"Madam!" he cried, offended with her looks,
"There's time for all things, and not all for books: Just on one's marriage to sit down, and prate On points of learning, is a thing I hate.-"
""Tis right, my son, and it appears to me,
If deep your hatred, you must well agree.'
Finch was too angry for a man so wise,
And said, "Insinuation I despise!
Nor do I wish to have a mind so full
Of learned trash-it makes a woman dull:
Let it suffice, that I in her discern
An aptitude, and a desire to learn."
The matron smiled, but she observed a frown
On her son's brow, and calmly set her down;
Leaving the truth to Time, who solves our doubt,
By bringing his all-glorious daughter out-
Truth! for whose beauty all their love profess,
And yet how many think it ugliness!
"Augusta, love," said Finch, "while you engage
In that embroidery, let me read a page;
Suppose it Hume's; indeed he takes a side,
But still an author need not be our guide;
And as he writes with elegance and ease,
Do now attend-he will be sure to please.
Here at the Revolution we commence,-
We date, you know, our liberties from hence."
"Yes, sure," Augusta answer'd, with a smile,
"Our teacher always talk'd about his style;
When we about the Revolution read,
And how the martyrs to the flames were led ;
The good old bishops, I forget their names,
But they were all committed to the flames;
Maidens and widows, bachelors and wives,-
The very babes and sucklings lost their lives.
I read it all in Guthrie at the school,-
What now!-I know you took me for a fool;
There were five bishops taken from the stall,
And twenty widows, I remember all;
And by this token-that our teacher tried
To cry for pity, till she howl'd and cried."
True, true, my love, but you mistake the thing,
The Revolution that made William king
Is what I mean; the Reformation you,
In Edward and Elizabeth."-" "Tis true:
But the nice reading is the love between
The brave lord Essex and the cruel queen;
And how he sent the ring to save his head,
Which the false lady kept till he was dead.
"That is all true: now read, and I'll attend:
But was not she a most deceitful friend?
It was a monstrous, vile, and treacherous thing,
To show no pity, and to keep the ring;
But the queen shook her in her dying bed,
And God forgive you,' was the word she said,
'Not I, for certain :'-Come, I will attend,
So read the Revolution to an end."
Finch, with a timid, strange, inquiring look,
Softly and slowly laid aside the book
With sigh inaudible—“Come, never heed,"
Said he, recovering, now I cannot read."
They walk'd at leisure through their wood and groves,
In fields and lanes, and talk'd of plants and loves,
And loves of plants.-Said Finch, " Augusta, dear,
You said you loved to learn,—were you sincere?
Do you remember that you told me once
How much you grieved, and said you were a dunce?
That is, you wanted information. Say,
What would you learn? I will direct your way."
"Goodness!" said she, "what meanings you discern
In a few words! I said I wish'd to learn,
And so I think I did; and you replied,
The wish was good: what would you now beside?
Did not you say it show'd an ardent mind;
And pray what more do you expect to find?"
"My dear Augusta, could you wish indeed
For any knowledge, and not then proceed?
That is not wishing-"
"Mercy, how you tease!
You knew I said it with a view to please;
A compliment to you, and quite enough:
You would not kill me with that puzzling stuff!
Sure I might say I wish'd; but that is still
Far from a promise; it is not—‘I will.'
"But come, to show you that I will not hide
My proper talents, you shall be my guide;
And lady Boothby, when we meet, shall cry,
She's quite as good a botanist as I.”
"Right, my Augusta ;" and, in manner grave,
Finch his first lecture on the science gave;
An introduction-and he said, "My dear,
Your thought was happy-let us persevere;
And let no trifling cause our work retard.'
Agreed the lady, but she fear'd it hard.
Now o'er the grounds they rambled many a mile;
He show'd the flowers, the stamina, the style,
Calyx and corol, pericarp and fruit,
And all the plant produces, branch and root;
Of these he treated, every varying shape,
Till poor Augusta panted to escape:
He show'd the various foliage plants produce,
Lunate and lyrate, runcinate, retuse;
Long were the learned words, and urged with force,
Panduriform, pinnatifid, premorse,
Latent and patent, papulous and plane
"Oh!" said the pupil," it will turn my brain.”
"Fear not," he answer'd, and again, intent
To fill that mind, o'er class and order went;
And stopping, "Now," said he, "my love attend.”
"I do," said she, “but when will be an end?”
"When we have made some progress-now begin,
Which is the stigma, show me with the pin:
Come, I have told you, dearest, let me see,
Times very many-tell it now to me."
"Stigma! I know-the things with yellow heads,
That shed the dust, and grow upon the threads;
You call them wives and husbands, but you know
That is a joke-here, look, and I will show
All I remember." Doleful was the look
Of the preceptor, when he shut his book
(The system brought to aid them in their view),
And now with sighs return'd—" It will not do."
A handsome face first led him to suppose,
There must be talent with such looks as those;
The want of talent taught him now to find
The face less handsome with so poor a mind;
And half the beauty faded, when he found
His cherish'd hopes were falling to the ground.
The widow answer'd: "I had once, like you, Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue : You judge it fated and decreed to dwell
In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel;
A passion doom'd to reign, and irresistible.
The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain
Rejects the fury or defies the pain;
The strongest reason fails the flame t' allay,
And resolution droops and faints away:
Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they prove
At once the force of this all-powerful love:
Each from that period feels the mutual smart,
Nor seeks to cure it-heart is changed for heart;
Nor is there peace till they delighted stand,
And, at the altar-hand is join'd to hand.
"Alas! my child, there are who, dreaming so,
Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the woe;
There is no spirit sent the heart to move
With such prevailing and alarming love;
Passion to reason will submit—or why
Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny?
Or how could classes and degrees create
The slightest bar to such resistless fate?
Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix;
No beggars' eyes the hearts of kings transfix;
And who but amorous peers or nobles sigh
When titled beauties pass triumphant by?
For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove;
You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love:
All would be safe, did we at first inquire-
Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?'"
Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks:
The locks, once comely in a virgin's sight,
Locks of pure brown, display'd th' encroaching white;
The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man:
I rode or walk'd as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I show'd my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb."
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed ;
I ceased to hunt, my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more; I learn'd to play at chess;
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot;
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And bless'd the shower that gave me not to choose:
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashions new;
I loved my trees in order to dispose,
I number'd peaches, look'd how stocks arose,
Told the same story oft-in short, began to prose.
Children of Thespis, welcome! knights and queens! Counts! barons! beauties! when before your scenes, And mighty monarchs thundering from your throne; Then step behind, and all your glory's gone: Of crown and palace, throne and guards, bereft, The pomp is vanish'd, and the care is left. Yet strong and lively is the joy they feel When the full house secures the plenteous meal; Flattering and flatter'd, each attempts to raise A brother's merits for a brother's praise: For never hero shows a prouder heart,
Than he who proudly acts a hero's part;
Nor without cause; the boards, we know, can yield
Place for fierce contest, like the tented field.
Graceful to tread the stage, to be in turn
The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn;
Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd,
The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud:
These are their parts—and he who these sustains
Deserves some praise and profit for his pains.
|