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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 165 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian The widow's plea: a collection of poetical pieces, chiefly written during by-gone years of peace and prosperity, and now published as a medium of appeal to the sympathies of the benevolent in behalf of the writer in her season of declining life, poverty and widowhood. Hammond, Mrs. Joseph Capes & Co. London 1836

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 February 21, 2008 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections. THE WIDOW'S PLEA.

[Title Page]

THE WIDOW'S PLEA: ACOLLECTION OF POETICAL PIECES,CHIEFLY WRITTENDURING BY-GONE YEARS OF PEACE AND PROSPERITY;AND NOW PUBLISHEDAS A MEDIUM OF APPEAL TO THE SYMPATHIES OF THE BENEVOLENT, IN BEHALF OF THE WRITER,IN HER SEASON OFDECLINING LIFE, POVERTY, ANDWIDOWHOOD. As the Lord thy God liveth, I have but a handful of meal in abarrel, and a little oil in a cruise. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY JOSEPH CAPES & CO. PATERNOSTER ROW; AND SOLD BY THE WIDOW HAMMOND, KEW-GREEN. 1836. LONDON: PRINTED BY MANNING AND SMITHSON, IVY LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW. PREFACE.

IT is unnecessary to state under what circumstances the superintendence of this little volume for publication was undertaken. The motive to it was a desire to promote the benevolent wishes of some Friends resident at Kew, who take a warm interest in the case of the Authoress; and to partake in the gratification of assisting a meritorious person in her day of afflictive visitation.

It is recorded of a less deserving character, that he confessed in his extremity, "I cannot dig; to beg I am ashamed." To this latter alternative a repugnance is most frequently felt by those whose necessities are the result of causes, not involving their own deviation from the paths of integrity and virtue. If in the present instance it shall be thought that the humble supplicant of the public beneficence retains the spirit of mendicancy, while she renounces but the act; it will suffice to assure her readers that being "ashamed to beg," she submitted only to the suggestion of compassionating friends, who had seen the following productions of her leisure hours in more happy seasons, to have them arranged for publication, as a not disreputable means of appealing to the Charity that "thinketh no evil;" and it is presumed that her writings bear internal evidence of her unobtrusive desert, which will be received as her best testimonial. They make no claim to literary merit; but they lay open the secret emotions of a heart rich in the sympathies of friendship, maternal affection, and unostentatious piety,—resources which may assuage the sorrows of adversity, but cannot remove them. It is seldom that an appeal is made in vain to British Benevolence, where the object can so well bear the test of its judicious scrutiny.

To her actively beneficent Friends, who have kindly anticipated her publication by gracing the Subscription List with their names, the Widow's first thanks are due: them and others of the noble and gentle, to whom she may be indebted for patronage, she can only requite by the assured "blessing of those who were ready to perish."

As the concluding piece in the volume refers to a business which the writer had endeavoured to establish, it may be necessary to explain that hitherto it has proved wholly inadequate to the support of her family; and that she is harassed moreover by pecuniary claims, though small in amount, incurred previously to her bereavement of an affectionate husband.

July, 1836. CONTENTS. To the Benevolent Subscriber 9 An Aspiration 11 An Epistle to a beloved Sister 13 Verses composed after a restless Night 16 Prudence 18 The Exchange 20 Love and Friendship 22 To my Friends at Checkhill-Mill 23 A Farewell to Fan 26 Verses on an occurrence which took place at Enville 27 Reflections; on a Showery Evening 30 An Epistle to my honoured Father 32 An Imaginary Ramble 34 The Persecuted 44 The Vow 49 A Letter to my dear William 50 Thoughts on a fine drooping Ash 52 Lines on a tuft of Forget-me-not 53 Maternal Fears 54 An Evening Meditation 57 The Farm 59 To Ernest S—— 64 Lines sent with a Basket of Flower-Roots 66 A Tale, written for my Children 68 Verses, to my Daughter 74 Address to the Ladies of Kew 77 TO THE BENEVOLENT SUBSCRIBER. The tear of Gratitude is sweet—but that which beams in the eye ofCharity is far more sweet. —Anon. SWEET is the tear of silent Gratitude, The heart's best tribute to the kind and good: But if—like soft and tepid show'rs that fall Amid the gloom where desert wastes appal— It light where Memory's busy hand hath cast Her deepest shades around the fearful past; Or with the dark uncertain future blend, Where Hope and Fear in dubious strife contend; Too oft in vain is lent its soothing pow'r, To still the throbbing bosom in affliction's hour. Then sweeter far the liquid gems that lie On meek Compassion's ever-melting eye: These, like the prism, in blended brightness shew Hope's ample vista bounding all below; Whence her delighted vision doth descry The far-off flight of dark Despondency; And in her full heart's deep ecstatic mood Believeth all things tend to all things good; Pointing to those who Penury's woes relieve, How much more blessed 't is to give than to receive. The Editor. The Widow's Plea;A COLLECTION, &c. AN ASPIRATION. ALMIGHTY FATHER! hear my humble pray'r, And condescend to dry a widow's tear! In Thee I trust—blest with thy mighty aid, No dark despair my bosom shall invade. O give me grace to know and do thy will— A mother's duties teach me to fulfil: Let my example to my children prove How much I feel for them, how much I love. Permit the fatherless thy love to share— Shield them from Vice and Folly's baneful snare; Inspire their minds with hope of future bliss, And faith, to seek a better world than this. Though deep adversity my portion be, And sad reverse—I bow to thy decree. Thou canst sustain me in each trying hour, And still I live by thine All-gracious pow'r. Sorrows which seem almost too great to bear, Have long oppress'd, and may await me here; But Faith and holy Hope, till life is gone Will bid me say—Great God! thy will be done! AN EPISTLE TO A BELOVED SISTER. MY dearest Sister, Canst thou quite forget Each little incident when last we met? Does busy Memory ever bring to mind The fatal day I left my friends behind, And sought a home, far from that spot rever'd, Where we in bonds of love had all been rear'd? Though with a husband and dear children blest, A secret sad presage then fill'd my breast! Each cherish'd form is now before my view— I hear the friendly wish, the fond adieu; In the full eye the pearly tear-drop trace, And feel the pressure of each dear embrace: But now the coach had reach'd its destin'd inn, And all my little ones were plac'd within: One ling'ring look—for more we could not stay— The rattling wheels must bear us far away! Five years have scarce elaps'd—but how severe The strange and dire events to me appear! Sickness and sorrows we in turn have borne, And friends most dear, been doom'd, alas! to mourn. A sister, lov'd by all who knew her worth, And now an aged father laid in earth; To me denied the privilege, to shed The parting tear beside their dying bed. The thought, dear Harriet, still wrings my soul; But, God be praised, He brought me through the whole; And thee, my love, in mercy He hath spar'd, And will, I trust, to see thy infants rear'd: The path of duty must to both be clear— We live for others—let us persevere— And humbly hope, when we have done our best, To find in realms above a place of rest. May Hagley's shades, of which the poets sing, Heal thy past woes, and brighter prospects bring; May health, with peace and love thy dwelling grace, And ev'ry needful comfort find a place. If this be granted, ask not to be great, For thine, believe me, is the happier state. Should former friends thy humbler lot deride, Pity the folly of such thoughtless pride. Adversity (and thou hast had thy part), Improves the understanding and the heart; Teaches on whom alone we should rely, Instructs us how to live, and how to die. Write to me soon—each late occurrence tell: Is Mrs. B——, are both her children well? Do they improve? To watch th' unfolding mind Yields us a rapture none but mothers find. Say, does thy fair and noble Patroness Smile on thy efforts? Dost thou hope success? God grant thee health, thy duties to attend! Thus prays thy sister and most anxious friend.

[This dear sister died a few months after.]

 VERSES, COMPOSED AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT. I awoke, and my curtain withdrew, In a conflict of sorrows and fears: Near my window a sycamore grew, And its branches were laden with tears: For the storm in the night had been rude, And Autumn had mellow'd its leaves; The red pavement with numbers was strew'd— For its foliage my sycamore grieves. A birch standing by, droop'd its head, In low moanings it seem'd to complain; For its beauty had faded and fled, Torn away by the wind and the rain. But the tints of the morning were gay, And illumin'd a neighbouring spire; So brilliant it glow'd, as I lay, For an instant I thought it on fire. Little rest I enjoyed in the night, For a fever had throbb'd in my veins; But I hail'd the new day with delight, As a friend that would soften my pains. Then let me from murmurs refrain: When my God thinks it fit to chastise, I will fear to offend him again, And in thankful humility rise. PRUDENCE. LET us wander, dear maid, to yonder green glade, Where the wild hop and woodbine entwine; The nightingale's song will awaken ere long, Near her bower then let us recline. Oh no, Henry, no! Indeed I'll not go— For perhaps there is something to fear: Strange tales I could tell of yon lonely dell— It is said that wild fairies dance there. But why, simple maid, shouldst thou be afraid? Tiny fairies can do thee no harm: Thou hast nothing to fear while Henry is near— Then banish this needless alarm. The moon's silver beam now plays on the stream, And reminds me that late grows the hour; The dews wet my feet—no more we thus meet, Nor can I, love, go to the bow'r. Then to-morrow let's hie to the Church standing by, For there all alarms will subside; The altar shall prove my devotion and love; Let me call thee my own blooming bride! To the Church I will go—why should I say no, Since long I have felt Love's soft pow'r? Of thy truth then I'll tell, where wild fairies dwell, As together we stray to the bow'r. THE EXCHANGE. I had been to the mountain to seek a stray lamb, But the wand'rer eluded my care; Then my search was resum'd to the wild current's dam, That border'd my pastures so fair: But still unsuccessful, I courted repose At the foot of a wide-spreading oak, And sleep was descending my eyelids to close, When the voice of a Syren thus spoke:— "Assist me, young Shepherd, a lambkin I've found, 'T is a prize I esteem the most rare: In the stream just below it had nearly been drown'd When kind fortune directed me there. At some risk I secur'd it all dripping with wet, And a warm sunny bank being nigh, I laid down my treasure, nor can I forget How I griev'd, for I thought it would die. "The beautiful eyes were clos'd as in death, And the shivering limbs were so cold! Then it panted, and struggled, and gasp'd for its breath; Oh! its sufferings are not to be told. I sat down and watch'd long, ere yet it would stand, Or crop the green herbage around; And yielded to feelings I could not command, When first he arose from the ground. "I deck'd him with ribbons I wore in my hair, And gaz'd with delight on my prize; But now he's escap'd, notwithstanding my care, And bounding away from me flies!" We soon found the truant—I knew 't was my own, Though gaily in ribbons array'd; But all wish to regain the poor trembler had flown— The secret was never betray'd: Till I found neither absence nor change could remove The image that now fill'd my breast: We met once again, and I breath'd forth my love, And now with my fair one am blest! LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. LISTEN, dear, the birds are singing In the hazel bush secure; See the daisies round us springing, And the air we breathe is pure. To the violet bed I'll take thee, With perfume it fills the gale, Primrose wreaths I there will make thee, Clusters grow in yonder vale. If the rose and woodbine please thee, I will weave thee garlands fair; Then, Love, if it will not teaze thee, I'll entwine them in thy hair. Love and Friendship both united, What, dear Girl, have we to fear? Long ago our vows were plighted, And those vows were all sincere. TO MY FRIENDS AT CHECKHILL MILL. IN the year thirty-three, on a long winter's night, I thought of dear Friends till my muse took her flight; On Memory's wings swift as lightning she flew, Nor thought of repose till she rested on you, With a smile so benignant, I could not but think I must lay down my work, and employ pen and ink. Then I trac'd back those days when we frequently met, And how happy we were I can never forget: If a visit to Checkhill were granted, to me 'T was a day of rejoicing, and happy were we. Across the wild common with heath cover'd o'er Then I tripp'd it away till arriv'd at your door. If a glove was forgotten, my shawl pinn'd awry, Or a bonnet-string missing—(so careless was I)— Such trifles ne'er pain'd me, I dreamt not of care, For I knew smiling Welcome awaited me there. I can see the old house, with its furniture too, And the jessamine peeping the low casement through; The old-fashioned grate, which I still should admire, With its high-polish'd knobs that reflected the fire; The chairs rubb'd so bright, and the dresser and frame, With its great pewter dishes, look'd always the same. The round oaken table on which we took tea, And the ample buffet with its treasures I see: There were china, and glasses, and plate, and what not? Too numerous to name, but do n't think them forgot. H— says the old house will be turn'd upside down— Alas! I exclaim'd, with a sigh and a frown, Perhaps all my old fav'rites and haunts will be gone— Not a thing will be left that I valued—not one! It is useless to fret—then come tell me the news: Are all of you married? or do you refuse? How is G—? To himself has he taken a wife, Or a bachelor will he remain all his life? Pray how fare the bees—do the pigeons still thrive? Does the poultry increase—are the swans both alive? And the faithful old Lion? I fear he's no more— Does the border of flowers remain at the door? Is the barn in its place, and the stable and mill? Does the garden still bloom, at the foot of the hill, By the murmuring brook deep down in the dell, Where the daffodils grew by the brink of the well? You cannot forget how in summer we stroll'd, And our secrets and love-tales in confidence told. Thus employ'd as we stray'd from one house to the other, In order to teaze us, your mischievous brother Behind the thick hedge for concealment would run, And then sally forth when our secrets were done. To chide him was useless—he laugh'd at our pain— But scarce will he e'er be so wicked again. Then of course we forgave him—what else could we do? For our anger amus'd him, and that we all knew. Oh how happy those days! we had nothing to fear— Stern death had not robb'd us of those we held dear: Surrounded by friends, we had no cause of sorrow, Enjoy'd the time present, nor thought of to-morrow. But ere long the rude storm of affliction appears, Death stalks through our dwellings, nor pities our tears. Sweet visions of youth! ye for ever have flown, And sorrows of all sorts have some of us known! Though on this side the grave I may see you no more, Yet our pilgrimage ended, and troubles all o'er, In realms everlasting I trust we shall meet, Where rivers of happiness flow at our feet. Farewell, early Friends! My muse is grown pale, And weeping retires from the Mill in the Vale: Sorrow clouded her brow as she sighing withdrew, But her love and best wishes are still left with you. A FAREWELL TO FAN, A FAVOURITE SPANIEL, DESTROYED AFTER HAVING BEEN BITTEN BY A DOG SUPPOSED TO BE MAD. I grieve, poor Fan, at thy untimely end, And sigh to think 't was hasten'd by a friend. But hadst thou liv'd awhile, and then gone mad, Thy sufferings had been more severely sad. Thy youthful master's love of thee was great— A tear he shed at thought of thy hard fate; And would have nursed thee with the tend'rest care, If we had dar'd thy fluttering life to spare; But on thy breast the wound was deep and sore— Now rest in peace, for all thy pains are o'er. VERSES, WRITTEN ON A WINTER EVENING, FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF A FRIEND, ON AN OCCURRENCE WHICH TOOK PLACE AT ENVILLE. Loud blows the blast, the sky's o'ercast, And sleet is on the ground: The shutters close to wind and snows, And let the tale go round. On such a night, as dreary quite, But many years ago, I heard the gate, 't was growing late, And fast came down the snow. My timid maid her fears betray'd, And no one else was near: A moment more, and at the door We footsteps plainly hear. My temples beat, I quit my seat, Not knowing what to do; In great alarm myself I arm With tongs and poker too. No time had I the door to try, Ere it flew open wide; Two ruffans bold, half froze with cold, Then enter'd, side by side, With "Halloo here! a pot of beer, And each a glass of gin; And supper get, for we are wet, And frozen to the skin. "And beds prepare—do n't stand and stare! Through snow no more we stray; What will betide, we here abide, Till after break of day." An infant boy, his mother's joy, Was sleeping at my side: So loud they spoke, the child awoke, And lustily he cried. Thus rous'd, said I, "In vain you cry For supper, beer, and gin; And beds I've none—so pray be gone— This house is not an inn. But come with me, and you will see On yonder little green, A place of rest for man and beast— The lights may here be seen." As they look'd out I turn'd about, And bolted fast the door: They stamp'd and rav'd, admittance crav'd, But then I heard no more. The baby's screams dispell'd my dreams, The maid repress'd her fears; In transport wild I clasp'd my child, And kiss'd away his tears. But oh! the fright of that sad night! Methinks I feel it yet. To lock the door at evening hour I never now forget. REFLECTIONS, PENNED AT THE FARM, ON A SHOWERY EVENING IN THE SUMMER OF 1833. I am blest with a girl and three boys, In appearance all healthy and strong; They add both to my troubles and joys, And employ my thoughts all the day long. One has fallen asleep on my knees, With his head on my bosom reclin'd; And the others are busy as bees, Though by rain the whole ev'ning confin'd. Our cottage is lowly but neat, And shaded, and sweetly retir'd: 'T is a quiet and healthy retreat,— And splendour I never desir'd. The garden is pleasant and gay, Perfum'd with the breath of its flow'rs; Among them at ev'ning we stray, And there pass our happiest hours. My dairy and poultry have charms, And many choice blessings diffuse; The latter flock round me in swarms, And while they employ me, amuse. But the farm is so small that I'm sure We can ne'er expect wealth to command; Yet pale want may be kept from the door With a very few acres of land. Active industry keeps us from ills Which among the more indolent creep; Each a portion of labour fulfils, And refreshing and sound is our sleep. Then 't is folly to languish for wealth, If Heaven in its bounty bestow Contentment, with rosy-fac'd Health,— The best gifts to frail mortals below. AN EPISTLE TO MY HONOURED FATHER. Dear Father, you promis'd a long time ago, To pay us a visit, and this you well know. Now summer is smiling, and all things are gay, We've expected to hear from you each coming day: Your room is prepar'd with a warm and soft bed— Its curtains morine, and their colour is red; There's a chair for your use at the table and fire, And a horse in the stable, when one you require. We have hams, eggs, and poultry, and milk from the cow, With cream, cheese, and butter—good cheer, you'll allow; And a nice little garden to choose what you please, Greens, cabbage, potatoes, beans, carrots, or peas; Then if sweets and such trifles you happen to prize, I'll make custards and cheesecakes, with puddings and pies; But since you're no epicure, perhaps I shall find (At least I'll endeavour) sweet food for the mind. Jane and Joseph were saying, "When Grandfather's here, We can get him his slippers, or hand him his chair;" "And I (said dear George) can his knees stand between, While he tells us long stories of what he has seen. My mother says grandfather's now growing old, So I fancy he should not go much in the cold; But we all of us think it a very hard case, That five years should elapse without seeing his face." I am thinking so too—let us see you once more, Ere life's rapid journey for ever is o'er: Then hasten, dear father, and do not delay Till the blossoms of summer have faded away. While the weather is genial how pleased we shall be To seat ourselves under our beautiful tree! I'll take the old Bible, and silence command, While you read aloud to our dear little band; Their intelligent faces will cheer my full heart, When your subject I lose, or but hear it in part. Though depriv'd of my hearing, this comfort I find, Far worse had it been for me had I gone blind. My theme is so pleasing, it is with a sigh, I leave you, for reasons I'll tell by and by. There, Jane, take the pen, love, for post time is near, And I wish for my letter in time to be there. My mother is busy, and cannot conclude, But hopes dearest sir, you will not think her rude: She's grateful for all that in childhood you taught her, And will ever remain your dutiful Daughter. An imaginary Ramble with a Friend, through someof my favourite haunts in the beautiful PleasureGrounds of the EARL OF STAMFORD AND WAR-RINGTON, at Enville, my native village. DEAR ENVILLE! I still love thee well, Thy hills, dales, and valleys, and groves; Though I'm now far away doom'd to dwell, Fond memory oft to thee roves. Through thy beautiful gardens we'll stray— Soft as velvet the sod to our feet— Art and nature their efforts display, And between them have made thee complete. Thy lakes, with the foaming cascade, Have charms more than I can express; All feel them who enter the shade Of the Boat-House, a well-known recess. Here entranc'd, we inhale the cool breeze, As it steals o'er the waters below, And plays in the neighbouring trees That dip in the lake their low bough. On the Temple Pool's margin we gain Of the mansion a picturesque view: Long may it in splendour remain, And, old Time, bid defiance to you! Through the gate, to the sweet Laurel Grove Let us hie without further delay; And then to the Bastion above We will ramble while yet it is day. Oft and oft on this bridge I have stood, Or beneath the old ash ta'en my seat, And watch'd the impetuous flood In wild torrents rush down at my feet. And, old Bastion, I still bear in mind, How I've toil'd to ascend to thy seat, Where the deep and thick woodlands behind Form a cool and a welcome retreat. And I lov'd the wild views spread before— To describe them I do not aspire: See the Mill!—(my dear father's no more)— In the distance peeps Sedgley's tall spire. As this scene of my youth meets my eyes, (Though a shade o'er its prospects was cast), A sigh in my bosom must rise, And a tear-drop to days that are past. The moss-cover'd Terrace winds round To yon fine Gothic Gate on the hill, Where alcoves for the weary are found, Where sweet rapture thy bosom will fill. Here Nature luxuriant and green, In fanciful grandeur we meet; Hill and dale, wood and lake may be seen, With the sloping lawn spread at our feet. To abide among scenes such as these, From whence guilt and ambition retire, Amid flocks, herds, and poultry, and bees, What more can a mortal desire? But my mind roves instead of my feet: Up this dark grassy path we must stray, And the gloom to my feelings is sweet, Though impervious to Sol's brightest ray. But what a transition is this! 'T is the Sheep Walks thy senses beguile; And I feel it will not be amiss, To enjoy the rich prospect awhile. Beneath the deep shade of the yew We shall find an agreeable seat; Yon bright orb so resplendent to view, I fear has oppress'd you with heat. But lo! he will sink in the west, Ere we have completed our round; The flocks are already at rest, And the shepherd is homeward bound. The path to his Lodge he pursues, Looking happy, and free from care; His dwelling would please and amuse, If time would permit a trip there. But we've many dear objects in store— The Rotunda we must not forget, Nor the Chapel—though lock'd is the door, A peep through its windows we'll get. Thus I lead you o'er hill and through dale, And we've still something more to admire; To the Portico down in the vale, We now shall with pleasure retire. See the hare springs with frolicsome bound, She fears not in this silent dell; Here Echo, sweet babbler, is found— Here the cuckoo and nightingale dwell. And this is the wood-pigeon's home, In the gloom his dark form you may see; And here cloth the brown squirrel roam, To pluck the sweet nut from the tree. Our respects we must certainly pay, Though embosom'd so deep in the wood, To the Cottage—come, this is our way, It surely for ages hath stood. Here rural simplicity reigns— Here delighted I often have seen, Proud pea-fowl display their gay trains, Adorn'd with gold, purple, and green. Here numberless warblers reside, And their song to the spot gives a charm; Here their young ones in safety abide, In their mossy nests quiet and warm. But farewell, lovely Cot,—you no more On this sweet verdant lawn we shall meet; May the woodbine still curl round thy door, And forget-me-not smile at its feet! I could loiter to cull the wild flow'r, And with garlands bedeck thy low wall; But must leave thee—for late grows the hour, And the dews are beginning to fall. Through wood and through wild we have stray'd, And tarried beside the rude brake; And now here's a rustic bridge laid, That will carry us over the lake. On its bosom the swans proudly glide, And their snowy white plumage display; While the cygnets crowd close at their side, Warmly clad in their garments of grey. Through the shrubbery we now will retire, The Billiard Room stands just before; And I still have a secret desire To visit the gardens once more. Let us enter, and view the old pile— See its wall with green ivy o'erspread: 'T is finished in beautiful style— Mark the stuccoing over your head. Ev'ry object is dear to my heart— It is absence hath made them thus dear; And reluctantly slow I depart, For we must not stay lingering here. To the LORD of the Mansion are due My gratitude, duty, and love: May blessings spread round him! for few Thus deserve the best gifts from above:— For humanity dwells in his breast, He drives not the wretch from his door: His dependents are never oppress'd, He's the Father and Friend of the poor. I had thought we the Village should gain, For still a few friends remain there; But the visit would give me much pain— I cannot indeed venture near. For where are the friends of my youth, Or the neighbours I deeply deplore? Alas! my heart feels the sad truth— They are gone—I must see them no more! Then adieu, dearest ENVILLE, adieu! Thy hills, dales, groves, valleys, and streams, Sportive Fancy still lingers to view, And I visit thee oft in my dreams! NOTES TO THE PRECEDING POEM.

THE Boat-House is an ornamental building, erected on the edge of one of the lakes, commonly called the Temple Pool, from having had a temple formerly in the midst of it, which was injured by accident, and subsequently taken down. The Chapel is also an ornamental one, with painted windows, and was dedicated to the poet Shenstone. The Sheep Walk is a fine down, from which are seen magnificent and almost boundless prospects. The Shepherd's Lodge is likewise a tasteful ornament, one part of which is occupied by the shepherd, and the remainder fitted up for the occasional use of the Earl's family and friends. The Cottage in the wood is the admiration of all visitors; but it would employ the pencil and pen of an artist to give an idea of its numerous beauties. The Billiard Room is an old but very handsome building, erected at the entrance of the Gardens.

If I in measur'd numbers could express The thoughts tumultuous that my soul oppress; If I could paint the varied, anxious cares That each in turn this hapless bosom bears; Or when unlook'd-for blessings have ensued, How my heart throbb'd with thankful gratitude; Then would I bid my humble Muse to raise Her voice, and sound my Benefactor's praise: His NAME to me is sacred—but I feel 'T would yield me joy his goodness to reveal. By fortune, rank, and birth exalted high, Long may HE live, and all those gifts enjoy! For HE the path of virtue firmly treads, And far around his cheering influence spreads; To his wide gate the wanderer bends his way, Nor there unpitied doth he lingering stay; There all his wants are bounteously supplied— The humble suppliant there was ne'er denied. Nor these alone his ready bounty share, Others in secret feel his generous care: For HIM the Orphan's prayers to Heav'n ascend— HE is their Patron, and the Widow's Friend! THE PERSECUTED. The man that hath done this shall surely die ... because he did this thing, and because he had no pity. —2 Sam. xii. LOOK! near yon elm, beside the tow'r, A female form I see: How came she there at this lone hour Who can the stranger be? Look thou, my friend—thine eyes are strong— And tell me, is she fair? Yes, passing fair—and then so young— What can have brought her here? Her elbow on her knee doth rest— One hand supports her head: Some piercing sorrow tears that breast— Her cheek the rose hath fled. She makes a faint attempt to rise, But looks around with fear; And wildly do those large blue eyes Glance through her auburn hair. Let us with silent step draw near— The wandering girl shall see I for her woes can shed a tear, Whate'er their source may be. "Accept, my dear, a stranger's aid— This spot is damp and cold: Turn not away, nor be afraid, But all thy griefs unfold. "Thy fainting form I'll gently lead Away from thorn and brier: Assistance thou must have with speed— Spurn not at my desire "To take thee to my quiet home, Where nought thou hast to fear: What could induce thee thus to roam, No friend nor guardian near? "The cruel flints have cut thy feet, And brambles torn thy dress: O seek with me a safe retreat— Thy woes my soul oppress. "I'll fold thee to this aching heart, And soothe thy ev'ry pain; And from me thou shalt ne'er depart, Till health return again." "If pitying Heav'n hath sent you here, To take my parting sigh, Then breathe with me the fervent pray'r, And teach me how to die! "I've wander'd many a weary mile In paths the most obscure; But cold and hunger, pain and toil, No longer can endure. "Confin'd within his castle walls, My cruel Guardian swore, I ne'er should quit those hated halls Until his name I bore! "But I escaped that wretched doom, Alone, at midnight hour; And hop'd to find a peaceful tomb In yonder ruin'd tow'r." And soon poor ROSA would have died; But Providence had sent A friend who ev'ry want supplied, And bless'd the strange event. Ere long this dear adopted child Repaid my tender cares; The tedious hours of pain beguil'd, And now each sorrow shares. In beauty's fairest form she moves, At once the boast and pride Of one belov'd, who dearly loves, And claims her for his bride. The wicked Guardian long had sought His victim to regain; But Heav'n o'errul'd his schemes to nought, And all his arts were vain. Contempt without, remorse within, Embitter'd all his days; And now,—the abject slave of sin,— On distant shores he strays. 'T is not or wealth, or rank, or pow'r, The zest of life can give; He only who hath Virtue's dow'r In peaceful calm can live. THE VOW. "Dear Emma! let's turn to the grove— The ring-dove's lamenting his mate! O where doth she carelessly rove? Hapless bird! how I pity his fate! "For if Emma from me had thus stray'd, And left me complaining behind: Till Heav'n had restor'd the dear maid, No solace on earth could I find." "Hush! Heard you that fluttering sound? Ah now the poor mourner's at rest: His faithful companion is found, And is cooing with him in the nest. "Thy pity, my Herbert was meet; But the mate of the ring-dove is true: And I vow, near her leafy retreat, To be ever thus faithful to you!" A LETTER TO MY DEAR WILLIAM, WHEN AT SCHOOL IN STAFFORDSHIRE. I've lock'd the door to 'scape annoy, While writing to my absent Boy. Nothing, of late, has pleas'd me better, Than reading o'er your charming letter; So nicely written, and so clean, By all our Friends it may be seen, Who will acknowledge credit due Both to your Master and to you. In ev'ry other work my dear, Apply with zeal, and persevere; Diligence and application Will gain you certain approbation; Then 't is delightful to excel, And win just praise for doing well. Could I but see thy full dark eye, And roguish smile, 't would give me joy: Sure such a pleasure is in store, Then how I'll kiss thee o'er and o'er! Gaze on thy works of ev'ry kind, And hail the dawning of thy mind! Tell both your Uncle and your Aunt, This feast of love I greatly want: There's nothing that I more desire, Than to be seated by their fire In social chat—each little grief From kindred minds would find relief; And every comfort sweeter prove, When shar'd with them we fondly love. Jane and the boys make quite a din, Because I will not let them in. But why? they dance and skip about, And when I'm writing put me out— Put me out of rhyme in season, This I tell them is the reason. Now for supper they are sighing, And to coax me forth are trying. Love to your aunts and uncles too— A double portion, Love for you! May angels guard thee night and day! My Father calls—and I obey. THOUGHTS, PENNED ON SEEING THE LEAVES VIOLENTLY TORN FROM A FINE DROOPING ASH. HOW the storm shakes the leaves from my favourite tree, And whirls them about in the air! Oh be still, cruel blast! for it grieves me to see Those branches forsaken and bare. But a few weeks are gone since its foliage display'd A canopy beauteously green: In the heat of the day I sat under its shade, And gaz'd on the rustics unseen, As they turn'd the new hay in a field near the spot, Beguiling the heat with a song; And laugh'd loud and joyous, their cares all forgot, While toiling the herbage among. The feather'd tribe caroll'd their happiest lay, And join'd in the chorus of glee; And my children came bounding with frolicsome play, To the shade of our favourite tree. But how chang'd is the scene now November is here! I languish in sorrow and pain; And my tree is disrobed, and must leafless appear, With Winter's cold blasts to sustain. But its heart is still sound, and again it shall bloom; Its honours sweet Spring shall restore; And I, though affliction spread round me its gloom, In faith to my Saviour will soar. LINES, WRITTEN ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL TUFT OF FORGET-ME-NOT, IN MR YOUNG'S NURSERY GROUNDS AT EPSOM. FORGET thee! no—who can forget that hue, When gazing on the sky's ethereal blue? No blooming rival that mine eyes have met Could for an instant cause me to forget The sweet sensation that my mind o'erspread, When first I saw thee on that lowly bed! MATERNAL FEARS.

My dear boy was sent from Kew into North Wales, while his father lay on his dying bed; the child himself being very unwell at the time.

MY dearest Boy! my little one! Though now so far away, Thy Mother's heart is still with thee— It seeks thee night and day. She thought thy tender years to guide, But each resource hath flown: Thy dying father sighing kiss'd And bless'd his little son. I trembling bore thee from his arms, And bitter tears we shed: I thought my heart-strings would have broke, For ev'ry hope had fled! But new alarms distracted me— Thy colour went and came: And shivering fits, and sickness pale, Assail'd thy tender frame. Yet we were doom'd e'en thus to part, For ere that dreadful morn Thy place was taken in the mail, And from me thou wert borne. I heard thee plaintively exclaim, "Could'st thou, dear mother, leave "My father's side, and come with me, "Then, then I should not grieve. "These aching pains I scarce could feel, "For should I not be press'd "To that fond bosom which was wont "To be my place of rest?" A piercing anguish fill'd my soul; 'T was hard indeed to part: But Providence protected thee, And eas'd my troubled heart. A Widow shortly I became— Sad, sorrowing, and lone; Those forms so lov'd, so dear to me, All absent, ev'ry one! But thou so very far wast sent, So many, many miles! Alas! and shall I e'er again Behold thy artless smiles? If we should ever meet again, My heart will thrill with joy: If not,—O God, protect my child, My dear, my orphan boy! AN EVENING MEDITATION. LOVELY evening, mild and still, With tranquil joys my bosom fill; Let no vain cares disturb my breast, While all around me sink to rest! Alone, by Contemplation led, Through this sweet field I love to tread. Above, below, through boundless space, The God of Nature here I trace: Yes—an Almighty guard I find O'er ev'ry thing of ev'ry kind! The sun is set, but in the west In splendour still the clouds are drest With fancied rocks, and mountains bold, And azure vales, and seas of gold Now fainter glows the magic scene, Grey mists arise and intervene, And gloomy vapours float between. But soon the silver moon will rise, And beam upon my raptur'd eyes; The sparkling stars, in order bright, Await thy coming, queen of night. Up, Cynthia, up! resume thy race In yonder blue ethereal space! The distant planets dimly burn, Impatient of thy lov'd return. Come, hasten, and my footsteps guide Along the hedge-row's flow'ry side: Ah, now thy modest face I see, A sweet companion thou wilt be. The day was sultry—now I feel Refreshing breezes round me steal; Low murmuring voices fill the air, Now here, now there, now ev'ry where; Now the whispering sound is lost, And now from tree to tree is toss'd; Ev'ry bush, and herb, and flow'r, Inhales their sighs and owns their pow'r. Great God! thy never-failing spring Of love, and wondrous works I'll sing! When gloom and darkness round me reign, Thou wilt my feeble mind sustain; Thine arm shall guard from ev'ry ill, At eve's soft hour then let me seek thee still! THE FARM. I cross'd the fields the other morn, Before the dew-drop left the thorn And feeling weary, on a stile I sat me down to rest awhile. The air was clear, the hedge was sweet, And daisies grew around my feet; While in the brook that glided by, The spotted trout were bounding high. With pure delight did I behold The splendid sun as burnish'd gold, Slow rising from a distant clime In dazzling radiance sublime. Shortly gay sounds attract my ear, And tell me there are children near: Pleas'd with their mirth, I list'ning sat, And unsuspected heard their chat. Approaching near, I peep'd unseen, And saw them sporting on the green; And on some future day may tell Why I lov'd them all so well. Inmates of a neighbouring farm, ('T was rural, healthy, quiet, warm), Let me describe the happy home, And ask if they can wish to roam? The rough-cast cottage stands between Trees cloth'd in every shade of green, Whose sheltering arms shall firmly meet Winter's rude storms and summer's heat. A garden to the front we find, For ornament and use combin'd: Many a lovely bud was there, Tended and reared with fostering care; The clustering lilacs breath'd perfume, And near them gold laburnums bloom, Whose pendant blossoms nodding bow Their graceful heads to shrubs below; A chestnut, pear, and sycamore, Throw their wide branches round the door; While in the small verandah twine The crocus, rose, and eglantine. Adjoining is an orchard fair, In spring its fragrance fills the air: And store of apples, pears, and plums, It yields when mellow autumn comes. Next, to the farm-yard I proceed, Where cattle low, and poultry feed; Of its rude inmates I would tell, For much was there that pleas'd me well; Geese, ducks, and hens with hungry brood, And cows in ruminating mood, Waiting the well-scower'd pail to fill, At well-known call of laughing Will. Behind the house were piles of wood, Along the wall bright milk-pans stood; At dairy door the churn I found, And saw them work it slowly round. The noisy pump was standing by, Which Ann the maid began to ply, And from its hoarse and chilly throat The cooling stream with vigour brought. A cow-house and the barn were near; A small thatched shed was in the rear; And through the gate, not far beyond, There flow'd a bubbling, useful pond. Pigeons hopp'd by me quite at ease, And Fan came fawning round my knees. These all gave spirit to the view, And as I saw it, so may you! Ten verdant fields surround the whole, Where, full of glee, the children stroll. There ev'ry warbler's song is sweet, With joy each op'ning flow'r they greet; The sunny bank where violets peep, And hawthorn hedge where woodbines creep; The scarlet poppy, primrose pale, And modest snow-drop, down the vale, Each in its turn attracts their sight, And each and all afford delight. The Tenant of this sweet abode, Bow'd down with grief's oppressive load, Retir'd in search of that repose Which it was thought might heal his woes: And tranquil peace his cottage yields, But high his rent, and small his fields, And industry and patient care Must both combine to keep him there. Now I propose, without delay, To spend a most delightful day. The Farm is fifteen miles from town, A two hours' drive will take us down. Beneath the drooping ash I see, There will be room to get our tea; Or, if you please, the urn may smoke Under the foliage of the oak. Around its trunk (well-worn, 't is true) A rustic seat will meet your view: There we can sit in converse sweet, And overlook the waving wheat, And listen to the sprightly thrush Rejoicing in the hawthorn bush; Or shake ripe apples from the tree, Or watch the active humming bee; While robin picks the crumbs of bread, That 'mong the gravel we have shed; And butterflies on giddy wing Kiss the gay flow'rs that round us spring. Then let us ramble, ere too late, Down the green lane, and through the gate, Where buttercups and cowslips grew, And hyacinths of azure hue; Where all is rural, wild, and still, Save only the low murmuring rill. There we may watch the sun go down, And then, well-pleas'd, return to town. TO ERNEST S——. DEAR ERNEST, you ask me to write, But alas! I am not in the mood; Yet something I fain would indite— To my young friends I would not be rude. Still, that I can write to amuse, Is more than I'll venture to say; For so fickle and coy is my muse, When I court her she often says nay. Thou saidst, let it be the new year— But I felt it had no charm for me; Its approach I had met with a tear, Yet hope it brought pleasure to thee. And may each coming season bring joy, And fill with delight thy young mind; May no griefs thy bright visions destroy, But Fortune and Friendship prove kind. Deeply gifted by Nature thou art, With talent which few have possess'd; And long may thy Parent's fond heart By thy virtue and merit be blest. In the fair field of science proceed, And add laurels to those thou hast won; And then I will love thee indeed, And my Friend shall rejoice in her son. LINES, SENT TO A LITTLE FRIEND WITH A BASKET OF FLOWER-ROOTS. DEAR WILLIAM, we send you some roots—but the flow'rs Are wither'd and faded, for lack of warm show'rs; Yet grieve not, dear boy, that their beauties are fled, For when summer returns, 't will bring others instead. If you plant, weed, and water them well, you will find Ev'ry root will produce you sweet buds of its kind; But if you neglect them, as some children do, Who are thoughtless, and trifling, and indolent too, Then expect no gay blossoms, the roots will decay, And the young buds in spring will all wither away. The culture of flow'rs is pleasing and healthy, And often amuses the learned and wealthy; It raises the mind to that God who has given Trees, plants, fruits, and flow'rs, as blessings from Heaven. Jane requests you'll accept of a pink and a rose; Joseph sends you a lily, the fairest that grows; George exclaims, What can I send? O here I espy A few useful bulbs that are healthy and dry— Take my fav'rite flag-iris— the colour is blue— With this fine scarlet-lychnis that near to it grew. Says Cheveley, tell William I've not much beside These violets, larkspurs, and gay London-pride; But my mother's collection I see will be rare, And we'll all help to pack them, I vow and declare. If mamma should grow weary of reading this letter, Pray remind her, dear William, the next may be better. Remember me kindly to one, two, and three, I shall leave you to guess who those persons may be. Your politeness, dear William, I've not fail'd to mention, And send you these plants for your friendly attention. All your young friends in love and good wishes unite,— I have worn out my pen, and must bid you good night; For my eyes are gone dim, and my candle burns blue, It is time to have done—so, dear William, adieu! A TALE, WRITTEN FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF MY CHILDREN. A charming walk is this! through all these fields Nature with lavish hand her bounty yields. Trip on, my dears, ere evening shades prevail, For mists already mingle hill and dale, Those berries will your dress and fingers stain, Then let them for your favourite birds remain: Beside the hedge-rows we'll no longer roam, But keep the path, and let us hasten home. Hark! Rattler barks—his friends are somewhat late, See how to welcome us he leaps the gate! Surely he claims our kindness and regard, So faithfully he guards both house and yard. Through the small garden let us slowly tread, Where evening dews a rich perfume have spread; Then to our much-lov'd cottage we'll retire, And seek amusement round its cheerful fire. What comforts doth this little room afford! The chairs and table set—while on the board The china blue is waiting our commands, And singing on the stove the kettle stands. A cheerful, social, light repast is tea, And that it is refreshing, all agree; No vapour from its use affects the brain With fearful passions, keen remorse, or pain. The table clear'd, if memory does not fail, Among my papers we shall find a tale, A simple one—and all the merit due To such a trifle is, that it is true. Jane, dear, the work-box get, that you and I, While Cheveley reads, our needles may apply. George must sit still, for if one word is said, He (though against his will) must go to bed. THE UNCLE'S PRESENT TO HIS NIECE. THE little maid of whom I now shall speak, Liv'd on a moor ('t was dreary, wild, and bleak). Her parents were respectable and good, And much esteem'd throughout the neighbourhood: Six other children shar'd their hopes and fears, And Fanny's age was now eleven years. "This girl must go to school," the mother said— "She awkward grows—see how she holds her head! "And though she neatly works, and reads so well, "In other things I wish her to excel." "Do as you please," th' indulgent husband cried; In fact, her wishes seldom were denied. To school the maid was sent, as it appears, And there she stay'd—I think about three years: Short was the distance—perhaps a mile or more, Friends and relations often pass'd the door: But lo! one day a stranger call'd on Miss, And much surpris'd her by a friendly kiss. How very odd, she thought, to be so free, Blush'd, hung her head, and sighed, who can he be? His form was manly—dress and air genteel, And o'er his face a placid smile did steal. "Who am I, dear?" he said in accents mild; "Indeed I know not, sir," replied the child. "Cannot you guess? Did you not understand "You had an uncle liv'd in Cumberland?" "O yes, 'tis true!" "Well then, my dear, attend— "I am that uncle—and I am your friend." He took her hand, and from his pocket drew A silver thimble—bright it was, and new; Nicely it fitted, and her finger graced— Then a small packet in her hand he placed. "This little gift I hope will useful prove, "From me accept it as a mark of love:— "I now shall leave, but soon my call renew." With look benevolent he then withdrew. Pleasing emotions fill'd her youthful breast, So deeply felt as not to be express'd. The school-room gain'd, her playmates round her throng; "Whom have you seen? Where have you been so long? "Tell us, dear Fanny, what you there have got." "It is a present—-but I know not what; "This tiresome string will never, sure, untie: "Lend me your scissors—'t is in vain to try." "Take mine—or mine—we all must have a look— "O what a charming, what a lovely book! "So sweet a present sure was never seen— "'T is red morocco, lin'd with silk of green! "Here's tweezers, with a pencil in its case— "And here's a looking-glass to view your face. "Look at this knife, with haft of tortoise-shell, "And this fine skin, on which one writes so well: "These polished scissors I should like to try, "Or this nice bodkin, with its sparkling eye: "The kerseymere with gold is overcast, "And rows of needles neatly ranged come last. "'T is quite complete, and will for years endure, "The clasp of silver keeps it so secure. "Now put it up, and let us go to play- "For this has been to you a happy day!" Happy she was, as I have heard her tell— Each incident is still remember'd well: Though years have roll'd, the pleasure strange and new, Of that eventful day is still in view. "How kind that Uncle! Tell us, Mother, pray— "And did he call again some other day?" Yes—often call'd, and still was ever kind, And some memorial ever left behind; An annual visit in those parts he paid, And never once forgot the little maid; But as he promis'd, so has always prov'd— A friend—by her respected and belov'd. Were I to tell of Fanny's future years, Her blighted prospects, with her hopes and fears, 'T would volumes fill—suffice it now to know, She's had an ample share of poignant woe; But greatly chequer'd her whole life has been, And strange vicissitudes have mark'd each scene. A painful sickness she was doom'd to feel, Which for a term of years no art could heal; But still she lives, and lives in hope to rear A blooming offspring, drooping age to cheer; Strives to plant virtue deeply in each breast, And to their Heavenly Father leaves the rest. VERSES, SENT IN MY DAUGHTER'S TRUNK, ON HER DEPARTURE INTO STAFFORDSHIRE. ACCEPT, dear girl, a mother's blessing, All that's left her to bestow: To part with thee was most distressing, Yet 't was best it should be so. I shall miss my child's attention, Now deep affliction fills my breast; But selfish griefs I ne'er will mention, If I find that thou art blest. Blest with health, and friends to guide thee In the path that leads to heaven; Such a hope must soon decide me— For my comfort it was given. Thy Aunt, I trust, will oft remind thee That the world and all it gives Must ere long be left behind thee, Though thy spirit ever lives. Yes—thy soul must live for ever— Live in bliss or endless pain! Think, O think of this, and never Let thy Saviour die in vain! Let not love of dress or pleasure Fill thy head, or taint thy heart: Would'st thou be my greatest treasure, Strive to act a wiser part. Study Nature's ample pages, Wondrous works are there display'd, Mighty works, which have for ages Scorn'd a mortal's feeble aid. Be contented in thy station, This alone is happiness; Pursue with zeal each avocation, And doubt not thou wilt find success. Ask a blessing night and morning, Close the day with praise and prayer: Piety thy mind adorning, Folly dares not enter there. To accidents, and snares, and danger, Poverty, and ev'ry ill, God grant thy bosom be a stranger; And may it be his gracious will To shed his choicest gifts around thee, And to hear thy mother's pray'r; Then sin and death will ne'er confound thee, But faith and hope, and peace appear. Adieu, my child! in grief we parted, But a Mother thou wilt find In her whose love has oft imparted Solace to my care-worn mind. ADDRESS TO THE LADIES OF KEW. Dear Ladies accept—pray do not reject A tribute of gratitude, long ago due! But how can I conceal, or express what I feel, For favours receiv'd from the Ladies of Kew? Though a stranger I came, and on none had a claim, Good friends I have found, and they have not been few; Acts of kindness abound from my neighbours around, And grateful I feel to the Dwellers at Kew. It griev'd me, I own, but my hopes had all flown, And my mind was made up to bid you adieu; Till kind Friends I revere, said, O pray persevere, We trust there's a hope of remaining at Kew. Then arrangements were made for a change in my trade, And my small stock of goods is now open to view; Come, Ladies, come buy—I entreat you to try, For I feel my success depends chiefly on you! Some Gents. I have seen, who have purchasers been From benevolent motives—indeed it is true— And I hope still to find others equally kind, For I fain would remain in the village of Kew. Begging ne'er was my forte, yet I crave your support— For your favours in future most humbly I sue: Let it not be in vain that I sigh to obtain The esteem and good-will of the dwellers at Kew! FINIS. LONDON: Printed by Manning aud Smithson, 12. Ivy-Lane, Paternoster-Row.