With daring hand, essays his nicest skill,
Unknowing whether he shall cure or kill:
But there are others, in a different sphere,
Who, if in duty's track they onward steer,
Must often ponder, and proceed with pain,
Then grieve, to find they've thought and toil'd in vain.
The faithful shepherd, who his flock would guide,
Must, for their safety, with their food provide;
With watchful eye, and arm in duty bold,
From foul infection must preserve the fold:
In barren wastes if they, untended, stray,
They fall the victims of the beasts of prey;
Or, faint with hunger, in the desart die,
The guilty shepherd loitering careless by.
But he may err, by too much care and toil;
For there is danger in too rank a soil;
Disease will often from indulgence risc,
Too flowery pastures, and too humid skies;
Thus some, neglected, mourn their hapless lot,
And others, fed to foul repletion, rot.
Hence judgment ever should with care unite,
In all who wish to guide their flocks aright;
But stragglers still their wayward course will hold,
Leap o'er the fence, and wander from the fold.
-Enough-I check my moralising strain;
For shepherds watch, and parsons preach in vain.
Dame Wilmot was a farmer's widow meek,
The rose of summer faded on her cheek;
But still the lustre of her sparkling eye
Seem'd like the sun in autumn's cloudless sky;
Ten times had winter howl'd around her head,
Since David Wilmot mingled with the dead;
His call was sudden, and his death deplor'd,
The rich esteem'd him, and the poor ador'd;
Of gentle manners, independent mind,
His hand was liberal, and his heart was kind;
The counsellor of youth, the friend of age,
His name was blazon'd fair on virtue's page;
And in my flock, when David Wilmot died,
I felt a blank not easily supplied.
He left one son, his cultur'd farm to heir,
A minor still, besides three daughters fair,
In nonage all, left to no guardian's trust;
For he was hurried to his kindred dust ;
But he died well, as Cits and Bankers say,
And left his family in a thriving way ;
His farm well stock'd, with store of treasur'd wealth,
The children stout, the widow rich in health:
Dame Wilmot (ever seen, in wedded life,
The careful mother and the bustling wife,)
Sat with her children, plunged in grief profound;
But Time, that brings a balm for every wound,
Remov'd the load which press'd upon her mind,
And bade her live for those still left behind;
She wip'd her tears, the rising sigh suppress'd,
For business, with its crowding cares, distress'd.
Her debts discharged, and each incumbrance clear'd,
Beyond her hopes the surplus stock appear'd ;
And still she hop'd, beneath her guardian charge,
To see each annual balance yet enlarge.
For this she rose with morning's earliest light,
Her eye was everywhere till closing night;
Whether the summer scorch'd, or winter froze,
The first to rise, the last to seek repose.
Thus time stole on, and John, her only son,
Had reach'd the long-wish'd age of twenty-one ;
And, farther, her maternal heart to cheer,
Her daughters now in beauty's bloom appear;
But few without a sigh have power resign'd;
It sheds a secret pleasure o'er the mind;
From Dowager Queen, down to the yeoman's dame,
The joy is equal, and the sigh the same;
And widow Wilmot, stript of her command,
Laid down the reins with cold, reluctant hand;
Her daughters, too, were grown like may-poles tall;
She felt her pleasure with their romping pall;
She thought it strange "Mamma" from such to hear,
And "Mother" was as hateful to her ear;
Erewhile, the maidens were her joy and pride;
But now, she loath'd to find them at her side;
Thus housewives say, at seasons hens are seen
To peck and chace their chickens from the green;
For though Dame Wilmot's fortieth year was past,
She round her still a twinkling eye could cast.
Ten years of widowhood had stole behind,
And no such dreams disturb'd the woman's mind;
But she was then employ'd in worldly care;
She now was idle, and had cash to spare ;
And Fancy will the vacant mind employ,
In fairy dreams of fond ideal joy;
Can paint anew youth's dear enraptur'd reign,
And whisper-We can live it o'er again.
So thought Dame Wilmot, when her mirror shew'd
A cheek, where late and lingering beauty glow'd:
'Twas not, 'tis true, the blush that youth bestows-
The glowing richness of the half-blown rose;
But while she gaz'd, she thought her face might charm,
And dreams of former days would all her bosom warm.
Frank Dickson was a father's only child,
And born when fortune's sun serenely smil'd;
Parental fondness, to each failing blind,
Believ'd that pertness spoke superior mind;
Indulg'd, caress'd, the lad was sent to school,
And from the college came, not quite a fool :
For he could Logic chop, and Latin speak,
And read my weekly text in pot-hook Greek :
He every Sunday sought the house of pray'r,
And most devout was his appearance there;
In penitential chaunt, or cheerful song,
His voice resounded o'er th' assembled throng;
In this it rose, with full-ton'd, mellow swell,
In that, with melting cadence, softly fell;
And then, so much expression in his face,
He seem'd a pattern in our holy place.
Few could with him in form and mien compare,
His stature tall, and graceful was his air;
No essenced fop, his dress was neat and trim,
His shoulders broad, full chest, and well-turn'd limb;
The piercing lustre of his keen dark eye
Was like the bird's that braves the sun-bright sky;
Of smooth address, and eloquent of tongue-
To these externals add-the lad was young.
Such was Frank Dickson forty years ago;
What he is now, some future page may show.
Dame Wilmot met him in a joyous hour,
When jest and frolic flew with licens'd power;
"Twas at a wedding-feast, where all were gay,
Courtship and love the topics of the day:
He was engaging, courteously polite;
And unperceiv'd stole on the shades of night:
With mirth surrounded, and the circling glass,
The light-wing'd hours like minutes o'er us pass;
The purple tide flows brisk in ev'ry vein,
And Prudence rules the tongue with slacken'd rein.
Frank saw the widow safe to her abode ;
And some folks say they linger'd on the road-
Why should I here prolong my limping strain?
Each with the other pleas'd, they met again.
On Rumour's wings the tale was blaz'd abroad→→→
I paus'd, and felt, the duty which I ow'd
As shepherd, placed o'er all my flock to watch,
Bade me prevent this wild, preposterous match.
I sought the widow, and with plainness spoke-
She thank'd me kindly-said 'twas all a joke ;
But though her tongue the gossip tale denied,
I mark'd a blush which Nature could not hide;
Methought her sparkling eyes, too, seem'd to say,
"Preach as you please! I will my heart obey!"
Frank well was skill'd in flattery's pleasing art,
And knew the way to win a widow's heart;
She might assume the matron's stately pride,
But had no fears-no virgin blush to hide;
Ere long, Love found them in a melting mood--
And they before me at the altar stood!
Love, said I?-'twas a passion less sublime!
In both a folly, bordering on a crime;
For since his reign on earth was first begun,
Love never match'd the mother with the son.
I grant, where principle and prudence meet,
The bridegroom virtuous, and the bride discreet,
That both may lead a calm and easy life;
But not what Nature meant for man and wife!
She blush'd and simper'd, as her hand he took;
But careless ease was in her bridegroom's look;
I mark'd with sorrow his indifferent air,
While I, with fervour, pour'd the nuptial pray'r :
"Twas not, indeed, the pray'r of faith with me-
From what I saw-I fear'd for what might be !
And when the bride was from the altar led,
I thought Misfortune hover'd o'er her head.
The torch of Hymen gleam'd, and both were bless'd ; He of a wife and treasur'd wealth possess'd;
Fond and confiding in the favour'd youth,
She trusted all to honour, love, and truth;
Gold, bills, and bonds, all given to his control-
The longest liver to possess the whole.
Two months, or so, young Four-and-twenty's arms
Were fondly clasp'd round Five-and-forty's charms;
And Mrs Dickson bask'd in fairy bower,
Her doting love still kinder every hour.
Time fann'd her flame, but cool'd her husband's down ;
By bus'ness call'd, he oftener went to town;
But still the fire would in her bosom burn,
As sad she sigh'd, and watch'd his late return.
One year of love had scarce their union crown'd,
When Frank at home, by day, was seldom found;
While ev'ry art in vain Dame Dickson tried,
She simper'd, ogled, reason'd, smil'd, and sigh'd.
At morn he left her, with a careless air,
Abroad to roam, but seldom told her where ;
And she would mope alone till past midnight,
Sometimes would sit till morn's returning light;
Then would she heave the sad, reproachful sigh,
The big tear trembling in her downcast eye;
While Frank, with countenance compos'd and cool,
Would calmly say, she was a snivelling fool.
When man and wife in bitter words reply,
Respect will cease, and cold contempt is nigh;
Then slighted Love-if Love has e'er been there,
Takes leave for ever of the hapless pair;
And in his place fell Jealousy succeeds,
Whose fangs strike deeper, as the victim bleeds:
The deadly venom fir'd Dame Dickson's breast,
And every glance the demon's power confess'd:
Thus, while she felt her heart with anguish wrung,
Reproach flow'd copious from her fluent tongue.
Frank felt he had no measures now to keep,
And, all unmov'd, beheld his partner weep;
For ever set his mild domestic sun-
Her sullen gloom and stormy rage to shun,
With sensual bliss he sooth'd his sordid soul,
The gambler's table, and the toper's bowl;
And beauty, more congenial to his mind,
A syren fair, whose smile was ever kind.
His slighted wife thus shunn'd, despis'd, and scorn'd, Now rav'd in frenzy, now in anguish mourn'd,
And sigh'd, impatient, for the welcome hour,
When death should free her from a tyrant's power.
Nor less the husband's anxious wish to part,
He hop'd that pride and scorn would break her heart.
But both were doom'd their folly to deplore;
And, thirty years of sin and suffering o'er,
Dame Dickson's weary head was laid at rest,
And Frank his freedom and her wealth possess'd-
His future fate may afterwards appear
Amidst the annals of some later year.
Register of Burials.--Andrew Darling.
THAT green sod covers Andrew Darling's head,
For whom no sigh was heav'd, no tear was shed;
His rich relations, in the parish round,
On him had, like his early fortunes, frown'd.
At school, it by the teacher was confess'd,
Of all his scholars, Andrew read the best;
On Ovid, Horace, and the Mantuan bard,
He ponder'd nightly, with a fond regard.
When call'd to join his father on the farm,
He thought with rapture on " each rural charm;"
But Andrew's father farm'd by other rules
Than Virgil's Georgics, and the classic schools:
Thus, sire and son opinion would divide,
And still with Andrew, Maro must decide;
Their wranglings oft to keen contention led;
But other whims soon fill'd the scholar's head.
He met Bell Modely at the village fair,
A sprightly damsel, with a jaunty air;
Her eyes were bright, good nature in her face,
Each motion easy, and she danced with grace;
Her slender ancle, in silk stocking neat,
As o'er the floor she tripp'd, with fairy feet,
With fascination fix'd the scholar's gaze,
As light she bounded through the mirthful maze.
With hinds and village-maids, of manners free,
Restraint was banish'd-all was jollity:
But Bell in modesty superior shone;
In dress and manners graceful, mov'd alone.
She was a wench of admiration vain,
Her pride, to have some danglers in her train;
The more the better, was her maxim still;
Her beauty lur'd them; and the maid had skill
To kindle hopes, and still preserve her heart;
The fire she felt not she could well impart,
For she could ogle, trifle, smile, and toy,
Now blushing fondness, next reserv'd and coy;
Could lure the bashful and restrain the bold,
And over both her sure dominion hold:
Such was the flirt, the gay, but cold coquette,
Who now had Andrew in her silken net.
He watch'd her motions-join'd her on the road,
While every nerve with tingling rapture glow'd;
And begg'd the happiness her steps to tend,
And see her safely to her journey's end.
With well-feign'd modesty, and virgin pride,
She long refus'd-reluctantly complied;
"Twas three long miles; he thought them scarcely one,
And deeply sigh'd to find his pleasure done.
How long they stood, while parting at the stile-.
How soft her blush-how sweet her dimpling smile,
He never told, and none was witness there;
Home he return'd-to dream, but not despair.
No longer now was lofty Virgil read-
Bell Modely, love, and Ovid fill'd his head;
And while behind the trenching plough he strode,
Romantic scenes and sunbright halos glow'd;
Above, around him, Fancy's magic wand
Led him in Love's delightful fairy land!
Still it was but the fever of the brain,
His heart, untouch'd, had never felt the pain.
Such is the passion love-sick boys affect;
The reins of Fancy laid on Folly's neck,
Away she canters, in a devious track,
The giddy boy light bounding on her back;
Till in the wild-goose chace, begun to tire,
She founder'd, falls, and flings him in the mire.
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