CIV. Even as a father or some tender friend, CV. Poor bird! thou art infected-'tis too late To fly; Love's net has tangled thy sweet wings. Thou hast beheld thy last of happy springs. CVI. His name is "writ in water*;" but some hearts Is flung upon his dust-shall Keats's fame Be coupled thus with Wordsworth's slander'd name ? * Keats, on being asked, a short time before his death, what should be his epitaph, replied: "Here lies one whose name was written in water.' CVII. But for sweet Blanch-Sir Lonvil's tone and looks With love, though scarcely to herself confest; Poor little girl! alas, she had no sister To whom her secret grief she might reveal; No mother, whose mild counsel might assist her— Her pangs in secret was she doom'd to feel; And now Sir Lonvil's looks, when'er he kiss'd her (Which was but seldom) pierc'd her heart like steel, They were so cold-for he was not so stupid, As to o'erlook this handy-work of Cupid. CIX. Therefore from dangerous talk did he refrain, For good Sir Lonvil had a tender heart ; CX. O Reader! was it e'er thy sad mischance To be belov'd, when thou no more wast freeTo shrink and quail at Beauty's brightest glance, Because 'twas brightest when it beam'd on theeTo check each kinder look, each meek advance Of timorous love, with coldest courtesyYet feel how deep that barbed coldness went? And she so youthful and so innocent! CXI. If such should ever be thy hapless lot, I charge thee from her presence quickly fly; Begone, while yet there's time, and linger not To feed the passion of her ear and eye— Haply, when absent, thou shalt be forgot; But if, to glut thy heartless vanity, Thou triflest with her love-by Heaven, I vow, CXII. 'Tis hard, no doubt, to say farewell for ever, To one who loves you, though you love not her,'Tis hard your wandering eyes from her's to sever: But curb your inclinations, or you'll err. The following couplet is profound and clever, (Your Poet's still the best Philosopher) Καὶ μὴ δοκῶμεν, δρῶντες ἃ ἂν ἡδώμεθα, CXIII. These lines are taken out of Sophocles*, Be not alarm'd, fair ladies; all that's meant Is, that if once you do whate'er you please, You're sure to have good reason to repent. For fear some honest Grecian should invent But to proceed. When Blanch's father knew The love his daughter to Sir Lonvil bore, (Though sore her strife to hide from outward view The wound that rankled at her young heart's core) Pale, on a sudden, and enraged he grew, And angrily he bade her seek no more The orchard-cottage, and in secret curst Sir Lonvil, and the hour he came there first. * Ajax, 1085-5. CXV. So, the poor maiden, to her thoughts confined, And those who look'd into her eyes might guess Her days on earth were number'd ;-thus she waned To death, yet never, save with tears, complain'd. CXVI. And every day her wasted cheek grew paler, And her light footstep was no more the same. CXVII. As for Sir Lonvil, he was glad to see That she return'd no more,-he felt 'twas wise; Though he oft miss'd her gentle company, And now would sometimes think of her with sighs, Recalling to his wakeful memory Her voice so touching, and her love-sick eyes; And yet Sir Lonvil still was fancy-free, Which really is most wonderful to me. CXVIII. Meanwhile, Sir Lonvil's purse began to dwindle The Fates for him had turn'd their darkest spindle; Was spent, and he was fairly in distress, CXIX. The country-people, when his bounties ceas'd' Gave to their fancies and their tongues full scope. 'Twas said, that all his demons were released By a new bull just issued by the Pope; And next, 'twas clearly proved, beyond denial, The devil was come to take him off to trial. , CXX. 'Twas thought a shame that he'd been thus permitted To deal, as he'd long dealt, in charms and spells, By which so many tradesmen he'd outwitted, Enough to doom him to ten thousand hells; Then poor Miss Blanch was sadly to be pitied; You know she was the pink of country belles, Till he bewitch'd her with his cursed magic ;'Twas fear'd her end would be extremely tragic. CXXI. The rumour of Sir Lonvil's ruin spread, Like wildfire, through the town, and young and old Supp'd upon scandal till they surfeited; But when to Blanch the heavy news was told By some kind gossip, she uprais'd her head, CXXII. And she, as she well knew, had gold, and land, To Death in marriage now was given away; |