Now to his grave was Roger Cuff convey'd,
And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid:
Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd and found
His brethren three,—and thrice they wish'd him drown'd
"Is this a landman's love? Be certain, then,
We part for ever!"-and they cried, "Amen!"
His words were truth's. Some forty summers fled,
His brethren died, his kin supposed him dead :
Three nephews these-one sprightly niece, and one
Less near in blood-they call'd him surly John ;
He work'd in woods apart from all his kind,
Fierce were his looks, and moody was his mind.
For home the sailor now began to sigh:
"The dogs are dead-and I'll return and die;
When all I have, my gains in years of care,
The younger Cuffs with kinder soul shall share:-
Yet hold!-I'm rich; with one consent they'll say,
'You're welcome, Uncle, as the flowers in May.'
No; I'll disguise me, be in tatters dress'd,—
And best befriend the lads who treat me best."
Now all his kindred,—neither rich nor poor,—
Kept the wolf, want, some distance from the door.
In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate,
And begg'd for aid, as he described his state :
But stern was George ;-" Let them who had thee strong
Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along;
To us a stranger while limbs would move,
From us depart, and try a stranger's love;
Ha! dost thou murmur?"-for, in Roger's throat,
Was 'Rascal!' rising with disdainful note.
To pious James he then his prayer address'd :
"Good lack," quoth James, "thy sorrows pierce my breast! And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain,
One board should feed us, and one roof contain:
But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray;
And so farewell!-Heaven help thee on thy way!" "Scoundrel!" said Roger, (but apart,)—and told His case to Peter. Peter too was cold:
"The rates are high; we have a-many poor; But I will think," he said, and shut the door.
Then the gay niece the seeming pauper press'd: "Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd ;Akin to thine is this declining frame,
And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name."
"Avaunt! begone!" the courteous maiden said,
"Thou vile impostor! Uncle Roger's dead:
I hate thee, beast; thy look my spirit shocks!
Oh! that I saw thee starving in the stocks!"
"My gentle Niece!" he said,-and sought the wood. "I hunger, fellow; prithee give me food!"
"Give! am I rich? This hatchet take, and try
Thy proper strength,-nor give those limbs the lie:
Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal,
Nor whine out woes thine own right hand can heal:
And while that hand is thine, and thine a leg,
Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg."
"Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view,"
Old Roger said :-" thy words are brave and true;
Come, live with me,-we'll vex those scoundrel boys;
And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys.
Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share,
With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care;
We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap,
And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep."
Such was their life but when the woodman died,
His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied—
In vain he shut, with stern rebuke, the door,
And dying, built a refuge for the poor;
With this restriction, that no Cuff should share
One meal, or shelter for one moment there.
LET me not have this gloomy view
About my room, around my bed;
But morning roses, wet with dew,
To cool my burning brows instead.
As flow'rs that once in Eden grew,
Let them their fragrant spirits shed;
And ev'ry day the sweets renew,
Till I, a fading flow'r, am dead.
Oh! let the herbs I loved to rear
Give to my sense their perfumed breath; Let them be placed about my bier,
And grace the gloomy house of death.
I'll have my grave beneath a hill,
Where only Lucy's self shall know;
Where runs the pure pellucid rill
Upon its gravelly bed below:
There violets on the borders blow,
And insects their soft light display,-
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,
The cold phosphoric fires decay.
That is the grave to Lucy shown,——
The soil a pure and silver sand,
The green cold moss above it grown,
Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand :
In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,
There let my maiden form be laid,
Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd,
Nor for new guests that bed be made.
There will the lark,-the lamb, in sport,
In air, on earth,-securely play,
And Lucy to my grave resort,
As innocent, but not so gay.
I will not have the churchyard ground,
With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.
With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay, Through which the ringed earth-worms creep And on the shrouded bosom prey;
I will not have the bell proclaim
When those sad marriage rites begin,―
And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.
Say not, it is beneath my care;
I cannot these cold truths allow :These thoughts may not afflict me there, But, oh! they vex and tease me now.
Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,
That man a maiden's grave may trace;
But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
And let affection find the place.
O take me from a world I hate,-
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold ;
And, in some pure and blessed state,
Let me my sister minds behold:
From gross and sordid views refined,
Our heaven of spotless love to share,—
For only generous souls design'd,
And not a man to meet us there.
PLACE the white man on Afric's coast,
Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,
Who of their scorn to Europe boast,
And paint their very demons white:
There, while the sterner sex disdains
To soothe the woes they cannot feel, Woman will strive to heal his pains,
And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm pity's sacred glow,—
From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope re-flow,
That languish'd in the fainting heart.
"What though so pale his haggard face,
So sunk and sad his looks,"--she cries; "And far unlike our nobler race,
With crisped locks and rolling eyes;
Yet misery marks him of our kind,---
We see him lost, alone, afraid!
And pangs of body, griefs in mind,
Pronounce him man, and ask our aid.
"Perhaps in some far distant shore,
There are who in these forms delight; Whose milky features please them more Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright:
Of such may be his weeping wife,
Such children for their sire may call;
And if we spare his ebbing life,
Our kindness may preserve them all."
Thus her compassion woman shows,
Beneath the line her acts are these;
Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows
Can her warm flow of pity freeze;—
"From some sad land the stranger comes,
Where joys like ours are never found;
Let's soothe him in our happy homes,
Where freedom sits with plenty crown'd.
""Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,
To see the famish'd stranger fed;
To milk for him the mother-deer,
To smooth for him the furry bed.
The powers above our Lapland bless
With good no other people know;
T'enlarge the joys that we possess,
By feeling those that we bestow!"
Thus in extremes of cold and heat,
Where wandering man may trace his kind;
Wherever grief and want retreat,
In woman they compassion find:
She makes the female breast her seat,
And dictates mercy to the mind.
Man may the sterner virtues know,—
Determined justice, truth severe ;
But female hearts with pity glow,
And woman holds affliction dear:
For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,
And suffering vice compels her tear,-
'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,
And bid life's fairer views appear.
To woman's gentle kind we owe
What comforts and delights us here;
They its gay hopes on youth bestow,
And care they soothe and age they cheer.
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