And pauper's lot! but pitying, I forgive;
How, simple Jessy, do you think to live?
Have I not power to help you, foolish maid?
To my concerns be your attention paid;
With cheerful mind th' allotted duties take,
And recollect I have a will to make."

Jessy, who felt as liberal natures feel,
When thus the baser their designs reveal,
Replied, "Those duties were to her unfit,
Nor would her spirit to her tasks submit."
In silent scorn the lady sat a while,

And then replied with stern contemptuous smile,

"Think you, fair madam, that you came to
share

Fortunes like mine without a thought or care?
A guest, indeed! from every trouble free,
Dress'd by my help, with not a care for me;
When I a visit to your father made,
I for the poor assistance largely paid;
To his domestics I their tasks assign'd,
I fix'd the portion for his hungry hind;
And had your father (simple man!) obey'd
well
My good advice, and watch'd as

pray'd,

as

He might have left you something with his prayers,

And lent some colour for these lofty airs.

"In tears, my love! O, then, my soften'd

heart

Cannot resist; we never more will part;
I need your friendship, I will be your friend,
And thus determined, to my will attend."
Jessy went forth, but with determined soul
To fly such love, to break from such control;
"I hear enough," the trembling damsel cried;
"Flight be my care, and Providence my guide:
Ere yet a prisoner, I escape will make ;
Will, thus display'd, th' insidious arts forsake,
And, as the rattle sounds, will fly the fatal
snake."

Jessy her thanks upon the morrow paid,
Prepared to go, determined, though afraid.
"Ungrateful creature," said the lady, “this
Could I imagine ?-are you frantic, miss?

What! leave your friend, your prospects-is it

true?"

This Jessy answer'd by a mild "Adieu!"

Grateful for this, that when I think of you,
I little fear what poverty can do."

The angry matron her attendant Jane
Summon'd in haste to soothe the fierce disdain.
"A vile, detested wretch!" the lady cried,
"Yet shall she be, by many an effort, tried,
And, clogg'd with debt and fear, against her will
abide;

And, once secured, she never shall depart
Till I have proved the firmness of her heart;
Then when she dares not, would not, cannot go,
I'll make her feel what 'tis to use me so."

The pensive Colin in his garden stray'd,
But felt not then the beauties it display'd;
There many a pleasant object met his view,
A rising wood of oaks behind it grew;
A stream ran by it, and the village green
And public road were from the gardens seen;
Save where the pine and larch the boundary
made,

And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade.
The mother sat beside the garden door,
Dress'd as in times ere she and hers were poor;
The broad-laced cap was known in ancient

praise;

And still she look'd as in the times of old,
Ere his last farm the erring husband sold;
While yet the mansion stood in decent state,
And paupers waited at the well-known gate

"Alas! my son!" the mother cried," and why
That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh?
True, we are poor, but thou hast never felt
Pangs to thy father for his error dealt;
Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain,
For ever raised, and ever found in vain.
He rose unhappy! from his fruitless schemes,
As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams;
But thou wert then, my son, a playful child,
Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild,
Listening at times to thy poor mother's sighs,
With curious looks and innocent surprise;
Thy father dying, thou, my virtuous boy,
My comfort always, waked my soul to joy;
With the poor remnant of our fortune left,
Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft :
Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air,

The dame replied, "Then houseless may you Have cast a smile on sadness and despair:

Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space
The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace;
And all around us wonder when they find
Such taste and strength, such skill and powe
combined;

There is no mother, Colin, no, not one
But envies me so kind, so good a son;
By thee supported on this failing side,
Weakness itself awakes a parent's pride:
I bless the stroke that was my grief before,
And feel such joy that 'tis disease no more;
Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth,
And soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health;
The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise,
And say, like thee were youth in earlier days;
While every village maiden cries, How gay,
How smart, how brave, how good is Colin
Grey !'

Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know
Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow;
Fain would I think that Jessy still may come
To share the comforts of our rustic home:
She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid,
When thou hast kindly brought the vicar aid-
When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain,
O! I have seen her-she will come again.'

The matron ceased; and Colin stood the while
Silent, but striving for a grateful smile;
He then replied, "Ah! sure, had Jessy stay'd,
And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade,
The tenderest duty and the fondest love
Would not have fail'd that generous heart to

move;

A grateful pity would have ruled her breast,
And my distresses would have made me blest.
"But she is gone, and ever has in view
Grandeur and taste; and what will then ensue?
Surprise, and then delight, in scenes so fair and

new:

Soft! I did but dream-
O! coward Conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
Richard III. act v. sc. 3.

For many a day, perhaps for many a week,
Home will have charms, and to her bosom speak;
But thoughtless ease, and affluence, and pride,
Seen day by day, will draw the heart aside:
And she at length, though gentle and sincere,
Will think no more of our enjoyment here."
Sighing he spake-but hark! he hears the ap- And various questions could with skill maintain;
proach

Of rattling wheels! and lo! the evening coach;
Once more the movement of the horses' feet
Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat;
Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight
Drawn him to gaze beside his gate at night;
And when with rapid wheels it hurried by,
He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh;
And could the blessing have been bought, what

sum

Had he not offer'd, to have Jessy come!

She came he saw her bending from the door,
Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more;
Lost in his joy-the mother lent her aid
T'assist and to detain the willing maid;
Who thought her late, her present home to make,
Sure of a welcome for the vicar's sake:
But the good parent was so pleased, so kind,
So pressing Colin, she so much inclined,
That night advanced; and then so long detain'd,
No wishes to depart she felt, or feign'd;

Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce
remain'd.

Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere;
Here was content and joy, for she was here:
In the mild evening, in the scene around,
The maid, now free, peculiar beauties found;
Blended with village tones, the evening gale
Gave the sweet night-bird's warblings to the vale;
The youth imbolden'd, yet abash'd, now told
His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold;
The mother smiling whisper'd-" Let him go
And seek the license!" Jessy answer'd, "No:"
But Colin went. I know not if they live
With all the comforts wealth and plenty give:
But with pure joy to envious souls denied,
To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride;
And village maids of happy couples say,

A SERIOUS toyman in the city dwelt,
Who much concern for his religion felt;
Reading, he changed his tenets, read again,

Papist and quaker if we set aside,
He had the road of every traveller tried ;
There walk'd a while, and on a sudden turn'd
Into some by-way he had just discern'd:
He had a nephew, Fulham-Fulham went
His uncle's way, with every turn content;
He saw his pious kinsman's watchful care,
And thought such anxious pains his own might
spare,

And he, the truth obtain'd, without the toil, might
share.

In fact, young Fulham, though he little read,
Perceived his uncle was by fancy led;
And smiled to see the constant care he took,
Collating creed with creed, and book with book.
At length the senior fix'd; I pass the sect
He call'd a church, 'twas precious and elect;
Yet the seed fell not in the richest soil,
For few disciples paid the preacher's toil;
All in an attic room were wont to meet,
These few disciples at their pastor's feet;
With these went Fulham, who, discreet and grave,
Follow'd the light his worthy uncle gave;
Till a warm preacher found a way t' impart
Awakening feelings to his torpid heart:
Some weighty truths, and of unpleasant kind,
Sank, though resisted, in his struggling mind;
He wish'd to fly them, but compell'd to stay,
Truth to the waking Conscience found her way;
For though the youth was call'd a prudent lad,
And prudent was, yet serious faults he had;
Who now reflected-" Much am I surprised,
I find these notions cannot be despised;
No! there is something I perceive at last,
Although my uncle cannot hold it fast;
Though I the strictness of these men reject,
Yet I determine to be circumspect;
This man alarms me, and I must begin
To look more closely to the things within;

These sons of zeal have I derided long,
But now begin to think the laughers wrong;
Nay, my good uncle, by all teachers moved,
Will be preferr'd to him who none approved;
Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved."
Such were his thoughts, when Conscience first
began

To hold close converse with th' awaken'd man:
He from that time reserved and cautious grew,
And for his duties felt obedience due;
Pious he was not, but he fear'd the pain
Of sins committed, nor would sin again.

Whene'er he stray'd, he found his Conscience

rose,

Like one determined what was ill t' oppose,
What wrong t' accuse, what secret to disclose :
To drag forth every latent act to light,
And fix them fully in the actor's sight:
This gave him trouble, but he still confess'd
The labour useful, for it brought him rest.

The uncle died, and when the nephew read
The will, and saw the substance of the dead-
Five hundred guineas, with a stock in trade-
He much rejoiced, and thought his fortune made;
Yet felt aspiring pleasure at the sight,
And for increase, increasing appetite:
Desire of profit, idle habits check'd,
(For Fulham's virtue was to be correct ;)

He and his Conscience had their compact made-
"Urge me with truth, and you will soon persuade;
But not," he cried, "for mere ideal things
Give me to feel those terror-breeding stings."

"Let not such thoughts," she said, "your mind
confound;

Trifles may wake me, but they never wound;
In them indeed there is a wrong and right,
But you will find me pliant and polite;
Not like a Conscience of the dotard kind,
Awake to dreams, to dire offences blind:
Let all within be pure, in all beside
Be your own master, governor, and guide;
Alive to danger, in temptation strong,
And I shall sleep our whole existence long."
"Sweet be thy sleep," said Fulham ;

must be

strong

The tempting ill that gains access to me:
Never will I to evil deed consent,
Or, if surprised, O! how will I repent!
Should gain be doubtful, soon would I restore
The dangerous good, or give it to the poor,
Repose for them my growing wealth shall buy-
Or build-who knows?-an hospital like Guy?—
Yet why such means to soothe the smart within,
While firmly purposed to renounce the sin?"
Thus our young Trader and his Conscience dwelt
In mutual love, and great the joy they felt;
But yet in small concerns, in trivial things,
"She was," he said, "too ready with the stings;"
And he too apt, in search of growing gains,
To lose the fear of penalties and pains:
Yet these were trifling bickerings, petty jars,
Domestic strifes, preliminary wars;
He ventured little, little she express'd
Of indignation, and they both had rest.
Thus was he fix'd to walk the worthy way,
When profit urged him to a bold essay :—
A time was that when all at pleasure gamed
In lottery chances, yet of law unblamed;

This Fulham tried: who would to him advance
A pound or crown, he gave in turn a chance
For weighty prize; and should they nothing share,
They had their crown or pound in Fulham's ware;
Thus the old stores within the shop were sold
For that which none refuses, new or old.
Was this unjust? yet Conscience could not rest,
But made a mighty struggle in the breast.
And gave th' aspiring man an early proof,
That should they war he would have work enough
Suppose," said she," your vended numbers rise
The same with those which gain each real prize,
(Such your proposal,) can you ruin shun?"—

A hundred thousand," he replied, “ to one.”—

Still it may happen."-" I the sum must pay."—

You know you cannot."-" I can run away."

That is dishonest."-" Nay, but you must wink
At a chance hit; it cannot be, I think.
Upon my conduct as a whole decide,
Such trifling errors let my virtues hide;
Fail I at meeting? am I sleepy there?
My purse refuse I with the priest to share?
Do I deny the poor a helping hand?
Or stop the wicked women in the Strand?
Or drink at club beyond a certain pitch?
Which are your charges? Conscience, tell me
which ?"

""Tis well," said she, "but-" "

have done :

Trust me, I will not into danger run."

Nay, I pray,

Might!" said our hero, "who is so exact

As to inquire what might have been a fact?"
Now Fulham's shop contain'd a curious view
Of costly trifles elegant and new:

The papers told where kind mammas might buy
The gayest toys to charm an infant's eye;
Where generous beaux might gentle damsels please
And travellers call who cross the land or seas,
And find the curious art, the neat device

Of precious value and of trifling price.
Here Conscience rested, she was find pleased to find,
No less an active than an honest mind;
But when he named his price, and when he swore,
His conscience check'd him, that he ask'd no more
When half he sought had been a large increase
On fair demand, she could not rest in peace:
(Beside th' affront to call th' adviser in,
Who would prevent, to justify the sin ?)
She therefore told him, that "he vainly tried
To soothe her anger, conscious that he lied;
If thus he grasp'd at such usurious gains,
He must deserve, and should expect her pains."
The charge was strong; he would in part con-
fess

Offence there was: but who offended less?

Yet was content with making a protest:
Some acts she now with less resistance bore,
Nor took alarm so quickly as before:

Wish for your checks and your reproofs-but then Like those in towns besieged, who every ball

At first with terror view, and dread them all;
But, grown familiar with the scenes, they fear
The danger less, as it approaches near;
So Conscience, more familiar with the view
Of growing evils, less attentive grew :
Yet he who felt some pain, and dreaded more,
Gave a peace-offering to the angry poor.

Thus had he quiet; but the time was brief,
From his new triumph sprang a cause of grief,
In office join'd, and acting with the rest,
He must admit the sacramental test:
Now, as a sectary, who had all his life,
As he supposed, been with the church at strife,
(No rules of hers, no laws had he perused,
Nor knew the tenets he by rote abused ;)
Yet Conscience here arose more fierce and strong,
Than when she told of robbery and wrong;

Mistaken man!" replied the power within. No guest unnoticed to the lady came,

He judged th' event with mingled joy and shame; Oft he withdrew, and seem'd to leave her free, But still as watchful as a lynx was he; Meanwhile the wife was thoughtless, cool, and gay And, without virtue, had no wish to stray.

Though thus opposed, his plans were not resign'd; "Revenge," said he, "will prompt that daring mind; Refused supplies, insulted and distress'd, Enraged with me, and near a favourite guestThen will her vengeance prompt the daring deed, And I shall watch, detect her, and be freed."

There was a youth-but let me hide the name, With all the progress of this deed of shame, He had his views on him the husband cast

His net, and saw him in his trammels fast.

Pause but a moment, think what you intend," Said the roused sleeper, "I am yet a friend: Must all our days in enmity be spent?" "No!" and he paused;-"I surely shall repent." Then hurried on-the evil plan was laid, The wife was guilty, and her friend betray'd, And Fulham gain'd his wish, and for his will was paid.

Had crimes less weighty on the spirit press'd, This troubled Conscience might have sunk to rest; And, like a foolish guard, been bribed to peace, By a false promise, that offence should cease; Past faults had seem'd familiar to the view Confused if many, and obscure though true; And Conscience, troubled with the dull account, Had dropp'd her tale, and slumber'd o'er th' amount: But, struck by daring guilt, alert she rose, Disturb'd, alarm'd, and could no more repose; All hopes of friendship and of peace were past, And every view with gloom was overcast.