Rural Tales, Ballads, and Songs Part 4

_First Impressions_.

That Sensibility would bring to view, When Love he mention'd;---Love, and Honour true, But _Phoebe_ still was shy; and wish'd to know More of the honest Youth, whose manly brow She verily believ'd was Truth's own throne, And all his words as artless as her own; Most true she judg'd; yet, long the Youth forbore Divulging where, and how, he liv'd before; And seem'd to strive his History to hide, Till fair Esteem enlisted on his side.

The _Miller_ saw, and mention'd, in his prajse, The prompt fidelity of all his ways; Till in a vacant hour, the Dinner done, One day he jokjng cried, 'Come here, my Son!

'Tis pity that so good a Lad as you Beneath my roof should bring disorders new!

But here's my _Phoebe_,--once so light and airy, She'd trip along the pa.s.sage like a Fairy,--

_Enquiry. Ingenuous Explanation_.

Has lost her swiftness quite, since here you came:-- And yet;... I can't perceive the Girl is lame!

The obstacles she meets with still fall thicker: Old as I am I'd turn a corner quicker.'-- The _Youth_ blush'd deep; and _Phoebe_ hung her head: The _good Man_ smil'd, and thus again he said:

'Not that I deem it matter of surprise, That you should love to gaze at _Phoebe's_ eyes; But be explicit, Boy; and deal with honour: I feel my happiness depend upon her.

When here you came you'd sorrow on your brow; And I've forborne to question you till now.

First, then, say what thou art.' He instant bow'd, And thus, in _Phoebe's_ hearing, spoke aloud:

'Thus far experienc'd, Sir, in you I find All that is generous, fatherly, and kind; And while you look for proofs of real worth, You'll not regard the meanness of my birth.

_The little History_.

When, pennyless and sad, you met with me, I'd just escap'd the dangers of the Sea; Resolv'd to try my fortune on the sh.o.r.e: To get my bread; and trust the waves no more.

Having no Home, nor Parents, left behind, I'd all my fortune, all my Friends, to find.

Keen disappointment wounded me that morn: For, trav'ling near the spot where I was born, I at the well-known door where I was bred, Inquir'd who still was living, who was dead: But first, and most, I sought with anxious fear Tidings to gain of her who once was dear; A Girl, with all the meekness of the dove, The constant sharer of my childhood's love; She call'd me _Brother_:--which I heard with pride, Though now suspect we are not so allied.

Thus much I learnt; (no more the churls would say;) She went to service, and she ran away.

_The Recognition_.

'And scandal added'----'Hold!' the _Miller_ cried, And, in an instant, stood at _Phoebe's_ side; For he observed, while list'ning to the tale, Her spirits faulter'd, and her cheeks turn'd pale; Whilst her clasp'd hands descended to her knee She sinking whisper'd forth, 'O _G.o.d_, 'tis _he_!

The good Man, though he guess'd the pleasing truth, Was far too busy to inform the Youth; But stirr'd himself amain to aid his Wife, Who soon restor'd the trembler back to life.

Awhile insensible she still appear'd; But, '_O my Brother!_' was distinctly heard: The astonisht Youth now held her to his breast; And tears and kisses soon explain'd the rest.

Past deeds now from each tongue alternate fell; For news of dearest import both could tell.

Fondly, from childhood's tears to youth's full prime, They match'd the incidents of jogging time;

_ Mutual Recollections_.

And prov'd, that when with Tyranny opprest, Poor _Phoebe_ groan'd with wounds and broken rest, _George_ felt no less: was hara.s.sed and forlorn; A rope's-end follow'd him both night and morn.

Andin that very storm when _Phoebe_ fled, When the rain drench'd her yet unshelter'd head; That very Storm he on the Ocean brav'd, The Vessel founder'd, and the Boy was say'd!

Mysterious Heaven!--and O with what delight-- She told the happy issue of her flight: To his charm'd heart a living picture drew; And gave to hospitality its due!

The list'ning Host observ'd the gentle Pair; And ponder'd on the means that brought them there: Convinc'd, while unimpeach'd their Virtue stood, Twas _Heav'n's_ high Will that he should do them good.

But now the anxious Dame, impatient grown, Demanded what the Youth had heard, or known,

_The Investigation_.

Whereon to ground those doubts but just exprest;-- Doubts, which must interest the feeling breast: 'Her Brother wert thou, George?--how; prithee say: Canst thou forego, or cast that name away?'

'No living proofs have I,' the Youth reply'd, That we by closest ties are not allied; But in my memory live, and ever will, A mother's dying words......I hear them still: She said, to one who watch'd her parting breath, "Don't separate the Children at my death; They're not both mine: but--" Here the scene was clos'd; She died, and left us helpless and expos'd; Nor Time hath thrown, nor Reason's opening power, One friendly ray on that benighted hour.'

Ne'er did the Chieftains of a Warring State Hear from the _Oracle_ their half-told fate With more religious fear, or more suspense, Than _Phoebe_ now endur'd:--for every sense

_The Perplexity_.

Became absorb'd in this unwelcome theme; Nay every meditation, every dream, Th'inexplicable sentence held to view, 'They're not both mine,' was every morning new: For, till this hour, the Maid had never prov'd How far she was enthrall'd, how much she lov'd: In that fond character he first appear'd; His kindness charm'd her, and his smiles endear'd: This dubious mystery the pa.s.sion crost; Her peace was wounded, and her Lover lost.

For _George_, with all his resolution strove To check the progress of his growing love; Or, if he e'er indulg'd a tender kiss, Th'unravell'd secret robb'd him of his bliss.

Health's foe, Suspense, so irksome to be borne, An ever-piercing and retreating thorn, Hung on their Hearts, when Nature bade them rise, And stole Content's bright ensign from their eyes.

_Anxiety. The Enquiry suggested_.

The good folks saw the change, and griev'd to find These troubles labouring in _Phoebe's_ mind; They lov'd them both; and with one voice propos'd The only means whence _Truth_ might be disclos'd; That, when the Summer Months should shrink the rill, And scarce its languid stream would turn the Mill, When the Spring broods, and Pigs, and Lambs were rear'd, (A time when _George_ and _Phoebe_ might be spar'd,) Their birth-place they should visit once again, To try with joint endeavours to obtain From Record, or Tradition, what might be To chain, or set their chain'd affections free: Affinity beyond all doubts to prove; Or clear the road for Nature and for Love.

Never, till now, did PHOEBE count the hours, Or think _May_ long, or wish away its flowers; With mutual sighs both fann'd the wings of Time; As we climb Hills and gladden as we climb,

_Eager Expectation_.

And reach at last the distant promis'd seat, Casting the glowing landscape at our feet Oft had the Morning Rose with dew been wet, And oft the journeying Sun in glory set, Beyond the willow'd meads of vigorous gra.s.s, The steep green hill, and woods they were to pa.s.s; When now: the day arriv'd: Impatience reign'd; And GEORGE,--by trifling obstacles detain'd-- His bending Blackthorn on the threshold prest, Survey'd the windward clouds, and hop'd the best.

PHOEBE, attir'd with every modest grace, While Health and Beauty revell'd in her face, Came forth; but soon evinc'd an absent mind, For, back she turn'd for something left behind; Again the same, till George grew tir'd of home, And peevishly exclaim'd, _'Come, Phoebe, come.'_ Another hindrance yet he had to feel: As from the door they tripp'd with nimble heel,

_The Old Soldier_.

A poor old Man, foot-founder'd and alone, Thus urgent spoke, in Trouble's genuine tone: 'My pretty Maid, if happiness you seek, May disappointment never fade your cheek!-- Your's be the joy;--yet, feel another's woe; O leave some little, gift before you go.'

His words struck home; and back she turn'd again, (The ready friend of indigence and pain,) To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame; And close behind her, lo, the _Miller_, came, With Jug in hand, and cried, 'GEORGE, why such haste?

Here, take a draught; and let that _Soldier_ taste.'

'Thanks for your bounty, Sir,' the _Veteran_ said; Threw down his Wallet, and made bare his head; And straight began, though mix'd with doubts and fears, Th' unprefac'd History of his latter years, 'I cross'd th' _Atlantic_ with our Regiment, brave, Where Sickness sweeps whole Regiments to the grave;

_The Surprise_.

Yet I've escap'd; and bear my arms no more; My age discharg'd me when I came on sh.o.r.e.

My Wife, I've heard,'--and here he wip'd his eyes,--- 'In the cold corner of the Church-yard lies.

By her consent it was I left my home: Employment fail'd, and poverty waa come; The Bounty tempted me;--she had it all: We parted; and I've seen my betters fall.

Yet, as I'm spar'd, though in this piteous case, I'm tray'ling homeward to my native place; Though should I reach that dear remember'd spot, Perhaps OLD GRAINGER will be quite forgot.'

All eyes beheld young _George_ with wonder start: Strong were the secret bodings of his heart; Yet not indulg'd: for he with doubts survey'd By turns the Stranger, and the lovely Maid.

'Had you no Children?'--'Yes, young Man; I'd two: A _Boy_, if still he lives, as old as you:

_The Discovery_.

Yet not my own; but likely so to prove; Though but the pledge of an unlawful Love: I cherish'd him, to hide a _Sister's_ shame: He shar'd my best affections, and my name.

But why, young folks, should I detain you here?

Go; and may blessings wait upon your cheer: I too will travel on;--perhaps to find The only treasure that I left behind.

Such kindly thoughts my fainting hopes revive!-- _Phoebe_, my Cherub, ART _thou_ still alive?'

Could Nature hold!--Could youthful Love forbear!

_George_ clasp'd the wond'ring _Maid_, and whisper'd, '_There_!

_You're mine for, ever_!--O, sustain the rest; And hush the tumult of your throbbing breast.'

Then to the _Soldier_ turn'd, with manly pride, And fondly led his long-intended _Bride_: 'Here see your _Child_; nor wish a sweeter flow'r.

'Tis _George_ that speaks; thou'lt bless the happy hour!--

_The Bliss of disinterested Benevolence_.

Nay, be compos'd; for all will yet be well, Though here our history's too long to tell'--