And Leonard's sire, the lavish contest past,
Found he had fell'd his ancient oaks in vain,
In vain had pawn'd his green, ancestral fields,
Bereft his son of just and lineal hopes,
Quench'd the grey vigour of his kindly age
With loyal draughts and joyless nights of noise,
In vain. Indignant he is doom'd to hear
The upstart's triumph clamouring at his doors-
And finds the sole reward of thousands spent
For Church and King-the prudent world's contempt,
Unspotted honour, and a shatter'd frame,
A broken fortune, and a broken heart.
Sad change for Leonard-to no gainful art Or science bred, untaught to bow his way Through servile crowds, to fix the flitting eye Of selfish patronage, or cling secure
To the huge timbers of the rotting state
A battening barnacle, by sloth retain❜d,
And nourish'd by decay. His wants, though few,
Were yet refined, and he had known the bliss
Of leisure, which is truest liberty.
And, cruel fate!-the time is now fulfill'd,
The year, the month, the long expected day
Of expectation, which had look'd so fair
In the dim brightness of futurity-
The very day prefix'd to shake the tower
Of the old ivied church with wedding peals,
When Susan should have trod the church-w
-way path A blushing bride. The weary week past o'er, And Leonard, in the melancholy hall,
Sat listless, gazing on the naked walls,
And bare, cold floors-for greedy law had stripp'd The antique mansion of its tapestry,
And Vandal officers had laid their hands
On musty relics of the olden time,
On smoky pedigrees, and antlers vast
Of stags, that fell ere the great Baron fought
At Agincourt; brown bills in rusty ranks,
Primeval guns, of formidable length,
With stubborn matchlocks-all immovable;
Fragments of centuries past, not worth a doit-
But precious ever, and twice precious now,
When all the glory, bounty, wealth, and power
Derived from dark imaginative days,
Was clean departed from the honour'd line-
Say rather, vanish'd from the realm of chance,
To be for aye a thought, a deathless truth,
A thing of monumental memory.
"'Tis a fair show; a goodly bridal-bower ; Yon grim officials too! attendance meet To grace a marriage feast." Thus Leonard spake, And could have laugh'd in downright agony;
But check'd his soul, and almost thought he bore His grief most patiently; for sorrow seem'd Reproachful to his father. Mute he sat,
Culling old saws and comfortable texts,
To cheer the old man's desolate heart, and still
Rejecting all; when lo! a message came,
An instant summons from his Susan's sire.
Like one lone wandering on a perilous moor,
That hears a voice in darkness, and proceeds,
In desperate haste, to meet or friend or foe,
Regardless whether-Leonard hurried forth
To meet his doom. A little gloomy hope,
Much like despair, was kindled in his eye,
And made his heart beat audible and hard.
The faint alarm had caught his father's view,
As silently he clasp'd his palsied hand;
The old man shook his head with such a smile
As had no comfort in 't.
With louring looks,
And a proud menial's scanted courtesy,
Was Leonard usher'd to the well-known room
Vocal so oft with Susan's melody,
And gladden'd with her smile. 'Tis double woe,
The woe that comes where joy was sweetest found.
There sat the parents of his wife betroth'd,
Dear as his own, in happier days, and call'd
By the same filial names. The mother meek,
With sad o'ercharged eyes that dare not weep,
Obey'd the mandate of her husband's hand,
And hastily, without a word, withdrew,
Casting on Leonard one mute pleading glance,
That said- Remember, he is Susan's father—
Though yours he will not be.'-Long pause ensued-
At length the stern man spake: "Young Sir," said he,
"I have an irksome duty to perform,
But 'tis a duty that I owe my child.
Few words are best-my daughter is not for you—
My reasons need no tongue to plead for them-
Urge not my promise-you are not the youth
To whom my word was given-I pledged the girl
To the inheritor of my friend's estate,
Not to the heir of my foe's beggary."
Big-hearted Leonard neither dropt a tear,
Nor spake reproachful word; more grieved to find
A soul so base in form so long revered,
Than for the signet set to his despair-
The coward murder of his dying hope,
And the sweet records of young innocent years
Transform'd to shame-envenom'd agony.
Yet long he linger'd at the gate, and raised
To Susan's chamber window a long look
Of resignation deep-a long farewell;
But she was nowhere to be seen; and yet,
He fondly dream'd-what will not lovers dream?—
He heard her sigh, and leant a listening ear
To hear her sigh once more.-Full well he knew,
Though nought distrusting Susan's simple faith,
His claim annull'd-his suit by her forbidden.
Not all the sophistry of love, though urged
With eloquence divine, and looks of warmth.
To thaw the "chaste and consecrated snow
On Dian's bosom, could induce the maid
To waive obedience, or make head against
The strong religion of her filial fear.
So, hopeless, purposeless, he loiter'd home,
If home it could be call'd-begarrison'd
With portly bailiffs, and by duns besieged ;
Keen-eyed solicitors, and purple hosts,
And sallow usurers-miscreants, that grow fat
On general ruin-bills mis-spelt, as long
As his old father's boasted pedigree.
Proud Leonard felt it shame, a burning shame,
To waste a sigh upon his personal grief
Amid the helpless downfall. Nought he told,
His father nought inquired, for all was known
Without the painful index of sad speech.
They talk'd of things long past—of better times,
And seem'd as they were merry. "Twas the last,
The saddest night beneath the ancient roof.
The next beheld them inmates of a gaol-
And gaol-bird was the word that Susan heard,
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