Bequeathed to missions money from the stocks, And Bibles issued from his private box; pay; A stinted gift, that to the parish shows : To farmers three, the year has given a son, Finch on the Moor,and French,and Middleton. Twice in this year a female Giles I see, A Spalding once, and once a Barnaby :A humble man is he, and, when they meet, Our farmers find him on a distant seat; There for their wit he serves a constant theme, They praise his dairy, they extol his team, They ask the price of each unrivall'd steed, And whence his sheep, that admirable breed? His thriving arts they beg he would explain, And where he puts the money he must gain. They have their daughters, but they fear their friend Would think his sons too much would condescend; They have their sons who would their for tunes try, But fear his daughters will their suit deny. So runs the joke, while James, with sigh profound, And face of care, looks moveless on the ground, His cares, his sighs, provoke the insult more, And point the jest-for Barnaby is poor. Last in my list, five untaught lads appear; Their father dead, compassion sent them here, For still that rustic infidel denied And his, a nightly haunt, in Lonely-wood: That fools alone on future worlds rely, His own transcendent genius found the rest; And now his face explored, and now his feet, Man's dreaded foe, in this bad man, to meet: But him our drunkards as their champion raised, Their bishop call'd, and as their hero praised; Though most, when sober, and the rest, when sick, Had little question whence his bishoprick. But he, triumphant spirit! all things dared, He poach'd the wood, and on the warren snared; 'Twas his, at cards, each novice to trepan, And call the wants of rogues the rights of man; Wild as the winds, he let his offspring rove, And deem'd the marriage-bond the bane of love. What age and sickness, for a man so bold, Had done, we know not;-none beheld him old: By night, as business urged, he sought the wood, The ditch was deep,-the rain had caused a flood, The foot-bridge fail'd—he plunged beneath the deep, And slept, if truth were his, th' eternal sleep. These have we named; on life's rough sea they sail, With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale! Where passions soon, like powerful winds, will rage, And prudence, wearied, with their strength engage: Then each, in aid, shall some companion ask, For help or comfort in the tedious task; And what that help-what joys from union flow, What good or ill, we next prepare to show; And row, meantine, our weary bark ashore, As Spenser his-but not with Spenser's oar. PART II. MARRIAGES. Nubere si quà voles, quamvis properabitis ambo, Differ; habent parvæ commoda magna mora. DISPOSED to wed, e'en while you hasten, stay; There's great advantage in a small delay :- Delay shall knowledge yield on either part, prove, And gently raise the veil that's worn. by Love; The humours, passions, merits, failings | Thus, with example sad, our year began, Love, that impatient guide!-too proud to think Of vulgar wants, of clothing, meat and drink, Urges our amorous swains their joys to seize, And then, at rags and hunger frighten'd, flees: Yet not too long in cold debate remain; Till age refrain not-but if old, refrain. By no such rule would Gaffer Kirk be tried; First in the year he led a blooming bride, To take a wanton harlot by the hand! · Strove not to meet, or meeting, hung his head; And every lass forbore at thee to look, And fill with anguish that rebellious heart; But she for conquest married, nor will prove A dupe to thee, thine anger, or thy love; Clamorous her tongue will be;-of either sex, She'll gather friends around thee and perplex Thy doubtful soul;-thy money she will waste, In the vain ramblings of a vulgar taste; Ah! crafty vixen, thine old man has fears; Young wives, like changing winds, their They sometimes speed, but often thwart For this blithe Donald southward made his way, And left the lasses on the banks of Tay; Him to a neighbouring garden fortune sent, Whom we beheld, aspiringly content: Patient and mild he sought the dame to please, Who ruled the kitchen and who bore the keys. Fair Lucy first, the laundry's grace and pride, With smiles and gracious looks her fortune tried ; But all in vain she praised his pawky eyne, Where never fondness was for Lucy seen: Him the mild Susan, boast of dairies, loved, And found him civil, cautious, and unmoved: From many a fragrant simple, Catharine's skill Drew oil and essence from the boiling still; But nor her warmth, nor all her winning ways, From his cool phlegm could Donald's spi rit raise: Of beauty heedless, with the merry mute, And saw her mistress, friend, - protect- Next at our altar stood a luckless pair, Brought by strong passions and a warrant there; By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the bride. From ev'ry eye what all perceived to hide. While the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his расе, Now hid awhile and then exposed his face; As shame alternately with anger strove, The brain confused with muddy ale to move: In haste and stammering he perform'd his part, And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart; (So will each lover inly curse his fate, Too soon made happy and made wise too late:) I saw his features take a savage gloom, And deeply threaten for the days to come. Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the while, Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile; With soften'd speech and humbled tone she strove To stir the embers of departed love: While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before, Felt the poor purse and sought the public door, She sadly following in submission went, And saw the final shilling foully spent; Then to her father's hut the pair withdrew, And bade to love and comfort long adieu! Ah! fly temptation, youth, refrain! refrain! I preach for ever; but I preach in vain. Loud though in love, and confident though young; Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue; Yet now, would Phœbe her consent afford, consent. Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the green, (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seenDejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile; Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears. Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late, The lover loiter'd at the master's gate; There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay, Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas-Till chidden — soothed-entreated-forced Fair, there, When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see and happy to be seen: Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd; The lads around admired so fair a sight, And Phœbe felt, and felt she gave, delight. Admirers soon of every age she gain'd, Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd; Envy itself could no contempt display, They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; Bat yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, With secret joy she felt that beauty's power, When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast, away; He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, And oft retire and oft return again; crave, That she resented first and then forgave, And to his grief and penance yielded more Than his presumption had required before.— Ah fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain, Each yielding maid and each presuming swain! Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains ; Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain With looks less timid made his passion known, Frets the meek soul, and then she's" calm And pleased by manners most unlike her own; | again; Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground; Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes; For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, And placing first her infant on the floor, She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, And sobbing struggles with the rising fits: In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief, That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; With all the aid her poverty supplies; But who this child of weakness, want, and care? "Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas-Fair; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies: Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: And then his prayers! they would a savage move, And win the coldest of the sex to love :- Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. Then fly temptation, youth; resist, refrain! Nor let me preach for ever and in vain! Next came a well dress'd pair, who left their coach, And made, in long procession, slow approach: For this gay bride had many a female friend, And youths were there, this favour'd youth t' attend: Silent, nor wanting due respect, the crowd Stood humbly round, and gratulation bow'd ; But not that silent crowd, in wonder fix'd, Not numerous friends, who praise and envy mix'd, Nor nymphs attending near to swell the pride Of one more fair, the ever-smiling bride; Nor that gay bride, adorn'd with every grace, Nor love nor joy triumphant in her face, Could from the youth's sad signs of sorrow chase: Why didst thou grieve? wealth, pleasure, freedom thine ; Vex'd it thy soul, that freedom to resign? Spake Scandal truth? Thou didst not then intend So soon to bring thy wooing to an end? Or, was it, as our prating rustics say, To end as soon, but in a different way? "Tis told thy Phillis is a skilful dame, Who play'd uninjured with the dangerous flame: That, while, like Lovelace, thou thy coat display'd, And hid the snare for her affection laid, Thee, with her net, she found the means to catch, And at the amorous see-saw won the match: Yet others tell, the Captain fix'd thy doubt, He'd call three brother, or he'd call thee out: But rest the motive-all retreat too late, Joy like thy bride's should on thy brow have sate; The deed had then appear'd thine own intent, A glorious day, by gracious fortune sent, In each revolving year to be in triumph spent. Then in few weeks that cloudy brow had been Without a wonder or a whisper seen; How fair these names, how much unlike they look To all the blurr'd subscriptions in my book: The bridegroom's letters stand in row above, Tapering yet stout, like pine-trees in his grove; While free and fine the bride's appear below, As light and slender as her jasmines grow. Mark now in what confusion, stoop or stand, The crooked scrawls of many a clownish hand; Now out, now in, they droop, they fall, they rise, Like raw recruits drawn forth for exercise: Ere yet reform'd and modell'd by the drill The free-born legs stand striding as they will. Much have I tried to guide the fist along, But still the blunderers placed their blottings wrong: Behold these marks uncouth! how strange that men, Who guide the plough, should fail to guide the pen: For half a mile the furrows even lie; Resign'd the pen and grasp'd their conqu'r- By deeds of death, their hearts were fill'd with love. Bat yet, small arts have charms for female eyes; Our rustic nymphs the beau and scholar For Lucy Collins happier days had been, Had Footman Daniel scorn'd his native green; Or when he came an idle coxcomb down, Had he his love reserved for lass in town; To Stephen Hill she then had pledged her truth, A sturdy, sober, kind, unpolish'd youth; But from the day, that fatal day she spied The pride of Daniel, Daniel was her pride. In all concerns was Stephen just and true; But coarse his doublet was and patch'd in view, And felt his stockings were, and blacker A silver knot his breadth of shoulder bore; hand Join'd with these powers, he could so sweetly sing, Talk with such toss, and saunter with such swing; Laugh with such glee,and trifle with such art, That Lucy's promise fail'd to shield her heart. Stephen, meantime, to ease his amorous cares, Fix'd his full mind upon his farm's affairs; Two pigs, a cow, and wethers half a score, Increased his stock, and still he look'd for more. He, for his acres few, so duly paid, Who thriving well, through many a fruitful year, Now clothed himself anew, and acted Over seer. Just then poor Lucy, from her friend in town, Fled in pure fear, and came a beggar down; Trembling at Stephen's door she knock'd for bread, Was chidden first, next pitied, and then fed; Then sat at Stephen's board, then shared in Stephen's bed: All hope of marriage lost in her disgrace, He mourns a flame revived, and she a love of lace. Now to be wed a well-match'd couple Twice had old Lodge Tottering they came came; been tied, and twice the dame; and toying, (odious scene!) And fond and simple, as they'd always been. Children from wedlock we by laws restrain; Why not prevent them, when they're such again? Why not forbid the doting souls, to prove move, And fright the songsters with their cheerless love. So two sear trees, dry, stunted, and unsound, Each other catch, when dropping to the ground; Could pick-tooth-case and box for snuff Entwine their wither'd arms 'gainst wind command: and weather, And thus, with clouded cane, a fop complete, And shake their leafless heads and drop He stalk'd, the jest and glory of the street. together. |