his blood.
“Arise, my friend,” he kindly said, “And leave this melancholy bed;
With me, dear Syntax, you must come,
And let my mansion be your home Till all this mournful scene is o'er,
And Heav'n shall former peace restore.
You well must know it is most fit That you to Heaven should submit
Throughout this life's mysterious way, Whether it gives or takes away.
'Tis not for me my friend to teach.
You, you should practise what you preach:
With pious fortitude prepare To strive with ills and learn to bear.
No tongue, like yours, I know, so well Can the submissive duties tell:
Let patience then possess your mind,
Be calm, be steadfast and resign'd.”
“'Tis a sad task,” poor Syntax said,
“But Heaven and you shall be obey'd.
The stroke so unexpected came, Not the keen lightning's vivid flame
E'er struck the cedar as it stood, The branchy monarch of the wood,
With a more quick and shatt'ring blast
Than through my trembling system past,
When as the Nurse hung o'er the bed
Her voice pronounc'd my Darling dead.
But yesterday how sweet she smil'd, With every pleasing hope beguil'd;
But yesterday I look'd to share With her a tender parent's care;
Now there she lies by Death enjoy'd,
My love despoil'd, my hopes destroy'd!
Senseless and weak I may appear, Yet still I wish to tarry here,
And feel to-morrow and to-morrow, All the rich luxury of sorrow.”
At this strange scene 'Squire Worthy felt
The pang that makes our sorrows melt.
To see the Doctor thus it grieved him,
But soon the manor-house receiv'd him:
Where he each kind attention press'd To calm the tumult of his breast,
And all that female grace could give,
Was given to check his wish to grieve.
—Worthy, who knew his Parson well
Would hear him all his feelings tell,
Explain his sorrow, breathe his sigh, And listen with calm sympathy;
Nay let his Elocution pour, In wordy torrents by the hour;
For he foresaw that all this riot Of wild complaint, would end in quiet,
As infant children, at the breast, Will often cry themselves to rest.
Nor did this wise contrivance fail:
Poor Syntax ceas'd to weep and wail:
Nay so effectual did it prove That now his tongue would seldom move,
Nay, as if grief had quench'd his voice,
Dumb fits had seem'd to be his choice;
E'en when the Ladies strove to break
His silent mood, he would not speak.
Thus he grew calm, and day by day He strove to while the time away.
Once he his fav'rite fiddle took, But lo, he found a string was broke:
No, no, he thought, the hour won't bear it,
Time, that cures sorrows, may repair it.
—His pencil too seem'd to refuse him Its former power to amuse him,
Nor could his practis'd skill avail
To give the stream, the crag, the dale,
The azure lake's expanded flood, The castled brow or pendent wood;
True to its master's gloomy thought, The urn or the sepulchral vault,
Some monument to Death's dark reign,
Alone was seen the page to stain.
—Sometimes he pac'd th'adjoining mead,
And read, at least he seem'd to read;
Sometimes at the first morning's dawn
His footsteps mark'd the dewy lawn;
And when the lab'rer's work was done,
He'd sit and watch the setting sun.
But whether he sat still or walk'd, For some days he had seldom talk'd,
And all the little that he said Was but to ask—and be obey'd.

At length th'afflicting hour drew nigh To summon all his energy.
His silence now at once he broke, And thus in solemn tone he spoke.
“Fear not, for like an Alpine rock, I will sustain the trying shock;
With friends like you, whom Heav'n will bless
For all your care in my distress,
I may without a due controul, Let loose the feelings of my soul;
But when I stand beside the grave, Death and its terrors I will brave;
There—more than by my words I'll teach
The sacred duties that I preach;
There all who may be standing round
When my dear wife is laid in ground,
Shall see how humbly I obey The power that gives and takes away.”

Behold the fun'ral train appears! The village is dissolv'd in tears!
Six maidens, all in white array'd,
Death's deep-ton'd summons had obey'd;
And in procession due attend The rites of their departed friend:
They scatter blossoms sweet and fair,
Emblems of what their beauties are;
And, as 'tis writ by time's decree, Emblems of what they soon may be;
While on their cheeks grief pours its show'rs,
Like dew-drops on the bells of flowers.
—Syntax, with melancholy grace, With downward look and stated pace,
Waits on the bier, nor heaves a sigh, Nor does a tear bedew his eye.
Beside the yawning grave he stood, In fix'd and humble attitude,
And with devotion's solemn air, He whisper'd each appointed prayer;
When as the voice, with pious trust, Dealt out the dole of dust to dust,
He gaz'd as Heaven were in his view,
Then bent—and look'd a last adieu.
With his kind friends he now return'd,
And sunk into a chair and mourn'd
In a mute language; when, at length, Emerging into wonted strength,
He, in deep tones, the silence broke,
While the walls echoed as he spoke.

“Ye dead, are none of you inclin'd To tell to those you've left behind,
And make it known in courtesy, What ye now are and we shall be?
And why this secret is conceal'd? No blabbing ghost has yet reveal'd
What 'tis to die. Around ye shine
Like lamps on some sepulchral shrine,
To make more visible the gloom That throws its mantle o'er the tomb.
But 'tis no matter—Dolly knows What is the end of human woes;
And, from life's various shackles free, I may be soon as learn'd as she.”
—With such soliloquising strains He for an hour reliev'd his pains,
Then off the fun'ral drap'ry threw, And to his chamber he withdrew.
“We have no trifling task I fear,”
'Squire Worthy said, “my dearest dear; But we must finish our career.
His high wrought feelings are we know
So form'd to quicken joy or woe,
To cause such overflowing measures
Of all his pains and all his pleasures,
That 'twill require our utmost skill
To make his troubled heart be still:—
With all the kindness of a brother, We must allow him time to smother
Whate'er vagaries his fond heart, To such a temper may impart:
Thus grave reflection and our care, I doubt not, shortly will repair
The breaches which the mind receives
Howe'er he thus intensely grieves.
Whate'er it be which can amuse him,
That our fond care must not refuse him,
Without appearing to attend To any weakness of our friend;
E'en what by any whim is wanted,
Let that as 'twere by chance be granted:
Though let it, by no means be seen,
That we regard his alter'd mien, But be as we have always been.
Let us go on the usual way, Nor change our order of the day;
In his sad mood attentions tease,— Nor let us seem to strive to please,
But deal out our old-fashion'd measure,
Of what our honest hearts call pleasure.
Let us not check the laugh because He enters, or e'er make a pause,
Because he sits him down beside us And looks as if he did deride us:
Let him say yes or grumble no We'll do all we were wont to do:
Whether with us he rides or walks, Is silent or profusely talks,
The same good humour must prevail Which here is never known to fail.
—Let Sarah play her tricks about him,
And pinch his ears, and gaily flout him;
Ask questions in her usual prattle,
And call her tongue his fav'rite rattle;
Show off her last new steps and graces,
And then contrast them with grimaces:
Let her piano's music share Its movements with the last new air,
Remember how she us'd to please him,
But take good care she does not tease him.
Who knows, her frolic innocence
May, perhaps, wake some pleasing sense
That will unconsciously beguile His heart to glow into a smile.
—If this plan fails, I'll then engage To be prime actor on the stage.
While my belov'd Maria's care, Will ask my anxious toil to share,
And all my graver course supply, With her resistless sympathy.”
Maria bow'd, while to her face Affection gave a lovely grace;
A grace, how sweet did it appear, A smile united with a tear.

A month at least was gone and o'er, But Syntax was not as before;
For thus, on serious thoughts intent, He had not found his merriment.
He did all duties, it is true, With the same care he used to do:
But, in his daily parish walk, He seem'd to have forgot to talk;
Was silent where he always spoke, And nodded where he used to joke.
E'en with the Ladies and the 'Squire
His thoughts had lost their wonted fire;
His tongue assum'd a lower tone,
Spoke but few words and soon had done.
—Since the last sad and solemn scene, He had not to the Vic'rage been,
But just to see th'old woman granted
All that the living creatures wanted:
For his dear Doll took great delight
In Bantam-fowl, and num'rous flight
Of chosen Doves, none such were found
In all the various dove-cots round.
The people watch'd him as he oft Sat on the gate and look'd aloft:
They thought that a superior ken Was given to all such learned men,
And that they saw with their keen eye,
Strange shapes and figures in the sky,
Which oft, as they believ'd, were given To mark the destinies of Heaven.
But his was no prophetic view, As the birds in their circles flew,
He saw as his dear Doll had done, Their plumage glist'ning in the sun,
And shar'd, in melancholy measure,
The mem'ry of her former pleasure.

The Village on their Pastor gaz'd, At once afflicted and amaz'd;
Nor could they in their contemplation Settle this wond'rous visitation.
Come then my unambitious muse, Do not the faithful task refuse;
But let your uninspired pen Deal out the thoughts of humble men;
And when they do their silence break,
Ask Nature's aid to make them speak,
And take opinions from the chat Of old Amen and Irish Pat,
For, steering clear of village brawl,
They'll speak the Pro and Con of all.
To save themselves from being wet
In the church-porch these two had met;
As from a storm, all helter-skelter They ran to seek a common shelter.
Now, each a corner taking, they Jump'd on the topic of the day:
Old Amen the discourse began, And thus the conversation ran.

Such is the chat that did prevail, And furnish out the village tale:
But far more anxious thoughts opprest
'Squire Worthy,—in his friendly breast
Fears of more solemn cast arose, That call upon him to oppose
By serious efforts and grave power
The clouds that did o'er Syntax lour.
—'Twas as a vernal evening clos'd,
Each in the chair with looks compos'd,
The Doctor loll'd beside the 'Squire;—
The moment did the thought inspire
To represent the egregious folly Of giving way to melancholy.
The Ladies did the chess-board chuse, The sober evening to amuse:
And thus secure of tranquil hour, All Worthy wish'd was in his power.
—He thus began.—“My dearest friend, I beg your patience to attend
To what I long have wish'd to say;—
That now, at length, from day to day,
There's such a change of manner seen, Not only in your air and mien,
But what your best friends grieve to find
E'en in the structure of your mind;—
Thus you most strangely seem to err From your admired character:
Nay all who love you now deplore That Doctor Syntax is no more.
Thus while you o'er your Dolly mourn,
And heave your sighs beside her Urn,
We all, sad Sir, as 'tis your due, Must clad ourselves in black for you.
Cease then, I ask you, to complain, And be, my friend, yourself again.
—To Mortal Man it is not given Thus to arraign the will of Heaven,
In fruitless grief to wear away Each hour of each succeeding day:
'Tis true, I do not see a tear Moisten your downcast looks of care,
But wherefore do I never see The sacred struggle to be free
And conquer your calamity?
Remember, Sir, that Heav'nly prayer
Which you pronounce with pious care,
And give with such emphatic grace,
When you kneel down in holy place.
O think, as the petitions run, That you repeat, ‘Thy Will be done!’
And to th'Allwise and Sov'reign will, Say, can you be repugnant still.”

“O spare that thought,” 'Squire Worthy said,
With trembling voice, and was obey'd.

Here then Maria interpos'd, And this grave Colloquy was clos'd:
But soon by her it was renew'd, And thus the subject she pursued.

—She thought, she'd gone too far, but now
The Doctor made a gracious bow:
As if the thought his grief beguil'd;
The sad man for the first time smil'd;
For the first time receiv'd relief Since he became a slave of grief.
—She seiz'd the moment, to pursue The object which she had in view,
When, beck'ning her dear girl, she said,
Now let your music be display'd;
We've talk'd enough, and now we'll try
What can be done by harmony;
Play the Dead March in Saul, my dear,
It may the Doctor's spirits cheer;
Perhaps his instrument may join, And aid the symphony divine.
Syntax now felt the well-aimed stroke,
And saw he must partake the joke.
“Some livelier air,” he mildly said,
“And, Madam, you shall be obey'd.”
—The fiddle came, th'according strings Resounded while Maria sings,
And, waken'd by the inspiring strain, He now look'd like himself again.
—The supper came, the loaded plate
Soon vanish'd where the Doctor sate,
And by the grateful bev'rage cheer'd,
To his charm'd friends it soon appear'd,
While his deep grief had taken flight, That he had found his appetite.

Worthy, was more than pleased to see The air of calm hilarity,
Which did, though in a chasten'd smile,
His friend's pale, woe-worn face beguile;
And that his wife's resistless art Had so contriv'd it, to impart
A pleasure to th'afflicted heart.
But, ere they sought the hour of rest,
Once more his thoughts he thus express'd.
“Doctor, I almost crack'd my brain To calm your sorrow, but in vain,
While that sweet Angel's words contrive
To bid your former peace revive:
O how I shall rejoice to see Her guide your present destiny!
So that her conquest you remain, So that she holds the silken rein,
And that you promise to obey Her wise and her indulgent sway,
I will acknowledge it my pride That she should be your only guide;
While I, subservient to her skill, Will aid your yielding to her will:
And, as through life's mysterious hour, I have so long obey'd her pow'r,
A power that never fail'd to bless, And stamp my days with happiness,
So shall she guide my future life, My friend, my mistress and my wife.
—If then by my experience taught,
These truths within your mind are wrought,
If you your present state prepare To be submitted to her care,
Her anxious friendship will assure For all your griefs a speedy cure.
—You've now begun to banish sorrow,
And when we meet again to-morrow,
The scheme propos'd will be arrang'd;
Your views, your fancies shall be chang'd;
And though, my friend, when you depart,
Grave thoughts may press upon your heart;
The various scenes of social life, The world, and all its busy strife,
Th'enliv'ning sunshine that attends
The joyous looks of ancient friends;
The promis'd hope that added fame,
Will give new honour to your name,
While you consign to Folly's doom
Each dunce who did that name assume,
With reason's strong, reflecting powers,
Will give old joy to present hours.
Thus not a trouble shall bestride The active steed on which you ride:
And when our Vicar comes again
T'embrace his friends at Sommerden,
We shall our former Syntax find him,
With all his troubles left behind him.
But whom, perhaps, our Rev'rend Sage
May bring to grace his Vicarage,
If aught he brings, why we must leave
For time and fortune to achieve.
Sleep on the thought, and when you wake,
May your chang'd heart no longer ache,
While firm resolves, by truth enjoin'd,
Give the lost vigour to your mind.”
He bow'd assent, as Worthy spoke,
Then sought his bed, but never woke
Till, the next morn, the constant bell
Did the known hour of breakfast tell:
And when the plenteous meal was done The Doctor smiling thus begun:
“So many reasons have been given,
As true as if inspir'd by Heaven,
I should be senseless as the dead, And after what my friends have said,
Should I not think the project fit; Therefore obedient I submit.
But then, the how, the when, the where,
Will call for your immediate care.
All things are chang'd as well you know,
For 'tis to you that change I owe,
Since my last, doubtful long career,
By Heaven's goodness, brought me here,
For now I have my purse well lin'd, Nor doth a fear assail my mind:
I'll shape my journey as I please, Consult my humour and my ease,
Assur'd that wheresoe'er I roam, I have an enviable home,
Where on my ev'ry wish attends The best of Beings and of Friends.
The course, the means, I must pursue, I leave submissively to you.
Equip me, as to mode and measure,
According to your friendly pleasure.
I'll in equestrian order move, Or guide the reins, as you approve:
But if it be my lot to ride, Another Grizzle pray provide;
If such another can be found Within the ample country round.”
Two years, alas! were gone and past,
Since faithful Grizzle breath'd her last,
Since that invaluable creature Had paid the common debt of nature.
She who had seen the battle rage, Escaped to reach a good old age:
She who had heard the battle's din, Now sleeps in an uncurried skin;
For currier none had been allow'd,
To touch the skin that's now her shroud.
'Tis true, indeed, it had been scor'd, By the rude force of slashing sword;
But then the slashing was in front,
Where Honour writes its name upon't;
Though to the flowing tail and ears,
The Fates 'tis known applied the shears, In guise of wicked villagers.
Whether on barn-door they remain, The sport of sunshine and of rain,
Or whether time has bid them rot, The Muse knows not or has forgot.
A rising mound points out her grave,
The cropping sheep its verdure shave;
The cypress at the foot is seen, Array'd in mournful evergreen;
While the willow's branches spread Their drooping foliage at the head;
And Grizzle's name, ten times a day,
Is sigh'd by all who pass that way.
“The chesnut mare,” 'Squire Worthy said,
“Shall lead the journeying cavalcade.
Phillis, the ambling palfrey's name,
Perchance may equal Grizzle's fame;
For though she ne'er engag'd in war, Nor felt the honour of a scar,
Yet she has oft Maria borne,
O'er hill and dale, through brake and thorn,
A load more honourable far, Than a fat, blust'ring Trumpeter,
And much more fit in graceful ease To bear the Minister of peace;
For now 'tis to your station due, As you your purpos'd Tour pursue,
In better figure to appear, Than when you first were welcom'd here.
Besides you shall not go alone, A valet must your journey crown,
And it is madam's well-judg'd plan,
That Pat shall be your liv'ried man.
Patrick has in the army been, And that has taught him to be clean;
While to obedience nothing loth, To do what a good servant doth,
He has been us'd to ev'ry trim, And nothing comes amiss to him;
A pleasant, honest, faithful creature,
As e'er was formed by willing nature;
Of travelling troubles he will ease you:
And by his droll'ry sometimes please you.
While he indulg'd his native chat,
We all have jok'd and laugh'd with Pat.
With a kind, friendly heart endued, The fellow's always doing good,
And with his free and added labour
He oft assists his helpless neighbour.
This anxious lady, Sir, and I Shall see you go with smiling eye,
If you have Patrick for your guard; Nor shall he fail of due reward.
Punch, a good, useful, active hack, Shall trot with Patrick on his back;
And all your chattels, wear and tear,
That back, without a wince, will bear.”
—The Doctor gently bow'd assent, And kiss'd his hand in compliment,
But could not quite disguise a smile Which did a lurking joke beguile:
Patrick's he thought a curious doom,
Which turn'd a pavior to a groom.
Patrick was sought, and soon was told
In what new rank he was enroll'd,
And that the Doctor and the 'Squire His instant presence did require.
Pat chuckled, and without delay, Hasten'd the summons to obey.
But Kate, who, from some awkward word
Which she by chance had overheard,
Suspecting, but yet not well knowing, About what errand he was going;
Thought, as a wife, it was but fair,
Whate'er the boon—that boon to share.
—She follow'd, though of doubts possest;
A baby slumber'd on her breast,
While, in each hand she held another, A chubby sister and a brother:—
Pat came and bow'd, strok'd back his hair, And stood with military air,
While he attention's look display'd, As he was wont on war's parade.
The Doctor first the silence broke.—
“I've sometimes, Pat, let loose a joke,
As well I'm sure you don't forget, When we, by any chance, have met;
But as you well may guess the reason 'Tis not just now a joking season.
I am about to travel far, And much I want th'attending care
Of some bold, active, steady spirit, Who does those qualities inherit,
At once both duteous, kind and fervent,
Which form the good and faithful servant:
If these you have, you shall attend My journey as an humble friend.
The 'Squire and Madam, with one voice,
Have urg'd me to make you my choice:
What say you?” Patrick look'd towards Heaven,
And thus his warm reply was given;
“I've serv'd my king and country too:
And now, with all obedience due,
Your Honour's Rev'rence I'll attend, To this round world's remotest end;
And do whate'er you shall require By day or night,—in flood or fire;
On horse or foot, 'tis all the same,
You shall ne'er say that Pat's to blame.
I serv'd a Captain seven long years, And when he fell, I know my tears
Mix'd with the blood that flow'd around,
When he receiv'd his fatal wound.
Your honours, you may take my word,
He was as brave as his drawn sword,
Which, to my army 'twas well known,
Had often split a Frenchman's crown;
And was a kind and gen'rous master, Until he met with this disaster.
I would have died Heav'n knows to save him;
That fatal morn he bid me shave him;
I've got the razor all forlorn With which his dying beard was shorn,
And when, well set, why it shall thin
Whene'er you please, your honour's chin.
Oh he'd be glad, with justice due, To say all I have said is true.
But he sleeps on a foreign plain, Nor e'er will wag his tongue again.
Oh he was good as he was brave, And as I have a soul to save
His bosom never felt a fear When trumpets did to battle cheer:
You may believe what I have said; Nor will his soul e'er be afraid,
When the last Trumpet bids array
The Quick and Dead, at Judgment-day.
I am no scholar, but I know That good works joy, and evil woe,
As Sunday last, the Doctor's text
Told us, in this world and the next.”
—A transient sense of mirth was caus'd
By the last words, when Patrick paus'd.
“But,” said the 'Squire, “upon my life,
We must enquire of Patrick's wife
Whether it will not sorely grieve her,
If her dear, faithful mate, should leave her.”
—She pass'd her hand o'er either eye, And thus she ventur'd to reply:
“Pat's talk may make you Gentry laugh,
But 'tis too grave for me by half.
Pray what provision shall I have, When he is gone and cannot pave?
And if please Heaven that he should die Who will maintain my family?
When I have nought to cut and carve,
Why I and all my babes must starve!”
“—Hold your tongue, Kate,” the pavior said,
“I've got a far, far better trade:
Paving farewell! 'tis now my plan To serve a rev'rend Gentleman.
I love you, wife, with all my heart,
But now and then 'tis good to part,
And then 'tis joy, almost to pain, When we are call'd to meet again.
And should I pass through Heav'n's gate,
Nay should his Rev'rence yield to Fate,
'Squire Worthy will take care of Kate.
And for my smiling babes, God bless 'em,
Madam will give them clothes to dress 'em;
And faith, my girl, I'd swear and vow,
She'll keep 'em fat as they are now.
And who doth know by Heav'n's good grace
Some honest man may take my place;
There's comfort, Kate, and you may thrive As well as when I was alive.
Kate, worthy Sirs, takes nought amiss,
Nor e'er says No when I say Yes.
It was a little matter, that, Which was agreed 'twixt her and Pat,
A little scheme to keep off strife,
When the church made us man and wife:
So nothing further need be said, Your Honour's wishes are obey'd;—
And now farewell, pick-axe and spade!
All that I have, my life and soul, I subject to your kind controul;
'Twill be my study to fulfil, Both day and night your honour's will;
Nor danger, nor distress shall find you,
While I am jogging on behind you.
—The 'Squire may trust to my kind care,
The grey hack and the chesnut mare;
They are old friends, I've known them long,
And woe to him who does them wrong!
Nay, should I any ostler meet That did them of their suppers cheat,
The fellow's teeth would be in danger,
For faith, I'd make him eat the manger.
I've often seen my Lady there, Ride Phillis with a gallant air;
And seldom did she fail to banter As she pass'd by me on a canter.
But if it doth on me depend, Where'er our destin'd way may tend,
His Rev'rence, Pat, the Mare and Hack,
Shall all look well, when they come back.”
Thus all the parties seem'd well pleas'd;—
The Doctor of his sorrow eas'd
Look'd forward to the destin'd Tour To generate a perfect cure.
That their scheme promis'd such success, Afforded real happiness
To their kind hearts who first design'd it,
And now to Heaven's best care resign'd it.
—By Village Tailor, in a crack, Patrick was clad in suit of black:—
But while, array'd in inky coat, From his new hat was seen to float
The mourning crape, he had the art
To keep all mourning from his heart.
Booted and spurr'd he might provoke The Village jeer, the Village joke;
But he prov'd all their envy vain, For faith he jok'd and jeer'd again.
Although it rather seem'd to grieve her,
That he had thus resolv'd to leave her,
Kate still was pleas'd her Pat to see Dress'd out with such gentility;
And, as she did his figure scan, Swore he look'd like a gentleman.
But Pat had bus'ness still in view, Ere the time came to say adieu.
He, with a stone, was bid to pave,
The length and breadth of Madam's grave,
To guard it round with verdant sod, And break to dust each clumsy clod,
'Till skilful mason could prepare Beneath affection's mournful care,
A fond memorial to raise Of tender grief and faithful praise.

Now, ere a busy week was gone, The steeds in full caparison
Appear'd, with all their trav'ling state,
Before the Vicar's crowded gate.
—Pat, who had left Amen to lead
The Doctor's gay and sprightly steed,
Had, after Kate had been caress'd, Receiv'd his children to be bless'd:
Some laugh'd at Pat, and some admir'd,
But all shook hands till he was tir'd:
Some grinn'd and some few wip'd an eye,
As if they were dispos'd to cry;—
But he exclaim'd their grief was vain,
For he should soon come back again;
And as for sorrow, 'twas a folly; The Devil alone was melancholy;
For the curs'd scoundrel, sour with sin,
Could ne'er with joy presume to grin,
Then told the laughers not to cry And went off whistling lullaby.
Syntax, now with a solemn grace,
Gave his best friends a warm embrace;
When many a kind adieu return'd,
The wish with which their bosoms burn'd,
—That ev'ry good which Heaven could send him,
That no misfortune should attend him,
Each rustic bosom did prepare And utter'd, as a cordial prayer.
—Thus the good man, at early day, Proceeded on his destin'd way.