Visigothic Chronicle

The is the first English translation of the Spanish historian, John of

Biclaro, who wrote about the various sovereign poweres who ruled in
Spain during the 6th century. Among those mentioned as the kings at
the Visigothic court, which was in uphea

Author: D.P. Curtin

ISBN: 1230006756161
Category: Philosophy
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Language: English
Publisher: Dalcassian Publishing Company
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.
The tyrant’s power who fill’d your soul with
dread?”— }
“But,” said the smiling friend, “he fill’d my mouth with
bread; }250
And in what other place that bread to gain
We long consider’d, and we sought in vain.
This was my twentieth year—at thirty-five
Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive;
So many years in anxious doubt had pass’d.”—
“Then,” said the damsel, “you were bless’d at last?”
A smile again adorn’d the widow’s face,
But soon a starting tear usurp’d its place.—
“Slow pass’d the heavy years, and each had more
Pains and vexations than the years before. 260
My father fail’d; his family was rent,
And to new states his grieving daughters sent;
Each to more thriving kindred found a way,
Guests without welcome—servants without pay;
Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel
The sad, sweet converse at our final meal:
Our father then reveal’d his former fears,
Cause of his sternness, and then join’d our tears;
Kindly he strove our feelings to repress,
But died, and left us heirs to his distress. 270
The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose;
I with a wealthy widow sought repose;
Who with a chilling frown her friend received,
Bade me rejoice, and wonder’d that I grieved:
In vain my anxious lover tried his skill
To rise in life, he was dependent still;
We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears
Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years:
Our dying hopes and stronger fears between,
We felt no season peaceful or serene; 280
Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night,
Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light;
And then domestic sorrows, till the mind,
Worn with distresses, to despair inclined;
Add too the ill that from the passion flows,
When its contemptuous frown the world bestows—
The peevish spirit caused by long delay,
When being gloomy we contemn the gay,
When, being wretched, we incline to hate
And censure others in a happier state; 290
Yet loving still, and still compell’d to move
In the sad labyrinth of ling’ring love:
While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm,
May wed—oh! take the farmer and the farm.”
“Nay,” said the nymph, “joy smiled on you at last!”
“Smiled for a moment,” she replied, “and pass’d:
My lover still the same dull means pursued,
Assistant call’d, but kept in servitude;
His spirits wearied in the prime of life,
By fears and wishes in eternal strife; 300
At length he urged impatient—‘Now consent;
With thee united, fortune may relent.’
I paused, consenting; but a friend arose,
Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose;
From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam
Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream;
By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired,
And sail’d—was wounded—reach’d us—and expired!
You shall behold his grave, and, when I die,
There—but ’tis folly—I request to lie.” 310
“Thus,” said the lass, “to joy you bade adieu!
But how a widow?—that cannot be true;
Or was it force, in some unhappy hour,
That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant’s power?”
“Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled,
Is what a woman seldom has to dread;
She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls,
And seldom comes a lover, though she calls.
Yet moved by fancy, one approved my face,
Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace.
320
“The man I married was sedate and meek,
And spoke of love as men in earnest speak;
Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought, for years,
A heart in sorrow and a face in tears;
That heart I gave not; and ’twas long before
I gave attention, and then nothing more;
But in my breast some grateful feeling rose
For one whose love so sad a subject chose;
Till long delaying, fearing to repent,
But grateful still, I gave a cold assent. 330
“Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find,
And he but one; my heart could not be kind:
Alas! of every early hope bereft,
There was no fondness in my bosom left;
So had I told him, but had told in vain,
He lived but to indulge me and complain.
His was this cottage, he inclosed this ground,
And planted all these blooming shrubs around;
He to my room these curious trifles brought,
And with assiduous love my pleasure sought; 340
He lived to please me, and I oft-times strove
Smiling, to thank his unrequited love;
‘Teach me,’ he cried, ‘that pensive mind to ease,
For all my pleasure is the hope to please.’
“Serene, though heavy, were the days we spent,
Yet kind each word, and gen’rous each intent;
But his dejection lessen’d every day,
And to a placid kindness died away.
In tranquil ease we pass’d our latter years,
By griefs untroubl’d, unassail’d by fears. 350
“Let not romantic views your bosom sway,
Yield to your duties, and their call obey:
Fly not a youth, frank, honest, and sincere;
Observe his merits, and his passion hear!
’Tis true, no hero, but a farmer sues—
Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views;
With him you cannot that affliction prove,
That rends the bosom of the poor in love;
Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days,
Your friends’ approval, and your father’s praise, 360
Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate
Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late.”
The damsel heard; at first th’ advice was strange,
Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change.
“I have no care,” she said, when next they met,
“But one may wonder he is silent yet;
He looks around him with his usual stare,
And utters nothing—not that I shall care.”
This pettish humour pleased th’ experienced friend—
None need despair, whose silence can offend; 370
“Should I,” resumed the thoughtful lass, “consent
To hear the man, the man may now repent.
Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough,
Or give one hint, that ‘You may woo me now?’”
“Persist, my love,” replied the friend, “and gain
A parent’s praise, that cannot be in vain.”
The father saw the change, but not the cause,
And gave the alter’d maid his fond applause.
The coarser manners she in part removed,
In part endured, improving and improved; 380
She spoke of household works, she rose betimes,
And said neglect and indolence were crimes;
The various duties of their life she weigh’d,
And strict attention to her dairy paid;
The names of servants now familiar grew,
And fair Lucinda’s from her mind withdrew.
As prudent travellers for their ease assume
Their modes and language to whose lands they come:
So to the farmer this fair lass inclined,
Gave to the business of the farm her mind; 390
To useful arts she turn’d her hand and eye;
And by her manners told him—“You may try.”
Th’ observing lover more attention paid,
With growing pleasure, to the alter’d maid;
He fear’d to lose her, and began to see
That a slim beauty might a helpmate be;
’Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address’d,
And in his Sunday robe his love express’d.
She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy,
Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; 400
But still she lent an unreluctant ear
To all the rural business of the year;
Till love’s strong hopes endured no more delay,
And Harry ask’d, and Nancy named the day.
“A happy change! my boy,” the father cried:
“How lost your sister all her school-day pride?”
The youth replied, “It is the widow’s deed:
The cure is perfect, and was wrought with speed.”—
“And comes there, boy, this benefit of books,
Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks? 410
We must be kind—some offerings from the farm
To the white cot will speak our feelings warm;
Will show that people, when they know the fact,
Where they have judged severely, can retract.
Oft have I smil’d, when I beheld her pass
With cautious step, as if she hurt the grass;
Where if a snail’s retreat she chanced to storm,
She look’d as begging pardon of the worm;
And what, said I, still laughing at the view,
Have these weak creatures in the world to do? 420
But some are made for action, some to
speak; }
And, while she looks so pitiful and
meek, }
Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.”
}
Soon told the village-bells the rite was done,
That join’d the school-bred miss and farmer’s son;
Her former habits some slight scandal raised,
But real worth was soon perceived and praised;
She, her neat taste imparted to the farm,
And he, th’ improving skill and vigorous arm.
 TALE VIII.

THE MOTHER.
What though you have beauty,
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
As You Like It, Act III. Scene 5.

I would not marry her, though she were endow’d with all
that Adam had left him before he transgress’d.
Much Ado about Nothing, Act II. Scene 1.

Wilt thou love such a woman? What! to make thee an

instrument, and play false strains upon thee!—Not to be endured.
As You Like It, Act IV. Scene 3.

Your son,
As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know
Her estimation [home].
All’s Well that Ends Well, Act V, Scene 3.

He [lost] a wife
...whose words all ears took captive,
Whose dear perfection, hearts that scorn’d to serve
Humbly call’d mistress....
Be this sweet Helen’s knell.
All’s Well that Ends Well, Act V. Scene 3.

TALE VIII.
THE MOTHER.
There was a worthy, but a simple pair,
Who nursed a daughter, fairest of the fair.
Sons they had lost, and she alone remain’d,
Heir to the kindness they had all obtain’d;
Heir to the fortune they design’d for all,
Nor had th’ allotted portion then been small;
But now, by fate enrich’d with beauty rare,
They watch’d their treasure with peculiar care.
The fairest features they could early trace, }
And, blind with love, saw merit in her face— }10
Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace; }
And Dorothea, from her infant years,
Gain’d all her wishes from their pride or fears;
She wrote a billet, and a novel read,
And with her fame her vanity was fed;
Each word, each look, each action was a cause
For flattering wonder, and for fond applause;
She rode or danced, and ever glanced around,
Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found.
The yielding pair to her petitions gave 20
An humble friend to be a civil slave;
Who for a poor support herself resign’d
To the base toil of a dependent mind.
By nature cold, our heiress stoop’d to art,
To gain the credit of a tender heart;
Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand,
To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand.
And now, her education all complete,
She talk’d of virtuous love and union sweet;
She was indeed by no soft passion moved, 30
But wish’d, with all her soul, to be beloved.
Here on the favour’d beauty fortune smiled;
Her chosen husband was a man so mild,
So humbly temper’d, so intent to please, }
It quite distress’d her to remain at ease, }
Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease. }
She tried his patience in a thousand modes,
And tired it not upon the roughest roads.
Pleasure she sought, and, disappointed, sigh’d
For joys, she said, “to her alone denied;” 40
And she was “sure her parents, if alive,
Would many comforts for their child contrive.”
The gentle husband bade her name him one;—
“No—that,” she answer’d, “should for her be done;
How could she say what pleasures were around?
But she was certain many might be found.”—
“Would she some sea-port, Weymouth, Scarborough,
grace?”—
“He knew she hated every watering-place.”—
“The town?”—“What! now ’twas empty, joyless, dull?”
—“In winter?”—“No; she liked it worse when full.” 50
She talk’d of building—“Would she plan a room?”—
“No! she could live, as he desired, in gloom.”—
“Call then our friends and neighbours?”—“He might
call, }
And they might come and fill his ugly
hall; }
A noisy vulgar set, he knew she scorn’d them
all.”— }
“Then, might their two dear girls the time employ,
And their improvement yield a solid joy?”—
“Solid indeed! and heavy—oh! the bliss
Of teaching letters to a lisping Miss!”—
“My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say, 60
Can I oblige you?”—“You may go away.”
Twelve heavy years this patient soul
sustain’d }
This wasp’s attacks, and then her praise obtain’d,
}
Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace
remain’d. }
Two daughters wept their loss: the one a child
With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild,
Who keenly felt the mother’s angry taunt,
“Thou art the image of thy pious aunt.”
Long time had Lucy wept her slighted face,
And then began to smile at her disgrace. 70
Her father’s sister, who the world had seen
Near sixty years when Lucy saw sixteen,
Begg’d the plain girl: the gracious mother smiled,
And freely gave her grieved but passive child;
And with her elder-born, the [beauty-bless’d,]
This parent rested, if such minds can rest.
No miss her waxen babe could so admire,
Nurse with such care, or with such pride attire;
They were companions meet, with equal mind,
Bless’d with one love, and to one point inclined: 80
Beauty to keep, adorn, increase, and guard,
Was their sole care, and had its full reward.
In rising splendor with the one it
reign’d, }
And in the other was by care
sustain’d, }
The daughter’s charms increased, the parent’s yet
remain’d.— }
Leave we these ladies to their daily care,
To see how meekness and discretion fare.
A village maid, unvex’d by want or love,
Could not with more delight than Lucy move;
The village-lark, high mounted in the spring, 90
Could not with purer joy than Lucy sing;
Her cares all light, her pleasures all sincere,
Her duty joy, and her companion dear;
In tender friendship and in true respect
Lived aunt and niece, no flattery, no neglect—
They read, walk’d, visited—together pray’d,
Together slept the matron and the maid.
There was such goodness, such pure nature seen
In Lucy’s looks, a manner so serene;
Such harmony in motion, speech, and air, 100
That without fairness she was more than fair;
Had more than beauty in each speaking grace,
That lent their cloudless glory to the face;
Where mild good sense in placid looks were shown,
And felt in every bosom but her own.
The one presiding feature in her mind,
Was the pure meekness of a will resign’d;
A tender spirit, freed from all pretence
Of wit, and pleased in mild benevolence;
Bless’d in protecting fondness she reposed, 110
With every wish indulged though undisclosed;
But love, like zephyr on the limpid lake, }
Was now the bosom of the maid to shake, }
And in that gentle mind a gentle strife to make. }
Among their chosen friends, a favour’d few,
The aunt and niece a youthful rector knew;
Who, though a younger brother, might address
A younger sister, fearless of success.
His friends, a lofty race, their native pride
At first display’d, and their assent denied; 120
But, pleased such virtues and such love to trace,
They own’d she would adorn the loftiest race.
The aunt, a mother’s caution to supply,
Had watch’d the youthful priest with jealous eye;
And, anxious for her charge, had view’d unseen
The cautious life that keeps the conscience clean.
In all she found him all she wish’d to find,
With slight exception of a lofty mind:
A certain manner that express’d desire,
To be received as brother to the ’squire. 130
Lucy’s meek eye had beam’d with many a tear,
Lucy’s soft heart had beat with many a fear,
Before he told (although his looks, she thought,
Had oft confess’d) that he her favour sought;
But when he kneel’d, (she wish’d him not to kneel,)
And spoke the fears and hopes that lovers feel;
When too the prudent aunt herself confess’d,
Her wishes on the gentle youth would rest;
The maiden’s eye with tender passion beam’d,
She dwelt with fondness on the life she schemed—
140
The household cares, the soft and lasting ties
Of love, with all his binding charities;
Their village taught, consoled, assisted, fed,
Till the young zealot tears of pleasure shed.
But would her mother? Ah! she fear’d it wrong
To have indulged these forward hopes so long;
Her mother loved, but was not used to grant
Favours so freely as her gentle aunt.—
Her gentle aunt, with smiles that angels wear,
Dispell’d her Lucy’s apprehensive tear: 150
Her prudent foresight the request had made
To one whom none could govern, few persuade;
She doubted much if one in earnest woo’d
A girl with not a single charm endued;
The sister’s nobler views she then declared,
And what small sum for Lucy could be spared;
“If more than this the foolish priest requires,
Tell him,” she wrote, “to check his vain desires.”
At length, with many a cold expression mix’d,
With many a sneer on girls so fondly fix’d, 160
There came a promise—should they not
repent, }
But take with grateful minds the portion
meant, }
And wait the sister’s day—the mother might consent.
}
And here, might pitying hope o’er truth prevail,
Or love o’er fortune, we would end our tale:
For who more bless’d than youthful pair removed
From fear of want—by mutual friends approved—
Short time to wait, and in that time to live
With all the pleasures hope and fancy give;
Their equal passion raised on just esteem, 170
When reason sanctions all that love can dream?
Yes! reason sanctions what stern fate denies:
The early prospect in the glory dies,
As the soft smiles on dying infants play
In their mild features, and then pass away.
The beauty died, ere she could yield her hand
In the high marriage by the mother plann’d:
Who grieved indeed, but found a vast relief
In a cold heart, that ever warr’d with grief.
Lucy was present when her sister died, 180
Heiress to duties that she ill supplied:
There were no mutual feelings, sister arts,
No kindred taste, nor intercourse of hearts;
When in the mirror play’d the matron’s smile,
The maiden’s thoughts were travelling all the while;
And, when desired to speak, she sigh’d to find
Her pause offended:—“Envy made her blind;
Tasteless she was, nor had a claim in life
Above the station of a rector’s wife;
Yet as an heiress, she must shun disgrace, 190
Although no heiress to her mother’s face:
It is your duty,” said th’ imperious dame, }
“(Advanced your fortune) to advance your name, }
And with superior rank, superior offers claim. }
Your sister’s lover, when his sorrows die,
May look upon you, and for favour sigh;
Nor can you offer a reluctant hand;
His birth is noble, and his seat is grand.”
Alarm’d was Lucy, was in tears—“A fool!
Was she a child in love?—a miss at school? 200
Doubts any mortal, if a change of state
Dissolves all claims and ties of earlier date?”
The rector doubted, for he came to mourn
A sister dead, and with a wife return.
Lucy with heart unchanged received the youth,
True in herself, confiding in his truth;
But own’d her mother’s change: the haughty dame
Pour’d strong contempt upon the youthful flame;
She firmly vow’d her purpose to pursue,
Judged her own cause, and bade the youth adieu! 210
The lover begg’d, insisted, urged his pain;
His brother wrote to threaten and complain;
Her sister, reasoning, proved the promise made,
Lucy, appealing to a parent, pray’d;
But all opposed th’ event that she design’d,
And all in vain—she never changed her mind;
But coldly answer’d in her wonted way,
That she “would rule, and Lucy must obey.”
With peevish fear, she saw her health decline,
And cried, “Oh! monstrous, for a man to pine; 220
But if your foolish heart must yield to love,
Let him possess it whom I now approve;
This is my pleasure.”—Still the rector came
With larger offers and with bolder claim;
But the stern lady would attend no more—
She frown’d, and rudely pointed to the door;
Whate’er he wrote, he saw unread return’d,
And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn’d;
Nay, fix’d suspicion where he might confide,
And sacrificed his passion to his pride. 230
Lucy, meantime, though threaten’d and distress’d,
Against her marriage made a strong protest.
All was domestic war: the aunt rebell’d
Against the sovereign will, and was expell’d;
And every power was tried and every art,
To bend to falsehood one determined heart;
Assail’d, in patience it received the shock,
Soft as the wave, unshaken as the rock;
But while th’ unconquer’d soul endures the storm
Of angry fate, it preys upon the form. 240
With conscious virtue she resisted still,
And conscious love gave vigour to her will;
But Lucy’s trial was at hand; with joy
The mother cried—“Behold your constant boy—
Thursday—was married—take the paper, sweet,
And read the conduct of your reverend cheat;
See with what pomp of coaches, in what crowd
The creature married—of his falsehood proud!
False, did I say?—at least no whining fool;
And thus will hopeless passions ever cool: 250
But shall his bride your single state reproach?
No! give him crowd for crowd, and coach for coach.
Oh! you retire; reflect then, gentle miss,
And gain some spirit in a cause like this.”
Some spirit Lucy gain’d; a steady soul,
Defying all persuasion, all control:
In vain reproach, derision, threats were
tried; }
The constant mind all outward force
defied, }
By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail’d by pride.
}
Fix’d in her purpose, perfect in her part, 260
She felt the courage of a wounded heart;
The world receded from her rising view,
When Heaven approach’d as earthly things withdrew;
Not strange before, for in the days of love,
Joy, hope, and pleasure, she had thoughts above;
Pious when most of worldly prospects fond,
When they best pleased her she could look beyond;
Had the young priest a faithful lover died,
Something had been her bosom to divide;
Now Heaven had all, for in her holiest views 270
She saw the matron whom she fear’d to lose;
While from her parent the dejected maid
Forced the unpleasant thought, or thinking pray’d.
Surprised, the mother saw the languid frame,
And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame.
Once with a frown she cried, “And do you mean
To die of love—the folly of fifteen?”
But as her anger met with no reply,
She let the gentle girl in quiet die;
And to her sister wrote, impell’d by pain, 280
“Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain.”
Lucy meantime profess’d with joy sincere,
That nothing held, employ’d, engaged her here.—
“I am an humble actor, doom’d to play
A part obscure, and then to glide away;
Incurious how the great or happy shine,
Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine;
In its best prospect I but wish’d, for life,
To be th’ assiduous, gentle, useful wife;
That lost, with wearied mind, and spirit poor, 290
I drop my efforts, and can act no more;
With growing joy I feel my spirits tend
To that last scene where all my duties end.”
Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying gave,
Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave;
She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm,
And said, she left but little for the worm.
As toll’d the bell, “There’s one,” she said, “hath press’d
Awhile before me to the bed of rest;”
And she beside her with attention spread 300
The decorations of the maiden dead.
While quickly thus the mortal part declined,
The happiest visions fill’d the active mind;
A soft, religious melancholy gain’d
Entire possession, and for ever reign’d;
On holy writ her mind reposing dwelt,
She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt;
Till in a bless’d and glorious reverie, }
She seem’d the Saviour as on earth to
see, }
And, fill’d with love divine, th’ attending friend to be;
}310
Or she, who trembling, yet confiding, stole
Near to the garment, touch’d it, and was whole;
When, such th’ intenseness of the working thought,
On her it seem’d the very deed was wrought;
She the glad patient’s fear and rapture found,
The holy transport, and the healing wound;
This was so fix’d, so grafted in the heart,
That she adopted, nay became, the part.
But one chief scene was present to her sight:
Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night; 320
Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind
Was to that scene, that hallow’d cave, confined—
Where in the shade of death the body laid,
There watch’d the spirit of the wandering maid;
Her looks were fix’d, entranced, illumed, serene,
In the still glory of the midnight scene;
There at her Saviour’s feet, in visions bless’d,
Th’ enraptured maid a sacred joy possess’d;
In patience waiting for the first-born ray
Of that all-glorious and triumphant day. 330
To this idea all her soul she gave,
Her mind reposing by the sacred grave;
Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close,
And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose.
Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers,
Again restored illumed the dying hours;
But reason dwelt where fancy stray’d before,
And the mind wander’d from its views no more;
Till death approach’d, when every look express’d
A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest. 340
The mother lives, and has enough to buy
Th’ attentive ear and the submissive eye
Of abject natures—these are daily told,
How triumph’d beauty in the days of old;
How, by her window seated, crowds have cast
Admiring glances, wondering as they pass’d;
How from her carriage as she stepp’d to pray,
Divided ranks would humbly make her way;
And how each voice in the astonish’d throng
Pronounced her peerless as she moved along. 350
Her picture then the greedy dame displays;
Touch’d by no shame, she now demands its praise;
In her tall mirror then she shows a face,
Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace;
These she compares: “It has the form,” she cries,
“But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes;
This, as a likeness, is correct and true,
But there alone the living grace we view.”
This said, th’ applauding voice the dame required,
And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired. 360
 TALE IX.

ARABELLA.
Thrice blessed they that master so their blood—
[........]
But earthly happier is the rose distill’d,
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act I. Scene 1.

I [something] do excuse the thing I hate,

For his advantage whom I dearly love.
Measure for Measure, Act II. Scene 4.

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!

Much Ado about Nothing, Act III. Scene 1.

TALE IX.
ARABELLA.
Of a fair town, where Doctor Rack was guide,
His only daughter was the boast and pride;
Wise Arabella—yet not wise alone,
She like a bright and polish’d brilliant shone;
Her father own’d her for his prop and stay,
Able to guide, yet willing to obey;
Pleased with her learning while discourse could please,
And with her love in languor and disease.
To every mother were her virtues known,
And to their daughters as a pattern shown; 10
Who in her youth had all that age requires,
And, with her prudence, all that youth admires.
These odious praises made the damsels try
Not to obtain such merits, but deny;
For, whatsoever wise mammas might say,
To guide a daughter this was not the way;
From such applause disdain and anger rise,
And envy lives where emulation dies.
In all his strength contends the noble horse
With one who just precedes him on the course; 20
But when the rival flies too far before,
His spirit fails, and he attempts no more.
This reasoning maid, above her sex’s dread,
Had dared to read, and dared to say she read;
Not the last novel, not the new-born play;
Not the mere trash and scandal of the day;
But (though her young companions felt the shock)
She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes, and Locke:
Her mind within the maze of history dwelt,
And of the moral muse the beauty felt; 30
The merits of the Roman page she knew,
And could converse with Moore and Montagu:
Thus she became the wonder of the town,
From that she reap’d, to that she gave, renown;
And strangers, coming, all were taught t’ admire
The learned lady, and the lofty spire.
Thus fame in public fix’d the maid, where all
Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall;
A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen,
From tongues envenom’d, and from arms unseen; 40
A thousand eyes were fix’d upon the place,
That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace.
But malice vainly throws the poison’d dart,
Unless our frailty shows the peccant part;
And Arabella still preserved her name
Untouch’d, and shone with undisputed fame;
Her very notice some respect would cause,
And her esteem was honour and applause.
Men she avoided—not in childish fear,
As if she thought some savage foe was near; 50
Not as a prude, who hides that man should seek,
Or who by silence hints that they should speak;
But with discretion all the sex she view’d,
Ere yet engaged, pursuing, or pursued;
Ere love had made her to his vices blind,
Or hid the favourite’s failings from her mind.
Thus was the picture of the man portray’d,
By merit destined for so rare a maid;
At whose request she might exchange her state,
Or still be happy in a virgin’s fate. 60
He must be one with manners like her own,
His life unquestion’d, his opinions known;
His stainless virtue must all tests endure,
His honour spotless, and his bosom pure;
She no allowance made for sex or times,
Of lax opinion—crimes were ever crimes;
No wretch forsaken must his frailty curse,
No spurious offspring drain his private purse:
He at all times his passions must command,
And yet possess—or be refused her hand. 70
All this without reserve the maiden told,
And some began to weigh the rector’s gold;
To ask what sum a prudent man might gain,
Who had such store of virtues to maintain?
A Doctor Campbell, north of Tweed, came forth,
Declared his passion, and proclaim’d his worth;
Not unapproved, for he had much to say
On every cause, and in a pleasant way;
Not all his trust was in a pliant tongue,
His form was good, and ruddy he, and young. 80
But, though the Doctor was a man of parts,
He read not deeply male or female hearts;
But judged that all whom he esteem’d as wise
Must think alike, though some assumed disguise;
That every reasoning Bramin, Christian, Jew,
Of all religions took their liberal view;
And of her own, no doubt, this learned maid
Denied the substance, and the forms obey’d;
And thus persuaded, he his thoughts express’d
Of her opinions, and his own profess’d: 90
“All states demand this aid, the vulgar need
Their priests and pray’rs, their sermons and their
creed;
And those of stronger minds should never speak
(In his opinion) what might hurt the weak.
A man may smile, but still he should attend
}
His hour at church, and be the church’s
friend, }
What there he thinks conceal, and what he hears
commend.” }
Frank was the speech, but heard with high disdain,
Nor had the Doctor leave to speak again;
A man who own’d, nay gloried in deceit, 100
“He might despise her, but he should not cheat.”
Then Vicar Holmes appear’d; he heard it said
That ancient men best pleased the prudent maid;
And true it was her ancient friends she loved;
Servants when old she favour’d and approved;
Age in her pious parents she revered,
And neighbours were by length of days endear’d;
But, if her husband too must ancient be,
The good old Vicar found it was not he.
On Captain Bligh her mind in balance hung— 110
Though valiant, modest; and reserved, though young:
Against these merits must defects be set—
Though poor, imprudent; and though proud, in debt:
In vain the Captain close attention paid;
She found him wanting, whom she fairly weigh’d.
 Then came a youth, and all their friends agreed,
That Edward Huntly was the man indeed;
Respectful duty he had paid awhile,
Then ask’d her hand, and had a gracious smile:
A lover now declared, he led the fair 120
To woods and fields, to visits and to pray’r;
Then whisper’d softly—“Will you name the day?”
She softly whisper’d—“If you love me, stay.”—
“Oh! try me not beyond my strength,” he cried;—
“Oh! be not weak,” the prudent maid replied;
“But by some trial your affection prove—
Respect and not impatience argues love;
And love no more is by impatience known,
Than Ocean’s depth is by its tempests shown.
He whom a weak and fond impatience
sways, }130
But for himself with all his fervour prays, }
And not the maid he woos, but his own will obeys; }
And will she love the being who prefers,
With so much ardour, his desire to hers?”
Young Edward grieved, but let not grief be seen;
He knew obedience pleased his fancy’s queen:
Awhile he waited, and then cried—“Behold!
The year advancing, be no longer cold!”
For she had promised—“Let the flowers appear,
And I will pass with thee the smiling year.” 140
Then pressing grew the youth; the more he press’d,
The less inclined the maid to his request:
“Let June arrive.”—Alas! when April came,
It brought a stranger, and the stranger, shame;
Nor could the lover from his house persuade
A stubborn lass whom he had mournful made;
Angry and weak, by thoughtless vengeance moved,
She told her story to the fair beloved;
In strongest words th’ unwelcome truth was shown,
To blight his prospects, careless of her own. 150
 Our heroine grieved, but had too firm a heart
For him to soften, when she swore to part;
In vain his seeming penitence and pray’r,
His vows, his tears: she left him in despair.
His mother fondly laid her grief aside,
And to the reason of the nymph applied—
“It well becomes thee, lady, to appear,
But not to be, in very truth, severe;
Although the crime be odious in thy sight,
That daring sex is taught such things to slight: 160
His heart is thine, although it once was frail;
Think of his grief, and let his love prevail!—”
“Plead thou no more,” the lofty lass return’d;
“Forgiving woman is deceived and spurn’d.
Say that the crime is common—shall I take
A common man my wedded lord to make?
See! a weak woman by his arts betray’d,
An infant born his father to upbraid;
Shall I forgive his vileness, take his name,
Sanction his error, and partake his shame? 170
No! this assent would kindred frailty prove,
A love for him would be a vicious love:
Can a chaste maiden secret counsel hold
With one whose crime by every mouth is told?
Forbid it spirit, prudence, virtuous pride;
He must despise me, were he not denied.
The way from vice the erring mind to
win }
Is with presuming sinners to begin,
}
And show, by scorning them, a just contempt for
sin.” }
The youth, repulsed, to one more mild convey’d 180
His heart, and smiled on the remorseless maid;
The maid, remorseless in her pride, the while
Despised the insult, and return’d the smile.
 First to admire, to praise her, and defend,
Was (now in years advanced) a virgin friend:
Much she preferr’d, she cried, a single state,
“It was her choice”—it surely was her fate;
And much it pleased her in the train to view
A maiden vot’ress, wise and lovely too.
Time to the yielding mind his change imparts, 190
He varies notions, and he alters hearts;
’Tis right, ’tis just to feel contempt for vice,
But he that shows it may be over-nice:
There are who feel, when young, the false sublime,
And proudly love to show disdain for crime;
To whom the future will new thoughts supply,
The pride will soften, and the scorn will die;
Nay, where they still the vice itself condemn,
They bear the vicious, and consort with them.
Young Captain Grove, when one had changed his side,
200
Despised the venal turn-coat, and defied;
Old Colonel Grove now shakes him by the hand,
Though he who bribes may still his vote command.
Why would not Ellen to Belinda speak,
When she had flown to London for a week,
And then return’d, to every friend’s surprise,
With twice the spirit, and with half the size?
She spoke not then—but, after years had flown,
A better friend had Ellen never known:
Was it the lady her mistake had seen? 210
Or had she also such a journey been?
No: ’twas the gradual change in human hearts,
That time, in commerce with the world, imparts;
That on the roughest temper throws disguise,
And steals from virtue her asperities.
The young and ardent, who with glowing zeal
Felt wrath for trifles, and were proud to feel,
Now find those trifles all the mind engage,
To soothe dull hours, and cheat the cares of age;
As young Zelinda, in her quaker-dress, 220
Disdain’d each varying fashion’s vile excess,
And now her friends on old Zelinda gaze,
Pleased in rich silks and orient gems to blaze.
Changes like these ’tis folly to condemn,
So virtue yields not, nor is changed with them.
Let us proceed:—Twelve brilliant years were past,
Yet each with less of glory than the last;
Whether these years to this fair virgin gave
A softer mind—effect they often have;
Whether the virgin-state was not so bless’d 230
As that good maiden in her zeal profess’d;
Or whether lovers falling from her train,
Gave greater price to those she could retain,
Is all unknown;—but Arabella now
Was kindly listening to a merchant’s vow;
Who offer’d terms so fair, against his love
To strive was folly; so she never strove.—
Man in his earlier days we often find
With a too easy and unguarded mind;
But, by increasing years and prudence taught, 240
He grows reserved, and locks up every thought.
Not thus the maiden, for in blooming youth
She hides her thought, and guards the tender truth;
This, when no longer young, no more she hides,
But frankly in the favour’d swain confides.
Man, stubborn man, is like the growing tree,
That longer standing, still will harder be;
And like its fruit the virgin, first austere,
Then kindly softening with the ripening year.
Now was the lover urgent, and the kind 250
And yielding lady to his suit inclined:
“A little time, my friend, is just, is right;
We must be decent in our neighbours’ sight:”
Still she allow’d him of his hopes to speak,