It was observed his words were not so strong,
His tones so powerful, his harangues so long,
As in old times-for he would often drop
The lofty look, and of a sudden stop;

Now he could feel it cruel that a heart

Should be distress'd, and none to take its part

"Though one by one," said Pride, "I would defy Much greater men, yet meeting every eye,

When conscience whisper'd, that he once was still, I do confess a fear; but he will pass me by."

And let the wicked triumph at their will;

And therefore now, when not a foe was near,

He had no right so valiant to appear.

Vain hope! the justice saw the foe's distress, With exultation he could not suppress;

He felt the fish was hook'd, and so forbore,

Some years had pass'd, and he perceived his fears In playful spite, to draw it to the shore.

Yield to the spirit of his earlier years-
When at a meeting, with his friends beside,
He saw an object that awaked his pride;

His shame, wrath, vengeance, indignation—all
Man's harsher feelings did that sight recall.

For lo beneath him fix'd, our man of law
That lawless man, the foe of order, saw:

Hammond look'd round again; but none were near,
With friendly smile, to still his growing fear;
But all above him seem'd a solemn row
Of priests and deacons, so they seem'd below;
He wonder'd who his right-hand man might be -
Vicar of Holt cum Uppingham was he;
And who the man of that dark frown possess'd-

Once fear'd, now scorn'd; once dreaded, now ab- Rector of Bradley and of Barton-west;

horr'd:

A wordy man, and evil every word:
Again he gazed-"It is," said he, "the same;
Caught and secure his master owes him shame:"
So thought our hero, who each instant found
His courage rising, from the numbers round.
As when a felon has escaped and fled,
So long, that law conceives the culprit dead;
And back recall'd her myrmidons, intent
On some new game, and with a stronger scent;
Till she beholds him in a place, where none
Could have conceived the culprit would have

gone;

There he sits upright in his seat, secure,
As one whose conscience is correct and pure;
This rouses anger for the old offence,
And scorn for all such seeming and pretence;
So on this Hammond look'd our hero bold,
Remembering well that vile offence of old,
And now he saw the rebel dared t' intrude
Among the pure, the loyal, and the good:

A pluralist," he growl'd-but check'd the word,
That wariare might not, by his zeal, be stirr'd.
But now began the man above to show
Fierce looks and threatenings to the man below;
Who had some thoughts his peace by flight to seck-
But how then lecture, if he dared not speak!-
Now as the justice for the war prepared,
He seem'd just then to question if he dared:
"He may resist, although his power be small,
And growing desperate may defy us all;
One dog attack, and he prepares for flight-
Resist another, and he strives to bite;
Nor can I say, if this rebellious cur
Will fly for safety, or will scorn to stir."
Alarm'd by this, he lash'd his soul to rage,
Burn'd with strong shame, and hurried to engage.
As a male turkey struggling on the green,
When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen,
He feels the insult of the noisy train,

And skulks aside, though moved by much disdain
But when that turkey, at his own barn-door,

The crime provoked his wrath, the folly stirr'd his Sees one poor straying puppy, and no more,

blood:

Nor wonder was it if so strange a sight
Caused joy with vengeance, terror with delight;
Terror like this a tiger might create,
A joy like that to see his captive state.

At once to know his force and then decree his fate.
Hammond, much praised by numerous friends,

was come

To read his lectures, so admired at home;
Historic lectures, where he loved to mix
His free plain hints on modern politics:
Here, he had heard, that numbers had design,
Their business finish'd, to sit down and dine;
This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right
To show by day, that he could speak at night.
Rash the design-for he perceived, too late,
Not one approving friend beside him sate;
The greater number whom he traced around
Were men in black, and he conceived they frown'd.
"I will not speak," he thought; "no pearls of mine
Shall be presented to this herd of swine!"
Not this avail'd him, when he cast his eye
On Justice Bolt; he could not fight, nor fly:
He saw a man to whom he gave the pain,
Which now he felt must be returned again;
His conscience told him with what keen delight
He, at that time, enjoy'd a stranger's fright;
That stranger now befriended-he alone,
For all his insult, friendless, to atone;

(A foolish puppy who had left the pack,
Thoughtless what foe was threatening at his back,
He moves about, as ship prepared to sail,
He hoists his proud rotundity of tail,
The half-seal'd eyes and changeful neck he shows,
Where in its quickening colours, vengeance glows,
From red to blue the pendent wattles turn,
Blue mix'd with red, as matches when they burn;
And thus th' intruding snarler to oppose,
Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes.
So look'd our hero in his wrath, his cheeks
Flush'd with fresh fires and glow'd in tingling
streaks;

His breath by passion's force a while restrain'd,
Like a stopp'd current, greater force regain'd
So spoke, so look'd he, every eye and ear
Were fix'd to view him, or were turn'd to hear.
"My friends, you know me, you can witness all
How, urged by passion, I restrain my gall;
And every motive to revenge withstand-
Save when I hear abused my native land.

"Is it not known, agreed, confirm'd, confess'd,
That of all people we are govern'd best?
We have the force of monarchies; are free,
As the most proud republicans can be;
And have those prudent counsels that arise
In grave and cautious aristocracies;
And live there those, in such all-glorious state,
Traitors protected in the land they hate?

Rebels, still warring with the laws that give
To them subsistence ?-Yes, such wretches live.
"Ours is a church reform'd, and now no more
Is aught for man to mend or to restore;
'Tis pure in doctrines, 'tis correct in creeds,
Has naught redundant, and it nothing needs;
No evil is therein-no wrinkle, spot,
Stain, blame, or blemish :-I affirm there's not.
"All this you know-now mark what once be-
fell,

With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell ;
I was entrapp'd-yes, so it came to pass,
'Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class;
Each to his country bore a hellish mind,

Each like his neighbour was of cursed kind;

The land that nursed them they blasphemed; the laws,

Their sovereign's glory, and their country's cause; And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and who

Rebellion's oracle?-You, caitiff, you!"

He spoke, and standing stretch'd his mighty armı,
And fix'd the man of words, as by a charm.
"How raved that railer! Sure some hellish
power

Restrain'd my tongue in that delirious hour,
Or I had hurl'd the shame and vengeance due
On him, the guide of that infuriate crew;
But to mine eyes such dreadful looks appear'd,
Such mingled yell of lying words I heard,
That I conceived around were demons all,
And till I fled the house, I fear'd its fall.

"O! could our country from her coasts expel
Such foes! to nourish those who wish her well:
This her mild laws forbid, but we may still
From us eject them by our sovereign will;
This let us do."-He said, and then began
A gentler feeling for the silent man;
E'en in our hero's mighty soul arose
A touch of pity for experienced woes,
But this was transient, and with angry eye
He sternly look'd, and paused for a reply.
"Twas then the man of many words would
speak-

But, in his trial, had them all to seek :

To find a friend he look'd the circle round,
But joy or scorn in every feature found;
He sipp'd his wine, but in those times of dread
Wine only adds confusion to the head;
In doubt he reason'd with himself-" And how
Harangue at night, if I be silent now?
From pride and praise received, he sought to draw
Courage to speak, but still remain'd the awe;
One moment rose he with a forced disdain,
And then abash'd sunk sadly down again;
While in our hero's glance he seem'd to read,
"Slave and insurgent! what hast thou to plead ?"
By desperation urged, he now began:
"I seek no favour-I-the Rights of Man!
Claim; and I-nay!—but give me leave-and-1.
insist-a man-that is-and in reply,

I speak."-Alas, each new attempt was vain:
Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again;
At length he growl'd defiance, sought the door,
Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more.
"Laud we," said Justice Bolt, the Powers
above;

Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove."

I did not take my leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him
How I would think of him, at certain hours,
Such thoughts and such ;-or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words-comes in my father-
Cymbeline, act i. sc. 4

Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,
And careful hours with Time's deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures o'er my face.
Comedy of Errors, act v. sc. 1.
O! if thou be the same Egean, speak,
And speak unto the same Emilia.

Ibid. act v. 5

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days
To the very moment that she bade me tell it:
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
Of being taken by th' insolent foe
And sold to slavery.

Othello, act i. sc. 3

An old man, broken with the storms of fate,
Is come to lay his weary bones among you;
Give him a little earth for charity.

Henry VIII. act iv. sc. 2

MINUTELY trace man's life; year after year
Through all his days let all his deeds appear,
And then, though some may in that life be strange,
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change:
The links that bind those various deeds are seen,
And no mysterious void is left between.

But let these binding links be all destroy'd
All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd;
Let that vast gap be made, and then behold-
This was the youth, and he is thus when old;
Then we at once the work of time survey,
And in an instant see a life's decay;
Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise,
And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.
Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair-
A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,
Watching his looks with kind and pensive air
No wife, nor sister she, nor is the name
Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same;
Yet so allied are they, that few can feel
Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal,
Their years and woes, although they long have
loved,

Keep their good name and conduct unreproved

They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and From her would seamen in the evening come,

Forget her spleen, and in my place appear;
Her love to me will make my Judith dear:
Oft I shall think, (such comfort lovers seek,)
Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
Then write on all occasions, always dwell
On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well,
And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style."
She answer'd "No," but answer'd with a smile.
And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime,
When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance
To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,
When every lad would on my lass attend,
Choose not a smooth designer for a friend :
That fawning Philip!-nay, be not severe,
A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear."

Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory :-" Man! what cheer?"
A sailor cried; "art thou at anchor here?"
Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face :
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought
Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd :
The Booths! yet live they?" pausing and op
press'd;

Then spake again ;-"Is there no ancient man,
David his name?-assist me if you can.-
Flemmings there were-and Judith, doth she

live?"

Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!-it soon was full in sight;-
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night-Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
For, see his friends come hastening to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach :
"Adieu-farewell-remember!"—and what more
Affection taught was utter'd from the shore!
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart!
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still the dashing oar to trace,
'Till all were silent!-for the youth she pray'd,
And softly then return'd the weeping maid.
They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled;

The woman gazed, nor could an answer give;
Yet wondering stood, and all were silent by,

The woman musing said," She knew full well
Where the old people came at last to dwell;
They had a married daughter and a son,
But they were dead, and now remain'd not one."
'Yes," said an elder, who had paused intent
On days long pass'd, "there was a sad event;—
One of these Booths-it was my mother's tale-
Here left his lass, I know not where to sail :
She saw their parting, and observed the pain
But never came th' unhappy man again."
"The ship was captured," Allen meekly said,
'And what became of the forsaken maid?"

But when return'd the youth ?-the youth no The woman answer'd: “I remember now,

more

Return'd exulting to his native shore;

But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man, with wither'd limbs and lame,
His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age
his frame:

Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,

She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
And of her lover's loss, and I have seen
The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been.
Yet in her grief she married, and was made
Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,
And early buried: but I know no more.
And hark! our friends are hastening to the shore.'
Allen soon found a lodging in the town.

Willing his breathless form should blend with kin- | And walk'd, a man unnoticed, up and down.

dred clay.

In an autumnal eve he left the beach,

In such an eve he chanced the port to reach
He was alone; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many a year, his mind
Turn'd mournful back, half-sinking, half-resign'd.
No one was present; of its crew bereft.
A single boat was in the billows left;
Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away:

O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,
The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down :
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite.
"There," he observed, and new emotions felt.
"Was my first home; and yonder Judith dwelt:
Dead! dead are all! I long-I fear to know,"
He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:

This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face
He sometimes could among a number trace:
Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,
But of no favourites, and the rest were new;
A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,
Was reckon'd boundless.-Could he living be?
Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business and a fortune fair.
No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,
With crutches went to take her dole of bread.
There was a friend whom he had left a boy
With hope to sail the master of a hoy,

Him, after many a stormy day, he found
With his great wish, his life's whole purpose
crown'd.

"

This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face
'Yours is, my friend," said he, "a woful case;
We cannot all succeed; I now command
The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;
But when we meet you shall your story tell
Of foreign parts-I bid you now farewell!"
Allen so long had left his native shore,
He saw but few whom he had seen before;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd.

-

The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
He dwelt among us in his early years;
We see the name engraved upon the stones,
Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones."
Thus where he lived and loved-unhappy change!
He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.
But now a widow, in a village near,
Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;
Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came
Some strong emotions at the well-known name;
He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;

Then was she wedded, of his death assured,
And much of misery in her lot endured;

My good adviser taught me to be still,
Nor to make converts had I power or will.
I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,
And never mention'd Luther in my life;
I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd
And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd ·
Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,
And was a most obedient Catholic.

But I had money, and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound:
A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
Could not have read a more pernicious work
To me pernicious, who if it were good
Or evil question'd not, nor understood:

Her husband died; her children sought their bread O! had I little but the book possess'd,

In various places, and to her were dead.
The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,
Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage:
Each had immediate confidence; a friend

Both now beheld, on whom they might depend :
Now is there one to whom I can express

46

I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest."
Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seen
Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been:
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown
Are in an instant through the varnish shown.
He told their cruel mercy; how at last,
In Christian kindness for the merits past,
They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly
Or for his crime and contumacy die;

My nature's weakness and my soul's distress."
Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart-
"Let me not lose thee-never let us part:
So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,
It is not all distress to think and live."
Thus Allen spoke-for time had not removed
The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved;
Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,
Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.
To her, to her alone, his various fate,
At various times, 'tis comfort to relate:
And yet his sorrow-she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear.
First he related how he left the shore,
Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more:
Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed course,
They met and yielded to the Spanish force;
Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas they bore their prey,
Who grieving landed from their sultry bay;
And marching many a burning league, he found
Himself a slave upon a miner's ground:
There a good priest his native language spoke,
And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke;
Kindly advanced him in his master's grace,
And he was station'd in an easier place:
There, hopeless ever to escape the land,
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand;
In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day
He saw his happy infants round him play;
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries;
E'en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,
But his fond Isabel demanded, "Why?"
Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,
And wept in pity for the English maid:
Thus twenty years were pass'd, and pass'd his views
Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose :
His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint
"His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;
Make all his children infidels, and found
An English heresy on Christian ground."
"Whilst I was poor," said Allen, "none would Of my best life-unhand me-are ye men ?"

Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight:
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his
flight.

care

What my poor notions of religion were,

He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay:
There in the woods he wrought, and there, among
Some labouring seamen, heard his native tongue :
The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain
With joyful force; he long'd to hear again:
Again he heard; he seized an offer d hand,
"And when beheld you last our native land?"
He cried, "and in what country? quickly say"—
The seamen answer'd-strangers all were they;
One only at his native port had been;
He, landing once, the quay and church had seen,
For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew.
Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,
Sail where they sail'd, and many a' peril past,
They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast;
But him they found not, nor could one relate
Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate
This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd
For England's coast, again his fate prevail'd:
War raged, and he, an active man and strong,
Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.
By various shores he pass d, on various seas,
Never so happy as when void of ease.—
And then he told how in a calm distress'd,
Day after day, his soul was sick of rest;
When, as a log upon the deep they stood,
Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;
Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas
Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the

trees:

He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:-"There stand
My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land;
See! there my dwelling-O! delicious scene

And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.

None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I pray'd, He told of bloody fights, and how at length The rage of battle gave his spirit strength;

If due obedience to the laws were paid