And when there's such plain proof! I did but threaten her because she robb'd Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold? NATHANIEL. A horse-shoe,,Sir; 'tis good to keep off witchcraft And we're afraid of Margery. CURATE. What can you fear from her? FATHER. Poor old woman! What can we fear! Who lamed the Miller's boy? who raised the wind That blew my old barn's roof down? who d'ye think Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds? But let me catch her at that trick again, NATHANIEL. What makes her sit there moping by herself, With no soul near her but that great black cat? And do but look at her! CURATE. Poor wretch! half blind And crooked with her years, without a child What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad FATHER. I wish she was Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles She has plagued the parish long enough! round; FATHER. Many an old convent reverend in decay, I've had no reason to complain of fortune. CURATE. Complain? why, you are wealthy! All the parish Fleeced with that gray and wintry moss; the roof Look up to you. FATHER. Perhaps, Sir, I could tell Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. CURATE. You can afford a little to the poor; Part moulder'd in; the rest o'ergrown with weeds, moss; So Nature steals on all the works of man; I led thee here, And then, what's better still, you have the heart Charles, not without design; for this hath been To give from your abundance. FATHER. God forbid I should want charity! CURATE. Oh! 'tis a comfort To think at last of riches well employ'd! Farmer, I'm going And death will be a blessing. You might send her FATHER. My favourite walk even since I was a boy; That when I read in those dear books which first How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, Forsook his quest to learn the shepherd's lore, Led Pastorella home. There was not then So lavishly around the pillar'd porch Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, I could not choose but pass with slacken'd speed A widow here To some carnation whose o'erheavy head AY, Charles! I knew that this would fix thine And innocence could make her. eye; This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch. Charles, it seems As though I were a boy again, and all And then her cheek! it was a red and white When I have heard some erring infidel One summer Charles, when at the holydays Return'd from school, I visited again My old, accustom'd walks, and found in them A joy almost like meeting an old friend, I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds Already crowding the neglected flowers. Joanna, by a villain's wiles seduced, Had play'd the wanton, and that blow had reach'd Her grandam's heart. She did not suffer long; Her age was feeble, and this mortal grief Brought her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes, And think of other days. It wakes in me A transient sadness; but the feelings, Charles, Which ever with these recollections rise, I trust in God they will not pass away. Westbury, 1799. VII. THE LAST OF THE FAMILY. JAMES. WHAT, Gregory, you are come, I see, to join us On this sad business. GREGORY. Ay, James, I am come, But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man! Where shall we meet the corpse? JAMES. Some hour from hence, By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. This is not as it should be, Gregory, Old men to follow young ones to the grave GREGORY. Well, well! my friend, 'Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, One born so well, who might have blest us all Many long years! JAMES. And then the family Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land Poor young man! I loved hin. To hear the bells so merrily announce GREGORY. Every body loved him; Such a fine, generoas, open-hearted Youth! When he came home from school at holydays, How I rejoiced to see him! He was sure To come and ask of me what birds there were About my fields; and when I found a covey, There's not a testy Squire preserves his game More charily, than I have kept them safe For Master Edward. And he look'd so well Upon a fine, sharp morning after them, His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd With such a wholesome ruddiness,-ah, James, But he was sadly changed when he came down To keep his birth-day. JAMES. Changed! why, Gregory, And when he came to shake me by the hand, GREGORY. It struck a damp On all our merriment. 'Twas a noble Ox That smoked before us, and the old October Went merrily in overflowing cans; But 'twas a skin-deep merriment. My heart Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank His health, the thought came over me what cause We had for wishing that, and spoilt the draught. Poor Gentleman! to think, ten months ago He came of age, and now!— JAMES. I fear'd it then! He look'd to me as one that was not long For this world's business. GREGORY. When the Doctor sent him Abroad to try the air, it made me certain That all was over. There's but little hope, Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man When his own mother country will not do. The last time he came down, these bells rung so, I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down; And now that dismal toll! I would have staid Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty: I am an old tenant of the family, A shrew, or else untidy ;-one to welcome Born on the estate; and now that I've outlived it. Her husband with a rude, unruly tongue, Why, 'tis but right to see it to the grave. Have you heard aught of the new Squire ? JAMES. But little, And that not well. But be he what he may, GREGORY. 'Tis, I think, some horsemen. Ay! there are the black cloaks; and now I see The white plumes on the hearse. Or drive him from a foul and wretched home To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so? WOMAN. She's notable enough; and as for temper, house, WOMAN. TRAVELLER. A wretched beast! Hard labour and worse usage he endures WOMAN. In truth it is not, Sir! For when the horse lies down at night, no cares TRAVELLER. But both can work; and sure as cheerfully TRAVELLER. And what if they are poor? Riches can't always purchase happiness; And much we know will be expected there Where much is given. WOMAN. All this I have heard at church! And when I walk in the church-yard, or have been By a death-bed, 'tis mighty comforting. TRAVELLER. Ay! idleness! the rich folks never fail | Lay down without one thought to keep me sleep Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday, You have known trouble; He had his silver buckles and his watch; These haply may be happier. There was not in the village one who look'd Well will it be for them to know no worse. * A farmer once told the author of Malvern Hills, "that he almost constantly remarked a gradation of changes in those men he had been in the habit of employing. Young men, he said, were generally neat in their appearance, active and cheerful, till they became married and had a family, when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles, and watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday clothes became common, without any other to supply their place,—but, said he, some good comes from this, for they will then work for whatever they can get." Note to COTTLE'S Malvern Hills. |