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BOOK IX.

• WELL hath the preacher in his wisdom said
• That “all is vanity”—mankind misled
• By seeming good that ends in real pain;
• Their toil vexatious, and their labour vain.
• page: 184
• Preachers less wise take up the strain, and say,
• “Renounce the world, cast all its cares away,
• Its wealth, its glory, and its joy despise,
• Or deem them only dangers in disguise.”
• Then speaks philosophy with like disdain
• Of sensual pleasure, and of sordid gain;
• Nor these alone. The same untiring theme,
• Adorned in verse, or fabled in a dream,
• Thrills many a bosom with poetic fire,
• And wakes the music of the maiden's lyre.

• Throughout the land, wherever truth is taught,
• In every place where human throngs resort,
• Or in the peaceful chamber of repose,
• Around the social hearth at evening's close,
• Beneath the low-roofed cottage in the glen,
• Or where the author plies his weary pen,
• This language still salutes the listening ear—
• “This world is worthless—we but pilgrims here!”
• page: 185
• United in this sentiment, we see
• Poet, and sage, and moralist agree.
• No voice uplifted to refute the fact,
• Experience too, least willing to retract,
• All are agreed—the self-same truth we hear,
• And ask—what can we less—“Are all sincere?”

• What can we less, when he who first believed
• This solemn truth, and o'er its import grieved—
• When he, appointed by Divine command
• To raise the noblest work of human hand,
• Wisdom his birthright, and his lineage pure,
• His sceptre stedfast, and his kingdom sure—
• When he could range the bound of earthly bliss,
• To make the fulness of enjoyment his;
• Could lay his heavenly-gifted birthright down,
• To deck with borrowed gems his princely crown;
• Could bow his regal head at last, and fall
• A captive slave in pleasure's fatal thrall;
• page: 186
• Draining the lowest dregs of luxury's cup,
• Drinking its bitterest draught of poison up.

• Are there not those who preach this truth even now,
• And yet before the same false idol bow?—
• More pure, more lawful in their soul's desire,
• But not less prone to offer up strange fire?—
• Who call the world contemptible, and mean,
• Yet on its flowery bosom love to lean?

• And not the preacher only, but the sage,
• And the stern satirist who condemns the age,
• The sentimentalist, and poet too,
• Have they not all one secret end in view?
• To please the grovelling world they so despise,
• To hide their faults and frailties from her eyes?
• Whate'er betide their happiness the while,
• To court her favour, and secure her smile?

• Yes; and this lovely isle, from shore to shore,
• Beats with the tumult—echoes with the roar—
• The strife of hand—the mastery of mind—
• Conflicting interests in one combat joined,
• To gain the eminence of worldly fame,
• And from the dust of earth create a name.

• Else why the pallid cheek, the sunken eye,
• The sleepless hours of feverish agony,
• The midnight watch, the care-distracted brow,
• The weary step, the burning tears that flow,
• The draught impure, drained only to destroy
• Pain's ceaseless pang, or wake some dream of joy?
• Why the mute anguish of enduring years
• That in more slow but certain form appears,
• The unkind reproach that love so fain would spare,
• Wrung from the restless impulse of despair?
• The severed links of friendship rudely torn,
• The averted look—the ingratitude—the scorn?
• page: 188
• All, all that misery o'er life's path has hurled
• Endured in willing slavery to the world?

• Go, search the hovel by the mountain-side,
• Pierce the low depths, where cheerless miners glide;
• Sail with the wave-worn seaman o'er the deep,
• And watch the money-laden merchant's sleep;
• Go through the lovely homes that grace our land,
• By the soft bed of sated luxury stand,
• Explore the camp, the court, the green recess,
• The seat of toil, the bower of idleness,
• Mark every eye, examine every heart,
• And say if half the bitterest tears that start,
• And more than half the deadly guilt that stains
• Our fertile soil, and desolates our plains,
• Spring not from love of gold, or dread of shame,
• From fear to lose, or hope to gain a name.

• Oh, could we always feel, as some have felt
• On the bold mountain's brow, when vapours melt,
• And fleecy clouds are floating far away,
• And the green earth sleeps in the light of day,
• Or seems to sleep, for stillness reigns around,
• And in the vault of heaven, its blue profound
• Looks nearer; while we stand beneath the skies,
• Too firm to fall, too weak, alas! to rise.
• Yet can we gaze from that far height, and see
• How insignificant each tower, and tree,
• Each home, and hamlet, scattered o'er the plain,
• Each lake, and landmark, scarcely known again.
• But we descend, and as the vale below
• Nears to our sight, familiar objects grow;
• The forest throws its branches to the sky,
• The tower resumes its ancient dignity,
• The lake spreads wide her bosom to the gale,
• The lofty beacon warns the distant sail,
• The hamlet holds a hundred human souls,
• And that green smiling home our destiny controls.

• 'Tis thus we stand beside the bed of death,
• Watching the awful scene, with scarce a breath,
• A word, a movement, or a secret thought,
• Not with some high and holy purpose fraught.
• Then wakes the voice of conscience, lulled before,
• Then opens wide the everlasting door,
• Revealing all the light to mortals given,
• While truth stands forth, clad in the robes of heaven.
• Then melts the world away, and the world's care,
• And fade her garlands that once looked so fair:
• Her powers, her dignities, are nothing then,
• Ashes her gold, and fools her mighty men.

• And shall we, having felt all this, return,
• And on the altar of her worship burn
• Our very hearts? Yet one thing let us learn
• If we have fallen into the common snare,
• Let us, from others who are captive there,
• Withhold the stern rebuke, the harsh reproof,
• The unchristian scorn that bids them stand aloof,
• page: 191
• For having missed, not having sought, the end
• To which we still our strenuous efforts bend.

• The farmer saw his error, all too late
• To check the evil, or arrest his fate;
• Fool that he was, with the first favouring gale
• To launch his bark, and hoist his swelling sail;
• To trust the billows of that treacherous sea—
• The smiling ocean of prosperity;
• Whose shores are strewn with many a noble wreck
• Whose shining waters lave the shattered deck,
• And hide within their secret depths beneath
• The rocks of ruin, and the caves of death.

• Fool that he was. He saw his error now,
• He felt it too, if truth was on his brow,
• And strove by manly effort to repair
• All that was lost—all that remained, to spare.
• page: 192
• Yet while his pleasant home looked smiling still,
• And guests flocked in, his spacious rooms to fill,
• While his wide table scarce could hold them all,
• Or hurrying servants answer to their call,
• While forth they roamed to see the lovely grounds,
• To praise the farmer's taste, and stroke his hounds,
• To enjoy his fruit, and loiter all day long
• The garden-walks and rosy bowers among,
• To say, if happiness e'er lived on earth,
• It must in some such lovely scene have birth;
• Truth bids us tell, that all things were not quite
• So fair as those which met the stranger's sight.
• No; there was many a cloudy brow behind
• Those lovely scenes, and many an anxious mind,
• And many a consultation how to bear,
• Or how retrench, the expenses of the year.
• One blamed another: William Herbert thought
• The wines too costly that his sister bought;
• And she, retorting like her mother Eve,
• O'er the great house at length began to grieve.

• But Henry trembled most, with secret fear,
• Whene'er this war of words he chanced to hear;
• For Emma's sacred name his aunt would blend
• With tones that little sweetness seemed to lend.
• Whether it was, that luxuries late enjoyed
• By the stern order of the day destroyed,
• Retrenching still against her secret mind,
• Her goaded spirit had become less kind:
• Or that the gentle Emma wore not now
• The smile of peace that once adorned her brow,
• But piqued and flattered by a tell-tale maid,
• Against the aunt some lurking spleen betrayed.
• Whate'er the cause, the consequence was sure,
• Small hope remained that love could long endure
• Between such hearts, perchance too much the same
• In their weak points, to bear each other's blame.
• 'Twas human nature, ever tried the most
• By trifling things that no importance boast,
• That spring from some small root of bitterness,
• And still unchecked grow fruitful of distress.

• 'Twas different with the farmer, and his son;
• A happier, nobler course had they begun.
• Strength lies in union, and they owned the truth;
• One had experience, and the other youth;
• These well might serve the end they had in view,
• If both to their best interests were true.
• 'Twas pleasant then to see them range their fields,
• Reaping the joy that smiling nature yields;
• Scarce knew they more, for 'twas no fancied trial
• That called their mutual strength to self-denial.
• Their country groaned beneath a grievous load,
• Care sighed at home, and hunger stalked abroad;
• The slow reaction of that lingering war
• Still sent its starving tribes from door to door,
• And those who scarce their children's bread could buy
• Must pay their mite, or let the paupers die.
• One hope was left amid the general gloom—
• Still plenty bloomed around the farmer's home,
• His fields were green, his ripening harvest grew,
• And waved in golden promise to his view.

• Nor were the sordid cares that pained his breast
• All that disturbed the farmer's nightly rest.
• In those still hours, when proud ambition sleeps,
• And wounded conscience her lone vigil keeps,
• The long, long midnight hours, when secret woes
• Press on the soul that vainly seeks repose,
• When truths unwelcome, that we scarce beheld
• By day, stern darkness has revealed,
• And spectres rise and swell upon the view,
• In all their, naked hideousness, too true—
• Spectres of thought, that might have flitted by
• Unheeded, when the sun was in the sky,
• And life and motion in the earth and air,
• And smiling nature all around us fair:
• But in those silent hours what worlds awake,
• What shapes the monsters of our fancy take
• What legions stand around our sleepless bed,
• What voices speak from the long lost, or dead!
• Making the stillness vocal, and the night
• Peopled with forms, too fearful, or too bright.

• 'Twas in these hours that William Herbert felt
• A strange vague tenderness his bosom melt.
• While o'er the past he turned his lingering view,
• And saw what time could never more renew.
• Fair was the scene, but fast it fleeted by,
• And left the present, all before his eye,
• Instinct with life, too tangible and clear,
• Naked, and stern, to waken aught but fear,
• That to each thought a stern sharp outline gave;
• Until the future came, like wave on wave
• Of some vast ocean, rolling to the shore
• Its world of waters with their billowy roar.

• Here were the demons that awoke his dread.
• The spectral host that stood around his bed
• Lived in the future, came with every thought
• That near his view that unknown future brought;
• And asked, what conscience oft had asked before,
• For whom he lived, for what increased his store?
• page: 197
• Nor his alone the sum of wasted hours,
• Of time, of influence, and of mental powers,
• Of all, entrusted to the use of man
• For working out his heavenly Father's plan:
• One thought there was prevailing o'er the rest,
• With keener anguish rankling in his breast,
• 'Twas of his children—how had he prepared
• Their hearts and minds for what must now be shared
• Amongst them all—that bitter joyless cup
• That pride prepares—that misery must drink up?
• He saw with all a parent's partial view
• Their lovely forms, their gentle ways, and knew
• How dear to them the luxuries of life,
• How harsh and cruel all its sordid strife!
• And while his own forebodings told their doom,
• And the storm hastened on, with gathering gloom,
• He would have shielded them from that dark hour,
• Even with his life, had Heaven bestowed the power.

• He once had thought that Lucy was secure
• From the stern fortune that he must endure,
• And scarcely heeded, if endured alone
• But o'er her path strange mystery had been thrown;
• And there were rumours of her changeful mind,
• Though once she seemed so faithful, and so kind.
• Oft had he thought, if Lucy ever loved,
• The depth of woman's feeling would be proved
• In her calm suffering, and her sweet content,
• And the strong faith to woman's purpose lent,
• Bearing her up above the ills of life,
• Beyond its follies, and beyond its strife.
• But he was startled from this dream, to find
• Her fondest hopes so willingly resigned,
• The strictest, coolest calculations, made
• By a young, generous, self-devoted maid;
• All things considered duly, and at last
• A total blank upon her future cast
• By her own will—affection thrown aside,
• As nothing, in the scale with worldly pride.
• page: 199
• Prudence was well, but Eustace was not poor,
• He had enough their comfort to ensure;
• And Lucy, once so lowly, meek, and mild—
• He could not understand his favourite child.
• Yet did he fondly call her to his side,
• And half in play her fickle purpose chide,
• “I thought,” he said, “your love had been more true;
• My own kind Lucy, this is not like you.“

• She would have answered, but her voice seemed gone,
• And in her drooping eye the bright tears shone;
• While her pale lip with silent anguish stirred,
• And strife of soul, but still no voice was heard.

• Did willing sacrifice e'er look like this?
• Alas! we hardly know what anguish is,
• Until the stricken heart is called to give
• Its idols up, and still to feel, and live.

• “Father,” she said, at last, “I cannot bear
• Your censure, and your kindness ill can spare.
• But trust me for awhile—time yet may show
• I have done wisely, though you doubt me now.”

• “Nay, Lucy, not your wisdom, but your love—
• I knew a soul that would have soared above
• This worthless world, and made its home of rest
• Within the shelter of one faithful breast.
• It was your mother's, Lucy, and I dreamed
• Yours was the same, but such it only seemed.”

• Harsh words, that pierced her gentle bosom through.
• What could the helpless, feeble sufferer do?
• She threw her arms around her father's neck,
• And sobbed aloud, as if her heart would break.
• “Spare me!” she cried, “Oh spare me yet awhile!
• Smile on me, father, as you used to smile.
• I have no power the real truth to show,
• But I am very wretched—this I know!”

• “The real truth!” said William Herbert; “Why
• Allow such mystery in the case to lie?
• If I could think that he had been to blame,
• The world should know it and his reverend name
• Bear such a stain as time could ne'er wash out.”

• “Father,” said Lucy, “entertain no doubt
• Of his integrity; whate'er you see
• Or hear of blame, it rests alone with me.
• Yet smile, dear father, as you did before,
• And speak as kindly; it will all pass o'er:
• I am not changed—not altered in my heart,
• I still can act a faithful daughter's part;
• And time, that breaks so many bonds, shall prove
• How true I am to you-how tender in my love.”

• Again she pressed her lips upon his brow,
• While o'er his cheek he felt her warm tears flow.
• “It is enough,” he said, “I ask no more;
• May pitying heaven thy cheerfulness restore.
• page: 202
• Come to my heart, beloved child, again,
• Fain would I calm thy spirit, soothe thy pain;
• And if I fail in aught, or seem unkind,
• 'Twill be because I may not know thy mind,
• And thus, from ignorance of its tenderest chord,
• May grieve thy bosom by some careless word.”

• He asked no more; no more did Lucy tell.
• It was a theme on which no tongue could dwell
• Unsanctioned; and at length it passed away,
• Unravelled still—the mystery of a day.

• Lucy had not so learned the will of heaven
• As to believe her kindly feelings given
• For single purpose—but to serve the end
• Of making happy one peculiar friend.
• Of her own mind she held such humble views,
• That no exalted walk she dared to choose;
• page: 203
• But faith and charity might still be hers,
• Though hope had seemed to vanish from her prayers;
• And when she strove to look beyond the grave,
• 'Twas but to say—“Almighty Father, save!
• Rock of the perishing! I come to thee.
• Strength of the feeble! stretch thy hand to me—
• To me, the weakest of thy creatures—come
• And bear me o'er these gloomy waters home!”

• And with this simple trust, there came at length
• A balm that gave her wounded spirit strength,
• And she went forth again, at morn and eve,
• Not in the solitude of woods to grieve;
• But o'er life's path, with thorns so thickly strewn,
• To seek for sorrow greater than her own;
• To lift the latch where hopeless penury
• Plies the dull task, and stills the infant cry;
• To penetrate the dimly lighted room,
• Where helpless suffering spreads a sombre gloom;
• page: 204
• To see the father on his dying bed,
• And hear the mother wailing for her dead.

• Nor idly came her faithful step to these,
• Nor was her aim alone to soothe, or please:
• But to instruct—to teach them to behold
• With trusting eyes the sacred truths she told.
• And oft her gentle voice was heard at eve,
• When summer dews their silvery curtain weave,
• From out the ivied porch, or lattice low,
• Beside the bed of death—the couch of woe.
• Reading, with serious tone, and lip of truth,
• That holy book, the guide of age, and youth.
• And those who saw her smile of sweetness there,
• Or heard her breathe the very soul of prayer,
• Deemed her most happy—thought the joy she bore
• To others, was from her abundant store;
• And the soft soothing of her tenderness,
• From a young heart that never knew distress.

• Is it not thus that real mourners find
• Heaven's own appointed solace for the mind?
• And bearing comfort to the sore distressed,
• Return with peace for their own wounded breast?
• Yes; and these are the deepest mourners too,
• Though to a higher, nobler impulse, true.
• Theirs is the sympathy whose ceaseless flow
• Springs from their own internal source of woe;
• Theirs the great grief, in majesty sublime,
• That bears them o'er the trifling things of time;
• Theirs the true knowledge of what suffering is;
• Else why that thirsting after heavenly bliss,
• Which never yet inspired a child of earth,
• Till burst that tide of woe that in the heart has birth.

• The tears that fall beside the new-made grave,
• The sable vestments, and deep pall, that wave
• Around the funeral, all attract the eye,
• And nature needs must weep for those who die.
• page: 206
• The loss of wealth, the sad reverse of fate,
• That robs the rich man of his lordly state,
• Are blazoned forth, and told by every tongue,
• While sorrowing friends the mournful tale prolong.
• All outward characters of human grief,
• From human sympathy find some relief:
• But there are griefs beyond all knowledge deep,
• And pangs too keen for pity's eye to weep,
• That live, and ache, within the folded heart,
• When no one sees the bitter tear-drop start,
• When smiles perchance flit o'er the weary brow,
• And from the lip e'en tones of gladness flow.
• Oh, how should years of agony like this
• Be borne? and yet such agony there is!
• It is that mercy bids the mourner come
• And look, with eye of faith, beyond the tomb.