Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
Whence her actions did proceed.
For herself, she'd long been minded
Not with outsides to be blinded;
All that pity and compassion,
She believed was affectation;

In her heart she doubted whether
Mary cared a pin for either.

She could keep whole weeks at distance,
And not know of their existence,
While all things remain'd the same;
But, when some misfortune came,
Then she made a great parade
Of her sympathy and aid,—
Not that she did really grieve,
It was only make-believe,
And she cared for nothing, so
She might her fine feelings show,
And get credit, on her part,
For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade Margaret (who being sore From the doubts she'd felt before, Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded!
She of both is now discarded,
Who to both had been so late
Their support in low estate,
All their comfort, and their stay--
Now of both is cast away.

But the league her presence cherish'd,
Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
She, that was a link to either,
To keep them and it together,
Being gone, the two (no wonder)
That were left, soon fell asunder ;-
Some civilities were kept,

But the heart of friendship slept;
Love with hollow forms was fed,
But the life of love lay dead:-
A cold intercourse they held,
After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did intervene
Since they'd either of them seen,
Or, by letter, any word

Of their old companion heard,-
When, upon a day once walking,
Of indifferent matters talking,
They a female figure met;
Martha said to Margaret,

"That young maid in face does carry
A resemblance strong of Mary."
Margaret, at nearer sight,
Own'd her observation right;
But they did not far proceed
Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.

She-but, ah! how changed they view her
From that person which they knew her!

Her fine face disease had scarr'd,

And its matchless beauty marr'd :—
But enough was left to trace
Mary's sweetness-Mary's grace.

When her eye did first behold them,
How they blush'd !-but, when she told them,
How on a sick bed she lay

Months, while they had kept away,
And had no inquiries made

If she were alive or dead ;-
How, for want of a true friend,
She was brought near to her end,
And was like so to have died,
With no friend at her bed-side ;—
How the constant irritation,
Caused by fruitless expectation
Of their coming, had extended

The illness, when she might have mended,--
Then, O then, how did reflection
Come on them with recollection!
All that she had done for them,
How it did their fault condemn !

But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eased them of their shame ; Spoke to them with accents bland, Took them friendly by the hand; Bound them both with promise fast, Not to speak of troubles past; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life. Martha now and Margaret

Strove who most should pay the debt Which they owed her, nor did vary Ever after from their Mary.

And eke with painful fingers she inwove

Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn-"The willow garland, that was for her love,

And these her bleeding temples would adorn." With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.

To whom when I addrest myself to speak,

She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, And, gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled To the dark covert of that woody shade, And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.

Revolving in my mind what this should mean,
And why that lovely lady plainèd so;
Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,
And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,
I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,
When from the shades came slow a small and
plaintive sound.

"PSYCHE am I, who love to dwell

In these brown shades, this woody dell,
Where never busy mortal came,
Till now, to pry upon my shame.

At thy feet what thou dost see
The waters of repentance be,
Which, night and day, I must augment
With tears, like a true penitent,

If haply so my day of grace
Be not yet past; and this lone place,
O'er-shadowy, dark, excludeth hence
All thoughts but grief and penitence."

"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!
And wherefore in this barren shade
Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed!
Can thing so fair repentance need?"

"O! I have done a deed of shame,
And tainted is my virgin fame,
And stain'd the beauteous maiden white
In which my bridal robes were dight."

"And who the promised spouse? declare: And what those bridal garments were."

"Severe and saintly righteousness Composed the clear white bridal dress; JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King, Bought with his blood the marriage ring.

A wretched sinful creature, I Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,

Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,
And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
Soon to these murky shades I came,
To hide from the sun's light my shame.
And still I haunt this woody dell,
And bathe me in that healing well,
Whose waters clear have influence
From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;
And, night and day, I them augment,
With tears, like a true penitent,
Until, due expiation made,
And fit atonement fully paid,
The Lord and Bridegroom me present,
Where in sweet strains of high consent,
God's throne before, the Seraphim
Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."

"Now Christ restore thee soon"-I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.

CHILD.

"O LADY, lay your costly robes aside, No longer may you glory in your pride."

MOTHER.

Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?
This day I am to be a bride, you know,
Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?

CHILD.

O mother, lay your costly robes aside,
For you may never be another's bride.
That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.

MOTHER.

I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, Play with the bride-maids; and be glad, my boy, For thou shalt be a second father's joy.

CHILD.

One father fondled me upon his knee. One father is enough, alone, for me.

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.

ON a bank with roses shaded,
Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
Violets whose breath alone
Yields but feeble smell or none,
(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on
When his eyes Olympus closed on,)

While o'er head six slaves did hold
Canopy of cloth o' gold,

And two more did music keep,
Which might Juno lull to sleep,
Oriana, who was queen
To the mighty Tamerlane,
That was lord of all the land
Between Thrace and Samarchand,
While the noon-tide fervor beam'd,
Mused herself to sleep, and dream'd.

Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet soothed his vein, But he had nor prose nor numbers To express a princess' slumbers.-Youthful Richard had strange fancies, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The Great Cham and Prester John,Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophyWhat he read with such delight of, Thought he could as eas'ly write ofBut his over-young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set, And he could no further get; But, unable to proceed,

Made a virtue out of need,

And, his labours wiselier deem'd of, Did omit what the queen dream'd of.

In a costly palace if the child with a pin Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in ;

In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
Thinks upon the former days, when he was well
to do,

Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;

In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,

To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,

That none to do them injury may have pretence; Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

A BALLAD.

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR

WORKHOUSE.

To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."

IN a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their
desire.

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,

With singing and music to heighten the cheer; Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.

In a costly palace Youth is still carest

By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest ;

In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails : Does Age begin to prattle?—no man heark'neth to his tales.

HYPOCHONDRIACUS.

By myself walking,
To myself talking,
When as I ruminate
On my untoward fate,
Scarcely seem I
Alone sufficiently,
Black thoughts continually
Crowding my privacy;
They come unbidden,
Like foes at a wedding,
Thrusting their faces
In better guests' places,
Peevish and malecontent,
Clownish, impertinent,
Dashing the merriment:
So in like fashions
Dim cogitations
Follow and haunt me,
Striving to daunt me,
In my heart festering,
In my ears whispering,
"Thy friends are treacherous,
Thy foes are dangerous,

Thy dreams ominous."

Fierce Anthropophagi, Spectra, Diaboli,

What scared St. Anthony,
Hobgoblins, Lemures,
Dreams of Antipodes,
Night-riding Incubi
Troubling the fantasy,
All dire illusions
Causing confusions;
Figments heretical,

Scruples fantastical,

Doubts diabolical;

Abaddon vexeth me,
Mahu perplexeth me,
Lucifer teareth me

Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

MAY the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,
If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind,

(Still the phrase is wide or scant)

To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half: my hate:
For I hate, yet love, thee so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimèd lovers take

'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way,

While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;

While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem,

And all about us does express

(Fancy and wit in richest dress)

A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowèd features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell

Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,

Or judge of thee meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.