Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes

Polwhele, Richard (1760-1838)

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

SIR ALLAN;

III.

VOL. III.

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II. VOL. II.

SIR ALLAN;

OR, THE KNIGHT OF EXPIRING CHIVALRY.

CANTO THE FIRST.

ARGUMENT.

1. The Country-Gentleman of former Times.—2. Description of the Mansion-house, ruinous Castle, Gateway, &c. of Andarton— of the Family resident at Andarton, from the highest Antiquity. —3. Sir Humphrey de Andarton, the present Possessor— his Character—his Wishes for a Son—Miss Prue his only Child—by his first Wife, Bridget—His Estates entailed on Miss Prue, in case of no Male Heir—Character of Miss Prue —Harriet, Sir Humphrey's second Wife—Rachel, his Maiden Sister—His Domestics, grown old in his Service.

In elder days, when each manerial lord
Cherish'd, with decent pride, the social board,
Assiduous to support his old demesne,
Where clustering hamlets spoke no sullen scene;

The rich, the poor, with sparkling eyes survey'd
The pure recesses of the patriarch-shade.
And, lo! a scatter'd few, still fond to trace
The fairer deeds that mark'd their quiet race,
Blush not to boast the hereditary claim,
But own their father's pomp, their proudest aim.

Where glides the Fale, here spreading to the sun,
There veil'd by clifts, or fring'd by coppice dun,
On the hill side, of unaspiring height,
A hoary mansion boasts its pleasant site;
And where a woodbine-porch attracts the eye,
Courts to its southern front the balmy sky.

Soft from the porch a path, with easy flow,
Steals down the slope, to kiss the bank below,
Where gentle Fale the greensod loves to lave,
Or curls thro' breathing tufts its amorous wave;
While the tower-pinnacles, for ages grey,
Frown o'er the church thro' many an elmy spray,
And from the curate's thatch and whiten'd walls
Across the silent stream the shadow falls.

On grounds above the mansion-site, we mark
A shatter'd castle crumbling o'er the park:
Its ivy-curtain to the zephyr heaves,
As mountain-ashes dance their airy leaves,
And, ere their vermeil berries they unfold,
Festoon the roofless wall with wreaths of gold.
Lo! as assail'd by Charles's murderous foes,
In firm defiance still the rampires rose;
Sterner amid the storm the castle stood,
To drink, at all its loopholes, rebel blood;
Till, entering every breach to crush a host
Beneath the fragments, was its haughty boast!

Rais'd from the castle-stone, the mansion owes
To the fall'n fabric its columnar rows
Fantastic, once in beauteous order light,
Its roof plain-vaulted, once with fretwork dight,
Its doorway's pointless arches, and its panes
Yet dimly tinctur'd with armorial stains;
Whilst her fond antiquaries Fancy wafts
From wreathed windows high to clustering shafts,

Midst all the tracery which adorns a dome
That frowns, superbly rich, in Gothic gloom.

Beyond the ruin, rock'd by every gale,
A gateway seems its solitude to wail,
As, in unbroken grandeur wild and lone,
Its turrets to the castle fragments moan;
Whence a dark avenue, by time embrown'd,
With its diffusive umbrage sweeps the ground,
Guides, in fair perspective, the pleasur'd eye
To poppied cornfields redd'ning to the sky;
To vallies blooming midst their orchard shade,
Or where tall hops their pendent blossoms braid;
And to the aërial azure that invests
The soften'd whiteness of the clifts, and rests
A deep'ning haze, on two umbrageous knolls
Between whose parted gloom the billow rolls.

Far branching from the loftier avenue,
A woodwalk, roof'd with laurel, leads the view,
As roses blush, and purpling lilacs swell,
And jasmines twinkle, to a cottag'd dell;

Where, to the left, a wood its foliage flings,
And little spaces gleam with fairy rings,
Thro' the smooth stems of limes or beeches seen,
To lure the fancy to their softer green.

Meantime, the mansion rears no feeble roof
On moorstone from the ruin, massy-proof;
While, stretcht along the western wing, its hall
Wooes a dim chesnut to the pannell'd wall,
Bids the broad foliage o'er the wainscot play,
And weave its quiv'ring shades with purple day.
Here muskets gleam in many a steely row,
With bayonets and pistols rang'd below;
Swords that of human blood ne'er knew the guilt,
And hangers glittering from each silver hilt—
How valueless, amid the veteran fame
Of armour that superior pannels claim;
Vizors high burnisht once, as glory play'd
Around the leaders of the wild crusade;
The rusted cuirass, and the dinted shield;
Bows that perhaps were bent on Cressy's field;

Hauberks that clasp'd, where furies urg'd their work,
Lancastrian heroes, or the chiefs of York;
And targets, crusted deep with sanguine scales;
And sable casques, that sigh to rifted mails.

And not the hall alone, array'd with arms,
Of other times renew'd the heroic charms.
Glimmer'd above the hall, “the golden room,”
Where mantled in the dance the virgin's bloom;
While a long gallery, on its eastern side,
Projected picture-shadows, far and wide;
And with a portrait of the castle-dome
Adorn'd, still serv'd to foster thro' the gloom
Which gathers o'er an ancient house decay'd,
The pride of worthies wedded to the shade.

So stands the dome; screen'd safely from the north
By elms that pour the rook's hoarse murmur forth:
And, at small distance from the social trees
A broad pond gleams, and dimples to the breeze;
The wholesome cresses on its border feeds,
And hides it's wanton carp with shading reeds.

Amid these grounds, a race of spotless name,
Not trump'd by glory, or unknown to fame,
Their rural lives in calm succession pass'd,
And saw good days, and peaceful breath'd their last.
Not that each worthy, tho' unstain'd by crimes,
Escap'd the modish errors of the times:
Yet, each descending to his father's vault,
His sin was soften'd to a trivial fault.

That, her High Chamberlain, the bearded Hugh
Serv'd Queen Matilda, is as gospel true:
That, once, at Henry's court, the sly Sir Watt
Was Wolsey's friend, allur'd by Wolsey's hat,
Yet, when the Cardinal dispurpled fell,
Stole to these shades, the village stories tell;
And that, in bigot Mary's reign, the shire
Sir Edmund serv'd, as Knight, is passing clear.
But none had scorn'd the endearing sweets of home,
Or roam'd to distant shores, or wish'd to roam;
Save that young Ralph, illustrious in the fight,
At Salem's glittering towers, a red-cross Knight,

Had the proud crescent from the rampires torn,
And stern o'er hills of slain the trophy borne.

Yes! happy still their home-brew'd ale to quaff,
(Spite of the exotic prowess of Sir Ralph)
A train of honest Knights and honest Squires
Were laid in quiet slumber with their fires;
When every villager aspir'd to hail
Sir Humphrey, lord of all the tranquil vale,
And not less meriting his fathers praise,
Tho' “fall'n on evil tongues and evil days!”

Tho' now, alas! arriv'd at sixty-one,
Yet was the Knight ungifted with a son:
Still for a son he breath'd the fervent prayer;
But all his ardors were dispers'd in air.

Twice in the roseate chain of Hymen linkt,
Love on the gentle captive archly wink'd,
As to a second charmer he resign'd,
In dreams of sweet oblivion, all his mind.

Yet oft his Bridget, nipt in early bloom,
His grief still follow'd to the untimely tomb.
“But why lament her loss; while, far aloof,
“While, hovering at due distance from my roof,
“At best with cold civility I treat
“Her friends that once annoy'd my peaceful seat?—
“That pallid sister, who now mocks the skies,
“Lifting the whites of two grey-gogling eyes;—
“That meagre brother, an air dancing prig,
“Like Jenny Jerkairs, in heroics big
“If at the sessions he hath gain'd a cause
“By the smart action of his lanthorn jaws,
“But, on a sudden, how submiss and mute
“If his nose suffer in some sharp dispute!”

Thus o'er the past Sir Humphrey lov'd to brood,
Then look'd to future views in fretful mood;
As, overweening still, his wish would run,
“O may kind Heaven indulge me with a son!”

One girl was his, just verging on eighteen—
O well might he prefer that prayer, I ween!

A present from his first devoted wife,
The girl might soothe, indeed, the cares of life,
If, haply, formal pride and sullen airs,
And flippancies, of life relieve the cares.
Tutor'd amidst a modish school, whose boast
Was to amuse conceited heads, at most,
And not one salutary truth impart,
Such as informs the mind, or mends the heart;
Miss, with a hatred for her home, came down,
And term'd each rural squire a booby clown!

Attacht to things that Misses deem outré,
A shrub imported from the Southern Sea,
No matter what—a Transatlantic weed,
Or any creature not of British breed,
She, by her sire's indulgence, prompt to grant
Her wishes, purchas'd many a curious plant;
While with Bologna's lapdog soft supplied,
Her soul, unsated, for a monkey sigh'd;
And, with the prating of a parrot blest,
The paroquet her longing hopes carest!

From taste in reading still she wander'd wide,
Follow'd the laws of fashion, her sole guide;
With thoughts that petrify, and words that freeze,
Turn'd o'er a page, and talk'd of Eloise;
And said, that English writers of romance
Stole every touching grace from genial France.

Of France, indeed, enamour'd, she resign'd
To one sole favourite of the human kind,
A maid from Caen imported, every care;
(Unless a school-creole might claim a share)
As with the choicest Gallic tropes she strung,
In converse with the chattering girl, her tongue;
For genuine wit receiv'd each flippant jest,
While dear Annette herself or Tripsey drest;
And, from the vulgar English herd withdrawn,
Enjoy'd the native eloquence of Caen.

Yet, if the Knight begat no issue male,
His whole inheritance was hers in tail.

But, fond to give his heritage some chance,
Or won (as some suspect) by beauty's glance,
He kneel'd to Harriet, ere nine moons were past
Since his first wife, his Bridget, breath'd her last.
And well, ye Muses! might a form so fair,
Those easy gestures, and that modest air—
The harmonies of elegance and love,
The pliant bosom of Sir Humphrey move;
While o'er her sweet, her prepossessing face,
The shadowy eyelash cast a pensive grace;
While all the worth that feeling—sense supplies,
Play'd in divine succession from her eyes.
There, mild complacence held it's sober seat;
There, gentleness illum'd its lov'd retreat;
There Prudence sat, and, e'er deciding right,
Reflected on calm thought a steady light.
Now quick intelligence, in many a blaze,
From those bright orbs elicited its rays!
Now, in a sweet transition, would appear
Pity! the trembling lustre of thy tear!

Yet never could the admiring gaze excite
In that pure breast one flutter of delight,
While with those charms humility combin'd,
To crown the beauteous triumph of the mind.

But, oft, such virtues, as in lovely light
They rise, in contrast with demoniac spite,
Tho' Fancy bid them brighten thro' the gloom,
Draw Envy's venom'd breath, to blast their bloom.
“Shall you (the girl once cried, with loosen'd rage)
“Whose arts have won my father's doating age,
“Who, ere my hapless mother had been dead
“For nine short months, approach'd the widow'd bed;
“Shall you assume the housewife's serious task,
“And duties that a long experience ask?
“Shall you, who know not what the fashions mean,
“Direct, in dress, a lady of eighteen?”
Yet gentle Harriet of the household-care
Bore, with becoming grace, a trivial share;
And seldom to Miss Prue, tho' all confess
Its studied stiffness, dropp'd a hint of dress.

Meanwhile, a maiden sister of the Knight,
Perverse, but rarely gloom'd by spleen or spite,
Who from Andarton's smoke had never stray'd,
The household with a high dominion sway'd.

Rachel, in truth, a notable old dame,
To thriftiness preferr'd the proudest claim;
Whether her menial train she lov'd to treat
With barley-meal proportion'd to their wheat;
Or trick'd the government, so keen and arch,
By the nice conduct of potatoe-starch;
Or, to œconomy a constant friend,
Each night collected every candle-end.

But, in her charities good Rachel, still,
Discover'd to the world her wondrous skill.
With her what nymph could vie, ye hamlets! say,
In treacle-posset, or in cyder-whey?
O tell what dame with Rachel could compare
Her poppy-syrops, or her maidenhair?

Of all the sins that sue to be forgiven,
Imploring mercy from relenting Heaven,
She rated fornication far the worst,
A sin she judg'd unnat'ral and accurst:
Yet would she pity, of her wrath beguil'd,
The poor frail Jacobite who prov'd with child.

Sir Humprhey could, himself, but ill discard
To the fall'n Prince the family-regard:
And, if he warmly had espous'd a cause,
Her brother's notions were, to Rachel, laws.

Not but she screw'd her visage up, at first,
And her parch'd lips, 'tis rumour'd, somewhat purs'd,
When brother own'd, again by Cupid smit,
That his teeth water'd for a fresh tid bit.

And often with a shrewd or mystic look,
Amid her household train her head she shook;
When their first mistress, hurried to the tomb
They mourn'd, and shudder'd at the haunted room.

“'Tis now five years, and coming six, (they cried)
“Since last we saw the room where mistress died:
“And, sure we are, that chamber, every night,
“Is sadly troubled by some wandering sprite!
“Such noises oft we hear, such hideous moans—
“Our flesh seems ready to forsake our bones!
“Heaven grant no mischief may befall our lord,
“But untold blessings croud his bed and board!”

And warm their wishes! In his house grown old,
Their's was the faithful heart unbrib'd by gold!
The merry butler was alert to tell
(A parish-prentice, he remember'd well)
“How for young master Humphrey, who was born,
“Beneath some lucky star, on Twelfth-day morn,
“While round the roast they all were drencht with sack,
“The great gold chain hung glittering to the jack!
The groom, his head besprent with silver grey,
Wish'd, with arch looks, for such another day:
The simple hind petition'd from the heart,
That master yet might play a vigorous part;

And Avice, bending now beneath fourscore,
Half smiling, nodded to the wags—encore!
Alas, poor Avice! tremulously weak,
Who with a palsied tongue essay'd to speak
Her honest feelings, as she told with glee,
How she had dandled oft the knight upon her knee!
Poor Avice! who once dar'd, indeed, to chide
Miss Prue's increasing petulance and pride;
Yet now, perhaps, presuming to beseech
The girl, with all humility of speech,
To check her sullens, was with scorn repaid—
Nay, by the blackness of her scowl dismay'd,
Not for a world, would venture Miss to meet,
If aught befel the plants or paroquet!

But tho' her humour seldom Avice hit,
Yet Avice pardon'd every sulky fit;
Each prayer with wishes for her welfare clos'd;
And, as a little brother (she suppos'd)
Might from the suds relieve the vapourish maid,
Unceasing, for a little brother pray'd.

“Alas! (she cried) on this poor feeble knee,
“My master have I dandled oft with glee—
“O! in a son (she utter'd with a sigh)
“His image may I dandle, ere I die!”

END OF THE FIRST CANTO.

CANTO THE SECOND.

ARGUMENT.

1. The Guardian Genius of the House of Andarton convening the inferior Spirits—apprehensive of some impending evil—assigning to the Feri their different Stations in the Protection of the Family, &c. &c.—2. Sir Humphrey's private Life—Rachel's Occupations—Harriet's—Miss Prue's—Twelfth-Day, on which Sir Humphrey was born—Sir Humphrey, &c. in public—At Church—Herbert the Curate—Sir Humphrey, a Justice of the Peace—Ned Jerkairs, his Clerk.—3. Harriet's Pregnancy—Birth of a Son, Allan-de-Andarton.

Such was the household of Andarton-Grove,
A patriarchal tent, sustain'd by love,
Where all (but one) delighted to impart
The bliss that springs from harmony of heart;

When now the spirit, who with guardian sway
Had watch'd Andarton from its earliest day,
Glanc'd thro' the glimmering park at fall of eve,
And, as the duskier wood began to heave
With universal tremor, sought the roof
Of a fair oak, whose leaves were knit, star-proof—
An oak whose acorn in the genial earth
Sir Humphrey's father, at his infant's birth,
Had duly set, and round it smooth'd the green,
And trimm'd the neighbour trees, an ambient screen.
There, as beneath its arborous boughs he stood,
He smil'd upon the pride of all the wood.

The genius mus'd; while, towering on his head,
A helm appear'd, with Paynim carnage red.
Sudden his potent wand he wav'd around,
And fleeting shadows brush'd the chequer'd ground;
When, gathering in aërial squadrons, shone
The inferior spirits, that his empire own—
The Feri, who had lent their magic aid,
Thro' ages, to protect Andarton's shade.

“Ye Fayes, (he cried) by whom that ancient wood,
“By whom, firm-rooted, those stout oaks have stood,
“To whom these beeches owe their circling shade,
“By whom those elms, rich-tufted, are array'd;
“To you, ye Fayes, the important cares belong
“To guard the parent-trees, to rear the young.
“Ere wakes the foliage to the morning breeze,
“Be yours to number all these precious trees,
“Protect each scion, nurse the shrubs below,
“And hover o'er the blossoms as they blow.
“And ye, who give the fattening ox to feed,
“Full-udder the fair kine, and guard the breed;
“Bid o'er soft slopes the bearded barley flow,
“Or wheaten furrows wave with golden glow;
“Ah! summon, at this hour, your utmost skill,
“To fence the farm and all its stores from ill.
“What tho', when night hath all the scene o'erbrow'd,
“And the pale Iris glimmers from her cloud,
“Ye freely range, or haunt, as Oberon wills,
“Far winding vallies, and translucent rills;

“Yet is it yours, and Oberon's, to obey
“This wand, and tremble at superior sway.

“And you, domestic Feri, full of mirth,
“By whom the chirping cricket glads the hearth,
“Who, at the plenteous board, good-humour shed,
“And pour sweet influence o'er the genial bed;—
“Still with benign assistance hover near,
“And deem not I indulge an idle fear.
“I mark some ill—but, ah! the Immortal shrouds
“Its features in impenetrable clouds!
“Then, all ye spirits! watch these sacred groves;
“Cherish their generous lord, and speed his loves.”
He said, and wav'd his wand; when every Fay
Dissolv'd, as at the kindling blush of day.

Thus foster'd by the favor of the sprite,
Thy grove, Andarton! bower'd its worthy Knight.
There, of his ancient park, his pastures proud,
He hail'd the summer-sun, the winter-cloud;

Content to run the farmer's annual round,
Monotonous, amid his native ground.

When vernal breezes fann'd the waving shade,
Ere with the morn his starry curtains play'd,
He hasten'd to salute the balmy dawn,
And by the path's alluring softness drawn
To the hill-summit, caught the skylark's note
That from a heaven of amber seem'd to float;
Or listen'd to the wood-dove's tale of woes
That, gurgling, from the impervious dingle rose.
Yet not to lonely pensiveness inclin'd,
He lov'd the cares that wait the watchful hind.
Oft, as he grasp'd his silver-mounted staff,
(A palm-tree branch transmitted from Sir Ralph—
A branch that, with its dates delicious crown'd,
Sir Ralph himself had cut on Salem's ground)
He pac'd the broom-clad upland, or the glade,
To “tell his tale” of sheep, or track the stray'd;
Mark the young daisies, as, with half a smile,
They faintly peep'd thro' fescue, or trefoil,

And, kind in promise to the dairy-lass,
Catch the first gleams where kingcups gild the grass.

The sympathetic spirit hath averr'd,
That human kindness draws the beast, the bird:
And, goodness on his countenance portray'd,
Each creature seem'd to court Sir Humphrey's shade.
What tho' the hoop, too conscious of her crime,
Where bursting buds announc'd the joyous prime,
To other orchards from his presence fled,
Ere long to forfeit her felonious head;
Yet would the finch, with gold-streak'd pinions gay,
With short shrill jerks salute him on his way,
Plunge in the thistle her white bill, and shed
Its glistening down, and rear her scarlet head,
Sleek, on the spray above, her brightening plume,
And with arch eye that confidence resume
Which erst, amid the laurel glossy-leav'd,
Her beauteous nest beneath his window weav'd.

But, e'er, one tenant of Andarton-Grove
Claim'd from the friendly. Knight peculiar love,

The associate of his young and vigorous years,
Whose honors, time-confer'd, awaken'd tears—
His old roan horse, that, o'er his acres free,
Stray'd, or by sunny hill, or shady tree,
That own'd with pride, each faithful service past,
A generous master's kindness to the last.
The shaggy mane, the hoof with tufts o'ergrown,
The toothless jaws, each rib a staring bone,
Sunk in its socket the dim'd eye of glass,
And knees that scarce sustain'd the tottering mass—
Say, could the skeleton breathe vital air?
Yes! memory, gratitude still linger'd there!
If, in the mead or park he miss'd his Roan,
The Knight, with fears confest by love alone,
Would pierce the skirting thicket, or of thorn
Or birch, tho' cover'd by the drops of morn,
Then, chiding, as affection oft hath chid,
Hail his poor friend, by holly-leaves half hid;
While Roany hasten'd thro' the rustling shade,
And to his prattling master fondly neigh'd!
From Nature's hand accepting Nature's boon,
Such hours of rural peace he pass'd till noon;

When, from his walk return'd, in loose plaid gown,
Oft times he welcom'd, from the neighbour town,
The master of the razor and the puff,
Who, scattering round a store of news and snuff,
Now check'd his tongue, the foaming horn to swig,
Now powder'd, in much haste, the bushy wig.

Meantime, old Rachel would her charge resume,
And observation dart, from room to room;
The motions of her breathless housemaids watch,
And from the tap'stry-chamber strait dispatch
Their feet impatient, to the blue, the red,
From the pal'd damask, to the new chintz-bed;
Nor quit their heels, till now, their labour done,
In each plump hand the nimble needle shone;
When, keenly searching every dusty nook,
She hied to form arrangements with the cook.
Nor sooner were o'erpast her kitchen cares,
Than her snug closet, half-way up the stairs,
With a quick jerk she duly would unclose,
In triumph tossing her red rivell'd nose;

Thence, thro' a light of lattice, glances throw
O'er all the kitchen, opening-wide, below;
And shrewdly, tho' invisible herself,
Mix in the bustle of each menial elf.
Her room, indeed, was passing-dark, I ween,
While, fading from a ground of rusty green,
A tatter'd paper just disclos'd to sight
Its old rais'd figures, once vermilion-bright.
There, stood in shadow a moth-eaten desk;
And there, a veteran cabinet grotesque,
By some great aunt with filligree adorn'd,
And a bare toilette, long as lumber scorn'd,
Tho', rich-enamel'd, nigh the damask bed
Its posies once a golden radiance shed.
On shelves above were rang'd along the wall,
To stimulate the stomach, or to pall,
Pickles or green or red, and potted meats,
And sparkling syrups, and confection-sweets,
And many a gallipot of rich conserves,
And jaleps, and still-waters for the nerves,
And, fit for Falstaff's self, delicious sack,
But chief, a large case-bottle of coniac.

Full oft would Harriet a kind wish impart,
To aid the housewife in her various art.
But, cautious lest another should eclipse
Her fame in crust, in mangoes, or in hips,
Still as her various art the housewife plied,
Her boast “in crowds, her solitary pride,”
Untroubled each indulg'd her different taste;
And Harriet read, while Rachel rais'd her paste.

And Harriet bade the pencil's magic power
Fling radiance, gilding many a gloomy hour;
And, if her pensive bosom own'd a grief,
Sought, in her dulcet harp, the sure relief.

Yet she could e'er disperse the cloud of thought
With music by applauding seraphs brought;
While o'er each village, with a kind concern,
Prompt every tale from sorrow's lips to learn,
'Twas hers, her cares, her pity to extend,
The poor man's patroness, to all a friend.

Oft, when along the avenue she seem'd
To saunter, where the unfolding landscape beam'd,
And gaze, as if its many-glancing hues
She panted to her tablets to transfuse;
She slop'd her path (yet still appear'd to stray)
To the dim woodwalk, ting'd by dancing day;
Trip'd lightly onward thro' its laurel gloom,
And, heedless of the fragrance and the bloom,
Quick, thro' its waving vista, caught the dale,
And the sweet groupe of cots ascending pale;
And now, by every curious eye unseen,
With pleasure op'd the wicket on the green.

There, as her hands the ready purse unstrung,
She drop'd delicious accents from her tongue;
And, more than with her purse (the poor confess'd)
Cheer'd with that angel-voice the burthen'd breast;
While the sad widow felt a genial glow,
And left, half-told, the story of her woe;
While feeble age, its crutch low-bending o'er,
Forgot the pain it just had mourn'd before;

And lisping babes, attracted by her charms,
Stretch'd out, as she approach'd, their little arms.

But chief, with tutelary care to guide
A little cottage-school, was Harriet's pride.
Where, on a hillock-slope, beside the wood,
By rude oak-props sustain'd, a structure stood,
And with an air grotesque o'erbrow'd the scene,
Its thatch with moss, its walls with ivy green—
While spir'd its smoke, or roll'd a dusky wreath
O'er the dun hamlet in the dell beneath;
There Harriet visited a veteran aunt,
Who taught her imps the horn-book how to chaunt,
Or how to knit, with azure yarn, the hose;
High-spectacled her venerable nose!
And, lo! at Harriet's voice, the pigmy crowd
Start from their seats, saluting her aloud;
When, as their several tasks they sing or say,
No more they tremble at the birchen spray,
But each, ambitious of a plauding look,
Thumbs with new zeal his not unsullied book;

When the hose-girls their flippant fingers ply,
To steal approving glances from her eye.

And tho' the magic of a smile could bribe
To diligence, the sweet untainted tribe;
Yet, little volumes, gilt, or green, or blue,
And silver pennies, pleas'd attention drew;
When, at the unhoped-for holiday high-flusht,
Forth at her nod—their hats in air—they rush'd;
Spread o'er the green, in various pastime gay,
And bask'd and wanton'd in the sunny ray.

Far other were the selfish Prue's pursuits,
Amid her plants, her trinkets, or her brutes.
If the clear morning wore a summer smile,
The greenhouse might, perhaps, an hour beguile:
Yet, as she shrunk, too sensitive, from air,
Her visit to her costly plants was rare.

When to her dressing-room Miss Prue retir'd,
With the fond love of varying fashion fir'd;

Incorrigibly formal, she betray'd
An aukward imitation of her maid!

Heavens! o'er her chamber what a rich display
Of female frippery in disorder lay!
Here combs of tortoise, elephant, or lead,
There powders that ambrosial essence shed;
Here patches, and pomatums, and perfumes,
There friendly rouge, to bring back female blooms;
And cushions stuck with many a black hair-pin,
And night-gloves from some former Tripsey's skin;
And brushes for the teeth, so ivory white;
And two reflecting mirrors, burnisht bright;
And letters freshly penn'd, where all her soul
The girl had vapour'd to a swart Creole
Her school-companion erst, whose grinning grace
Had taught her how to prize the monkey race!

In truth, her monkeys, her perpetual boast,
By the good Knight's connivance, had engross'd

The room that ran along the western wall,
(Propt by the pillars of the extensive hall)
That, by Sir Roger, her great grandsire, built,
Was deck'd with sculpture and superbly gilt;
The “golden room,” that once knew better days,
When, lighten'd by the taper's midnight blaze,
And by its cedar fires perfum'd around,
It sprung elastic to the dancer's bound.
Alas! where wreaths of fragrance gently roll'd
O'er those dim pannels, once of burnisht gold,
From cells assign'd to Tripsey's sweet repose,
Odours, of other sort, assail the nose!
Where, from the viol and the harp high-strung,
With choral notes the copper ceiling rung,
Far other sounds the wondering ear engage,
Amid the proud orchestra now a cage!
Here with long plumes macaws the floor o'ershade,
Where birth-night ladies glitter'd in brocade!
Here Prue with smart Annette a parley holds,
Her monkey fondles or her parrot scolds;
Where brilliant youths dissolv'd in amorous sighs,
And courtly damsels roll'd their charming eyes!

Ah! whether music melts, or dancing fires
The social passion fades, and fast expires;
Tho' once it kindled up the Baron's hall,
And warm'd with equal rays the mud-built wall!

While now the sounds of cordial union fail,
Where the lone structure darkens every dale;
While floats no more the voice of castled mirth,
And scarce a cricket cheers the cottage-hearth;
Each little neighbourhood may, perhaps, afford
Some grave historian of its ancient lord—
Some hoary peasant once a pamper'd groom,
Who tells, with rueful air, the mansion's doom;
Some gamekeeper, who now with drooping mien,
Eyes his bare plush, alas! no longer green;
And, as each feature various griefs distort,
Regrets the sad cessation of the sport,
While boys with fearless shouts around him run,
And at mid day the poacher vaunts his gun—
Perhaps some vicar, who, half-craz'd with care,
Recounts the ruin of a thriftless heir,

Pointing with signs that grief and pity mark,
To his old patron's pale-dismantled park,
Fell'd trees, where whispering airs no longer play,
And dismal windows that exclude the day!
Yet the good Knight still triumph'd to impart
His own kind feelings to the mantling heart;
When, 'midst the Autumnal or the Winter's feast,
He deem'd the sum of human joy increast.

In the gay circle of convivial cheer,
Blithe Christmas came, with chaplets never sear:
And chief, around his table, Twelfth-day drew
The neighbours of the Knight, a social few;
Cornubian cousins, all alert to pay
A heart-felt homage to his natal day.

Lo, for the last few years dispos'd to wear
On this peculiar day the gloom of care,
(As rose the morn) half-serious, half-in-joke,
Sir Humphrey hail'd his coetaneous oak.
“Each year (the Knight would cry), each year I see
“Thy stem that argues a more vigorous tree;

“Whilst I, my brother, am grown old and shrunk,
“Full soon to wither, a poor sapless trunk!”
But quick his open forehead from the eclipse
Emerg'd, as squeezing hands and smacking lips,
(To shame the hollowness of modish art)
He smil'd on every neighbour from the heart.

Nor sooner, at its chill and transient close,
Had evening ting'd a dreary waste of snows,
Than from the great plumb-cake, whose charms entice
Each melting mouth, was dealt the luscious slice;
As all the painted tapers in array
Flung round the jovial room a mimic day,
To wake to wonted sports the fancy wild,
Where, e'en the greybeard re-assum'd the child.

Yes! all—the gay, the serious—prompt to share
The merry pastime, cried—avaunt to care!
All—while each slip a forfeit would incur,
(A slip that hardly left a lasting slur!)
With the same ardor as when childhood dawns,
Survey'd the accumulating store of pawns;

And all enjoy'd, with eyes that rapture beam'd,
The frolic penance that each pawn redeem'd—
Perhaps, self-doom'd to ply the gipsey's trade,
Or thro' the gridiron kiss the kitchen-maid,
Or, by a gentle metaphoric trick,
With cleaner lips salute the candlestick,
Or catch the elusive apple with a bound
As with its taper it flew whizzing round,
Or, into wildness as the spirits work,
Display a visage blacken'd o'er with cork.

Meantime, the geese-dance gains upon the sight,
In all the pride of mimic splendour bright;
As urchin bands display the pageant show,
In tinsel glitter, and in ribbons glow;
And pigmy kings with carnage stain their path,
Shake their cock-plumes, and lift their swords of lath;
And great St. George struts, valorous, o'er the plain,
Deck'd with the trophies of the dragon slain;
And, thick where shiver'd lances strew the ground,
A champion falls, transfix by many a wound,

And little dames their favouring smiles bestow,
And “father Christmas” bows his head of snow!

Amid the quiet of Andarton's bower,
So pass'd unsullied each domestic hour.

Much to the public still Sir Humphrey ow'd:
And, as his heart benevolently flow'd
To patriot zeal, he paid the willing debt;
Whether, at church, as Sunday came, he set
A strict example to the vulgar train;
Or, legal order anxious to maintain,
Settled, an honest justice-of-the-peace,
Parochial forms, and bade contention cease.

Soon as the sabbath-morn began to break,
Sir Humphrey would a dismal air bespeak;
And teach his household thro' the day to wear,
However borrow'd, the same dismal air.
Yet, as instructed some mishap to rue,
Tho' thus they strove together to look blue,

And Rachel deck'd her visage with a gloom
That seem'd to indicate the day of doom;
Miss Prue, her ceremonies flung aside,
A tribute to her independent pride,
Took up a window-novel, degagee,
And winc'd, and lolling prest the soft settee;
Wonder'd how folks could indolently search
For poor amusement in a cold damp church;
And, as her sire began to talk of sin,
Flew to her monkey with a sister-grin.

Behold the frowning twain with painted poles,
Those stern compellers of backsliding souls,
Their coming master in the porch await;
Prepar'd to drag to day, or soon or late,
The soaking tribe, whom only canns of gin
And Nantz more potent to devotion win.

Sir Humphrey, bowing, pac'd the crouded aisle,
And to the curate glanc'd a gracious smile;
When now his short thick form from every pew
The homage of an awed attention drew—

When his large eye-brows that his eyes o'erhung,
Dark on his Roman nose their shadows flung;
As age with furrowing lines began to break
The ruddy fullness of his healthful cheek;
Tho' candour cloth'd his open forehead high,
And mild good nature grac'd his hazel eye.

Amid the varying service, he display'd
The enthusiast's ardour, if the curate pray'd:
Indeed, such fervid zeal Sir Humphrey felt,
He stood himself, to see that others knelt;
And look'd, as if his sight, as erst, were keen,
On many an aunt the pillar'd rows between;
Then, on pale monuments his eye repos'd,
Fix'd his calm thought on beavers half unclos'd,
His glance now upwards to the banners flung,
While o'er his head the heavy gauntlet hung;
Now seem'd to shiver down the steps that led
To all the charnel horrors of the dead,
And, as along the vault reflection ran,
Mourn'd, with moist eye, the transient pride of man.

Meantime the curate, with a modest port,
Had gain'd the rostrum, ready to exhort,
Perhaps on some fresh outrage to declaim,
And spread on conscious cheeks the blush of shame.
Certain it is, he oft dispens'd advice
Season'd with much vituperative spice,
Nor seldom to the gentler feelings spoke,
And touch'd the bosom by a tender stroke.
Yet, whether to a high censorial pitch
He rais'd his voice in declamation rich,
Or drew, by all the meltingness of tone,
From careless youth a sigh, from age a groan;
The Knight reports, he rarely was so rude
As on the hour of dinner to intrude,
But in good season, with a decent grace,
Resign'd the preacher's for the chaplain's place.

Yet was young Herbert not of supple mind,
Tho', as Sir Humphrey lik'd, he preach'd or din'd.

Not so the rector; whom, e'en once a year,
Sir Huhphrey grudg'd the hospitable cheer;

Who, as with courtly countenance he cring'd,
The Knight's assum'd civilities unhing'd.
“Tho' cheerfully I consecrate a goose,
“(Spite of her cackling) to the curate's use,
“And (sister grunting now) devote a pig;
“Yet to that priest, with ostentation big,
“Who, a proud prebend, once a year, salutes
“His poor parishioners, the Cornish brutes,
“I pay my composition with ill grace,
“And make, at every shilling, a wry face.
“'Zooks! he's a pastor only fit for Prue,
“Who bridling up, as Swellum struts in view,
“Curtsies, and spreads her fan, and talks with ease
“Of lords and ladies, and such-like grandees.
“Who, who can draw his purse-strings, nothing loath
“For doctors of the ton that slight the cloth?
“Indeed, 'tis lucky, that, of ancient date,
“I plead a modus on my own estate.”

At every innovation prompt to spurn,
His law of modus he deriv'd—from Burn:

And Burn he studied with incessant pains
Till now his failing eyesight sav'd his brains.

So qualified, the Knight would sally forth,
A justice of the peace of mickle worth;
His knowlege of the laws, each Woden's day,
To brethren of the quorum to display;
Snug at the Grey-goose all disputes compose,
And with his grave companions dine or doze.

There, if Sir Humphrey wander'd in the dark,
Ned Jerkairs was at hand, his duteous clerk;
And with adroitness to the legal way
Would guide his worship tho' far gone astray,
And, panting with hoarse eloquence, aver:
“Sir, you have push'd ('tis my idea, Sir,
“But I'll consult my brethren of the bar—)
“Sir, you have push'd the matter much too far.
“And, Sir, if you'll excuse a friend's advice,
“(In points of law we cannot be too nice)
“Perhaps, at intervals to cast your eye
“On volumes that within my office lie—

“The statutes, not abridg'd, Sir,—but at large,
“Would fit you, your high duty to discharge.
“For, tho' a magistrate with decent grace
“May fix the mulct in each familiar case,
“(The case, suppose of riot assault,)
“Yet justices, like hounds, are oft at fault.”

'Twas thus the days of good Sir Humphrey pass'd
Serene; or ruffled by a transient blast;
When, gathering on his brow, the cloud of care
Betray'd his anxious wishes for an heir.

At length his lovely wife began to deem
The idea of a son no empty dream.

And now the Knight alternate fears and hopes
Indulg'd in silence or express'd in tropes;
Assum'd amidst his friends a strict reserve;
Shrunk from a smile with irritable nerve;
And smother'd up his jokes of every sort,
In dread of lips too ready to retort.

Old Rachel, too, from other cares detacht,
Each symptom with a sharper visage watch'd;
Mark'd every longing with mysterious look,
And puzzled with chimeric cates the cook.

And, lo! pale expectation hover'd nigh;
And the house witness'd one convulsive sigh.
Say who, remote from marriage-scenes, could guess
At such an hour the husband's wild distress;
Shivering at every pin that chanc'd to drop,
For quick relief beseeching Doctor Slop?
Ah! who could tell, how strong the emotion rose
In the Knight's bosom, at his Harriet's throes?
Or, who could paint Sir Humphrey bliss-begone,
When Rachel, with a scream, announc'd—a SON!
Joy ran electric thro' the dancing dome;
And all was transport—but the monkey-room!

Sunk on her pillow as his Harriet lay,
Her eye-lash veiling each effulgent ray,
Her lily-hand so tremulously-weak,
A lovely blush fast-mounting to her cheek—

Scarce had the Knight his fingers snapt for joy,
Press'd her pale lip, and kiss'd the bouncing boy,
Ere to his astrologic books he slew;
The horoscope with nice precision drew;
And on the hereditary vellum-page
(In cedar cas'd but tawny-ting'd from age)
Enter'd, with all his grandsire Roger's care,
The moment of the birth, the natal star—
Enrich'd with mystic figures quaint and dark,
And many a sage, and many a shrewd remark;
While to his penetrating eye appears
The colour of his Allan's future years!

END OF THE SECOND CANTO.

CANTO THE THIRD.

ARGUMENT.

1. An Omen—the Family alarmed—Rachel's death—Jenny Jerkairs, Sister of Ned Jerkairs, invited by Prue to supply Rachel's Place at Andarton.—2. Allan, a Child—his Genius—his Sensibility—his Pastimes with little Juliet the Daughter of Geoffry Squintal, and with Henry one of his Schoolmates—Allan, at the Grammar-School at Molfra— his Master, Herbert the Curate—Herbert's Character— Allan's Genius further discoverable in his solitary Walks— his fondness for the wild or beautiful Scenery of Nature—his attachment to the old Armoury and Picture-Gallery—Sir Humphrey describing the Portraits to Allan, particularly those of Cadwallo, who had possessed a Fortiefs in the North of Cornwall; of Hoel his elder Son, who built an Abbey in the East of Cornwall; and of Andar his Younger, who founded the House of Andarton on the Banks of the Fal—Allan's Spirit of Enterprize conspicuous in the Sports of the Field—A Fox Chace described —A Stranger attended by a Train of Servants insulting Allan in the Field—Allan's manly Deportment—The Stranger

discovered to be a Nabob, who had bought an Estate contiguous to Andarton.—A Twelfth-Day Feast, the Company—Herbert the Curate, Ned the Attorney, the Squire of Trevalso, Geoffry Squintal, and Alice, his Lady, a Baron's Daughter, late of Landor Abbey; Juliet, the Daughter of Geoffry, and Alice—Allan, at the Age of Fifteen—his Birth-Day celebrated —A Running-Match of Girls; of those Girls Emma the most beautiful—Emma, a Stranger from the Banks of the Tamar—Emma gaining the Prize—Juliet much attached to Emma, who resides in a Cottage near Trevalso—Allan joining Juliet and Emma in their Walks—Juliet fainting at a Shipwreck—Allan surprizing a Sailor and his Dog near Emma's Cottage—3. Sir Humphrey betraying Symptoms of Infirmity—Cautioning Allan against the Nabob Sir Henry Hawtrap, and Geoffry Squintal, and Juliet, and directing his attention to Laura (Alice Squintal's Niece), the Heiress of Landor Abbey—The old Roan Horse dying at Sir Humphrey's Feet—The Knight's decease—His Funeral.

From its pure star effusing soft repose
The purple morn o'er blest Andarton rose;
And, as the smile of peace its radiance told,
Each evening linger'd on a cloud of gold.

The gentle Fayes with pride perform'd the task
Which smooth-shorn parks and waving woodwalks ask;
But printed, as they plum'd their guardian wings,
Where Harriet bore her babe, their favourite rings.

Yet, ah! the gloom-bred sprites that interpose,
O'er ancient houses scattering bitter woes,
Plann'd the dire scheme to chase each promis'd joy,
And mark'd with scowling eyes the unconscious boy.

Not long the Knight had pac'd the lawny green
With brisker step and more heroic mien;
Viewing his groves array'd in brighter bloom
To flourish for a thousand years to come;
Ere, sudden, his whole house conspir'd to wear
A fearful aspect, or dejected air;
While all, with one accord, as if undone,
Look'd, lank in visage, to his infant son.
Indeed, old Avice, with a grandame's pride,
The babe had dandled on her knee, and died.
Her comrades too, coeval train, were gone,
Save the poor butler, whose “beard wagg'd” alone:
He, o'er his staff, tho' now condemn'd to droop,
Still told his stories to the kitchen groupe;
And still, exciting laughter ere he spoke,
With sly-set face announc'd the coming joke:

But late, the panic of his soul was such,
With palsied gait he totter'd o'er his crutch.

And now, low whisperings and half-smother'd sighs,
And secret parleys and uplifted eyes,
And winks, and other strange mysterious ways,
The Knight began to notice with amaze;
Saw Rachel from her menials take her cue,
And caught the insulting titter oft from Prue.
In vain he question'd every soul to know
The cause of such a gathering gloom of woe;
Till butler Frank at length unseal'd his lips,
And told the occasion of the sad eclipse;
And, as he forc'd a laugh to hide a tear,—
“Why, master, it is all a foolish fear;
“But sure, betwattled is our house with grief!
“Poor Peter quiver'd like an aspin-leaf;
“Jane, as she heard it, had hysteric fits;
“And Susan ever since hath lost her wits.
“Sure, 'tis a sign”—“But what?” (Sir Humphrey cried)—
“It never came, they say, but some one died.

“Before your father's death I heard strange moans—
“Among the pigeon-holes! What piteous tones!
“'Twas the same wood-dove—each old servant said—
“That hover'd at your grandsire's dying bed.
“Alas! 'tis come again! I know its note—
“At dusk of eve it roosts on yonder cote;
“And all the tamer pigeons in affright
“Fly off, or wakeful flutter thro' the night.
“The brook, indeed, yet bubbles, with a rill
“Clear as the water comes from madam's still.
“But signs, good master, are, perhaps, a joke—
“The vain surmises of us vulgar folk.”
“No—no—” Sir Humphrey cried—“my honest friend—
“'Tis well if my decease the dove portend,”—
Then to the nursery hied, where Rachel sat
Envelop'd in a dismal cloud of fate;
Within his cradle rock'd the Suckling saw
His breath with suffocative labor draw;
And, pondering on pulsations quick and weak,
Beheld, with Rachel's eye, the fever'd cheek.

But soon, sweet Harriet, smiling thro' her tears,
Chas'd from her anxious lord a crowd of fears;
And shew'd the bursting tooth as ivory white,
That vex'd poor Allan thro' the livelong night.
And, as her tumid bosom she disclos'd,
Where, draining the pure fount, he oft repos'd,
Tho' now his little searching hand no more
The mother's breast essay'd to wander o'er,
Feeble and pale; tho' now his languid lip
Scarce open'd, the balsamic spring to sip;
Nor glisten'd to her smile the half-shut eye,
Nor lull'd in slumber was the wailing cry;
Yet did her soft persuasive voice avail
To check the credit of each idle tale,
And turn to pleasantry the thoughts that stirr'd
The unquiet mind, where groan'd the boding bird;
While the fond Knight, enamour'd of her charms,
Clasp'd his best soothsayer in his ardent arms.

But say, no bird predicts the final doom;
Death, to the wise or weak, alas! must come;

And she who, with anxiety so deep,
Now watch'd the starting infant's troubled sleep,
Now, trembling, of her superstitious care
To her fond brother lent so large a share,
Seem'd, by the emaciate cheek, herself, to prove
The importance of the too prophetic dove.

To friendly counsel deaf, from doctor's shops
She turn'd averse, and said all drugs were slops;
Nor heeded her own gallipot or jar,
Tho' a sharp cough announc'd the cold catarrh.

But as the tepid Spring drove Eurus off,
She felt some respite to her bitter cough;
And from her lattice-light, as whilom, sly
Cast o'er the kitchen a sagacious eye;
While by the jingling of her tuneful keys,
Whose music for a moment chas'd disease,
The little Allan to her room she drew;
Tho' tempted by a sweeter lure he flew,
And oft, attracted to some jars of delft,
Wander'd with cunning eye from shelf to shelf.

And now the terrors of the dove were pass'd,
And Rachel scarce perceiv'd the wint'ry blast;
With sudden influence when December frore
Chill'd her weak frame, and stopp'd up every pore.

Yet vainly were narcotics deem'd of use,
Or diuretic balms, to reproduce
The due secretion of the obstructed lymph—
All—all were slighted by the pining nymph!
Take, Rachel, the diluting medicine take,
And clear thy secret ducts for pity's sake.
Who, who, when thou art gone, will tell the tale
Of good Prince Charles, or brew the October ale?
Alas! with thee, thy loyal tales are lost;
Nor breathes one jacobite to soothe thy ghost!

Scarce in the quiet vault were Rachel's bones
Deposited, amidst some decent groans,
Ere Prue to Jenny Jerk dispatch'd a card
Replete with sentiments of kind regard,
And sighing for her presence, to disperse
The shades that still were cast from Rachel's hearse.

But, tho' she dealt in point and repartee,
Jerkairs was not a friend to cordial glee:

Hers was the wit that triumphs to defame
By scurrilous abuse an honour'd name;
The satire, bursting from a rancorous heart,
To Prue malignant pleasure to impart;
Not frolic humour, to afford relief
In each light sally to Sir Humphrey's grief.

Yet all too flexible to Prue's request,
Sir Humphrey bade her “come, a welcome guest;”
Nor, as her virgin steps drew near, demurr'd,
Tho' round her whisker'd friends, or mew'd, or purr'd.

Thus sorrow renders many a bosom weak,
Unmans the soul, and prompts the childish freak;
And smiles, till Reason interpose, too late,
Alike on those we love and those we hate.

Ere long Miss Jerkairs, skill'd to play the part
Which owes success to adulation's art,

Usurp'd the full dominion of the dome,
As if Andarton were her proper home;
And offer'd, at her ease, to brother Ned
The old blue pallet, or the new chintz bed.

And, as her eye in groves no charm perceiv'd,
Nor for the fragrant field her bosom heav'd,
The pleasures of quadrille the maid embrac'd,
Resigning Nature's works to vulgar taste:
And, careless how the summer-sunbeam set,
While Prue still smil'd, and Ned engag'd Annette;
She dealt her cards around, and dealt her wit,
And laugh'd, exulting, at each lucky hit.

Meantime, the fondest wishes form'd to meet,
Play'd lively Allan at his parents feet.
His cheek, with more than rosy freshness fair,
Glow'd in the shade of brown luxuriant hair:
And as, no vulgar spirit to avow,
The rude locks started from his open brow;
His keen dark eye, that seem'd to scorn control,
Bespoke a genuine grandeur of the soul!

And whether first, amid his cradle laid,
The signs of opening genius he display'd,
Or, drawing science from the lacteal duct,
Discover'd wond'rous knowlege as he suck'd,
And, ere the tongue articulation lends,
Had all his letters at his fingers ends;
Certain it is, that ere six years were fled,
His lesson with emphatic tones he read.

Nor was he less distinguish'd, in the string
Of boys, that shot the marble thro' the ring!

Just Heaven! What looks of hatred and surprize
Miss Prudence scatter'd from her blinking eyes;
If harsh to feeble nerves his frolic glee,
Rous'd her amidst the languor of ennui!
And Jerkairs, whilst to please the doating Knight
The favourite she caress'd with mock delight,
Impatient of her charge, would strangely winch,
And vent vexation in a secret pinch.

Once, when a ray from Fancy seem'd to chase
The spleen-engender'd horrors of her face,
Prue whisk'd young Allan into Rachel's room,
Where Jerkairs and herself, to break the gloom
Of many a murky death-watch, would resort;
If sportive, bent on some fantastic sport.
'Twas then, turn'd loose, the kittens, one and all,
Here dragg'd a towser, and there seiz'd a cawl.
The monkies, rattling round, made cruel work,
Here broke a gallipot, there gnaw'd a cork,
And, as the pair in plausive triumph laugh'd,
There grinn'd and jabber'd o'er a cordial draught:
Yet by the kittens tricks nor Allan charm'd,
And by the scampering monkies unalarm'd,
Stood with the mien that manly spirit wears,
Exclaim'd, “Poor Aunt!” and wip'd the starting tears.

So beam'd in Allan, gentlest of his kind,
The earliest epoch of the unfolding mind.
Then too, 'twas sweet to note the blooming boy
While every moment danc'd alive to joy,

Eager in many a pastime to engage
The pretty Juliet of an equal age;
Whose sire, a neighbour of no vulgar race,
Alas! but ill sustain'd his ancient place.

Oft would the gallant hero, to adorn
His pleas'd companion, rob the berried thorn,
On silk his haws assiduous string, to deck
With the red glistening necklace Juliet's neck,
And violet braids, or bluebell wreaths prepare
For the soft chesnut of her crisped hair.
For her, he pluck'd the hazel clusters, brown
As his own locks, or rustling shower'd them down;
Or gather'd wildwood strawberries, where they stray'd,
Sweet frolic imps! beneath the whispering shade.
But with a sparkling fountain fond to sport,
They hail'd its mossy cave, their prime resort,
Its rock-scoop'd bason bubbling tried to reach,
Or trac'd its riplings round a hoary beech.

There (tho' with many a superstitious look
The menials wont to eye the changeful brook)

They little heeded its prophetic power,
But laugh'd, unconscious of a future hour.
There oft, an urchin of the green, with glee
Would Henry greet the favourite cave and tree:
And, as the schoolmates practis'd harmless wiles,
To win, already rivals, Juliet's smiles;
A jealous fear, tho' transient, would arrest
The joy that flutter'd in each little breast.

Time fleets o'er innocence. To Molfra's walls
Hark, the school-bell the fatchel'd tyro calls,
Erelong, to moralize with Phedrus terse,
Or cull rich morsels from Ovidian verse.
There, as, at first, he heard with mute surprize
From every desk the mingled murmurs rise,
With equal wonder he survey'd a show—
All, all, like pendulums, wag to and fro;
While these a tedious task appear'd to ply
Fastening on each hard word the sober eye,
And those, whom brisker fancy might engage,
Flung but two glances to devour a page;

And others seem'd to hunt, with anxious look,
A shadowy something thro' a bulky book;
As backwards now, and forwards now they turn'd
The tumbled leaves, and with vain ardour burn'd.
Yet here, a dunce, by heavy mists opprest,
Quits his dull work, to interrupt the rest:
And there with darts a wicked wit, bumproof,
Hits sage Minerva figur'd in the roof,
Or pins infixes in tenacious pitch,
To pierce, by smart surprize, a brother's breech.
Thus, as one general buzz salutes the ear,
Thro' lucent glass the glowing bees appear:
All seem to kindle with incessant toil
From cell to cell, and rear the waxen pile:
Here too, slow drones the vivid labors mar,
And there, a wicked wasp provokes the war.
Sudden, the master's mien spreads pale dismay;
And all the busy fervour dies away.
How many an imp, that dreads his keen research,
Tho' ferulas repose, and sleep the birch,
Yet, as no sense of worth vouchsafes a balm,
Shrinks, from the imagin'd stroke, his burning palm,

Or from the tingling twigs appears to start,
And feels his little bum in fancy smart.
Not thus the hero-boy the panic fills,
His bosom pierces, or his buttock thrills:
Yet some mysterious feeling overawes
His heart, amidst the universal pause.
Conscious, indeed, of merited disgrace
As others read their fate in Herbert's face,
And droop'd thro' sheepishness, or strove to wear
(In vain assum'd) a hypocritic air;
He, with a soul that laugh'd at fear or guile,
Look'd round to meet the curate's wonted smile.

And generous Herbert lov'd young dawning Truth,
Still nursing, in himself, the fire of youth.

To the sweet buds of mental promise kind,
His was to note the first faint traits of mind;
Distinguishing the sullen child, the sad,
From the free spirit of the alerter lad;
Fir'd by the Muse himself, to feed with praise
Bosoms where Genius stream'd its living rays,

And, far above mechanic plodders, class
Such souls selected from the vulgar mass.
For such he cull'd the bold, the brilliant thought,
The graceful line so exquisitely wrought;
To such depictur'd, with the enthusiast's air,
Models of ancient worth supremely fair,
The trophied chief, the statesman and the sage,
The great, the good in Grecia's golden age;
And drew, in contrast, as the portraits glow'd,
The modern fashionist, the Man of Mode.
Yet, midst the tinsel show, one worthy wight
He hail'd, and fondly doated on the Knight;
His plain simplicity with pleasure trac'd,
And with an ardent grasp his views embrac'd.
Tho' but a novice with his gun, he strove
For the good Knight to clear the tangled grove,
And oft on holidays, assur'd to win
High favour, volunteer'd a whipper-in.
But, from the flashing tube while thunder flew,
He thought what game the Grecian arrow slew,
And with the Andarton-pack, at dusky dawn,
In fancy travers'd the Parthenian lawn.

Meantime, the boy to Herbert's curious gaze
Discover'd genius brightening to a blaze—
An eye, that sparkled at the eccentric thought,
Or glisten'd sudden, with a tear-drop fraught;
The quick suffusion at his master's glance;
A spirit darting like the lightning's lance;
The soul within itself retir'd, and round
Tho' mingled voices rose, unheeding sound.

Attacht to lone retreats, the dingle deep,
The longdrawn dale, the mountain's sky-clad steep,
If, where the raven shap'd her ancient nest
Amid some beech's solitary crest,
He scal'd, exulting at her angry croak,
Its trunk, and thro' the topmost branches broke;
'Twas not, like half the fatchel-bearing throng,
To rob the parent of her callow young;
But—“O forgive the intrusion (would he cry)
“Whilst, raven! I admire thy glossy dye;
“Observe in thy wild haunt, so dark and still,
“A dwelling fram'd with more than human skill;

“And note, amidst the walks of man so rare,
“Unerring prudence in parental care.”

Deep in the woodland, high above his head,
Their lowest boughs where trees far darkening spread,
And bath'd in sky their blue aërial tops;
Where not a sheepwalk gleam'd along the copse;
Plunging, he oft pursued the screaming pie,
Or paus'd, as pierc'd the gloom the falcon's cry;
Or where green areas drank the golden light,
Mark'd the smooth motion of the gliding kite,
And, where a sheltering foliage seem'd to flow,
The terror of the birds that shrunk below.

What time the tawny forest Autumn heaves,
And scatters, at each gust, a shower of leaves;
Oft, on some knoll, he caught the rising breeze
In its first rustling from the distant trees,
Heard the sound lengthen, sigh succeeding sigh,
And view'd the billowy gloom with straining eye;

Till now, the deepening undulation near,
The extensive murmur swell'd upon his ear,
And, in one mighty wave, the incumbent wood
Rush'd forth, a world of shadow, where he stood.

Where, with broad meshes hung, above the glade
Two pines, like pillars, form'd a vista'd shade,
Pleas'd would he wait that point of twilight pale
When flew the woodcock up the silent dale;—
Tho', as he musing stood, and lov'd to trace
The suntints glowing on the cloud's deep base,
And each gradation of the October-view,
The burnisht woodmoss, the pale sapling's hue,
And, slow-receding into shadow dim
The duskier purple on each old oak-limb,—
Strait would he leap, as leaps the elastic spring,
From his trance waken'd by the woodcock's wing,
And tremble, as it beat, escap'd the snare,
With desultory plumes the gleaming air.

And, as the shade of night began to brood,
And now the bright still moonbeam tipp'd the wood;

He lov'd to see the grey owl slowly sail
From bush to bush, and chase her thro' the vale;
Pursue her to her ivied haunt restor'd,
Catch her wild hiss, or listen, as she snor'd.

If winter, round, his grey-cold mantle threw,
As the keen blast from sabler Eurus blew,
Absorb'd in pensive thought, he saw the dale
One slumbering mass, in torpid horror pale;
The glimmering elmrow erst with ivy gay,
And the dank flood that urg'd its sullen way;
When, by a sudden sunbeam cloath'd in green.
Rush'd the long elms, and wav'd a glittering screen;
And, its whole channel kindling on the sight,
The torrent roll'd its feathery foam in light.

Oft too, when snows had veil'd the vale and hill,
And all the frozen atmosphere was still;
Young Allan to the grove his fancy led,
Its ice-clad branches shivering overhead;
And bade him listen to the shafted snow
That fell, clear-tinkling, on the leaves below,

What time the redbreast hopp'd from spray to spray,
And ceas'd, too weak, the solitary lay.

And, in his wintry rambles, oft he found
(Where erst to summer-suns with airy bound
The squirrel frisk'd) its nuts a beauteous prize,
How brightly burnisht to his Juliet's eyes;
Or from some lowly shrub in triumph bore,
Seiz'd in its bed of moss, the drowsy dor.

Yet not alone the studious Allan woo'd
Coy Nature in her calm or pensive mood;
But, breaking from her tranquil paths, the form
Of danger hail'd amidst the hurtling storm.
Tho', as it stain'd the clift's basaltic height,
He lov'd the cold blue tint of early light,
And oft observ'd the fleeting sunbeam shift
To level uplands from that pillar'd clift;
Or thence, the sun descending, view'd at eve
Its last low circles on the silky wave;
Or, thro' dim fissures, wound his dubious way
Where never fell one faint reflected ray;

Pluck'd the chill dropstone, caught the mineral gleam,
Cull'd the grey moss, or trac'd the encavern'd stream.

But, oftener, wild with transport, would he climb
Some samphir'd ledge, some sea-washt crag sublime;
Then rest, exhausted, on the pointed rock,
And, at its base where broad the surges broke,
Survey the hern that shrieking plung'd beneath,
And strait emerg'd amidst a watery wreath;
While seagulls high their snowy pinions pour'd
And the dark cloud grew sabler as they soar'd,
Or, wheeling round on rapid pinion, spread
Air-pois'd, their deep pavilion o'er his head.

And if in flame, amidst his monster-march,
The growling thunder wrapp'd the ethereal arch;
Oft would his dauntless spirit mount in air,
Brave the red wrath, and triumph in the glare.

One evening-close, in heaps by Auster driv'n,
As the clouds blacken'd o'er the vault of Heaven,

The Knight had miss'd his solitary child,
And, by the impatience of his terrors wild,
Had search'd, and round dispers'd his menial train,
Each cranny of the dome, but search'd in vain;
And now, almost a maniac, in the van
Along the lawn, beneath the gateway ran;
When, sudden, thro' the dense nocturnal shade,
Loud from above, a laugh the boy betray'd;
And, as the shaking turret sent a groan,
Full in a flash from heaven the hero shone!

Of flights, indeed, so lavish was the lad,
That the poor menials set him down for mad;
Ascribing, strait, with visages drawn lank,
To lunar influence each adventurous prank.

Vers'd in the pageantries of old romance,
The heroic boy would ponder o'er Provence,
Or Albion colour'd by chivalric hues,
Nor quit the Cambrian bards for Maro's Muse.

Amidst these fancies, in the rust of arms
Each hour, the enthusiast saw some recent charms;
With looks that kind assistance seem'd to ask
The cuirass ey'd far off, the cobweb'd casque;
And their dark brassy red, their steely blue
Admir'd, still longing for a nearer view.

The dinner-bell had chim'd the hour of one,
No Allan near: the roving boy was gone.
And now, tho' none had mark'd his devious track,
All read his madness in Moore's Almanack!
“We might have found the fit, exact at noon!
“So stupid—not to notice the full moon!”

And, lo!—Miss Prue, perhaps, enjoy'd the joke—
Each untouch'd viand pour'd a feeble smoke;
When, after various search, the trembling Knight
Discover'd, on the ruin'd castle-scite,
And in amazement view'd the eccentric boy,
Grasping, as others would have grasp'd a toy,
What, falling from its wainscot, might o'erwhelm
E'en Allan's vigour, an enormous helm:

The ponderous helmet yet the boy convey'd
From its dim pannel to the castle-shade.

But most young Allan, from a trowser'd child,
Admir'd his “whisker'd sires and mothers mild;”
And to the gallery, ere his sire he saw,
Would, every holiday, in haste withdraw;
When once Sir Humphrey read, with fond surprize,
An amateur in Allan's sparkling eyes.

“Yes, yes! my boy—such Chiefs attention claim,
“Far different from the sons of modern fame.
“How many an anecdote of those grave folks
“My sire would season with abundant jokes.
“First, view yon picture of the Castle, flank'd
“By that firm buttress, with a moat embank'd;
“While, far beneath, along the peopled glade,
“The straw-cots darken in its stately shade.
“The portraits here, whose colours cease to glow,
“Whose burnisht frames now fade along the row,
“Were, as the records of Andarton tell,
“From the rent castle rescued ere it fell.

“There, on the left, less tawny forms appear;
“Their features round and full; their drapery clear:
“Those bolder outlines speak more recent hands,
“Posterior to the rebel Cromwell's bands.

“But to these ancient figures first we bow.
“Here, what a Chief! How stern his warrior-brow!
“Know, midst the Cambrian glens, my son, we trace
“To a proud earl our high-descended race.
“From Cambria when the chieftain issued forth,
“He seiz'd a Cornish fortress of the North.
“There long he liv'd, with power, with plenty blest,
“And half Cornubia's sylvan lands possess'd.

“There, dying midst his thick assailing foes,
“His sons he summon'd—so tradition goes—
“And strait display'd, while ebb'd his vital blood,
“Two topaz rings with wondrous power endued;
“And”—‘Hoel, take this ring portentous, take—
‘And Andar this, for brave Cadwallo's sake.
‘With pious care these peaceful tokens keep,
‘Nor bid them in a dark oblivion sleep.

‘So shall ye live, in faith, in friendship staunch;
‘So bloom for ages, each fraternal branch.
‘But if, from distance, at some future day,
‘The memory of your kindred names decay;
‘These meeting rings, by strange attractive power,
‘The pristine union shall, my son! restore.
‘I die—but here, beside this shatter'd wall,
‘Inter me, with my sabre, ere it fall.’

“While cruel discord bade the brothers part,
“High Hoel, vaunting a religious heart,
“Fast by some eastern stream an abbey rear'd;
“And Andar midst his Cornish troops appear'd
“The valorous chief, and nigh the Fala's wave
“Its infant name to old Andarton gave.
“See, then, the sable Andar, dim-portray'd,
“And note that ring fast-sinking into shade.
“Together with the ill-omen'd gift, the Thane,
“'Tis said, was buried in some neighbour-fane.

“See next the son of Andar more grotesque;
“Tho' fading from its outline, picturesque.

“Curls from his upper lip, tho' smooth his chin,
“A look, that not to nurse, he deem'd a sin.
“Yes! e'en at court the fierce Sir Hugh appear'd,
“While scoff'd the Normans at his upper beard.
“His belt once gemm'd with many a precious stone,
“Now mourns its rubies lost, its garnets gone:
“His woolsack breeches would my sire amuse;
“Nor less the structure of his wooden shoes.
“A limner of a later age, 'tis said,
“Drew these quaint figures from some dreaming head.
“And see yon vest, that trains in many a fold,
“Once richly pictur'd for a cloth of gold.
“Degory! thy reputation here may rest—
“Thy virtue slumbers in a golden vest.
“Lo, in a robe of velvet richly clad,
“Old Blanch his sister, who expir'd a maid—
“Her wrists and collar deeply trimm'd with fur;
“Her virgin fame unspotted with a slur.
“'Twas in the reign of the fifth Harry, staunch
“In vestal honours, flourish'd sister Blanch.
“Our family, my son, hath cause to bless
“Yon chief who wears the collar of S. S.

“'Twas he, connected with a Count, renew'd
“The impoverish'd current of the Andarton-blood.

“But, lo! yon warrior clad in coat of mail—
“His beaver up—I shudder at the tale.
“Shaking his tilting-staff, he eyes askance
“The fragments of the foeman's broken lance.
“But bloody vengeance quick pursued the blow—
“He met a dire assassin in the foe.
“The piece, that now attracts thy curious eyes,
“Exhibits female beauty in disguise.
“Our modern dames would scarce essay to lift
“The golden weight of such a cumbrous shift,
“That with a gorgeous store of trimmings drest
“Bids its deep lace envelope all the breast.
“And, lo! with buttons stuck, with broidery rough,
“Gloves for a dozen females large enough;
“And other fripperies that have e'er disgrac'd
“The sex, to fashion bending, not to taste.
“Yet mark, my son, the venerable pair—
“That ermin'd robe, that cap's judicial air

“Which to the full round face gives sapience high,
“And deep decision to the stedfast eye.
“He, who from good Queen Bess extorted praise,
“How would he frown on these degenerate days!
“And dost thou note his consort's sweeping train,
“Her high-wrought buttons and her massy chain?
“That chain of every heir hath grac'd the birth—
“The original I mean—of mickle worth—
“And, if an old tradition credit claim,
“(An old tradition of prophetic fame)
“As long as, glittering from the jack, we boast
“That relic of renown, to rule the roast,
“So long (and sure it merits well thy care)
“Andarton-house shall never want an heir.
“But see, so black its locks, that visage bluff,
“With whiskers staring wild, and stiffen'd ruff;
“Each eye those masses of strong shadow strike,
“Where artists hail the pencil of Vandyke.
“Behold a ruff, more elevated, deck
“His stately lady, Dionysia's neck.
“From her left hand a bracelet's diamond light
“Decays—a fan, dim-figur'd, in her right;

“Thro' her, the daughter of the judge, we rais'd
“Our tottering house, and with new splendour blaz'd.
“Their son, the last in all this reverend row,
“Sigh'd o'er his castle-walls, alas! laid low;
“Saw from his gateway rebel swords distain
“These sacred shades, and mourn'd the mangled slain.”

Now to the gallery had calm eve withdrawn
Its last faint suntint from the velvet lawn,
Yet heightening with a gleam of radiance weak
The dusky redness of Sir Roger's cheek.
“Come, leave, (he cries) as eve's pale shadows close
“Around, these grave old gentry to repose.

“And, lo! that reverend row, where Damaris joins
“The sleek Sir Roger, from whose lusty loins
“Thy grandsire sprung, shall meet thy curious eyes,
“Soon as to-morrow's morn shall gild the skies.
“But see Sir Roger, e'en on canvass big,
“Can coax a sunbeam to his fullbrown wig—
“Still seems alert, with face so rubicund,
“To drink and pun, as once he drank and punn'd:

“Ah! (cried Sir Humphrey) 'twas Sir Roger built
“That golden chamber, once so richly gilt.
“There (would he tell), when music wak'd the dance,
“Was many a stripling fir'd by Beauty's glance:
“There, with young hearts, as rogueish Cupid plagu'd,
“Were half the matches of the county made.”

Now the soft down, as lambent o'er his chin,
His vivid cheek, its shade had sprinkled thin;
When still the boy was tranc'd by bardic dreams
Midst mountain-glooms, or dell-secluded streams:
Tho, often, would he join the social train
Borne by his active spirit o'er the plain;
Not where weak puss the circling hunters trace,
But wild where forest-inmates fire the chace.

“Yet” (cried the youth, on other times intent,
When by stout arms the tough yew-bow was bent),
“O could I follow the keen falcon's flight,
“And view him pounce his prey like arrowy light;
“The guerdon of the trophied hunter win,
“Where towering antlers brush the woods of Glynn;

“Or brave the British tiger's fiery rage,
“Or with the tusked boar fierce battle wage—
“E'en now I hear the thrilling bell-horn's blast!
“I see proud steeds, the gulphy stream o'erpast,
“Foam in full gallop down the rushing wood—
“I see the dewlapp'd beagle gor'd with blood!
“Alas! where now the field of British praise?
“Adieu the deeds of old chivalric days!”

'Twas at the feast, when many a rustic squire
In mild town-spirits rais'd the intense desire
To bid the henroost felon meet his doom,
That expectation heighten'd Allan's bloom.

Red o'er its eastern slope while peep'd the dawn,
The moon's faint silver touch'd the shadowy lawn:
The stars had faded in the blush of day,
Yet twinkled, with quick radiance, West away;
When huntsman Peter blew the awakening horn,
And bade the unkennel'd hounds salute the morn.
The neighing steeds, with ardour all aloof,
To echo wildly struck the rattling hoof;

As Neville, first, beheld with eager ken
Far off, the misty glimmering of the glen,
Where Reynard, his nocturnal rapine clos'd,
Sated, amid slain geese, perhaps, repos'd;
As Ned the attorney, trembling for his neck,
A restive sorrel vainly strove to check;
And Allan won, thro' grassy lanes, his way,
With mounting spirits, on the dappled grey;
Now held the whipper-in in deep discourse,
By turns admir'd the master and the horse;
Express'd some wonder that in flesh so spare
The creature could so bold a rider bear,
Yet archly said, that spindles of such length,
Such ribs, had double swiftness, double strength;
And learn'd how Rosinante, from a colt,
Had scrap'd acquaintance with each fox's holt.

Not with the sacred love of hunting smit,
But curious to behold the maniac fit
When down the craggs their coursers dash'd amain,
The classic curate join'd the hunter-train.

Pleas'd, with Sir Humphrey, from some height to court
A fleeting prospect of the motley sport,
Perhaps he heeded not the vanisht hound,
But calmly gallop'd o'er Ovidian ground;
Invok'd fair Dian, or to prove his skill,
Rehears'd sonorous lines from Somerville!

Scarce had the terriers, 'neath a rocky steep,
Pierc'd the close bushes of the dingle deep,
Ere Reynard, sneaking round the scented spot,
Swift as an arrow from the thicket shot,
Trembled amidst the boisterous taliho,
And shook the dewdrops from his tail of snow.
Up the long brake he speeds, then gains a copse,
And down the shelving slope that instant drops,
And rushes thro' a valley's elmy round,
And doubling backward, gains his former ground;
There, in his dingle, with a transient halt,
Enjoys a stilly pause, the hounds at fault.

Again he hears, arous'd by every gale,
The obstreperous sounds that mingle thro' the dale;

When, quick detecting, with a villain's eye,
A hare that in her form was shrinking nigh,
He, to the murmuring dogs, poor Puss betrays,
And sends them opening thro' the various maze;
Slinks in the rear, observes her circling track,
Marks the fair view, and slow pursues the pack.
Ah! soon (whilst cover'd in a swamp of reeds
The treachor lies) his feeble victim bleeds.
Nor had the dogs regain'd the dying scent,
Had not a saucy pie, on mischief bent,
Chatter'd and scream'd across their dubious way,
Then hover'd o'er the reeds where Reynard lay.
Abrupt he hurries from the ill-trusted plash,
As wrath and fear his glaring eyeballs flash;
He flies—and o'er a thousand vallies borne
Mix in one maddening chorus hounds and horn

His sanguine spurs the courser's sides distain,
The proud boy bending o'er the fiery mane.

Now, scattering o'er a park the terriers pour'd,
As if the verdure they at once devour'd;
When, sudden, where a bordering mead they cross'd,
And on the level sod a moment lost
The fainting scent; a horseman rude appear'd,
And, as his steed superbly pranc'd and rear'd,
A liveried train behind their master blaz'd,
And rustic admiration round him rais'd.
With air imperious thro' the trembling field
He rush'd; and, as the hounds wheel'd backwards, wheel'd,
And broad at Allan aim'd the insulting stare;
While Allan, with a cool and conscious air
Of mental grandeur, met his scornful eyes,
And o'er his face saw pique and choler rise.

And now, while triumph spreads a general flush,
Exhausted Reynard drags his scenty brush;
His last faint effort, thro' a farmyard breaks,
With shivering limbs along the homestall sneaks,

And creeps, where erst he kenn'd, intent on blood
With fascinating eyes the feathery brood.
There, where he oft had seiz'd his gasping prey,
Detected by a clown the felon lay.
Lo, at his streaming throat the terriers hang,
And, as the horn gives echo every clang,
And shouts and Allan's shriller voice his death
Announce, reluctant yet, he yields his breath;—
When, with pale passion on his palsied lip,
The stranger, fierce at Allan, smack'd his whip,
The hero-boy the smack with smack repaid,
And calm, the menace with a smile survey'd.

Soon as the story reach'd Sir Humphrey's ear,
O'er his lov'd boy he dropp'd for joy a tear.
But, when the flaming stranger was describ'd,
The Nabob who had erst the borough brib'd,
The Nabob who had bought the adjacent lands,
Sir Humphrey with new transport clasp'd his hands.

Tho' Allan, where a blustering Thraso swell'd,
Each insult with a lion heart repell'd,

Yet, gentle as the wood's retiring dove,
His bosom heav'd to every sigh from love.

One Twelve-day, whilst on each still pane was rais'd
Frost's palmy leaves, and broad the chimney blaz'd;
Stretcht on the groaning board the sirloin smoak'd,
Each appetite a capon plump provok'd,
And in the centre, tempting every eye,
With standing crust, appear'd the Christmas pye.
Yet somehow, in Sir Humphrey's mind at least,
'Twas very different from a Twelve-day feast.
The lorn sirloin, while now no tongue could tell
Its little history, relisht once so well,
While none essay'd its annals to record,
And trace it e'en from clover to the board,
In vain its old credentials wish'd to claim,
To shine among sirloins of mighty name.
Beneath the shade of poor Sir Humphrey's frown,
Its lack of fat and frothiness and brown,
Disconsolate, the capon seem'd to mourn—
In former times 'twas roasted to a turn!

And, in the paleness of its standing crust
The pye betray'd a symptom of distrust.
In truth, the dishes tho' the curate bless'd—
By the blue devils they were all possest;
And the keen sport of knives too sad to urge,
Breath'd in pathetic union Rachel's dirge.
Not, Jenny Jerkairs! thus forlorn thy case,
Tho' doom'd to fill departed Rachel's place;
While Prue her visage sharpen'd in a sneer,
And mix'd with scowling looks thy satyr-leer!
Here, the calm curate bade his cares repose:
There, Ned the attorney sat with twisted nose.
And, lo! from his new sociable let down,
(A fine machine that dazzled all the town)
Trevalso's 'Squire! Tho' polisht and urbane,
He rarely talk'd with rustic wights profane;
Since, in the borough-business long immerst,
And late in military tactics verst,
His mind to nobler objects he withdrew,
And shone a townclerk and a colonel too!
Erect amid his Cornish cousins set,
He puffs, and eyes askance his epaulette!

His wife, a Baron's daughter, knew to hide
Beneath a courtly smile baronial pride;
Rain'd looks of civil sort on all alike,
And pleas'd the million, while she fail'd to strike.
And Alice had the Squire vouchsaf'd to wed;
Tho' midst the pomp of Landor-abbey bred.
Her girl, sweet Juliet, thro' maternal care,
Had caught, it seems, an artificial air;
No longer with amusive fancies wild,
Or laugh'd, or prattled as a careless child;
Practis'd her pretty syllables to lisp,
Despis'd of playfulness each Will-o-wisp;
Yet, only half-instructed “to behave,”
A transient blush, by fits, to nature gave;
From observation shrunk, a little shy,
And droop'd at Allan's glance her conscious eye.
And from her cradle to her teens, design'd
For Allan, in old Geoffry's scheming mind,
She fidg'd about, each time her father spoke,
In apprehension of a threatened joke.

Thus, the kind Fay, that heightens rural glee,
Mourn'd with dim eye the vanisht jubilee!

But, as the genial bowl with vapours bland,
Now bade the bosom-sentiment expand,
More warm the love of Christmas converse wax'd,
And its tense muscles every face relax'd.

Scarce were the guests, indeed, dispos'd to pour
The glass, in honour of the festal hour,
Ere, from Sir Humphrey's table, Squintal ran
To scenes of fetes luxurious, and began
To range in rapture o'er the splendid board
Of his poor brother, the departed Lord;
From lords to dukes, to dignify his prose,
In all the grandeur of the climax rose;
And, beating round Andarton-dale again,
With his new friend the Nabob clos'd the strain:
When Alice bow'd at every sage remark,
And flew from vulgar halls to Landor-park.
Indeed, accustom'd to such lordly pride,
To such magnificence (she said and sigh'd)

As wealth displays in Landor's stately dome,
She barely (she avow'd) had elbow-room;
Then told, how with a more than mother's care,
She cherish'd, erst, the beauteous Laura there—
Her niece, with whom the Graces lov'd to sport,
Erelong to add new brilliance to the court.
At Laura's name, Sir Humphrey would have thrown
A look of mystic meaning on his son,
But, ere that look of mystery could be cast,
Caught the poor stripling riveted full fast—
Absorb'd, perhaps, by visionary charms,
Some fancied Juliet clasping in his arms,
And, with a frown to check the unfolding joy,
Restor'd to reason the romantic boy.
The curate, in a reverie far gone,
Sang thro' his teeth, or utter'd half a groan;
And, beckoning to the laurel walk, tho' spread
With sheets of ice, reluctant Allan led.
“Ah! ne'er, my boy (he cried), be thine to court
“Such neighbours as with veteran customs sport,
“Who scorn the good old paths their fathers trod,
“And, but to Fashion bead, their only god.

“To affectation whilst the Squire resign'd,
“His mansion opens to the surly wind,
“Plans his new schemes, and Taste and Reason shocks
“With taudry rails around “the Summer-box;”
“To fresh-sprung fools the willing ear he lends,
“And scorns the virtues of his ancient friends;
“Exchanges old plain-dealing for finesse,
“And smothers kindness under politesse.
“His treacherous art, my boy, be thine to slight,
“Tho' to “the Summer-box” his smile invite;
“Nor dare the girl's insidious poison sip,
“Tho' dimpled Juliet pout her pretty lip.”
He said: each syllable, perhaps, was true;
But, silent as the leaves, the boy look'd blue;
And, wondering how dim alleys, stiff with ice,
Could to their bower the pedagogue entice,
In tremulous accents a proposal made
To quit, for seenes less drear, the shivering shade.

The drooping spirits of the hall to raise,
The Knight had pleaded for old Christmas plays.

Strait at the word the impatient Allan flew,
And round the scatter'd chairs in order drew.
Mirth beam'd a moment; from Sir Humphrey's mien
Its radiance scattering the cold damp of spleen.
Tho' wrapt in all the still reserve of Whist,
Squintal his pompous gravity dismiss'd;
Prue banish'd from her visage every cloud;
And Jenny Jerkairs scream'd, and laugh'd aloud.
But Allan, into blunders oft betray'd
By fits of absence, many a forfeit paid;
And doom'd, as now at length the lots were drawn,
By a strange penance to redeem a pawn,
Certes, he judg'd the sentence passing hard
To ape the mercer with his flippant yard,
And measure ells on ells behind the screen—
But ells of love with Juliet, all unseen.
Its ribbon slipp'd aside, without a check
A truant lock had wander'd down her neck;
While o'er her cheek its sister gently stray'd,
And veil'd her blushes in its chesnut shade.
And, as thy lip effus'd a brighter glow,
And moist, its liquid ruby seem'd to flow,

Could Allan dare, delicious Juliet, sip
The insidious poison from that pretty lip?

Such was the moment, when o'er Fancy's fire
Pass'd a fleet shade from fear and fond desire:
Full soon, my Allan! on thy careless hour
A deeper gloom shall grinning demons pour.

To mark his Allan's birth, the genial sprite
Each year had duly bless'd the festal rite.
Behold, that spirit welcom'd in fifteen
An eye fire-darting, a commanding mien;
The rich carnation of the vivid cheek
Thro' whose clear brown a sunbeam seem'd to break,
Happy, that such a stripling bloom'd to grace
The hoary woodlands of the Andarton-race;
When now, to usher in the natal morn,
(A mild October saw the hero born)
Sir Humphrey, with a parent's cordial smile,
Drew up his pleas'd domestics, rank and file;
And plac'd his heir exulting at their head,
And to the down the due procession sped;

There mark'd his tin bounds with exact regard,
As delving spades renew'd the mouldering sward;
Thence, while pale Eurus o'er the dusky surf
Roll'd his rent foliage like the billowy surf,
Thence led them from the young plantation grove
That skirts the bottom, to the slope above,
And bade, along the hill, the scattering train
Here set a sycamore, there plant a plane;
Here beds of ashkeys and of acorns sow,
There range the little elms in many a row.
“Yes! (cried Sir Humphrey, with a flush of joy,)
“To grace the birth-day of my generous boy,
“I sow my acorns that, in future time,
“May rise old England's wooden walls sublime.”

Yet oft he shudder'd at the woodman's stroke;
Tho' many a mighty patriarchal oak
Across the glens the extensive shadow flung,
Or down his shelving hills romantic hung.

Beneath his avenue's majestic shades
The Knight next hail'd the village-boys and maids,

As lambkins gamesome, the broad trunks between,
Or peeping shy as fawns from alleys green.

Strait at his beck as all drew near the Knight,
He bade, his bosom bounding at the sight,
The buxom troop their wonted sports renew,
Or hunt the slipper, or the ball pursue,
At “blindman's-buff” along the verdure play,
Or thread the needle, rang'd in quaint array;
Till now, to crown the whole with festal grace,
Sir Humphrey to the girls propos'd a race;
And, for the damsel who outran the rest,
Nam'd the fair prize, and ey'd each eager breast—
A prize that Allan's self would soon bestow,
Enough to set their bosoms in a glow—
A chaplet sweet (he cried) no maid would miss;
And mark, ye dainty girls, a sweeter kiss!
The garland, tho' it told October sear,
In each dim floret of the waning year,
Yet beaming thro' the cornflower's modest blue,
And the pale pansy of a fainter hue,

The marigold's intenser flame display'd—
“So (cried the Knight) shall burn the victor maid.”

Gay from the porch, to meet the rustic troop,
Advanc'd the ladies in a motley groupe.
There Madam Squintal ponder'd o'er the show;
And tripp'd her daughter on fantastic toe,
In fond idea join'd the rival throng,
And with the zephyr's lightness skimm'd along;
And, lo! her eyeballs stern on Juliet nail'd,
Prue stood, as in her mother-earth dovetail'd.

Now, all on tiptoe, singled out by lot,
Appear'd four lasses on the appointed spot—
One, for the match, perhaps, too tightly lac'd,
As taper'd, like the inverted cone, her waist,
Who struggling to be crown'd, it seems, the first,
Had, ere she started, all her braces burst—
More politic and wise, another maid
In azure bedgown airily array'd,
Its flowings by a sash of pink represt,
Her bashful cheek low bent upon her breast—

Her cheek, by which the bard might deem outdone
The melting peach, its side against the sun—
Another, neat at every pretty point,
And supple at each lubricated joint,
With features larger from a cap round-ear'd,
And shining elbows that so plump appear'd,
With lovely feet so famous at the fair,
That drew, where'er she stepp'd, the rustic stare;
And ankles that, so delicate and smooth,
Won vast applause from every buzzing booth—
The last, attracting to her easy mien,
Her native elegance, each eye, I ween,
Adorning, by her simple grace, a gown,
Tho' nicely needled, plain and russet-brown,
With kerchief snowy-white, without a flaw,
And light upon her head a hat of straw
Tied with a purple ribbon, whose bright hue
O'er her young bloom a kindling lustre threw,
Where gleam'd some sunny freckles, sprinkled thin,
To give new richness to her lucid skin.
Thus o'er the thorn, amidst the vernal beam,
Thin-sprent at first, its earlier blossoms gleam.

And quaintly lurk'd on that sweet face, a mole
Whence her blue eyes an arch effulgence stole;
Whilst, heaving as sweet Emma's bosom heav'd,
A ringlet's golden glow her kerchief's white reliev'd.
“Heigh, Emma (cried the Knight in waggish strain),
“What you, you saucy baggage, here again!
“Oft, to your proper parish, have I said,
“I'd send you packing, you young alien jade:
“But, mind you, beat your rivals in the row;
“Or off to Tamar-banks full speed you go.”
The ladies titter'd at the harmless joke—
But Madam Squintall trembled as he spoke.

Now from Sir Humphrey's o'er the level ground
To Allan's oak (whose stem was fenc'd around
By rails to every poet's eye, I ween,
Invisible, as spread with olive green)
The space was measur'd for each dainty lass,
In fancy passing quick as shadows pass.

Strait, at the signal, started “Bedgown-blue,”
And, as on airy pinion, Emma flew;

And “Boddice-burst” appear'd to mock the wind
In speed, and “Shining elbows” puff'd behind.
Hot was the race. Now, “Boddice-burst,” beside,
With strong exertion e'en with Emma vied:
Now “Bedgown-blue” had Emma far outstripp'd,
And now “Blue-bedgown,” on a sudden, slipp'd,
And half-recovering, slided off, as shod
With ice, and tumbled on the shaven sod—
When Emma pass'd; and distancing the rest,
Sprang to the goal, the victor-girl confest.
The flowery garland Allan wav'd in air;
With eager transport seiz'd the panting fair;
Deep as she blush'd, her hat of straw unbound,
And with the wreath her starting tresses crown'd;
And, hastening to confer a brighter palm,
Breath'd o'er her lips, and stole ambrosial balm.
The exulting Allan, as he look'd askance,
From Juliet met a cold repulsive glance;
Whilst Prue, who, half consum'd by passion pale,
Had view'd the buxom triumph thro' her veil,
Soon as on Juliet's eye a gathering cloud
She saw, with joy convulsive laugh'd aloud.

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Yet, whether with its cloud caprice's blast,
Or jealousy had Juliet's eye o'ercast,
Yet Emma who, beneath a neighbouring shed,
By her neat needle earn'd her daily bread,
Assur'd to meet her Juliet's gentle smile,
Cross'd the fern-lane, and climb'd the shadowy stile,
Oft at Trevalso bade the morning hour
Sun with bright ray the favourite filbert bower,
Or met the nunnery's ivy to the beam
Of noonday, sparkling o'er the dimply stream,
Or with her friend, amidst familiar talk,
Imbib'd the freshness of a twilight walk.
Then Allan, with a boy's impatience rude,
Would on the rustling bower, perhaps, intrude,
Or sudden, in some glimmering woodpath, greet
The vagrant couple; tho' as kidlings fleet
They glanc'd, elusive, down the purple glade,
Or plung'd into the gloom of deeper shade.
But oft, 'twas his their wanderings to arrest,
And seize the woodnymphs to his service prest;
Clear their wild pathway thro' entangling dells,
Or lead them upwards where the hillside swells;

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Thro' plashy roads o'erhung by many a spray,
Or thro' long meadows point their frolic way;
Conduct the virgins o'er the expanding downs,
To where the seabeat promontory frowns;
And guide their fancies to the yellow ship,
Or the faint sail that speck'd the distant deep.

The museful maids there stood, or wander'd slow,
Till darkness brooded on the dells below;
Heard the last murmur of the dying breeze
As twilight linger'd on the placid seas;
Or view'd with terror, to the rocky verge
Fast rivetted, the foam of every surge.

One evening to their custom'd rock, tho' red
The thunder lower'd, the fair-ones Allan led;
When to the margin, at a seaman's shriek,
Pale Juliet ran, and saw the billows break
O'er a rent ship, and shiver'd all aghast,
As groan'd beneath her feet the struggling mast!
And her faint frame their strength could scarce sustain,
To reach the cottage in the willowy lane.

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Once, nigh that cottage, Allan rambling there,
To hail, as erst, the sweet, the eccentric pair,
Perceiv'd the semblance of a sailor's mien
Glide by, and rush the veiling boughs between;
Whilst a white dog across the threshold sprung,
And o'er his master's track low whining hung.
Suffus'd with blushes Emma droop'd her head,
And, “she was all alone”—with tremour said.
“Aye—aye—I'm sorry” ('twas but half in jest
He cried) “to interrupt an hour so blest.
“Where then is Juliet?” Muttering an adieu,
With sighs unbidden from the cot he flew.

Sweet is the springtide promise! But the Muse
Must quick revert her eye to cheerless views—
From vernal blossoms to the yellow leaf,
From young-ey'd Pleasure to lack-lustre Grief.

Whilst the good Knight still woo'd at morning break
The balmy spirit to his aged cheek;
Breath'd o'er that cheek, as erst, the roseate air,
But left, alas! too faint its tincture there.

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Still would he down his winding pathway pass,
As the dews glimmer'd on the quivering grass;
And, ere the morn had shed a fervid beam,
View the mist parting from the pale blue stream:
But from the quivering grass, the streamlet blue,
A damp to chill his creeping blood he drew.

One melancholy morn, with quick surprize
The motes of faintness dimm'd his dancing eyes;
But, as he totter'd in his wonted track,
The South's soft influence brought his senses back;
When now his son's, his Harriet's hand he press'd,
And, lifting each with ardour to his breast,
To Allan cried: “My boy, all flesh is grass!
“See but the shade of what thy father was!
“But for the solemn hour I calmly wait—
“We all must kick the bucket, soon or late:
“I too must seek, as all my fathers did,
“A long, long sleep beneath my coffin-lid:
“Then hear, my child, and heed Sir Humphrey's words,
“When low he lies, enclos'd by narrow boards.

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“Hard is, perhaps, thy duty to sustain
“Uninjur'd, thy transmitted old demesne;
“Hard in an age, where wanton Pleasure fires
“Her sons, with virtue to pursue thy sires.
“Behold, from high Sir Andar seated here,
“These quiet fields they lov'd, beyond the gear
“Of courts or camps; yet, nerv'd by courage, rose
“To guard their country from assailing foes.
“And long Andarton-grove to laughing day
“Might wave its boughs, unweeting of decay,
“But for those blasts from many a foreign land—
“Those pois'nous plants from India's fiery sand
“That scatter all the blooms of English birth,
“And wrap in pestilence intrinsic worth.
“With rapine's bloody spoils ignobly crown'd,
“See Nabobs purchase half the county round;
“Reducing many a little farm to one,
“Bidding each cot, heigh presto, heigh begone!
“And, as the luxury of the merchant spreads
“Its bane from halls to farms, from farms to sheds;
“The yeoman, overgrown and proud of purse,
“Damns each day-labourer with a hearty curse,

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“Assigns to all their work with priggish air,
“Nor aught of labour condescends to share;
“But, percht upon his pamper'd steed, looks down
“With grin contemptuous on the toiling clown;
“To view his far-extending acres, rears
“His crest, and in a canter disappears!
“Tho' Hawtrap, as with fond impatient eyes
“He marks thy wasted manors for a prize,
“Erelong may strive, by each insidious art,
“To wind into thy young unguarded heart;
“Yet never mayst thou heed his specious smile,
“But rise superior to a Nabob's wile.
“See thy weak neighbour—see Trevalso's lord
“Lur'd by the splendour of Sir Hawtrap's board;
“Foredoom'd, my son, to mourn, perchance too late,
“The exhausted acres of his old estate.
“What tho', with sly device, his Indian friend
“Each venal hope to yonder borough bend;
“Tho' Hawtrap's wit may sharpen Geoffry's ισυς
“In league against Halvenna's sacred house;
“Tho', wading thro' chicanery to a seat,
“The townclerk bow submiss amongst the great,

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“Or reel, by many a borough favour drunk;
“Yet shall he rue his race ignobly sunk.
“And, ah! my son, let no low lurking flame
“Awake in blushes at his daughter's name.
“Oft have I seen designing Geoffry ply
“The well-aim'd joke, and guide thy boyish eye
“To Juliet's beauties; but from no caprice
“I point thy nobler prospect to the niece.
“Where Landor-woods, in all their hoary pride,
“Wave high above the Tamar's pleasant tide,
“An heiress lives—Those woods may, haply, claim
“Some slight attention to their ancient fame.
“'Twas there, the townclerk, in his gilded coach,
“To Laura's aunt maneuvr'd his approach;
“And tho' his love, 'tis said, hung somewhat loose,
“Cajol'd his Alice into Hymen's noose.
“Of Hoel, tho' we scarce discern a trace,
“Hoel, perhaps, may live in Landor's race:
“And Laura may the union-ring possess,
“Thine heritage, thro' future times, to bless.”

107

He paus'd; when, sudden, from behind the trees,
A clattering noise came wafted on the breeze.
And now distinct the sound of hoofs was heard,
Tho' neither horseman's form, nor horse appear'd;
Till, wheeling round the forest-skirts, was seen
The poor old Roany on the level green;
Who galloping towards his master sped,
And oft with feeble efforts rais'd his head,
Expanding his wide nostrils as for air,
While each dim eyeball cast a transient glare;
Then, as his master he essay'd to greet,
Stagger'd, and falling at Sir Humphhey's feet,
Neigh'd, with the triumph of a moment fir'd,
And faintly neigh'd again, and strait expir'd.
“Alas! (Sir Humphrey cried) my generous Roan!
“Faithful for thrice ten years! for ever gone!
“How often has thy back, from jocund morn
“To closing eve, thy grateful master born!
“How proud wert thou, with purple housings deckt,
“And prancing, too impatient to be checkt,
“When, sheriff, to the county-town I rode!
“Yes! with thy master's pomp thy spirit glow'd!

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“And old, my Roany, we together grew,
“To the first vows of youthful friendship true.
“Yes! thou wert true, tho' struggling in the grasp
“Of death—yet faithful to thy latest gasp!
“Blest, if from every taint of vice so free,
“Full soon, poor Roany, shall I follow thee!”
Thus spoke the Knight: and, weeping like the child,
Thro' many a tear with conscious pleasure smil'd;
As memory, viewing Time's unruffled course,
Trac'd back'd his fondness for his aged horse.
And the sad presage o'er the beast he lov'd
Too true, alas! his failing stomach prov'd.
To tempt his appetite, vain every cate;
And smok'd the rich sirloin, alas! too late.
Oft, fancying a variety of food,
Pickles, he thought, might do his stomach good.
But, ah! while Indian baubles mock'd his sight,
In green, or yellow, or vermilion bright,
Ah! then, poor Rachel! then we mourn'd thee most—
Thy pickles were, alas! thy proudest boast.

109

E'en tho' his lovely wife, with fearful eyes
Would strive to dress a capon Rachel-wise,
And froth the juicy breast, so plump and brown,
He pick'd, but not a morsel could put down.
Idle was every effort to bring out
The viscid humours of a floating gout;
And, as the stomach felt inflaming pain,
The potent balms of Usquebaugh were vain.
Behold, as Allan o'er his pillow hung,
The fire renew'd his tale with faultering tongue:
And, as he seem'd to feel the fainting close
Of life, Sir Humphrey on his pillow rose:
“Court not, my boy, Ambition's dizzy seat—
“Prize the rare blessing of a safe retreat.
“But if thy genius urge thee to explore
“The domes that dazzled in the days of yore,
“O chief to Landor-abbey turn thy heart,
“Tho' Juliet may, perhaps, deserve a part.”
Arch look'd the Knight—the Knight must still be arch,
With every heartpulse beating the dead march—
Then said, on Harriet fixing his fond eye,
“Beside my fire Sir Richard let me lie”—

110

And calling his domestics, with the tone
Of dying goodness, bless'd them; one by one;
Then rais'd, in token of the expiring breath
His feeble hand, and clos'd his eyes in death.

Tho' Death! thy every feature chill the soul,
Yet, lo! thy herses more terrific roll!
How lengthen'd to the view the Andarton-glooms,
When thy pale steeds high shook their sable plumes;
And at the waving of the lurid torch,
Where, hung above the little woodbin'd porch
Thy hatchment seem'd to tremble in the glare,
How darken'd round the deep nocturnal air!
But, whilst thy herse in long procession drawn,
Display'd its dreadful trappings down the lawn,
Whilst good Sir Humphrey's venerable coach
Made to the churchyard stile its slow approach,
How teem'd, as Fancy all her visions brought,
With grief and terror every pause of thought.

Yet Allan, as the whole impassion'd crowd
Or wept in silent woe, or sobb'd aloud,

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Drew from the funeral sob, the funeral tear,
The joy of grief that scatter'd every fear.

The vault now left, amidst the charnel air,
One solitary mourner linger'd there—
One poor domestic breath'd the unnotic'd moan,
And, with cold nose, still press'd the dripping stone.
Yes! poor old Cato there his head reclin'd,
And to his master all his soul resign'd:
And had not butler Frank, at break of day,
From the chill pavement dragg'd the dog away,
There Cato had erelong expir'd, to prove
The attachment of a more than human love.
“Oft, while my lord was ill (the butler said),
“Cato howl'd sore, and sadly droop'd his head!
“Then, weeks ago, while shudder'd every limb,
“I saw the fount o'erflow its rocky brim;
“And, where so late it cast the limpid gleam,
“Swell round its mossy beech, a puddled stream.
“Yet master's end so near I never thought;
“No frightful dove came fluttering to the cote:

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“But, oh! the moment when the Knight was dead
“The tenants knew, for all the rooks were fled:
“And not a rook, to mend the nests, I ween,
“Amid the dismal elms hath since been seen.”

Alas! while grief and fear survey the tomb,
All Nature wears a sympathetic gloom.
Hence, ere the valued friend hath clos'd his eyes,
From every breeze we steal presaging sighs;
See, cold and sallow, the forsaken grove,
And hear lorn fountains wail o'er those we love!

END OF THE THIRD CANTO.

113

CANTO THE FOURTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Description of Andarton after the Death of Sir Humphrey —Neville and Ned Jerkairs joint Trustees of Allan— Miss Prue and Jenny Jerkairs superintending the Economy of Andarton-house.—2. Allan preparing for Oxford, and waiting on Squire Squintal, who sends him to the Filbert Bower—Meeting there Juliet, Squire Squintal's Daughter, and Emma her Companion—Seizing the promised Purse—Allan at Oxford.—3. Death of Neville—Exultation of Ned Jerkairs on the Occasion—Character of Squintal —of his Wife Alice—of Juliet her Daughter—of Sir Harry Hawtrap.

Yes! to the eye of grief Andarton wove
A sickly foliage thro' the sighing grove;
And each faint blossom seem'd to close in death
Its silver whiteness and its fragrant breath.

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The enkindled lawn in sudden gloom grew cold,
And shivering arbours dropp'd their buds of gold;
As the Knight's oak, where vernal radiance play'd,
Wrapt its fair honours in a duskier shade.

Yet, as with gradual stealth the silent hours
Sunn'd the weak leaf, or dew'd the drooping flowers,
Thro' breaking shadow bade the grove resume
All its young verdure, all its recent bloom,
And e'en that oak, amidst the sylvan ring,
Wave its green branches to the laughing Spring;
Andarton clasp'd with joy its rising care;
The good Sir Humphrey's image in his heir.

O'er Allan, pleas'd his virtues to descry,
Delighted Neville beam'd the guardian eye;
Tho' little prompt to bend a pliant knee
To Ned the attorney nam'd a joint trustee.
Indeed, as well might chaos mix with light,
As Neville's soul with sniveling Ned's unite.
And, as Sir Humphrey's inconsistent plan
O'er all the country, raising wonder, ran,

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Andarton-house two female inmates view'd
Adepts in art, and saw new mischiefs brood.
Lo, while indignant Neville purs'd his brow
And bit his lips, and scarce vouchsaf'd a bow
To those bright inmates; the complacent pair
With lowlier curtsies, and a gentler air
Hail'd his lov'd presence; bidding pleasure dart
To their sweet eyes from each exulting heart!
Yet there, tho' Neville with a hasty stride
Oft shook the room, yet lapp'd in silken pride
Tripsey with cool indifference stretch'd her jaws,
And Malkin arch'd his back, and smooth'd his paws.

Now Allan, as impatience wing'd the hours,
With a young ardour look'd to Isis' towers;
When, blending with his love the sage's lore,
Of wisdom Neville pour'd the precious store.
“With joy, my kinsman! I behold (he cried)
“In thee paternal worth, paternal pride—
“That sense of ancient honour, glowing-bright,
“Those generous passions that impel thee right,

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“Those firm opinions cherisht not in vain,
“That soul which looks on dastards with disdain.
“Thy father never to the ignoble stoop'd,
“Tho' by mean characters too sadly dup'd.
“Detecting specious vice, in lofty strain
“He talk'd, and sharply satiriz'd chicane:
“But, the short effervescence o'er, he griev'd,
“And deem'd himself by passion's mist deceiv'd;
“Dismiss'd his censures as replete with gall,
“And lent, from the full heart, his hand to all.
“Hence hath he nam'd, with Neville joint trustee,
“That whimpering knave, that fawner for a fee!
“Yet, by the insidious Jerkairs undismay'd,
“Confide in Neville's firm protecting aid.
“Go then, my boy, thy steps where Isis calls,
“And heed with due regard her cloyster'd walls:
“Be, still, thyself: Truth's open path pursue;
“And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.”
Kind as the drop that pearls the roseleaf, stood
In Allan's eye the tear of gratitude.
But, as he mus'd on all the parting scene,
A softer passion seem'd to creep between,

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And breathing an adieu to fancy dear
Dried in its silver sluice the generous tear.
And, tho' full soon Sir Humphrey's dying bed
A chill of terror o'er his spirit shed;
Yet a fond plea from Beauty's glance he stole,
And in the dear deception wrapt his soul!

Now Squintal, who a visit had vouchsaf'd
To his lone mansion, sweated, swore, and chaf'd,
As, a pale sufferer from rheumatic pain,
He press'd his couch of down, and press'd in vain;
When, with the grin that marks a miser's joy,
And with a hasty squeeze, he hail'd the boy;
Ask'd, with his wonted enigmatic look,
‘If, in the lane, he met no nutting-crook?—
‘Held common hazels hardly worth a rush;
‘And (beating all so quaint about the bush)
‘For filberts bade him seek the garden-ground;
‘And, with a laugh averr'd, were never found
‘Nuts half so glossy, not in all the dells,
‘So ready at a touch to slip their shells.’

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Obedient to the hint, the boy was there,
And in the filbert-bower surpriz'd the fair.
With roseate fingers there had Juliet wrought
A purse endued with fond impassion'd thought.
And lo, its glittering folds as full in view
She held, and oft its strings of silver drew,
From Allan's presence with the feign'd alarm
Of a fond maid she shrunk on Emma's arm,
And with a threatening glance the boy repell'd,
While all her bosom indignation swell'd;
Tho' Emma, pleading in persuasive strain,
And pleading for the lover not in vain,
Bade Juliet with a smile his pardon seal;
A smile more fickle than the veering gale.
“Well, Juliet! if the sinner thou receive,
“Some little token of thy pardon give—
“Confer, to keep for better or for worse,
“On parting Allan, the long-promis'd purse”—
When pausing, as in jest the purse he seiz'd,
While Juliet shriek'd, and Emma star'd amaz'd;
And, “Ah, capricious girl!” with quick adieu
Exclaim'd, and from the bower of beauty flew.

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Yes! 'twas a promis'd purse with passion linkt,
A purse instinct with fire, with soul instinct:
For there had Juliet's bosom learn'd to glow,
To breathe in purple or in silver flow.
There, with a gradual heat had young desire
O'er the soft silk effus'd a lambent fire;
There, ardent sighs imbued the fluid gold,
And gentle wishes heav'd in every fold;
And Hope o'er all its fairy lustre shed,
Swell'd at each stitch, and danc'd from thread to thread
There jealousies had o'er the tissue skimm'd,
And each bright spangle for a moment dimm'd,
And fluttering fears had imp'd their feeble wings,
And died entangled in the trembling strings;
While, bath'd in kisses the delicious snare,
Young Love, not Plutus, lurk'd in ambush there.

Tho' nurst by Cam poor Herbert's fancy runs
On Johnian problems and on Johnian puns;
Yet Neville, partial to “the mighty Tom,”
Bids him conduct his pupil to the dome

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Which Wolsey rear'd—yet plann'd with ampler sweep
With walls to frown magnificently deep,
And all the pomp that gothic grandeur pours
From fretted minarets and massy towers.
There, Allan's lively genius, ill confin'd
To rules that suit the dull mechanic mind,
Scarce brook'd the task, to meet the peep of dawn,
Along the far-extending terrace drawn,
As chiming bells the hour of matins told,
And in the dim aisle deprecate the cold;
Again, his terrace-walk, returning, take,
And with his cap in hand, obeisance make
To graduate student, if, far off, he see
Some student of a cap-a-ble degree;
Mount to his spider-loft, where George so brown
May haply, midst the crazy china, crown
His dusty table, and his quivering fire
Quench'd by the o'erboiling kettle erst, expire;
For scout in vain with lungs exhausted whoop,
Then seize his slate and join the Euclid-troop,
O'er squares and circles and triangles doze,
Or tremble to the lecturer's twanging nose;

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Thence with slow step his classic tutor seek,
And sweat and fume and stutter o'er the Greek;
Once more retir'd, against intruding folk
Shut with decided hand his door of oak,
Mend his silk hose, from shirt the damps expel,
Tho' barberless, yet catch the dinner-bell;
At length, with countenance reliev'd from care,
Welcome the spruce adjuster of his hair;
Amidst the hall where savory viands rise
Perhaps with mouths of hunger sympathize;
Tho' on economy young pleasure trench,
His troubles in the purple nectar drench,
Or, as his hours in sober sadness pass,
Now nod, now sip a solitary glass;
Assist, at Tom's, with capillaire, or toast,
The shrewd conjectures of the Morning Post;
“Conscious of clean band stiffly starch'd,” defy
The keenness of the pert proproctor's eye;
Thro' High-street flaunt his sleeveless gown, and stroll
Till, beating on his ears, the Tocsin toll;
To vespers damp with tardy pace repair,
But soon from chapel into genial air

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Descending, hail, without a moment's halt,
The soothing influence of the kitchen vault;
On the long table stor'd with dainties, gaze,
And, lost amidst the culinary maze
Of roast or boil'd, or bak'd or potted meat,
Cull the nice morsel for his nightly treat;
To his short commons oft invite a friend;
Perhaps an hour of social comfort spend;
And, parting, in his little cabin close
Each college care, and sink to sound repose.
Yet hodiernal custom reconcil'd
To “dull mechanic rules” his genius wild;
As powers surpassing his, dispers'd the beam
That gilded the fine form of self-esteem.
But still a something which his looks betray'd,
Too plain, involv'd him in its gathering shade—
A something daily deepen'd on his brow,
Dark as the cloud that speaks a broken vow.
Perhaps, 'twas self-reproach his sorrows bred;
The conscience of affection rashly fed:
Perhaps, 'twas doubt that waver'd in suspence
Between low passion and the sacred sense

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Of filial love, while rose his sire to view,
And o'er the unhallow'd flame chill shadows threw.

Thus, as the prophet's tomb that seems to slight
The earth, yet gains not an ethereal height,
Whilst Allan hung; he met a sable seal,
A black-rimm'd sheet, to tell some direful tale;
And, as his palsied hand unclos'd the sheet,
Totter'd, afraid to look, on feeble feet—
Then caught the fatal words, “departing breath”—
And snatch'd a short relief at Neville's death.

Alas! how soon that glimmer of relief
From sickly fancy, was immerst in grief.
Where, Allan! now the guardian's fostering wing
Shall comfort to thy careworn bosom bring?
A Neville's rare integrity impart
Its manly vigour to thy wavering heart?
Alas! to plunge thee still in deeper woe,
Shall Scorn or harsh Unkindness aim the blow?
Shall squinting Treachery, studious to supplant
The fairest hopes of youth, thy dwelling haunt?

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O say, shall Persecution, at thy gate,
Menace a dread variety of fate,
To daunt thy spirit and thy soul oppress,
Or make thee firmer by each new distress?

Soon as the sad event Ned Jerkairs heard,
He smooth'd his neckcloth and he stroak'd his beard;
And hemm'd; and musing, for a moment, sat,
And with malignant triumph seiz'd his hat;
Quick to the townclerk (now his neighbour) sped,
And glad announc'd the news of Neville dead.
“Hah! (cries old Squintal) what a five-barr'd gate?
“Ned, you remember, I foretold his fate.
“The gout”—“Well, well, whatever was the cause,
“We know, my friend, (then stretch'd his yawning jaws)
“The Andarton-messuage, and its nonsuch heir,
“Devolve at once to thy protecting care.
“I warrant it, by dint of kind advice,
“We'll teach the little swaggerer, in a trice,
“Tho' a rare nursling of the heroic brood,
“No more to bluster o'er plebeian blood.”

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Not that from root plebeian Squintal sprung,
But, to his hearers prompt to tune his tongue,
To low born Jerkairs would obeisance pay,
Echoing Ned's notions in a servile way;
And, if Sir Harry's pomp illum'd the street,
Cry down poor pedigrees as obsolete.
Tho' blending in his bile-discolour'd face
The German dullness with the French grimace.
Of the fine arts an amateur profest,
He shone the virtuoso of the West;
As round the circuit of a spacious room
He rang'd, from Bulmer's press, each gorgeous tome,
And purchas'd for his rich port folio, prints
Or etch'd, or grav'd in stroke, or aquatints;
So that his levy (all the town can tell)
Was grac'd by many a beau, and lisping belle.
While townclerk of the borough, scot and lot,
In Molfra, to secure each dubious vote,
'Twas his to bribe, and bustling, to a blaze
The election-spirit by a breakfast raise.
Late too, the colonel of a troop, he shone,
To military tactics vastly prone;

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And fond his warriour-genius to display
As mock fights glitter'd to the beams of day,
Oft from his high-plum'd steed the field harangu'd,
Or fiercely rush'd where bloodless armour clang'd!
See, at his beck, young Pug the pestle quit,
While maladies or cease or intermit;
And, at the word, heigh-presto! heigh-begone,
Old Jack the grocer, start up Captain John;
And Ensign Bob, dismissing all the clerk,
His parchments pale abandon with a jerk!
Nor more the slippery brethren of the quill
O'er shrivell'd deeds, in sunless holes, sit still;
But to their recent coats attention win
As each, a sleek young serpent, casts his skin,
Kindling in burnisht glory, glides along,
And brandishes abroad his double tongue.

Big with the intelligence of Neville's fate
Old Squintal bounc'd into the room, where sat
His wife with face no terrors could unhinge,
His placid Alice much amus'd with fringe.

127

“Bless me, poor man!” in gentle tone she cried,
And with glib fingers still her shuttle plied.
Meek woman! so inur'd to self-controul,
What ills by others felt can move thy soul?
Thy smiles to all alike so prompt to lend,
Say, does thy kindred bosom boast a friend?
Say, while thy charity so kind, affects
(As inuendos touch thy tittering sex)
To disapprove each hint of blame, so nice,
Lest censure Virtue's form mistake for vice;
Say, tho' so tender of a sister's fame,
So fond to vindicate an injur'd name;
Wilt thou devote one atom of dear self-
To save the life of any mortal elf?

Not clad in smiles insipidly serene
Did Juliet move thro' being's dull routine.
Her sparkling animation oft entranc'd
The social circle, if a look she glanc'd:
And, as her airy spirits mounted light,
If woe drew near, she flutter'd at the sight.

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If Alice pass'd a piteous object by,
Whispering—“Poor creature!” with just half a sigh;
Struck by her mother's apathy, o'erflow'd
Her eyes with tears, her cheek with blushes glow'd.
And all the vicious ready to condemn,
And, e'en of censure to protract the theme,
The little quick enthusiast wont to stare,
Oft as her mother with so mild an air,
With such a modish negligence of tone
Gloss'd o'er a crime, resolv'd to slander none.

Now, while a livelier ray from Fancy stole,
Amidst the fine emotions of her soul,
As from some recent source surcharg'd with sighs
Her bosom heav'd, and teardrops fill'd her eyes,
To her lone chamber would she oft retire;
There, at her window fix the Eolian lyre,
Wait the low warblings of the dulcet breeze
That first seem'd wasted from the wavy trees,
And with poetic transport all her own
Catch the wild note, and drink the dying tone;

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Or melt with feelings only lovers know
On Otway's tender traits of female woe,
Or the poor solitary plaint assuage,
The heartsick pang by Burney's magic page;
And with light hand her elegant guitar
Attune to every soft impassion'd air,
As from her bower, for love and fancy's sake,
She hail'd the shadowy turret, the clear lake,
Or, on the floor of moss beneath her feet,
(What time cool evening bath'd in many a sweet
The sleepy bells of sinking florets clos'd)
Her eye, oblivious of the past, repos'd;
Tho' soon that purse surcharg'd with hopes and fears
Chas'd from her lids the dream, and summon'd tears.
Nor seldom the sly Alice would intrude
With stealthy footstep on her lovesick mood,
While Juliet, heedless of the observer nigh,
Still mus'd, then, starting, met her mother's eye,
Or, dropping with incautious haste her book,
Shrunk from a rigid frown, or icy look.
“Poh! poh! romantic maid!” would Alice say,
“You know, full well, I disapprove a play,

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“A novel, or a tune to touch the heart.
“What! with imaginary sorrow smart?
“Amidst a world where ills too sore are rise,
“Shall griefs from fancy spring to poison life?”
In truth, as Juliet with increasing years
Still more dislik'd the face that coldness wears,
She flew from every petrifying glance,
And barter'd genuine feeling for romance.

Meantime, Sir Hawtrap to his highbred air,
And of his equipage the dazzling glare,
Had drawn old Squintal lost in idle gaze—
A moth, perhaps to perish in the blaze!
Ah! while the attraction was in wealth alone,
Around his rising walls, the piteous moan
From many a ruin'd cottage pierc'd the skies,
The wail of shivering eld, and infant cries.
Scarce had Treglastan its new master view'd,
Ere, strait unpillar'd at his nod, was strew'd
Its hoary mansion o'er the extensive ground,
And little cheerful cabins, scatter'd round,

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(Their thatch grey mosses creeping to encrust)
Were, at his lordly mandate, laid in dust;—
Ere, with dire crash resounded in the breeze
Its venerable rows of rushing trees,
And, whether dale or hill their gloom o'erbrow'd,
All—all its scarlet oaks in terror bow'd.
Yet, as the new-rear'd fabric proudly stood,
Bare to the winds where whilom tower'd a wood,
Tho' fine pictorial art, perchance, repaid
By varied beauties the diminisht shade;
Vain was each rural charm, to chase Ennui
From the void bosom, or from conscience free
The petty tyrant who, engirt with slaves,
Still long'd, on British ground, to trample graves.
What tho' the verdure of the velvet lawn
O'er fencelorn fields with gradual softness drawn,
Shone tinctur'd to the morn, and each cascade
With all the colours of the rainbow play'd;
Yet, to his pillow nail'd at least till noon,
'Twas his to slight “dame Nature's ready boon,”
Nor rise till the sun left his southern throne,
The Andarton dinner-bell announcing—one;

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When, breaking in full glory on the day,
To venal Molfra would he whisk away,
And, from his flaming phaeton superb,
Each poor pot-boiler dazzle or disturb,
O'erwhelm a curate, heedless whom he crush'd,
Or sweep, whole off, a penthouse as he rush'd;
His steeds of lightning in a second stop,
And pay due homage at each paltry shop;
With adulation raise a vacant stare
On the sleek forehead of the butcher mayor,
In gentle accents to the cobler cringe,
The joiner's frame with fine new words unhinge,
And creep into the grocer's heart with ease
As mites in secret undermine a cheese,
On tanners practise many a slippery wile,
And melt the man of tallow with a smile,
(Protesting, as he plied his fresh attacks,
Each lustrous candle sham'd the whitest wax)
And lo, to close his compliments, invite
His friends to dinner, at the approach of night.
Nor, on the townclerk, e'er an errant tool,
Pour'd he by niggard drops his oil of fool;

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Oft as on Juliet with too fond desire
He look'd, resolv'd to circumvent her fire,
And, ere his infant myrtles form'd a shade,
To Cyprian pleasure lure the unpractis'd maid.

END OF THE FOURTH CANTO.

134

CANTO THE FIFTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Meeting of the Demons adverse to the House of Andarton—their Machinations against the Heir.—2. Jenny Jerkairs employed as their Agent—her Plot communicated to her Brother, Ned Jerkairs—3. Allan's unexpected return—Changes in the House and Family of Andarton.

‘'Twas on that spectred eve when Cornwall fills
With sacred light and joy her echoing hills,
As sudden thro' dim ether they upraise
Their hundred heads and tremble thro' the blaze—
'Twas on that eve the demons, in a file
Of hostile front, to Karnbre's druid pile

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Rush'd forth—fell spirits of the rocks who share
The dreadful charge of pestilential air,
Who, dipt in magic fire, fierce arrows waft
With keener vengeance than the lightning's shaft,
Dismantle, at their will, the sylvan scene,
Lay bare the metals that a mountain vein,
And prison the rude winds in caves, or urge
Their rapid eddies thro' the roaring surge,
The fiends who cower on Brendon's misty brow,
And mark with wicked eyes the woods below,
Their fluttering wings on Menadorva spread,
And shrink with dances proud Penmennor's head,
Or, as around them boils the foamy spray,
Invest Penolva with a crimson ray,
Who for the merchant-sail from Aldren's height
Cast o'er the green expanse their straining sight!
There, too, the valley-fiends their pennons furl'd,
And phosphor-tipp'd, the watery besom whirl'd,
They, who the meadows intersect, and stain
Pure founts with tin, where lurks the ruddy grain,

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Who Ardevora sweep with troublous flight,
Or rich Barallan's reddening harvest's blight,
Or with dire breath pernicious mildew spread
Where sweet Rosvallan pour'd its purple shade,
With heavy clouds Lambessoe's birch o'erwhelm,
Or wild thro' Hellan fire the towering elm!
And, lo! the sprites of subterraneous glooms
Ascending from their mines, the sullen Gnomes
Who far within thro' earth's recesses walk
Where granite glitters from its silvery talc,
And midst cobaltic walls, or gleaming grey
Or dusked azure, wind their dreary way,
In antimonial cells who shun the light,
And in the paths of bismuth hoary-white,
With iron bands the solid mountain brace,
And store the glossy tin beneath its base,
Murmuring amidst the copper's dun abodes
Guide the swart miners to its deeper lodes,
In rocks of alabaster scoope their caves
While, far above, the hideous cataract raves,
And, as its lustrous bloom elusive flies,
Catch the fleet silver with lyncean eyes.

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Such was the throng; when, midst the mystic gloom,
Mounts into ether a tremendous dome;
Dense walls of sulphur in a moment glare;
Basaltic pillars shoot aloft in air,
And, mingled with columnar crystals, rise
To prop a lava roof that mocks the skies.
Lo, whilst the tufa-stone, the pumice light
In various fretwork trembles from the height,
The pavement floods of molten bloodstone lave,
And round each column wreathe a crimson wave.

High thron'd in granite a carne-spirit rear'd
His agate sceptre proudly; whilst appear'd
Circling his head, a stone ring azure deep,
In which a yellow serpent seem'd to sleep;
And thus: “Ye fiends of carnes, of vales, draw near—
“And ye who fill the subterraneous sphere.
“'Tis your's, for aye, against the fields of light,
“O'er Cornwall hovering, to exert your might,
“To thwart the enfeebled Genii, who preside
“With flagging pinions o'er transmitted pride,

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“Stout oaks to destine for the briny flood,
“And sport in triumph o'er a crashing wood;
“To speed the venom that a streamwork wafts,
“Delve the deep clay, and pierce thro' hills in shafts.
“'Tis your's, where Avarice eyes his mouldering hoard,
“To stain the escutcheon of the rustic lord.
“Know then, a fit occasion waits your spleen,
“Where Feri guard yon old umbrageous green.
“Know, late, a Knight who priz'd his generous blood
“Hath, dying, left that venerable wood,
“That castellated mansion to the care
“Of minds but ill affected to the Heir.
“Go, then, and fire them with abundant schemes
“To dissipate the boy's romantic dreams:
“Bid them, assailing the too sacred place,
“Each friendly spirit from the chieftain chase,
“Whether it haunt the hoary-whispering grove,
“Or whether it regard his future love.”
Then, rising more distinguisht than the rest,
Another demon of the carnes address'd
The throne, and wav'd on high his feathery crest.

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“Ye mountain-fiends, your Prince's nod attend,
“Yet to my sovereign skill your favour bend.
“'Tis mine to prosper all the sons of trade,
“And o'er vast seas expand the pendant's shade.
“Behold ye fiends! my power for ages great—
“'Twas I, who guided to this lone retreat,
“'Twas I who guided to Cornubia's isles
“Phenician fleets, and bless'd their dangerous toils.
“'Tis I, who in the spiced Indian air
“Sit on the yellow sands, the first to rear
“The British flag, and speed with homeward breeze
“The embarked traders o'er the silky seas!
“'Tis I the merchant's embryo schemes o'erlook,
“The nurse of commerce in its Cornish nook.
“'Twas I, who bade a Nabob cross the deep,
“To where Cornubian castles idly sleep,
“Old Geoffry with the flatterer's arts invade,
“And teach him the prerogative of trade;
“But chief from slumber wake Andarton's wood
“Where stagnates in dull veins Patrician blood.
“And be it your's, ye Demons, to suggest
“Such projects as may break that torpid rest.”

140

“Agreed!” a scowling Gnome replied—“agreed!
“And how to execute the glorious deed
“Be mine to tell: To every word give ear,
“Ye Demon-tribes, and shudder as ye hear.
“Long since 'twas known that woman best could sow,
“Brought from the infernal world the seeds of woe.
“Attend!—Of late, a foe to many a dome
“Of high Cornubian fame, the tyrant Gnome
“With Cornish families fell war to wage,
“A dreadful plague created in his rage.
“A cauldron, bubbling blood that warm'd a wolf
“He seiz'd, and slung it o'er a flaming gulf;
“And blew a blast that fiends can only blow,
“Till all the red volcano roar'd below;
“Then in the vase an adder's venom'd tongue,
“The brains and bowels of a traitor slung;
“The spawn and entrails of two dozen snakes,
“Of sulphur, hot from Erebus, five slakes;
“The stings of hornets and the forked claws
“Of owls; from female corpses the shrunk jaws
“(Jaws that in life were shrivel'd and worn sharp
“By pale detraction ever prone to carp

141

“On worth) of rankest envy the black lips;
“The poison that from toads the nightmare sips;
“Then stirr'd the mixture red with sin and strife:—
“And Jenny Jerkairs, chattering, sprung to life!
“Such be the incarnate spirit we employ—
“A form, to palsy every earthly joy.”
He ceas'd; and breath'd such fine metallic fire
As mortals taste, and tremble and expire:
The grateful fragrance cheer'd the infernal rings;
And each glad genius clapp'd his ebon wings;
When, twinkling from the sombrous adder-stone
That circled the rock-spirit on the throne,
A yellow gleam was, three times, seen to glance,
The well known signal for the demon-dance.
Sudden, the palace vanish'd from the gaze,
And, at a hundred carnes, round every blaze
The whirling fiends appear'd, in many a fearful maze.

Her tongue, now weary with its flippant play,
Pale on her pillow Jenny Jerkairs lay;
Effusing from her mouth the fumes of shrub—
The infernal nectar quaff'd by Beelzebub;

142

When, issuing from a sable mist, she saw
A lurid hand her shivering curtain draw,
And, as she felt a quick spasmodic twitch,
View'd, slow-emerging from his cloud of pitch,
A form, more dreadful than the Theban sphynx,
With bat-like wings, with eyes that mock'd the lynx:
And, as his tawny lips of shrivel'd skin,
Swell'd, like a bladder, from the breath within,
In short shrill shrieks she heard, or seem'd to hear,
Accents unmeet for other mortal ear.—

Struck with a thousand schemes the maid awoke,
Whilst thro' deep clouds the struggling moonbeam broke:
And, on her restless pillow as she toss'd,
By all the mischiefs of the Gnome engross'd;
On her pock'd cheek her transport cast a gleam,
And flush'd with cruel fervours every seam.

Strait as the dawn had stain'd its eastern gloom,
She flew, impatient, to her brother's room;
And said, ‘How glorious o'er the subject sea,
‘She mark'd, in vision, many a lofty tree;

143

‘And mutter'd that Andarton's oaks would move
‘Along the billows a distinguisht grove;
‘Told, how in morning slumbers she survey'd,
‘Where long had wav'd the unprofitable shade,
‘The hills, the vales with mineral treasure dight,
‘As Genii drew the lurking wealth to light;
‘Averr'd she view'd those hills, that dormant ore
‘Laid bare, to swell their friend the merchant's store—
‘Laid bare, to fill their friend the Nabob's purse,
‘Loading the hapless Heir with many a curse;
‘And whisper'd various motives, to detach
‘The whimpering Allan from his lovesick match.’

Whilst not a hint was lost on brother Ned,
He flings the nightcap from his drowsied head,
With ready stomach to digest her dreams,
And ruminates unutterable schemes.

Now hastening to the merchant, to submit
Each lordly tree that seem'd for felling fit,
His ears from every hill-top caught the crash,
How pleasant—to produce young Allan cash!

144

Now speeding to Treglastan-dale, that gleam'd
With granules in its ruddy torrent stream'd,
He bade the Nabob prosecute the plan
Where the same rivulet thro' Andarton ran,
And e'en the rich metallic vein pursue
Thro' fields above where fruitless timber grew:
So, while each tinwork crown'd the Nabob's wish,
His ward should welcome gold in every dish.

Stung with new projects as he told his route,
Wildly the sister-furies bounc'd about.
“Lord!” (Jenny Jerkairs cries, with triumph mad)
“I long to mortify the hectoring lad
“Who doats on his old groves of trees, his lawns,
“And talks, forsooth, of parks and frisking fawns
“Such as, in ancient times, Andarton grac'd—
“Soon shall he see his lands a mining waste.
“And soon another noble scheme, I trust,
“Will bring his soaring spirit to the dust.
“Squire Squintal, to be sure, a little sly,
“Casts on Andarton-grounds a cunning eye,

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“And, therefore, Juliet for the boy designs,
“To these hoar woods to link Trevalso's mines.
“Yet with Squire Squintal and the boy, you know,
“No love is lost: 'tis easy, then, to blow
“The dormant sparks of hatred to a flame—
“Such, such, my brother, is the task I claim:
“And every thought of Juliet must your ward
“Amid the strife of houses quick discard.
“Nor shall my pains be spar'd, to disconcert
“His soft amours with every romping flirt;
“For if he die without an heir, Miss Prue,
“My friend shall hold the manor—You know who!”

With gentle inclination of the head
Prue thank'd her friend, and smirk'd on uncle Ned;
And each, well met, their malice as they nurs'd,
Gloried in all the feelings of the curst!

Such were the mischiefs in each bosom ripe,
When, prompt to seize Andarton at a gripe,
As the pale wretch that flies the lightning storm,
The poor intriguers shrunk—from Allan's form!

146

How chang'd that form! By warring passions checkt,
No more he trod with manly port erect.
Fled was that bloom, where erst so sweetly play'd
O'er his warm cheek the light pubescent shade.
Nor less disfeatur'd was the seat serene
Of harmony, Andarton's quiet scene.
Scarce in his absence had the varying year
Thrice bloom'd and faded to the solar sphere:
Yet Allan notic'd with emotions strange
Thro' all the household a portentous change.
Where now the butler grey could Allan hail,
Bent on his crutch, and stor'd with many a tale;
Where meet, in solitary wisdom sage,
That last left relic of Sir Humphrey's age?
Alas! he hail'd, with tresses silver-hoar,
That quaint historian and his staff no more.
Alas! where'er he turn'd, with sickening sighs
He met the stare of cold or curious eyes—
Met the bluff groom, and dizen'd out with lace
Pert lacqueys, strangers to their master's face,
And sluts that brush'd along, and look'd askance,
Sly gipseys tutor'd by the girl from France;

147

And, where the glimmering wainscot mourn'd the blaze
That o'er its pannels flung no friendly rays,
Where beam'd no look benignant, to impart
A social spirit to the mantling heart,
Met the dark frown, and caught the insulting tone,
The cold sarcastic sneer, from all but one!

Nor did his eye with rapture's glance survey
The level walks that sparkled to the day,
Where the green moulder on the gravel spread,
As gathering insects shap'd their earthy bed;
The lawn, that whilom lull'd the ruffled soul
In soft repose, upheav'd by many a mole
Where now thro' thistles sprung the seeded blade,
And trembling fescue with the burdock play'd;
The mead, whose fount no more to radiance fleet
Down the young verdure pours a glittering sheet,
Or parts its waters into silver threads,
Where dank and sullen vegetation spreads;
The grove, whose dark luxuriance from the beam
Now shut the mossy sward, the struggling stream;

148

Where to the blooms along its margin born
The clear rill blush'd with every tint of morn!
And once, how pleasant at the close of eve
Its tinklings sweet, the cool romantic cave,
Where now rank nettles chill'd the untrodden ground,
And spotted foxgloves hung their venom round.

Yet, unsuspicious of the menac'd stroke,
He hail'd, still vigorous every veteran oak;
Tho' oft alarm'd, he listen'd to the breeze
That bore hoarse murmurs from the heaving trees;
Invisible as hostile demons flew,
And Fayes their cohorts into crescents drew.

Yet, water'd by its old meandering rill,
He hail'd each dale beneath the umbrageous hill;
And, heedless there how far their foliage stray'd,
View'd the same aspins shiver down the glade;
Tho' oft, when evening still'd the glimmering air,
He saw strange phantoms rise, and tremble there,

149

Now dart o'er all the marsh an azure ray,
Now sulph'rous glide, now purplish faint away;
As many a valley-fiend with treacherous aim
Laugh'd, where the vision rose, and ting'd the flame.

END OF THE FIFTH CANTO.

150

CANTO THE SIXTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Death of Harriet, Mother of Allan.—Ned Jerkairs reprobating Allan's unexpected return from Oxford—Allan's projected Tour, chiefly with the View of visiting Landor-abbey on the Banks of the Tamar.—2. Allan setting out on his Expedition —Passing by Trevalso, and observing in the Garden Juliet and a strange Lady of uncommon Attractions—Pursuing into a Glen the flight of a Falcon, and discovering, near a ruinous Chapel, a Coffin, and in the Coffin a human Skeleton—Drawing from the Finger of the Skeleton a topaz Ring, and struck by its posey—Recognizing Emma's Cottage hard by—following Emma into the Cottage—acquainted by Emma with the Name of Juliet's Visitor, viz. Laura from Landor-abbey —dropping the Purse that he had received from Juliet in the Cottage, and departing with Precipitation.—3. Near the Cottage, Allan meeting with Ned Jerkairs—Ned complimenting the Hero on his Knight-errantry.

Still was there one, assiduous to impart
The tenderest balm—a kind maternal heart!

151

Still was there one, whose timid meekness, scorn'd
By the proud twain, had long in silence mourn'd;
Who, with a gentle spirit too deprest,
Had stor'd her sorrows in her angel breast,
And now, with every look affection wears,
O'er Allan melted in unwonted tears.

Sweet thro' those tears as smiles of pleasure ray'd,
The hollow of her hectic cheek betray'd
The cankerworm, there fasten'd to consume
The last faint relics of her lovely bloom:
And Harriet, who had thus in secret sigh'd,
Bow'd her submitted head, and calmly died.

Meantime Ned Jerkairs, from whose visage dark
Of smother'd anger broke the frequent spark,
And disappointment struggling thro' its mask;
And pride imperious that appear'd to ask
A base and servile homage, to excuse
The boy's desertion of his college-muse,
Address'd, with eyes that flash'd indignant fire,
The curate, yet unweeting of his ire.

152

“Gods! when, by all thy wishes value most,
“I bade thee teach him (almost every post)
“To check the bias that to Cornwall tends,
“And fly the meanness of provincial friends,
“And strait the wayward boy, too soon of age,
“With projects of a foreign tour engage;
“Is it thy sapience dares obstruct my schemes,
“And lure him down to cherish lovesick dreams?”
But by his bosom-feelings urg'd alone
From academic-gloom the youth had flown,
Resolv'd to stifle in his glowing breast
A boyish passion that had banish'd rest;
While, shunning as in scorn the silbert shade,
His duteous love a dying fire obey'd.
'Twas at this moment, with the adroitest aim,
Good Herbert strove to stir the adventurous flame
That long had languish'd, faint in beauty's rays,
As embers sicken in the solar blaze.
“What (Herbert cried) if round Cornubia's coast
“We ponder on chivalric virtue lost;
“Tracing the hoar remains of castle-walls,
“Monastic structures or romantic halls;

153

“And, as we cross old Tamar's wizard tide,
“View, still untarnisht, Landor's lordly pride?”

With exultation the caballers heard
The scheme of Cornish castles, and averr'd
All love for Juliet was, besure, extinct;
Yet, in the bonds of dark suspicion linkt,
Agreed, the step was dangerous, to relax
Their vigilance, or spare their sly attacks.

Scarce had the youth resum'd his highborn pride
(Herbert, his honest Sancho by his side)
Ere, passing the nun's wall, that stoop'd to lave
Its browner ivy in the shadowy wave;
He notic'd, thro' the sprays of tremulous larch
That floated at the window's fractur'd arch,
The pensive Juliet and a stranger fair—
Her mien how graceful, how divine her air!
And, spurring his fleet courser down the dale,
Rush'd, in the conflict of his passion pale;
Nor mark'd the morn's grey mist in soft relief,
But slighted all the scene, absorb'd in grief;

154

Till full display'd a falcon urg'd its flight,
And thro' mid ether bath'd its plumes in light,
Then cleft a cloud beyond the hero's ken,
And, earthwards glancing, pierc'd a gloomy glen.

Wak'd to the heroic sense, with eager eyes
He saw a pinnacle dispart the skies,
And, o'er the glenwood, to its garment grey
Of moss quick-kindling, catch the solar ray.
There Allan hied, and nodding to its fall
Found the last fragment of a chapel-wall,
And, fast-beside, with matted briars o'ergrown,
A coffin of enormous size in stone;
Where, as its lid was open'd to the day,
A skeleton in grimly slumber lay,
And on his finger to the explorer's sight
A ring by fits betray'd a golden light.

Elate with hope, impatient at the view,
The ring from off the finger Allan drew,
Nor shudder'd, tho' the hand asunder snapp'd,
And unseen pinions all the coffin flapp'd,

155

And the corse rose, as lifted from beneath,
With bones that crackled and with chattering teeth!
Strait on the rim, with still untrembling frame,
He read these lines in characters of flame:
“Take this, my valorous youth! If this thou wear,
“Thy bosom shall despise the vulgar fair;
“Each dark design evolve, and render vain,
“And the high lady of the cloyster gain!
“Yet must thy hand, ere yet the virgin bless
“Thy peerless worth, the patriarch sabre press.”

Then rush'd into his mind the topaz pale
That from Sir Humphrey drew the eventful tale;
What time the dusky portraits they survey'd,
And gaz'd on great Sir Andar's sombre shade.

Now Allan, half-recover'd from surprize
As down the dale he cast his curious eyes,
And, conscious of his course turn'd back again
By the fierce falcon and the ruin'd fane,
Began to recollect the willows hoar,
The brawling torrent, and its rocky floor;

156

At little distance a light figure saw,
A graceful gait, a rustic hat of straw;
Cheeks crimsoning, like the orient day, perceiv'd,
And scarce 'twas Emma's maiden blush believ'd.

With all the sweet simplicity of truth,
The virgin welcom'd home the embarrass'd youth,
And pointed to her roof, where grey the smoke
Aspir'd, a pillar thro' the branching oak;
And, gliding strait away to lift the latch,
The hero beckon'd to her humble thatch.

Enquiring, whether Juliet breath'd a sigh
To love, he read reproof in Emma's eye:
But, asking with a more collected air,
‘Who, who with Juliet was the stranger-fair?’—
He learn'd, 'twas ‘Laura from the cloyster-hall,
‘For whom, Sir Harry to a fancy-ball
‘Was now inviting all the gentry round’—
Whilst Emma's modest glances met the ground.
And, pensive as he ponder'd o'er the cot
Whispering—‘Still sacred is a certain spot

157

‘Where once so quaint was crown'd a rural queen;
‘But Emma, sure, forgets Andarton-green—
‘Long since hath died a wreath that pleasure wove—
‘So perish, my sweet girl, young joy and love’—
A look, as if by stealth, the virgin flung
Where from a smoky beam the garland hung;
And, as her eye she rais'd to florets sear,
Stole from its shaded lid a silent tear.

Whilst thus his restless spirit sought repose,
A fine sensation in his bosom rose;
And, with a fluttering hope that seem'd to spring
In wild illusion from the mystic ring,
Again the posey kindling round he read,
And dropp'd his purse at Emma's feet, and fled.

The flying youth had just re-cross'd the brook,
When Ned the attorney, from a shadowy nook
Sprung with his spaniels, stepp'd in wonder back,
Then with a loud horselaugh resum'd his track.
“Aye! this is fine knight-errantry, my lad,
“Damme, my boy! I thought thee castle-mad,

158

“Resolv'd to brave the necromantic shade,
“Storm the dark tower, and free the captive maid!
“Besure, the sport's as great, the danger less,
“To comfort cottage-damsels in distress!”

END OF THE SIXTH CANTO.

159

CANTO THE SEVENTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Allan, in consequence of the Lady of Landor-abbey's Visit to Juliet, abandoning his Project, and returning to Andarton— There meeting the Rector Swellum, Prue, and Jenny Jerkairs—The Conversation of the Rector, and the two Females repulsive to the Feelings of Allan and Herbert.— 2. Preparations for the Nabob's Ball in compliment to Julia— Allan at the Ball—Various Characters there—Portrait of Laura—Juliet's growing Affectation—Juliet refusing her Hand to Allan in the Dance—Miss Prue's Party to Church in honour of the Rector—A Sunday-evening Concert—A Tinmine visited by Allan, Laura, Emma—A Pilchard-Seine —Emma dropping the Purse by accident, in presence of Juliet, &c. &c.—3. The Incident of the Purse confirming every Suspicion of Allan's Infidelity and Emma's Guilt.

Confus'd and silent, as the hero fled
The gibes and glances of sarcastic Ned,

160

‘Rather,’ thought Allan, ‘had a threelane ghost
‘The road, his hands imbrued in carnage, crost!
‘Alas! the gathering fiends my projects mar,
‘Darting malignant beams from every star
‘Yet now, perhaps, the destin'd lady waits
‘My homage, nigh my own paternal gates.’
There, as he re-appear'd, exclaim'd Miss Prue,
“What, back again? And simple Sancho, too?”
While, mounting to her cheeks thro' many a sluice,
In livid rancour spread the bilious juice:—
When Swellum (who had made his annual trip
In quest of tithes) a little purs'd his lip,
Yet bow'd, and somewhat quicken'd, with an air
Of ease, the light momentum of his chair.—
“Goils! what a fine adventure! I'm amaz'd!”
The females bridled, and the rector gaz'd.
The rector, who was measuring out his stuff
Of modish sort, (a pleasant lounge enough)
And, as he bade the gentle pair believe
His fulsome lies, was laughing in his sleeve;
“Why, (as I said just now) 'tis mother's wit,”
Exclaim'd, “and not a fierce romantic sit

161

“That qualifies the stripling for a tour:
“This, this alone, is the true native ore
“That e'er invites, amidst a foreign land,
“And gains a polish from an artist's hand.
“And, if his Quixotte follies he discard,
“And render himself worthy my regard,
“To Allan I would recommend my plan
“To look at France awhile, nor slight Lausanne;
“And, where no vulgar English hiss or hoax,
“Give him a soft access to tonish folks.
“Then with an air of fashion will he move,
“Nor longer herd with rustics, hand and glove;
“And, if he seek, at length, his Cornish home,
“Doubtless, pull down this antiquated dome,
“And, well instructed in the modern stile
“Of fabrics, rear at once an airy pile.
“E'en now, should those old bays, that chesnut fall,
“Whose long-leav'd branches overshade the hall;
“And light should enter these unsocial rooms,
“Nor comfort be devoted to the glooms
“Of moss-grown arches dank and diamond panes,
“And the dull pondering upon dusky stains.”—

162

“Ah, (whisper'd in soft tones the admiring niece)
“Too much is old Andarton of a piece.
“But such the strange delirium of the youth,
“He calls ‘an ancient tree—a friend,’ forsooth;
“And, rather than his chesnuts slight, or bays,
“Would live, immur'd in darkness, all his days.”—
“My fine old mansion-house at Gruntley-dale,
“Like this, was only on a larger scale:
“But soon the gothic shadows I discuss'd,
“(Its massy turrets crumbling into dust)
“And rear'd a dome magnificent, yet light,
“That overlooks from Nature's proudest height
“Each hamlet glittering thro' the morning-mist
“Where in smooth verdure winds the vale of Clyst.
“Indeed, my drawings, exquisitely fine,
“Of Gruntley-dale display the grand design:
“And of my lawns and wildwoods, ever new,
“How sweetly pencil'd is each varying view.
“There, to this day, where-e'er I turn mine eyes,
“A thousand points of beauty still surprize
“My mind, and bid me with the enthusiast's glow
“The pencil seize—and, ladies, a-propos!

163

“Your smiles would give a finish to my groves,
“And win to every bower the laughing loves!”

Prue bow'd her head, with odd affections smit,
And Jenny Jerkairs, in a kindred sit
Unable to contain herself, sweet nymph,
Betray'd her crisis in a trickling lymph.

The rector, who had guess'd, with looks demure,
The fine effect of gratitude so pure,
As still, the gentle maidens to amuse,
He seem'd to fumble for his pocket-views,
Resum'd, full soon, his wonderous tale of self;
A tale he told to every mortal elf.
At length, exhausted from his self-applause,
He ceas'd, and, after an emphatic pause,
Stretch'd out his legs, and yawning with an air
Egotic, to the curate cried: “Prepare
“Your pupil, Herbert, for my travelling scheme,
“And wake him from his wild heroic dream.
“Teach him the urbanities that now embrace
“New men, alike, with those of ancient race:

164

“Tell him, indeed, in this enlighten'd age,
“The manners of the merchant oft engage
“Our liberal homage, tho' we meet with scorn
“The narrow notions of the nobly born.
“Bid him no more survey with scowling eyes
“The opinions or the fashions as they rise;
“Nor deem the luxuries of the polisht, crimes,
“But bend with due submission to the times.”
Quick on his heel the reddening curate turn'd,
And with an honest indignation burn'd.
“What! shall I sacrifice to Fashion's rage,
“To the false tenets of a vicious age,
“Each good old maxim that our fathers lov'd,
“Each usage long by Wisdom's self approv'd?
“What! shall I hold each homebred virtue vain,
“And Dissipation court with all her train?
“O, while I deem my cassock no disgrace,
“From Allan may I bar an upstart race,
“Who, wont o'er every varying clime to roam,
“Have lost the sacred sense that cleaves to home,
“Licentious notions with their wares import,
“The sons alone of gay profusion court,

165

“With philosophic minds enlarg'd, despise
“As Superstition's chain, the Christian ties,
“On holy rites opprobrious terms bestow,
“And fly a churchman as their deadliest foe.
“Tho' never may Sir Humphrey's heir contemn
“The merchant merely of ignoble stem,
“Yet may, in him, his father's feelings rate
“Worth with patrician blood as truly great;
“And point his aim, where Virtue best aspires,
“To a long lineage of ingenuous fires.”
“Fool! (cried the rector) din my ears no more
“With nonsense! How incredible a bore!
“Say, had no wandering upstarts left their homes,
“What magic could support your hoary domes?
“And, but by them, what ancient house enjoys
“The varied luxuries of earth and skies?
“Could high Andarton's lords, without their aid,
“Have strutted, deep in ermine and brocade,
“Or e'en their liveried menials shine in lace,
“Or their proud steeds expire amidst the chace

166

“When little vanity beholds and brags,
“The tails of foxes or the horns of stags?
“Say, tho' your gallery boast an aweful name,
“Frowning on light saloons of modern fame;
“O say, what mimic pencil could unfold
“Its drapery, or of silk or woven gold,
“But for those arts that give the woof to glow,
“Or with rich colouring mock the braided bow?
“Perhaps, tho' dozing thro' the year supine
“By rule exact you rise, by rule you dine,
“You triumph in the generous soul that rays
“Its favours o'er a few on festal days!
“Yet, lo! from each contracted usage free,
“The sons of trade but emulate the sea,
“As riches still unceasing they diffuse,
“Or shed their blessings like the silent dews!
“Those antique notions to disperse in air,
“Break Custom's yoke that only minions bear,
“On freeborn man expand an equal ray,
“And give the social passions room to play,
“While such the power thy tribes, O Commerce, claim,
“Shall old Andarton bow its head with shame!”

167

Meantime, had busy murmurs fill'd the dome,
And the light maiden skipp'd from room to room—
Here whisperings in a consultation grave,
While feathers at each breath were taught to wave;
There sighs that heav'd the gossamery gauze,
And the short laugh as prescient of applause;
And gentle rustlings, as the bandbox pours
Its crapes and paduasoys and silver flowers.

And what, in truth, could such attention call,
Debate so serious, as the fancy-ball?
Miss Jerkairs felt as erst, the tragic sire,
And Prudence walk'd at least six inches higher.
Miss Prue, indeed, poor damsel! had been sick,
As amorous cunning plied each pretty trick.
What tho' her little winking eyes, so weak,
Gleam'd on the moles that etch'd her sallow cheek;
Yet striving the poor rector to entrap
With glances soften'd by her waving cap,
The girl had languish'd for a sweet love-tale
Amid the secret bowers of Gruntley-dale!

168

But, by the rector for the ball engag'd,
Her bosom with triumphant ardour rag'd.

Yet scarce had the good females to themselves
Devoted a few hours, ere, generous elves,
To Allan they propos'd, with kind regard,
The acceptance of the Nabob's friendly card—
Subjoining, with a soft submitted air,
Trevalso's people are expected there—
‘And Lady Laura's form, by Fashion grac'd,
‘May win some notice from a man of Taste.’

Tho' Allan saw in each unwonted smile
But ill conceal'd the subterfuge of guile,
Yet curious, Lady Laura to survey,
And fond, perhaps, to catch one parting ray
From Juliet's eye, he lent the according ear,
And met from both the involuntary sneer.

Not that the Nabob he was prompt to court,
Too mindful of the proud insulting port:

169

But, crossing strait his own too wayward will,
He wish'd his sire's injunction to fulfil,
As all the homage due to rank, he paid
To the high lady, to the abbey-maid.
The thrilling night arriv'd: 'twas Saturn's night;
What time the rural fashionists delight
To imp their plumes, and mock with empty scorn
The sacred opening of a Sabbath morn.

Innumerous lustres flung a dazzling light
O'er stairs, that wound in waxen polish bright,
To where vast Indian monsters, taught to sprawl
In red and azure, deck'd the glaring wall.

As pass'd young Allan with a decent pride
Along rich sophas rang'd on either side,
Strait beelike buzzings thro' the ballroom ran,
And a soft whisper breath'd from many a fan.

In one wide brilliance burst upon the sight
Forms of all sorts by various Fashion dight:

170

Here, kindling its thin gauze the bosom bare,
And floating o'er its bloom, luxuriant hair;
And, from behind, desiring eyes to check,
The truss'd-up tresses, and the cranelike neck;
Or insect shapes, by prudish Folly brac'd;
Or bedgown figures loose without a waist;
Or maids who, sick'ning thro' their rouge, betray'd
The hollow cheek where green chlorosis prey'd;
Or those who, plaistering o'er their furrow'd skin,
Would to the doll-like daub the Cupids win;
Or waists awry but ill-conceal'd from sight,
Or elbows that the modest eye affright;
Or mimic breasts of pasteboard round and plump,
Or wriggling for the dance the corken rump.
There too, amidst the splendour, men or apes
Look'd grave or gay, exhibiting their shapes.
A few, above the rest, attention won
To outrè character, caprice, or ton;—
This, tho' a priest, who stoutly damns the church,
And leaves his charge, a letcher, in the lurch,
Who oft by gout condemn'd to painful nights,
Yet, spouseless, rails against the nuptial rites,

171

And, with the first fruits of good living stuft,
Ogles a well-bred whore, and hunts a tuft—
That, who, a squire amus'd by various whims,
Thro' all the round of dissipation swims;
Yet, tho' he glitter at each public place,
Dance at each ball, or bet at every race,
Yet, in a dissipated age how rare,
At Church he never slights the hour of prayer,
And, as his pencil's heavenly groupes attest,
Shines, to all eyes, the Raffael of the West.
His foes indeed (and he has many a foe)
Attribute all to fashion, form or show.
‘Whether (they cry) the Proteus pray or paint,
‘The flatter'd amateur, the sniveling saint,
‘Observe him, in his changes, where yon will,
‘'Tis ostentation, form, or fashion still.’—
And next another, whose vociferous strain
Betray'd a dreary vacuum of the brain,
Whose laugh, tho' meant to mark a lucky hit,
Yet only shew'd his wond'rous lack of wit,
Whom blustering, other fools have often check'd,
But blundering, fools alone would dare correct—

172

Another, foremost of the sons of guile
Who met each welcome with a specious smile,
And, as the well-concerted tale he told,
Suspicion lull'd, and e'en the wise cajol'd!
Not thus in promising exterior smooth,
But like the ruddy yeoman of the booth,
And rough to fashionists, perhaps, at first,
As in the haunts of some lone mansion nurst,
A gentleman appear'd, of ancient birth,
Who in the genuine heart conceal'd his worth.
But, by the hands of love and fashion drest,
A female tower'd, distinguisht o'er the rest.
Tossing her ostrich-shadow'd head, she flung
Now smiles, now frowns on youths that round her hung;
Whilst the fierce brilliants of her wide bandeau
With flashings dazzled each attracted beau.
Nor wonder that the fluttering youths survey'd
With love, the beauties of the splendid maid—
The large tall form, whose majesty controul'd
The gaze, full eyes that darted as they roll'd
Pernicious lightnings, or voluptuous play'd
As her dark eyebrows arch'd their meeting shade;

173

Fair temples azure-vein'd, the Grecian nose,
And heaving breasts that too luxurious rose;
A rich-zon'd waist where trembled young delight,
And graceful arms that beam'd with rosy white;
And all the gestures that the soul ensnare,
The step of elegance, the modish air.

Frolic and arch, around her fond to waft
Her favours, or capricious as she laugh'd,
Perchance her favours fonder to withdraw
And strike the sneakers of the crowd with awe,
She triumph'd in the credit or the guilt
That marks the sly deceptions of the jilt.
Nor while the plumage of her head she toss'd,
And of each youth the love and fear engross'd,
Did envy slumber in the female groupe,
Nor vanity that gave them, cock-a-hoop,
To ape her negligence of dress, of air—
A model they might copy to a hair!
Alas! that charming dress, nor loose nor trim,
That set, as if created for each limb,

174

O'er all her polisht form that waving line
Which language idly labours to define—
That Proteus of inimitable ease—
Alas! the fleeting vision who could seize?
Fill'd with soft witcheries, arm'd with aweful scorn,
'Twas love and grandeur hail'd their Laura born.

Tho' less a fashionist, a lovely girl,
Her hair inwreath'd with flowers, and deck'd with pearl,
To Laura talk'd, scarce heeding what she said,
And with a childish folly winc'd her head,
Laugh'd at mere nothings, hand and glove with rank,
And stole from affectation many a prank:
At every sentence, now her tongue let slip,
Low as the whispering breeze, ‘your ladyship!’
And now pronounc'd, as more familiar grown,
‘Laura, dear cousin!’ in distincter tone—
When Allan, all amid her feverish trance
Met from her eye a cold contemptuous glance,
And from her lips in censure seem'd to hear,
As Laura's laugh half-smother'd struck his ear—

175

‘Yes! yes! it was a less adventurous lot!
‘We dubb'd him the knight-errant of the cot!’
And, doubting whether yet he heard aright,
Caught, still more audible, ‘the cottage-knight.’

With all the flush that crimsons guilt confus'd,
A moment wretched, tho' not self-accus'd,
He stagger'd and retir'd; then strove again
To brave each glance, but felt his effort vain;
Till onwards, by a sense of duty borne,
And pride resolv'd to punish Juliet's scorn,
With one bold struggle he retrac'd his way,
To Lady Laura his devoirs to pay;
Yet, as he saw Sir Hawtrap quick advance
And lead out Lady Laura to the dance,
To Juliet bow'd, and losing self-command,
Ask'd with faint voice the honour of her hand,
But strait, as passion trembled, to convulse
Her frame, was answer'd by a stern repulse.

The sun now rising, and the dancing clos'd,
To some selected friends Miss Prue propos'd

176

A scheme to Pleasure's votaries new and strange—
‘To church to make a party’—said, ‘The change,
‘From a gay ball to prayers was dull enough,’
But whisper'd, that ‘the doctor would shew off,’
And ‘to Andarton to conclude the day
‘With music, begg'd they all would bend their way.’

The hour arriv'd: the bells began to chime,
And the tower-clock announc'd the lapse of time;
And Herbert in the spirit 'gan to groan,
Viewing the pews all crouded—all but one,
Where its snug chimney cast unwonted rays
To kindle up the solitary baize.
And long, midst many a yawn, the chimney drew
Cold damps that chill'd the green-invested pew;
When Herbert, all impatient to begin,
And from his head avert the doctor's sin,
Rose with an air that indignation spoke,
And in slow tones the sacred silence broke.

Now the first service o'er, the gallery rang
From rustic noses to the harmonious twang,

177

To viols mingled with the female shriek,
And hautboys taught like sucking-pigs to squeak;
When sudden a long rushing sound was heard,
And the quick glitter of the train appear'd—
Fellows, whose boast—the staring city-face—
Was crown'd with all the consequence of lace,
And next the fair with steps that rank assumes,
With light veils floating and aërial plumes,
And bustling far behind, as if to bilk
His eager flock, the rector rich in silk.
His part, for tittering and each rattling fan
Scarce Herbert could perform, when, lo, began
The farce.—Behold his pew the doctor leaves,
And strutting in the pomp of pudding sleeves,
With gait important tho' well-nigh a dwarf,
Exhibits to the crowd his staring scarf;
The pulpit with an air devout ascends,
Propp'd on a stool with adoration bends;
Recites the collect with low voice, and next
In energetic tones repeats the text,
As if he acted an apostle's part
Twice uttering—“I am lowly, meek in heart.”

178

Yes! thou art meek, poor self-dejected thing,
Witness the sparkling of thy diamond ring,
That to thy fine white hand attention draws,
And to thy graceful gestures steals applause;
Witness those solemn emphases that roll
With deep persuasion round, and trance the soul;
Those artificial falls that o'er the throng
Slide in soft music from thy silver tongue;
That oratorial pause which oft affords
Some little respite to thy swelling words!
And what thy topics? Lo, the moral sense,
The glorious light that Nature's works dispense;
And reason, that rejects with proud disdain
The atoning Saviour—topics after Payne.

Clear'd for the concert was the golden room,
Whilst brightening lustres broke the cobweb gloom
Where paroquets had scream'd and lapdogs slept,
And monkeys had so long their sabbath kept.
Say, Jenny Jerkairs, whence the wild caprice
That stirs the placid bosom of thy niece?

179

Wrapp'd in a cloak of satin lin'd with fur
As on the concert-room to cast a slur,
Deckt with a warm Elizabethan ruff,
And up to elbows in a sable muff,
See Lady Laura from her carriage swim,
The child of spirit, ease, and frolic whim;
And hear her cough apologize for dress,
That seem'd to cause a delicate distress.
“Lord! what a shivering church! How dear we pay
“To hear a prebend preach, a curate pray!
“But, Juliet! let us haste to join the throng,
“Smit with the love, it seems, of sacred song.”
Yet soon was Handel to the shades dismisst;
And, such as modish taste could ne'er resist,
Light airs and glees, and soft enticing trills
Promis'd to pierce the soul with pleasant thrills.
“The ladies, who alone can banish care,
“Will each oblige us with a gentle air,”
The rector, of his post a little proud,
Exclaim'd, and first to Lady Laura bow'd.

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Amus'd by all the levities of chat
Close to her ladyship whilst Allan sat,
My lady with a sportive smile obey'd;
And such a witching meltingness display'd,
Such wantonness, as if lascivious fire
Her soul had ravish'd from Anacreon's lyre.

The hero blush'd, and bow'd, and blush'd again;
Thank'd Laura for her fascinating strain,
But begg'd to deem her, with the doctor's leave,
Too sweet a syren for a Sunday's eve.

Behind the benches as he seem'd to sneak,
In vain the little doctor strove to speak:
But Laura, with a gay good-humour'd tone,
An unembarrast manner all her own,
Said, that ‘a favour she had meant to ask,
‘Still flatter'd he would not decline the task—
‘To shew the process of the Cornish tin;
‘If, peradventure, 'twas no heinous sin
‘Touching his tender conscience with alarms,
‘On Monday morn to meet a syren's charms.’

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Next morning, Allan, at the appointed hour,
Hands Laura to her phaeton and four,
And to his vast surprize, the timid grace
Of rustic Emma meets in Juliet's place;
Beside them, as the silver axle rings,
With Emma's lightness to the seat upsprings,
And (on his courser catching Hawtrap's eye)
Bids the fleet steeds across the common fly.

Soon as they reach'd the region, where pale dearth
Appears to mourn the disembowel'd earth,
Where Cornish zephyrs are content to waft
The sounds of whirling whims from shaft to shaft,
And turbid streams thro' dull morasses flow,
Where vegetation never learn'd to glow,
He stopp'd; and with his charge o'er fractur'd ground
Sought a deep shaft that yawn'd terrific round.
The Nabob, who in breathless haste advanc'd,
On her odd freak a gentle censure glanc'd;
Said, ‘She complain'd of cold the night before,
‘Tho' now she dreaded not a dismal moor

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‘Where such fine eyes had never shed a ray,
‘And urg'd her to retrace the dreary way.’
“No—no,” (she cried, with mystic meaning arch)
“Be mine this morning an infernal march.
“Come, then, my Indian chief, without a joke—
“Conduct me to the subterranean folk.”

His terror to disguise, the Nabob laugh'd,
Confess'd, he seldom had disturb'd a shaft,
But hop'd, ‘'twas badinage—Her self regard
‘Would quick such whimsies from her mind discard.’
“Then, Allan!” (cried my lady) “let us go”—
(And slily wink'd) “the brave, the brave, you know.”
Whilst off flew Hawtrap with a thrilling oath,
She hasten'd down the ladder nothing loath;
At the first landing view'd the impending height,
Now distant from the beams of balmy light,
Pac'd with a steady step the platform round,
And from the bottom as she caught the sound
Of labouring pickaxes, still ventur'd down
Three lengthsome ladders, ere, her wish to crown,

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She saw rich masses by the glimmering lamp
Whose sickly rays scarce pierc'd the somb'rous damp.
Half-cover'd by her huddling cloak, her face
Look'd like the sweet Madona's pictur'd grace:
The miners, strait respiring from their toil,
Grin on her beauteous form a ghastly smile,
And soften'd by the music of her voice
That gives each high-roof'd echo to rejoice,
The various mazes of the mine explain,
Huge rocks burst open by the nitrous grain—
Dire glooms, where ochrous waters slumber'd dank,
Now hissing to the chain's enormous clank
While the vast prowess of explosive steam
Whirls to the ethereal arch the foamy stream,
And where amidst the perilous abode
Gleams, in its long dun path, the lumpish lode.
Thus, whilst gay Laura trac'd the mineral shade,
A white-hair'd spaniel sudden joy betray'd;
Lick'd Emma's friendly feet, and jump'd around,
And with loud barking bade the vault resound,
Ran to a peasant half conceal'd from view,
Then back to shrinking Emma wildly flew.

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“Heigh, Emma!” (as he mark'd her downcast eyes,
Cried Allan) “what, a lover in disguise?
“Tho' woman may her bosom-feelings masque,
“A dog not seldom answers all we ask.”

Safe with her squire escap'd to genial air,
Hied to the smelting-house the valorous fair;
Where, as in wide extent the furnace glow'd,
Metallic masses, bright in fusion, flow'd;
And in the dye huge blocks lay cooling round,
Or to each stroke return'd a ringing sound,
Glitter'd, along the pavement, to the sun,
Or on the backs of mules far blazing shone.
Now as the steaks that kiss'd the steaming blocks,
Sputter'd and whizz'd, like Abyssinia's ox,
Old Geoffrey's savoury treat upon the tin
Her ladyship partook without a sin.

The gentry seem'd, all union, to agree
That such a scheme was only markt for glee,
But, striving to disperse their grief or spleen,
Discover'd the vain effort in chagrin;

185

And most, Sir Hawtrap; who, extremely grave,
Could scarcely Laura's penetration brave,
And e'en into a mousehole could have crept,
When, ‘for her sake, she begg'd he would accept
‘A specimen of Cornish metals, fine
‘And fresh, he might depend on't, from the mine.’
“As Laura seems to relish, well enough,”
(Cries Allan with a smile) “our Cornish stuff,
“Suppose, if morrow evening set serene,
“We show her ladyship the pilchard-seine?”

Mild was the morrow's eve; yet dense the shade
Of broken clouds, where pale the moonbeam play'd.
The party, all assembled at the beach,
Look'd down the bay, as far eye could reach,
To where the seiners, winding round the shore,
Whistled blithe songs, or plied the dashing oar.
Now, as more near their nets the sein-men drew,
Where redness speck'd the sea's extensive blue,
And shoals on shoals, along the watery way,
One vivid crimson, colour'd all the bay,

186

And silvery streams, where erst the surge was fir'd,
Flash'd o'er the boats and quiver'd and expir'd;
A thing that seem'd but trivial, discompos'd
The curious gazers, and their pleasure clos'd—
A trivial thing that slipp'd from Emma's hand
(Too careless maid) and glister'd on the sand;
Whilst conscious Allan started at the gleam,
And Juliet utter'd a distressful scream,
And trembled the whole groupe, they knew not why—
The purse of love—betray'd to every eye!
Yet Emma, flutter'd by a moment's fear,
Dismiss'd the fleeting tremour in a tear,
And on the ground her eye serenely cast,
Its lustre sparkling—for its cloud was past.

Allan! what apprehensions to thy heart
Could from the purse one casual glitter start!
How many a dormant thought, the wizard snare
That talisman of love, awaken'd there!—
Alas! so strange his first emotions rose
That scarce he deem'd (till reason, to compose

187

His spirit came) how stain'd with deepest dyes
From perfidy, he stood in Juliet's eyes;
Tho' Emma, to censorious tongues betray'd,
He mourn'd, and melted o'er the faultless maid!

END OF THE SEVENTH CANTO.

188

CANTO THE EIGHTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Disappearance of Emma and Herbert—Report that the former was pregnant, and that they had absconded together.— 2. Allan, canvassing the Scot and Lot Borough of Molfra—unsuccessful —Sir H. Hawtrap and Squintal elected Members for the Place.—3. Allan musing on the Cliffs near Andarton —and observing Sir H. Hawtrap and Juliet seemingly on the most familiar footing.

While now distrustful glances Allan cast
On those soft days in dissipation past,
Ponder'd o'er Herbert's spirit, Swellum's pomp,
And Laura, the light child of ease and romp,

189

And Juliet darken'd by a cloud of spleen,
And Emma's eye dejected tho' serene;
And yet, reflecting on each fleeted day,
Labour'd to steal a reconciling ray
From all his forc'd devoirs, to Laura paid
To please a dying parent's honour'd shade;
Sudden, ‘the curate, tho' a saint,’ he heard,
‘Had e'en with pregnant Emma disappear'd;’
And, catching now the slander as it flew
New edited, and much enlarg'd from Prue,
Was told, ‘that Herbert, better skill'd to lure
‘A girl into the toils than serve a cure,
‘Had play'd the pander to his pupil's lusts,
‘Tho' urg'd, perhaps, himself by carnal gusts;’
And found, at length, no two reports agree
To fix, whose right the byblow yet might be.

But in the neighbour town a rumour rose
To draw attention from his private woes—
A rumour strange, ‘that almost every vote
‘Pent up in populous Molfra, scot and lot,

190

‘Was brib'd, Halvenna's lineage to supplant’—
A race that, from its charter's ancient grant
Thro' ev'ry age hoar Molfra could attach
As by some magic, to its mud and thatch.

Meantime, a message from Halvenna came
That to the borough pointed Allan's aim;
Entreating, from Andarton's house, support,
And offering him a seat in civil sort.
And, lo, Halvenna's lord, to guardian Ned,
To feel the borough-pulse, young Allan led,
His views unfolded with becoming grace,
And caught confusion in the conscious face.
“My interest (cries recover'd Ned) is yours—
“That interest which, behold! at once restores
“Andarton to its pristine rank and rights,
“And closely with a kindred house unites.
“Nor need you canvass—Zounds! I've strength enough
“From ev'ry vote to ward pretenders off;
“Assur'd, whate'er their riches, power, or rank
“Against them all to carry it, point-blank.”

191

By Ned attended, to the townclerk next
As Allan bow'd, he mark'd an air perplext
That struggled between interest, spleen, and guile;
Tho' to Halvenna's lord was lent the smile
Which servile adulation, midst the rays
Of courtly favour, to a patron pays.

But waiting on the mayor, a supple clerk
They met, it seems, a most obsequious smirk,
Such flattering looks as scarcely credit ask,
Professions smooth and soft, that deem'd no task
Halvenna's favours to requite too hard,
And all the current gibberish of regard.
Yet, call'd to honours from a cobler's last,
What priest could ponder long on favours past?

The pair, now hailing whiffs from Cheshire cheese,
Their homage made, with more than wonted ease,
To an old townsman, who indeed deserv'd
Obeisance, from plain truth who never swerv'd,
Nor, tho' he spent his days amid the strife
Of venal votes, was brib'd thro' all his life—

192

Poor simple Wagstaff; who from punch still drew
O'er all his honest face the poppy's hue;
Who, tho' immerst in liquor every night,
Yet rose, recruited with the morning light;
Who, stout and vigorous at threescore, flung out
At every spring and fall, a healthful gout;
Still at his door, as erst, in flannel stood,
And leaning on his cane in merry mood,
There puff'd his pipe, nor flinch'd tho' sore attack'd,
But many a joke with wonted humour crack'd;
Laid hold of every gentleman he knew,
And squeez'd each hand to homebred friendship true;
Unskill'd to close the tale he quick began,
O'er the long history of the borough ran,
And, at his finger's ends each pedigree,
Trac'd from its sturdy root the branching tree;
And drew, as he devour'd the daily news,
The glance of envy to his gouty shoes.

“What!” (cry'd old Wagstaff, and his fingers snapp'd,
And jump'd about, his legs in flannel wrapt,)

193

“Zounds! zounderkins! I'm gladder than a bird!”
(When now the boy's pretensions Wagstaff heard)
“Why, half thy family for Molfra sat—
“Sir Roger, and Sir Oliver the Fat,
“And many a worthy of the Andarton-line—
“But, damme, do beware of dark design.
“Each day, my lad, I like the townclerk less:
“Damme, I see, in every look, finesse.
“The mayor too, Rehoboam's priest, by G*d!
“A greater rogue his vather never shod.”

Now for the election-poll the hall unclos'd,
And the high business of the day propos'd,
Paus'd the sly mayor; look'd round with face of brass,
And cried in tones that mock'd the braying ass:
“Tho' e'er my private feelings own'd, I trust,
“The kindness of the Halvennas, from the dust
“Who rais'd me; yet my sense of public good
“Against the Halvennas turns my mantling blood.
“In truth, their favours tho' we highly rate,
“Their favours but a crowd of slaves create.”

194

He spoke: and Squintal, with a stammering voice,
Sir Hawtrap introduc'd to Molfra's choice;
When Ned arose, that minion of intrigue,
And blushless nam'd old Squintal his colleague:
Strait grocers, butchers, tinmen, one and all,
With acclamations shook the vaulted hall.
Poor Wagstaff, in a litter thither borne,
With ruddier cheeks than autumn's mildest morn,
Soon of his fond delusion unbeguil'd,
Now swore, now wept, now blubber'd like a child.

Whilst pensive from the rocks his eyes he lifts,
In melancholy mood along the clifts
Where once his wild heroic rage he fed,
Young Allan rov'd, by other feelings led,
Thro' all the puzzled maze of treachery ran,
And, pausing, trembled at the guilt of man.
Calm o'er Andarton shone the closing day,
And the beach-pebbles glanc'd a sparkling ray;
And gentle zephyrs, midst the glow of eve,
Dipp'd their smooth pinions in the purpled wave,

195

Where the green woods, in vivid tints array'd
O'er the clear waters wreath'd their silent shade;
When, sudden, starting at the mellow sound
Of many a mingled note, he look'd around,
And saw, distended with her aweful charge,
Swell into pomp the corporation-barge,
And, her gay colours as she stream'd in air,
Announce the mighty presence of the—mayor!
Thus Argo, freighted with the golden sleece,
Wav'd her bright ensigns o'er the sons of Greece.

Slow mov'd the barge—to notes so loud, yet clear,
That all the stream-tin imps peep'd up to hear,
Whilst on each head green oysters op'd their jaws,
And to the crazy fiddlers gap'd applause.
Slow mov'd the barge; while some, opprest with sleep,
Nodded, the Palinuri of the ship;
While some, triumphant, of their freedom talk'd,
Or starting from the board in anger stalk'd,
Where flying glasses bitter strife bespoke,
And ere the joke was crack'd, the bottles broke;

196

Tho', as each challenge in oblivion sunk,
Soft were the tears that sooth'd the crying-drunk.

Fixt like a statue on the clift's pale brow,
As Allan view'd the gaudy barge below,
He saw a groupe of females pace the deck,
And mark'd Sir Hawtrap's arm round Juliet's neck;
And, as the pair in dalliance seem'd to sport,
Half credited, at length, a strange report,
‘That Hawtrap, by the borough-projects led,
‘The townclerk's daughter had engag'd to wed;
‘And honest Squintal, on these terms alone,
‘For the good Nabob had the borough won.’
“Alas!” (cried Allan) “such are Hawtrap's sighs—
“Such his fond languishing at Laura's eyes!”
Nor had he ceas'd, when soft on air portray'd,
In transient vision smil'd a heavenly maid;
And, ere she vanish'd into ether cold,
Beam'd azure light, and wav'd her locks of gold!

END OF THE EIGHTH CANTO.

197

CANTO THE NINTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. The Genius of Trevalso presiding over Juliet's Garden— Description of it.—2. Since Juliet's disingenuous Behaviour, the Seat of the Feri usurped by Gnomes—The Beauties of her Garden faded and gone.—3. The evil Influence of the Gnome on the Mind of Juliet, in favour of the Nabob.

Long had the Genius of Trevalso-dale,
O'er its green meadows bade his Feri sail,
Fling from its birchen shadows purple gleams,
And from tall poplars sigh o'er silver streams—

198

Long had he call'd, to please the mournful maid,
To Juliet's garden-bloom, their favourite aid.

Soft sloping from the hill above, (where stood
The stuccoed mansion, erst embower'd in wood)
The garden, still to soothe its Juliet's soul,
Down a scoop'd dale its gradual beauty stole,
And round an oval lake, to many a view
Fair-opening, a romantic wildness threw;
As a dark nunnery stretch'd its ivy deep
Beside the wave with reverential sweep,
And, lock'd in hoary slumber, seem'd to rest
Its croslet on the water's crystal breast.

O'er the smooth slope an easy pathway stray'd,
Where arching myrtles wove their fragant shade;
While prattled, from its pebbles, as in talk,
A social streamlet with the shadowy walk;
Till, at the nunnery-window's arbour-seat,
The pathway melted in the dim retreat;
And, as a plaintive leave it seem'd to take,
The stream, in pearly lapses, kiss'd the lake.

199

There oft the Feri, fond their limbs to lave,
Would catch a sparkle from the quivering wave;
And, if no imp annoy'd the spotless scene,
Glance its pure lustre thro' the myrtle screen.
There would they oft, along the moss-cool banks,
Thro' dripping alders glide in silvery ranks;
Or shoot across the expanse each little car
That glow'd or glitter'd like a falling star,
Or skim the violet beds with printless feet,
Hang o'er each cup, and drink the floral sweet;
Sleek their moist tresses, or with lilies braid,
And dance amid the virgin's arbour-shade.

'Twas o'er that arbour oft their airy march
They led, and, lighting on a slender larch
Which wav'd the window's broken shafts between,
Drew from its opening buds a clearer green;
Bade o'er the rootwove seat the filbert glow,
And the rich muskrose dart its blush below.
There, for their Juliet, would the Feri shower
Brown nuts in clusters, at the matin-hour;

200

Heighten, for her, the mulberry's purple hue,
And with nectareous sweets the grape imbue.

Ah now, for gentle Fayes, the sullen Gnomes
Scowl o'er Trevalso, thro' pestiferous glooms
Where beechen shades emit a lucid gleam,
And panting herds approach the poison'd stream.
Lo, “swarthy Fairies of the mine,” they chase
From the sweet garden all its charming grace,
Down the slope kindle their phosphoric wheels,
Or plough the foaming lake with rapid keels;
And give the path to cast a sickly glare
From hot pyritic fragments scatter'd there,
While roses all their sickly sweets effuse,
And lilies drink no more refreshing dews.

And whence this wonderous change? Alas! we find
Each source of evil in the subtle mind;
Alas! if Juliet were ingenuous still,
Her guileless soul would bar each cause of ill.
Tho' mildew might the meadowy verdure check,
Her garden were secure from every speck.

201

Whilst Juliet, by contending passions tost,
Her triumphs o'er the Nabob lov'd to boast,
Or mourn'd her first affection sorely crost,
A dark Gnome, weaving his insidious plan,
The fickle maid determin'd to trepan.

Amid Treglastan-vale, a pansey grew
No longer boasting its purpureal hue,
Tho' kindred to the little western flower
Hit by love's archery in a magic hour,
That o'er the streamlet rear'd its snowy head,
Ere fainting from the wound it droop'd and bled.
The pansey, nurs'd by many a tingrain sluice,
The demon pluck'd, and mix'd its yellow juice
With mineral banes, and sought the unquiet maid
Who to her bosom woo'd the vesper-shade.

Ah! trembling while amidst the dusky sprays
Enchanted Cynthia pour'd malignant rays,
Where were ye, Feri? Where, the sweet emprize
To fan the livid beams from Juliet's eyes?

202

Where, gentle ministers, your wonted skill
To veil your Juliet from the impending ill?
Ah! thro' the lunar beams the demon flew,
And to his drug a direr venom drew;
Hung, viewless, o'er her; plied his wanton freaks,
And stain'd her lids with deleterious streaks.

END OF THE NINTH CANTO.

203

CANTO THE TENTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Visits of Sir Hawtrap to Juliet—Her Affectation and Caprice.—2. From the Operation of the Charm, Juliet receiving the Nabob with all the Transports of Love—Assenting to his Proposal of Marriage on a certain Day.—3. The Day arrived—The Celebration of the Nuptials interrupted by a female Stranger—who asserts that Sir Hawtrap had married her in India, and claims him for her Husband.

Tho' often, from on high, the sun had seen
Sir Hawtrap usher'd at Trevalso-green,
To breathe his noonday sighs (not love, it seems,
Could from the pillow chase his morning dreams),

204

Yet, with no rapture such as wildly whirls
Thro' regions of romance enamour'd girls,
Nor with those smiles, by fashion half represt,
Her suitor's fruitless vows had Juliet bless'd.

For him, 'tis true, that vanity which moves
The female bosom, spite of all the loves,
Its cold torpedo touches would impart
To numb the ingenuous feelings of her heart.
Oft as his steed, curvetting at each check,
Beat its quick hoof, and bent its fine-arch'd neck,
And, proudly prancing, up the pavement dash'd,
Or his high car the gilded glory flash'd;
For him would affectation half unclose
Her pretty mouth, to shew the pearly rows;
Her dimples deepen; turn her head awry,
And with an amorous ogle roll her eye.
But from that eye would tears unbidden break,
And tremble on the blush that dy'd her cheek.

Now at the window with disorder'd look
Was Juliet bending o'er a prurient book;

205

Whence, with a wild impatience oft she hung,
And on the road a glance of anger flung,
Started at every step, at every gale,
Flusht with desire, with expectation pale,
And from her eyes bade fitful drops deplore
Sir Hawtrap's absence never felt before;
When (borne beyond herself in passion's storm)
She hail'd the graces of his polisht form,
Return'd each thrilling ardour as he press'd,
And sent lascivious poison to his breast.

But 'twas a sting of transport pierc'd the fair,
The fruit of vanity, caprice, despair.
Nor his fond suit, to fix the bridal hour,
(Urg'd from his lips before, with feeble power)
She scorn'd, but fear'd, alas! some luckless star
Might rise with hymeneal bliss at war.

Yet at the shrine, while fast the fever'd blood
Now ebb'd, now flow'd, in terror Juliet stood.

206

The priest began: and, eyeing oft the bride,
The wedding noose the priest had well-nigh tied,
And Hawtrap, ‘With this ring I Juliet wed,’
And, ‘with my body I thee worship,’ said—
When, as wheels rattling at the church-stile stopp'd,
A stranger lady from the carriage dropp'd,
And, rushing up the aisle, her sable veil
Flung off—Sir Hawtrap's lips were deadly pale—
And, “Take, (with a deep voice the female cried)
“Take, take, my Lord, your true, your only bride!
“What tho' my cheeks imbib'd an olive's stain,
“Heaven heard our mutual vows on India's plain.
“But if, my Lord, you spurn me from your arms,
“Regard (she op'd her cloak) these infant charms—
“This pledge of love”—Her tale still prompt to tell,
She faulter'd; on the floor as Juliet fell,
With loud convulsive laughter fill'd the fane,
And from love's altar scar'd the festal train.

END OF THE TENTH CANTO.

207

CANTO THE ELEVENTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. The Flight of the Nabob.—2. Allan revisiting the Beech and the Fountain sacred to the Sports of his Childhood with Juliet and Henry, and his other School-companions—His Wish that Juliet, now deceiving and deceived, could regain her early Simplicity—A Spirit directing him to the Gardens of Trevalso; there to witness, if he please, the Recovery of her first fine Feelings.—3. The Disenchantment of Juliet.

Forsaken, to the solitary gale
While now Treglastan bade its portals wail,
His tenants triumph'd in Sir Hawtrap's flight,
And publish'd his disgrace with new delight;

208

Where superstition shed its ghastly glare
Saw demons scourge him thro' the fields of air;
Or, midst the gloom of yawning mines, survey'd
His body sinking in sulphureous shade.

And Juliet, like a troubled stream, review'd
The scene, bewilder'd from a hideous brood
Of phantoms shrunk, and sore opprest by shame,
Dropp'd from her tongue her truelove's treasur'd name!

Now from an evening-picture Allan sought
The balm that soothes to rest disorder'd thought;
Greeting, as still its beech it murmur'd by,
The small clear brook, that pleas'd his infant eye.
“Sweet fount (he cried) to superstitious fear
“Tho' sacred, more to boyish fancy dear;
“Thou, who so many a merry prank hast seen,
“Still sparkling from thy moss of vivid green;
“Where oft, at eve, as frolic imps we play'd,
“The glowworm twinkled thro' the quivering shade;
“Where, to thy tinklings (then without a sigh)
“Listening we paus'd, or laugh'd we knew not why.

209

“Juliet! unconscious of disaster near
“Our first fond friendship was enkindled here;
“When, as we tripp'd around in thoughtless play,
“Some little Edward hail'd his holiday—
“Some Henry, to unite, perhaps, with ours,
“His brisker fancies, his alerter powers;
“Perchance, to bid my weetless bosom smart,
“If jealousy can touch so young a heart.
“Yes! I remember well, one vernal day,
“Blithe Juliet had enclos'd, in balls of clay,
“Harry my favourite comrade's name, and mine,
“('Twas on the gamesome eve of Valentine)
“And dropp'd the balls in this perennial fount;
“When to the surface as they 'gan to mount,
“To torture my poor breast with jealous throes,
“Alas! 'twas Henry's name that first arose.
“'Twas then impatient Juliet seiz'd her prize,
“And laugh'd in freakish mood at Allan's sighs!
“O could she taste (the prayer, alas! how vain)
“The feelings of that precious hour again!”
He spoke: and, sudden, thro' the charmed air
Soft whisperings came, responsive to his prayer,

210

And, in light slumber as entranc'd he lay,
Breath'd clearer yet, and dulcet died away;
And thro' the leaves above, of elfin mould,
A wavy wing, half-viewless, gleam'd with gold.
“Go,” said the Spirit (or it seem'd to say),
“Go, seek Trevalso, on that dawn of day
“When yonder planet shall, a morning-star,
“Meet a slant sunbeam from the radiant car.
“There hide thee in the nunnery-towers, that shake
“Their ivy curtain o'er the stilly lake:
“And, if thou wish, amidst her filbert shade,
“To trace, unseen, the disenchanted maid,
“Once more shall Allan witness, unreprest,
“The first fine feelings of her artless breast.”

The Sprite yet hover'd, till, across the cave
The beechen foliage darkening, wave on wave,
Shut every twilight glimmer from the brook;
When the pure water from its bowl he took,
In a moss-rose leaf stor'd the healing drops,
And pass'd in triumph from the dusky copse.

211

Soft at her window where young Zephyr's wings
Fann'd into lulling sound the Æolian strings,
And now to Juliet's ear with vain essay
Bade the note swell, or trembling sink away,
Light Ariel paus'd; and ey'd the lovely maid
Low on her couch by flushing fever laid;
Then near her, with a balmy pinion flew,
And sprinkled on her burning lids the dew.

Nor sooner disappear'd the guardian Sprite
Than Juliet, waken'd to new life and light,
On her pale eyelids own'd the ambrosial sweet
Cool as the dream when night and morning meet;
Felt o'er her firmer breast a genial glow,
And down her limbs a rosy freshness flow;
Nor, to herself recover'd, sunk again
Amid delirious trances of the brain,
But hail'd the calm reflection only giv'n
To erring spirits reconcil'd to Heaven.

END OF THE ELEVENTH CANTO.

212

CANTO THE TWELFTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Allan repairing to Trevalso Gardens, according to the Direction of the Spirit—There concealed in the Nunnery-tower.— 2. The approach of Juliet.—3. Juliet meets Henry, and drops into his Arms.

Long, ere the breaking morn, the hero sped
By unseen Feri to the nunnery led,
And climb'd the winding solitary tower;
Intent, as Juliet hail'd her favourite bower,
The virgin's early pathway to descry,
And meet the favour of her love-fraught eye.

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Now the deep cloud, scarce touch'd by dawning day,
Drew o'er its dusky shade a gradual grey.
So still the landskape, that, in lapses clear,
The sylvan brooks yet seem'd to murmur near;
Tho' less and less was heard, amid the gleam
Of the dun woods, each slow-receding stream;
Whilst the young hare, that cropp'd the blade, with fear
Listening to other sounds, prick'd up her ear;
And the light stoat the paly terrace cross'd,
And pierc'd the quickset, in a moment lost.

Yet, cherishing no mental joy serene,
Poor Allan heeded not the tranquil scene.
Now here, now there by various feelings borne,
By doubts distrest, by apprehension torn,
Lest he should slight what seem'd his earliest love,
He follow'd the strange impulse from above.

Meantime, the Power who skims the kindling height,
Tho' his troops fly the silvery paths of light,

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Ariel, in expectation hovering near,
As now he saw the dawn with pencil clear
The skirtings of the dense night-shadow streak,
But lingering reach not the reposing lake;
Yet, playful there, the star of eve survey'd
With pearly lustre softening all the glade;
And now, scarce glimmering on the scene below,
O'er the flusht ether view'd a crimson glow;—
Ariel, to meet the first red solar ray,
Impatient, flutter'd up the empyreal way,
And strove to freshen in the dews of air
The faded brightness of the morning star;
Till now he hail'd the virgin full in view,
Stole a quick beam from either orb, and threw
The mingled radiance from his rosy plume,
Soft on her lovely lids, her chasten'd bloom!

O'er all the unfolding prospect, from on high,
Had anxious Allan strain'd his aching eye;
And, when at length he view'd the approaching maid,
To quit the turret's sullen gloom essay'd;

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But hung, from tremour or some magic power,
In mute suspence, amidst the murky tower;
Till, lovelier in a brightening blush of charms,
He saw her, sudden, meet a stranger's arms,
Sink on his bosom in a burst of sighs,
And new delirium catch from—Henry's eyes!

END OF THE TWELFTH CANTO.

216

CANTO THE THIRTEENTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Juliet's Conduct, the Subject of Allan's Reflections—His Determination to recommence his Journey to Landor-abbey. —2. The Conspiracy of the Fiends against Allan—Misled by their Machinations, he wanders away towards the North-coast —Finds himself near an old Castle—Explores its Ruins— Seizing a Sabre, dissolves the Spell—Recovers the right Road to the Tamar—Arrives at Landor-abbey—Is welcomed there by Laura, its Possessor, and almost overpowered by her Fascinations.—3. Retiring to his Chamber in great Perturbation, he is relieved by an “airy Portraiture” that seems to float spontaneously before his Eyes—the Picture of some lovely Maid—but, he is sure, neither Laura, nor Juliet.

True: 'twas the hapless Henry, whose disguise
His spaniel had betray'd to Allan's eyes;

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Who, tho' a world of waters roll'd between,
Still, where his early love endear'd the scene,
Had breath'd a sigh across the stormy sea,
And whisper'd to the cave, the beechen tree!

‘Yet (Allan cried) tho' long, in Fancy's wild,
‘Romantic passion hath her soul beguil'd,
‘Could Juliet cherish a clandestine flame,
‘And, with the hypocrite's illuding aim,
‘Profess her heart to other friendship true,
‘And so deceive her sire and Allan too?’

Thus while he spoke, he saw with fresh surprize,
Around the ring the magic posey rise,
And strait, resolv'd his journey to renew,
To Landor-abbey in idea flew.
But, as he strove before his mental eye
To picture Laura, and her charms descry,
In her the lady of the cloyster trace,
And from his memory other forms erase;
The obtrusive vision, still portray'd on air,
Glanc'd the blue eyes and wav'd the golden hair!

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Scarce could he pass his gateway's whistling pile,
Ere the dark fiend, instinct with many a wile,
Had o'er the sunbeam hot as Sirius, drawn
A lurid veil to sicken grove and lawn;
Stream'd the blue sulphur; roll'd, at every flash,
A rock from overhead, with horrid crash;
Across the suicide's new-buried corse,
Where three roads met, assail'd his staggering horse;
Pointed o'er lonely wastes his devious way,
And bidding mimic domes ascend to day
As if his quick enquiries to assist,
Chas'd from a glowing sky the murky mist.

Erelong the hero, by each envious elf
Misled, and now abandon'd to himself,
Pursued his dubious path where Nature frowns
From shaggy fens of sedge or heathy downs,
Or, where sharp craggs the wrathful flood repel,
Or midst the silence of the sunless dell,
Or round blue quarries wide with coppice hung,
Where to each hoof the slaty region rung;

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Till the hoarse murmur of the northern wave
Bade Allan's heart with strange presages heave,
And from the hoary deep arose to view
Huge fragments, far outstretcht, of sable hue,
That soon appear'd, where restless murmurs broke,
Linkt to the mainland by a chain of rock.
“O let me cross (he cried) this narrow neck,
“And trace on yon peninsula the wreck
“Of princely glory!” Scarce the hero said,
Ere down the clift on wings of wind he sped,
And clambering o'er a crag, on either side
While roll'd in shadow the cerulean tide,
Hail'd the vast ruin with an eager glow,
And, from the dizzy height, the waves below!
And (to its kindling posey as anew
His monitory ring attention drew)
Fill'd with a mystic fear, a mystic hope,
He wander'd round the necromantic slope;
Pierc'd in fond vision thro' the depth of time,
And on the sanguine rampires tower'd sublime.
Yet, vainly pacing, o'er the dangerous steep
He mark'd with prying eye the mighty keep;

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Search'd the drear dungeon, view'd each hollow pass,
And gaz'd on every mutilated mass;
And turn'd his hopeless eye to measure back
On the long ridge of rock his slippery track;
When, as in sudden darkness foam'd the flood,
The westering sun went down, a ball of blood.

Now, as he shudder'd on the rocky verge,
And shrunk aghast from every sounding surge,
Where, whirl'd on high, the wave its volume spread,
The broken curve descending on his head;
Down dropp'd a star, and blaz'd its orb away,
Where glimmer'd the stone-stairs in dark decay.
He saw; tore up a step, and, full display'd,
With wild emotion grasp'd a ponderous blade—
A giant sabre!—Strait, the tempest died;
And peaceful zephyr smooth'd the ripling tide!
Shone o'er the rocks the moon, reposing mild,
And all the ethereal vault serenely smil'd.

No more pursued by demons, to impede
His route, the hero press'd his generous steed;

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Till, pleas'd, he view'd a richer foliage flow
O'er clefts imbrowning Tamar's wave below,
And far above as starting thro' the gloom
Umbrageous, the white turrets of a dome.

Passing a bridge grotesque, whose arches gleam
For ages moss'd, athwart the wildwood stream,
He met the glitter of a gilded vane,
And caught it sparkling thro' the leafy plane;
Now hail'd the abbey-towers in broad display,
Now up the lawn approach'd the portals grey.

Soon as her ladyship the hero's mien
Survey'd, where chanc'd her eye to cross the green;
She threw her veil aside with breathless haste;
Loos'd her jet tresses wantoning down her waist;
Flung from her bosom half the gauzy shade,
To amorous airs its rosy light display'd;
There bade a picture set with brilliants rest,
To lure the lovesick languish to her breast;
As on her cheek she gave the blush to rise,
Arm'd with new lustre her voluptuous eyes;

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Down on a sofa sunk, and lolling there
With half-clos'd lids and soft lascivious air,
Her pearly fingers twinkled o'er tambour;
Listen'd, and every moment deem'd an hour;
Tho' now, his name announc'd, with formal pride
She strove to ice her look, but vainly tried,
And spite of art, betray'd some strange alarms,
Amidst the tumult of disorder'd charms.
Nor, o'er his courteous air, his manly bloom
As her eye wander'd, could she re-assume
Those lively turns, that playful humour sly,
Without the sweet intrusion of a sigh.

While, round her dressing-room, each prurient print
Convey'd to fancy the too luscious hint
From the soft sportings of the Ovidian nymph—
Her fine skin sparkling thro' the lucid lymph,
From breathless Daphne scorning Phoebus' love,
From Danae yielding to insidious Jove;
She bade, with mouth half-open'd as she lay,
Along the prints her careless glances stray;

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Then rose and seiz'd her harp, and touch'd the strings;
And music trembled in aërial rings;
Beam'd every limb, each graceful gesture glow'd;
And o'er her form ambrosial beauty flow'd.

Quick shifting from one pleasure to a new,
Young Allan to a different scene she drew,
Where Flora, midst the vegetable blaze,
To quaint caprice had rear'd the various maze;
And bidding him, beneath the inwoven shade
That on the path's obscure meander play'd,
O'ertake her if he could, strait glanc'd from sight,
But gave the dancing sprays to mark her flight.

Yet, tho', where'er she flew, the quivering leaves
Rustled as when the branches Auster heaves;
He threaded every sinuous path in vain,
To the same alley oft return'd again,
Her robes of snow detected as they gleam'd,
And seem'd to clasp her form but only seem'd;
Till, gliding thro' a gloomier oaken shade,
On a moss-seat he caught the panting maid.

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When now the hero to his room retir'd,
With many a loose imagination fir'd;
Desire's impatient throbbings to restrain,
“The vision” fleeted o'er his mind again.
“Mysterious Fate! If Laura claim my sighs,
“If Laura be the cloyster'd fair” (he cries)—
“Say, what this form of bright ethereal mould,
“That comes uncall'd, and waves her locks of gold;—
“The angelic shape, air-painted, yet so clear,
“Tho' unsolicited, to fancy dear?
“No Laura blushes in the timid maid;
“Nor Laura's eyelash boasts so sweet a shade!
“Alas! so lovely whilst she swims on air,
“Nor Juliet's image hath attractions there!”

END OF THE THIRTEENTH CANTO.

225

CANTO THE FOURTEENTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Allan entering the Abbey-chapel, meeting there an old Woman employed in sweeping the Pews—The old Woman relates to Allan the History of the House of Landor—Describes the late Lord—his Mistress—The Fruit of his illicit Amour, Laura—His Marriage to the Mother of Laura—his Death—The Death of his Lady in Childbed—Her Infant, supposed to be still-born, given in charge to the old Woman by Laura's Aunt—Alice the Aunt prevails with the old Woman by a Bribe to nurse the Infant and suppress the Circumstance of its Recovery to Life—The Infant taken from its Nurse.—2. A Figure very similar to the Picture on Allan's Fancy, gliding through the distant Aisle.—3. Lady Laura, in pursuit of Allan, finds him in the Chapel.

Pensive amidst the grove had Allan stray'd,
Where, frowning thro' a mass of ashen shade,

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Rose, with long cloysters lin'd, a dusky pile;
When strait he cross'd a wall-flower-mantled stile,
Approach'd the unclosing door that mix'd a moan
With every gale, and hail'd a bending crone
Who now with sudden agitation swept
The pews, now pausing from her labour wept.

Struck by the marble monuments sublime,
Here green, there tawny from the touch of time.
Struck by the rich illuminations wide
And pillars by their dim reflection dyed;
Struck by the pond'rous armour that aloof
Thro' cobwebs glimmer'd from the rafter'd roof,
He question'd much the dame, who rais'd her eyes
In mystic silence broken oft by sighs;
Who, yielding to the youth's entreaties, told
Romantic stories of the days of old;
The history of the house of Landor trac'd
From recent stones to tablets half-effac'd;
And, in the trophies from the roof-work, read
Memorials of the venerable dead.

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“There,” (says the crone) “so runs the historic tale—
“To the first earl belong'd that rifted mail;
“The mail which, furious in the fight, he wore
“When in his fortress, red with vital gore,
“To his two sons he gave”—with instant scream
She shudder'd as amidst a frightful dream,
And cried—“that ring”—with wild emotion clasp'd
Her hands, and tottering as in terror grasp'd
The pew.—“Full often have I seen,” (she cries)
“Where in yon oratory yet it lies,
“A kindred ring. There many a lagging year
“I liv'd, and dropp'd the solitary tear;
“Till a dark deed, to blot the fairest fame,
“I witness'd, and alas! partook the shame.
“Long, long—compell'd to fly this cloyster'd gloom—
“I pin'd, and languish'd for my native home;
“But more, far more I panted to disclose
“The dreadful mystery of unutter'd woes.—
“O! if I read aright, to thee belong
“The qualities that claim a trusting tongue.
“A stranger to the hospitable board,
“My late poor master was a travel'd lord.

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“Oft, with my lady, ere the marriage-rite
“Confirm'd their loves, he revel'd thro' the night;
“Nor, till the fruit of lawless love was born,
“A bouncing lass, was fix'd the bridal morn.
“Scarce had nine moons the nuptial day o'erpass'd,
“Ere from debauch his lordship breath'd his last;
“When quickly in the straw my lady died;
“And her poor babe” (the dame exclaim'd and sigh'd)
“With doubtful symptoms of the vital breath
“Thro' me was order'd to the house of death:
“Tho' the base aunt (who what she fear'd believ'd)
“A sign of life with anxious eye perceiv'd,
“And led me to my cot, some deep resolve
“In agony long seeming to revolve;
“Yet, not for murder ripe, if vital air
“It breath'd, consign'd the infant to my care;
“And seal'd, the secret never to unfold,
“These lips, alas! these guilty lips with gold;
“Dispatch'd me to a place obscure and lone,
“And bade me nurse the orphan as my own.
“Still, troubled by her sense of guilt, she paid
“The frequent visit to our quiet shade,

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“And seem'd to catch, amidst the gloom of guile,
“Some comfort from the babe's unconscious smile.
“Thus fleeted a few years; when (dark the day!)
“My little prattler, sudden snatcht away,
“Left me, once more, alas! to silence brib'd,
“To mourn the assassin's stain afresh imbib'd.
“But, if repentance can erase the dyes,
“Hither, at length, I ventur'd in disguise,
“The whole important secret to reveal,
“Should kind occasion but my lips unseal.
“And Heaven, indulgent Heaven my prayers hath heard—
“For not a moon had vanish'd, ere appear'd”—

Faint on her tongue the faultering accents died;
As sudden thro' the dim aisle seem'd to glide
A female, vestur'd in the purest white;
Her fleeting figure gossamery-light;
And Allan in surprize her angel-air
Survey'd, and trembled at her golden hair!

In wonder mute as Allan gaz'd (the maid
Retiring to the chapel's inmost shade)

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To Lady Laura, breathless in pursuit,
Exclaim'd—“Say, whither ran the graceless brute?”
And, resting on a tombstone, flapp'd her fan,
And winc'd about and cried: “Thou slippery man!”—
When a pale statue seem'd to roll its eye,
And breathe along the aisle a deepening sigh;
And, from the corslet, clanking overhead,
A radiance, like a passing spectre, fled.

END OF THE FOURTEENTH CANTO.

231

CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.

ARGUMENT.

1. Miss Prue, Jenny Jerkairs, and Alice, assembled at Andarton—Surprized by the sudden Appearance of Allan and his Bride, and Herbert and the old Nurse of the Abbey. —2. Allan, introducing Emma to the astonished and disconcerted Females as his Wife, and the Heiress of Landor.— 3. The Genius of Andarton addressing Allan, foretelling the Prosperity of his House.

Loud thro' Andarton's hall re-echoed mirth,
Such as to hollow pleasure owes its birth;
While now the conscious couple strove to kill
The creeper Time, anticipating ill.

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There Alice, who had join'd the plotting pair,
Their feverish dissipation prompt to share,
At Allan's boyish whims appear'd to flout,
In wonder at his odd Quixotic route;
And bore in each surmize an active part—
Whilst inbred terror quiver'd at her heart.

Tho', as obstreperous laughter follow'd wit,
Conjecture triumph'd in the lucky hit;
Yet apprehension seem'd to wrap the room,
At many a silent pause, in murky gloom;
Till Jerkairs thro' the cloud, like lightning broke,
And thus address'd her tabbies half-in joke:
“Ah! my poor pets! ah! whither shall we go—
“Where shun the vengeance of the menac'd blow;—
“Ye dear companions of my earliest age
“Who my sick mind from sorrow disengage;
“Whether you purr, applausive of my wit,
“Or strike your feet in ire, or hiss and spit,
“Wash your prim cheeks, as brooding tempests move,
“Or, vagrants of the night, make cruel love;

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“Or flash your glaring eyeballs in the dark,
“Or from your back emit the electric spark!
“But, thee my bosom-sighs, Grimalkin! hail—
“(Why wag, my Tabby, that indignant tail?)
“Thee, with thy springset claws in velvet sheath'd,
“And coat so sleek and whiskers finely wreath'd!
“Whom oft with silver whitings have I fed,
“Then bore thee to thy sweet Valerian bed.”—
Thus o'er their wanton tricks and dark amours
Glib as she ran; at once the unfolding doors
Disclos'd, in wondrous picture, to the view
A groupe, divine as Raffael ever drew—
The heroic Allan and his Abbey-bride!—
(Sunk into silence every murmur died—)
And Herbert and the Nurse!—without a sound
Each tongue, suspense terrific trembled round.

Yet, as with searching looks the demon pair
Stray'd o'er the beauties of the blushing fair,
View'd her bright form that mock'd the roseate hours,
And ey'd her golden tresses twin'd with flowers;

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Lo, by a sudden gust of joy o'erborne,
They recogniz'd the peasant bride with scorn,
And by a beam of bastard pity, mix'd
With malice (as it were) the youth transfix'd.

But, struck by a keen shaft from conscience pale,
Old Geoffrey's wife her sins essay'd to veil
In a broad stare; then, starting from the crone,
And starting from the bride, look'd woe-begone.

“Hear” (as they shook with sympathetic fears)
He cried—“a tale to tingle in your ears!
“Well, Alice! may thy nerves with horror start
“To front this witness to thy treacherous heart!—
“Thou, who, the blackest schemes inur'd to brood
“The base goatsucker of thy brother's blood,
“Couldst a poor babe yet breathing vital breath
“Eject, and in thy breast consign to death—
“Couldst spurn, with beggar-girls condemn'd to roam,
“This rightful owner of the abbey-dome—
“Couldst Laura foster with perfidious smiles,
“ To snare her virtue ply thy secret wiles,

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“And with malignant hope the moment wait
“To cast the spurious offspring from thy gate,
“Then at the abbey grasp, thy guilty claim,
“To elevate with heiress—Juliet's name—
“In Emma see thy niece! In Emma own
“That heiress!—tho' thy crime can aught atone?
“Lo every scheme recoiling on thy head—
“'Twas by thy artifice that Emma fled!
“Nor, fell detractors! had the wandering-fair
“By slander pierc'd, abandon'd to despair—
“Nor had she, reaching her paternal home,
“Her nurse discover'd in the cloyster-gloom;
“Had not the banisht Herbert, to reclaim
“His broken fortune and his injur'd fame,
“Her route by chance pursued, and where she stray'd,
“With friendly succour cheer'd the drooping maid.”

Torn by the fangs of rancour, shame, remorse,
Now poppy-flusht, now pallid as the corse,
The females from his aweful presence fled;
Not as the roebuck seeks the sheltering glade,

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But, as the tigress from the hunter flies,
Still flashing vengeance from her sanguine eyes.

'Twas at the vernal prime, when zephyrs meet
With feeble wing the winter's arrowy sleet,
Light o'er the unclosing leaf, the purpled spray
A moment tremble, and a moment play,
And, raindrops tinkling thro' the sylvan calm,
Dart the quick blush, and breathe the fleeting balm.

To Allan's eye yet full the foliage flow'd;
Along the lawn a green luxuriance glow'd;
While airs favonian over carmine blooms
Shook the rich nectar from their streaming plumes.

With transitory murmurs tho' the blast
Thro' the hush'd air a chilling shadow cast,
Where the cold lilacs shew'd the uncertain scene,
And the first spring-flowers shivering peep'd between;
To Allan smil'd the ethereal arch more blue,
And each soft shrub was cloath'd in amber dew;

237

The primrose glow'd in golden radiance bright,
And snowdrops dipp'd their bells in ruby light.

With cool and fragrant fingers, Twilight pale
Drew o'er the extensive lawn her gradual veil,
While Allan, in the long still gallery stole
A calm delicious to the flutter'd soul;
A sweet repose elysian to allay
The intenser feelings of too blest a day—
And, as he caught from pictur'd eyes the glance,
Met the rais'd truncheon, or the kindling lance,
And saw the glistening of a golden ray
Soft o'er the portrait of the castle stray;
From a kind power he heard, or seem'd to hear
These grateful accents whisper'd in his ear:
“Ere yet thy soul dissolve in amorous fires,
“Attend, fair offspring of time-honour'd sires!
“Long with fond care thy conflicts have I view'd,
“Where rude plebeians scoff'd at generous blood.
“Oft have I bade thee, like a cuirass, brace
“Thy virtue, to contend with Pleasure's race,

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“And to the luxuries that around thee clos'd,
“The sterner manners of thy house oppos'd!
“'Twas I that urg'd, to wake thy slumbering flame
“Chivalric, down the glen the falcon's aim!
“'Twas I, that, as thy dubious steps advanc'd,
“O'er the grey fane a sudden sunbeam lanc'd.
“'Twas I, while demons urg'd their circling flight,
“That brought the fleeting posey to thy sight.
“'Twas I that suffer'd necromantic forms
“To try thy powers in fogs, and fires, and storms;
“When the dark fiends, still aiding all I schem'd,
“Misled thy footsteps as they vainly deem'd,
“Hurl'd o'er thy head the surge with fearful shock,
“And barr'd thine egress from the haunted rock.
“And, lo! thy virtues, nerv'd amidst the fight
“With double strength, and drest in lovelier light,
“Tho' oft the lurking demon dealt the blow,
“Have triumph'd over each insidious foe
“Thus thine own oak, to earth by tempests bow'd,
“Elastic springs, nor heeds the threatening cloud—
“Thus, tho' awhile by rushing rains deprest,
“Lifts to the expanding skies a greener crest.

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“Lo, while thy neighbours, lur'd by Fashion's glare,
“Scatter their patrimonial wealth in air,
“Then curse the suppleness that pleas'd the great,
“And hollow friendships mourn, unmask'd too late;
“Be thine to rear again, auspicious youth,
“And lighten with the smiles of cordial truth
“Andarton's stately fabric, as portray'd
“On yonder tablet, ere the model fade;
“Borne from the monkish walls that Tamar crown,
“There fix each holy relic of renown;
“Nor scorn the sabre's venerable grace
“That in thine armoury claims the central place.
“So, while the patriarch arms again shall meet
“Thine helmet erst to boyish pastime sweet,
“That abbey crumbling by the Tamar's side,
“And old Tintadgel's monumental pride
“Shall, each, the deep regard of ages claim,
“In ruin sacred to the Andarton-name.
“Go then, by wealth, but more by Emma blest,
“Go hail thy bride, caressing and carest!
“I mark'd the hour, when Pity's touch betray'd
“Thy heart unconscious to the cottage-maid!

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“I mark'd, tho' long thy bosom was deceiv'd,
“The first warm sighs thy infant passion heav'd!
“I mark'd thee first suspicious of her power,
“Asham'd and cursing that inglorious hour!
“I saw thee from thy vulgar fetters break,
“And visit Juliet, still for Emma's sake!
“I saw thee, lull'd in love's delicious dream,
“On Emma doat, tho' Juliet was the theme;
“And long I welcom'd Emma, thine alone,
“Thy sole possessor to thyself unknown!
“And, as thy fancy would, unask'd, compare
“The form, the virtues of the rival fair;
“'Twas I display'd, before thy partial eyes,
“Thy Emma, drest in more attractive dyes.
“To fan thy love for Emma to a blaze,
“I shew'd thee Juliet's light capricious ways.
“But, as thy candour saw her freakish youth
“Erring, yet still reclaim'd to love and truth,
“And tho' it waver'd oft, the needle view'd
“With all its inbred qualities endued;
“I shew'd the secret that possess'd her soul,
“The unvarying needle, and its proper pole.

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“Hail happy Pair! May wealth, by merit won,
“Grace your calm bowers, and glide from Sire to Son!
“And, whilst thy conduct meets applause,
“May Allan! stedfast in the glorious cause
“Of ancient faith, and eager to oppose
“The modish arts of innovating foes;—
“O may thy pattern of distinguish'd worth
“Restore to kind regard the claims of birth;
“Till Public Virtue from oblivion raise
“The hereditary fane of former days!”

END OF SECOND VOLUME.