Still have they being?-Workhouse-clearing men, Who, undisturb'd by feelings just or kind, Would parish boys to needy tradesmen bind: They in their want a trifling sum would take, And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make.

Such Peter sought, and when a lad was found,
The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound.
Some few in town observ'd in Peter's trap
A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap;
But none inquir'd how Peter us'd the rope,

Or what the bruise, that made the stripling stoop;
None could the ridges on his back behold,
None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold;
None put the question,-" Peter, dost thou give
The boy his food?-What, man! the lad must live:
Consider, Peter, let the child have bread,
He'll serve thee better if he's strok'd and fed."
None reason'd thus-and some, on hearing cries,
Said calmly," Grimes is at his exercise."

Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, threaten'd, and
abus'd-

His efforts punish'd and his food refus'd,-
Awake tormented,-soon arous'd from sleep,-
Struck if he wept, and yet compell'd to weep,-
The trembling boy dropp'd down and strove to pray,
Receiv'd a blow, and trembling turn'd away,
Or sobb'd and hid his piteous face;-while he,
The savage master, grinn'd in horrid glee:
He'd now the power he ever lov'd to show,
A feeling being subject to his blow.

Thus liv'd the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,
His tears despis'd, his supplications vain:
Compell'd by fear to lie, by need to steal,
His bed uneasy and unblest his meal,
For three sad years the boy his tortures bore,
And then his pains and trials were no more.

How died he, Peter?' when the people said, He growl'd-"I found him lifeless in his bed;" Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, "Poor Sam is dead." [ask'd,

Yet murmurs were there, and some questions How he was fed, how punish'd, and how task'd? Much they suspected, but they little prov'd, And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmov'd.

Another boy with equal ease was found, The money granted and the victim bound; And what his fate !-One night it chanc'd he fell From the boat's mast and perish'd in her well, Where fish were living kept, and where the boy (So reason'd men) could not himself destroy:"Yes! so it was," said Peter, "in his play, (For he was idle both by night and day,) He climb'd the main-mast and then fell below;"Then show'd his corpse and pointed to the blow: 'What said the jury?'-they were long in doubt, But sturdy Peter faced the matter out:

So they dismiss'd him, saying at the time, [climb.' Keep fast your hatchway when you've boys who

This hit the conscience, and he colour'd more

Than for the closest questions put before.
Thus all his fears the verdict set aside,

And at the slave-shop Peter still applied.

Then came a boy, of manners soft and mild,— Our seamen's wives with grief beheld the child; All thought (the poor themselves) that he was one Of gentle blood, some noble sinner's son, Who had, belike, deceiv'd some humble maid, Whom he had first seduc'd and then betray'd:However this, he seem'd a gracious lad, In grief submissive and with patience sad.

Passive he labour'd, till his slender frame Bent with his loads, and he at length was lame: Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long The grossest insult and the foulest wrong; But there were causes-in the town they gave Fire, food, and comfort, to the gentle slave; And though stern Peter, with a cruel hand, And knotted rope, enforc'd the rude command, Yet he consider'd what he'd lately felt, And his vile blows with selfish pity dealt.

One day such draughts the cruel fisher made, He could not vend them in his Borough-trade, But sail'd for London-mart: the boy was ill, But ever humbled to his master's will; And on the river, where they smoothly sail'd, He strove with terror and awhile prevail'd; But new to danger on the angry sea, He clung affrighten'd to his master's knee: The boat grew leaky and the wind was strong, Rough was the passage and the time was long; His liquor fail'd, and Peter's wrath arose,— No more is known-the rest we must suppose, Or learn of Peter;-Peter says, he "spied The stripling's danger and for harbour tried; Meantime the fish, and then th' apprentice died."

The pitying women rais'd a clamour round, And weeping said, "Thou hast thy 'prentice drown'd."

Now the stern man was summon'd to the hall,
To tell his tale before the burghers all:
He gave th' account; profess'd the lad he lov'd,
And kept his brazen features all unmov'd.

The mayor himself with tone severe replied,-
"Henceforth with thee shall never boy abide;
Hire thee a freeman, whom thou durst not beat,
But who, in thy despite, will sleep and eat:
Free thou art now!-again should'st thou appear,
Thou 'lt find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe."
Alas! for Peter not a helping hand,
So was he hated, could he now command;
Alone he row'd his boat, alone he cast
His nets beside, or made his anchor fast;
To hold a rope or hear a curse was none,—
He toil'd and rail'd; he groan'd and swore alone.
Thus by himself compell'd to live each day,
To wait for certain hours the tide's delay;
At the same times the same dull views to see,
The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree;
The water only, when the tides were high,
When low, the mud half cover'd and half dry;
The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks,
And bank side stakes in their uneven ranks;
Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float,
As the tide rolls by the impeded boat.

When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day,
Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their
Which on each side rose swelling, and below [way,
The dark warm flood ran silently and slow;
There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,
There hang his head, and view the lazy tide
In its hot slimy channel slowly glide;
Where the small eels that left the deeper way
For the warm shore, within the shallows play;
Where gaping muscles, left upon the mud,
Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood;-
Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and trace,
How sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked race;
Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry

Of fishing gull, or clanging golden-eye;
What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come,
And the loud bittern, from the bulrush home,
Gave from the salt ditch side the bellowing boom:
He nurs'd the feelings these dull scenes produce,
And lov'd to stop beside the opening sluice;
Where the small stream, confin'd in narrow bound,
Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound;
Where all, presented to the eye or ear,
Oppress'd the soul with misery, grief, and fear.
Beside these objects, there were places three,
Which Peter seem'd with certain dread to see;
When he drew near them he would turn from each,
And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach.

A change of scene to him brought no relief,
In town, 'twas plain, men took him for a thief:
The sailors' wives would stop him in the street,
And say, "Now, Peter, thou 'st no boy to beat:"
Infants at play, when they perceiv'd him, ran,
Warning each other-"That's the wicked man."
He growl'd an oath, and in an angry tone
Curs'd the whole place and wish'd to be alone.

Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view, And still more gloomy in his sight they grew: Though man he hated, yet employ'd alone At bootless labour, he would swear and groan, Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot, And gulls that caught them when his arts could not. Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame, And strange disease-he couldn't say the name; Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright, Wak'd by his view of horrors in the night, Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze, Horrors that demons might be proud to raise: And though he felt forsaken, griev'd at heart, To think he liv'd from all mankind apart; Yet, if a man approach'd, in terrors he would start. A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town, And summer lodgers were again come down; These, idly curious, with their glasses spied The ships in bay as anchor'd for the tide,The river's craft,-the bustle of the quay,And sea-port views, which landmen love to see. One, up the river, had a man and boat Seen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat; Fisher he seem'd, yet us'd no net nor hook; Of sea-fowl swimming by, no heed he took, But on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look:

At certain stations he would view the stream,
As if he stood bewilder'd in a dream,
Or that some power had chain'd him for a time,
To feel a curse or meditate on crime.

This known, some curious, some in pity went,
And others question'd-"Wretch, dost thou repent?"
He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd
His boat: new terror fill'd his restless mind;
Furious he grew, and up the country ran,
And there they seiz'd him-a distemper'd man:-
Him we receiv'd, and to a parish bed,
Follow'd and curs'd, the groaning man was led.
Here when they saw him, whom they us'd to shun,
A lost, lone man, so harass'd and undone;
Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel,
Perceiv'd compassion on their anger steal;
His crimes they could not from their memories blot,
But they were griev'd, and trembled at his lot.

A priest too came, to whom his words are told; And all the signs they shudder'd to behold.

"Look! look!" they cried; "his limbs with horror shake,

And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make!
How glare his angry eyes, and yet he's not awake:
See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,
And how he clenches that broad bony hand."

The priest attending, found he spoke at times
As one alluding to his fears and crimes:
"It was the fall," he mutter'd, "I can show
The manner how-I never struck a blow:"—
And then aloud-" Unhand me, free my chain;
On oath, he fell-it struck him to the brain:-
Why ask my father?-that old man will swear
Against my life; besides, he wasn't there:-
What, all agreed?-Am I to die to-day?—
My lord, in mercy, give me time to pray."

[hear

Then as they watch'd him, calmer he became, And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame, But murmuring spake,-while they could see and The start of terror and the groan of fear; See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise, And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes; Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force Seem'd with some fancied being to discourse: He knew not us, or with accustom'd art He hid the knowledge, yet expos'd his heart; 'Twas part confession and the rest defence, A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense. "I'll tell you all," he said, "the very day When the old man first plac'd them in my way: My father's spirit-he who always tried To give me trouble, when he liv'd and diedWhen he was gone, he could not be content To see my days in painful labour spent, But would appoint his meetings, and he made Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade.

"'Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene, No living being had I lately seen;

I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net,
But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get,-
A father's pleasure, when his toil was done,
To plague and torture thus an only son!

And so I sat and look'd upon the stream,
How it ran on, and felt as in a dream:
But dream it was not; no!-I fix'd my eyes
On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise;
I saw my father on the water stand,
And hold a thin pale boy in either hand;
And there they glided ghastly on the top
Of the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop:

I would have struck them, but they knew th' intent,
And smil'd upon the oar, and down they went.
"Now, from that day, whenever I began
To dip my net, there stood the hard old man-
He and those boys: I humbled me and pray'd
They would be gone ;-they heeded not but stay'd:
Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by,
But gazing on the spirits, there was I:
They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to die:
And every day, as sure as day arose,
Would these three spirits meet me ere the close;
To hear and mark them daily was my doom,
And 'come,' they said, with weak, sad voices, 'come.'
To row away with all my strength I try'd,
But there were they, hard by me in the tide,
The three unbodied forms-and 'come,' still 'come,'
they cried.

"Fathers should pity—but this old man shook His hoary locks, and froze me by a look: Thrice, when I struck them, through the water came A hollow groan, that weaken'd all my frame: 'Father!' said I, have mercy:'-He replied, I know not what-the angry spirit lied,'Didst thou not draw thy knife?' said he :-'Twas But I had pity and my arm withdrew: He cried for mercy, which I kindly gave, But he has no compassion in his grave.

[true,

"There were three places, where they ever rose,The whole long river has not such as those,Places accurs'd, where, if a man remain, He'll see the things which strike him to the brain; And there they made me on my paddle lean, And look at them for hours;-accursed scene! When they would glide to that smooth eddy-space, Then bid me leap and join them in the place; And at my groans each little villain sprite Enjoy'd my pains, and vanish'd in delight.

"In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain Was burning hot, and cruel was my pain, Then came this father-foe, and there he stood With his two boys again upon the flood; There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee In their pale faces when they glar'd at me: Still did they force me on the oar to rest, And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd, He, with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood, And there came flame about him mix'd with blood; He bade me stoop and look upon the place, Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face; Burning it blaz'd, and then I roar'd for pain, I thought the demons would have turn'd my brain. "Still there they stood, and forc'd me to behold A place of horrors-they cannot be toldWhere the flood open'd, there I heard the shriek

Of tortur'd guilt-no earthly tongue can speak:
'All days alike! for ever!' did they say,
• And unremitted torments every day’—

Yes, so they said:"-But here he ceas'd and gaz'd
On all around, affrighten'd and amaz'd;
And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dread
Of frighten'd females gathering round his bed;
Then dropt exhausted and appear'd at rest,
Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd;
Then with an inward, broken voice he cried,
Again they come," and mutter'd as he died.

66

TALE XI.

EDWARD SHORE.

Genius! thou gift of Heav'n! thou light divine!
Amid what dangers art thou doom'd to shine!
Oft will the body's weakness check thy force,
Oft damp thy vigour, and impede thy course;
And trembling nerves compel thee to restrain
Thy nobler efforts, to contend with pain;
Or want (sad guest!) will in thy presence come,
And breathe around her melancholy gloom;
To life's low cares will thy proud thought confine,
And make her sufferings, her impatience, thine.
Evil and strong, seducing passions prey
On soaring minds, and win them from their way;
Who then to vice the subject spirits give,
And in the service of the conqu'ror live;
Like captive Samson making sport for all,
Who fear'd their strength, and glory in their fall.
Genius, with virtue, still may lack the aid
Implored by humble minds and hearts afraid;
May leave to timid souls the shield and sword
Of the tried faith, and the resistless word;
Amid a world of dangers venturing forth,
Frail, but yet fearless, proud in conscious worth,
Till strong temptation, in some fatal time,
Assails the heart, and wins the soul to crime;
When left by honour, and by sorrow spent,
Unused to pray, unable to repent,
The nobler powers that once exalted high
Th' aspiring man, shall then degraded lie:
Reason, through anguish, shall her throne forsake,
And strength of mind but stronger madness make.

When Edward Shore had reach'd his twentieth
He felt his bosom light, his conscience clear; [year,
Applause at school the youthful hero gain'd,
And trials there with manly strength sustain’d:
With prospects bright upon the world he came,
Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame :
Men watch'd the way his lofty mind would take,
And all foretold the progress he would make.
Boast of these friends, to older men a guide,
Proud of his parts, but gracious in his pride;
He bore a gay good-nature in his face,
And in his air were dignity and grace;
Dress that became his state and years he wore,
And sense and spirit shone in Edward Shore.
Thus while admiring friends the youth beheld,
His own disgust their forward hopes repell'd;
For he unfix'd, unfixing, look'd around,

And no employment but in seeking found;
He gave his restless thoughts to views refined,
And shrank from worldly cares with wounded mind.
Rejecting trade, awhile he dwelt on laws,
"But who could plead, if unapproved the cause?"
A doubting, dismal tribe physicians seem'd;
Divines o'er texts and disputations dream'd;
War and its glory he perhaps could love,
But there again he must the cause approve.

Our hero thought no deed should gain applause,
Where timid virtue found support in laws;
He to all good would soar, would fly all sin,
By the pure prompting of the will within;
"Who needs a law that binds him not to steal,"
Ask'd the young teacher," can he rightly feel?
To curb the will, or arm in honour's cause,
Or aid the weak-are these enforced by laws?
Should we a foul, ungenerous action dread,
Because a law condemns th' adulterous bed?
Or fly pollution, not for fear of stain,
But that some statute tells us to refrain?
The grosser herd in ties like these we bind,
In virtue's freedom moves th' enlighten'd mind."
"Man's heart deceives him," said a friend: "Of
- course,"

Replied the youth," but, has it power to force?
Unless it forces, call it as you will,

It is but wish, and proneness to the ill."

"Art thou not tempted?""Do I fall?" said Shore: "The pure have fallen."-"Then are pure no more: While reason guides me, I shall walk aright, Nor need a steadier hand, or stronger light; Nor this in dread of awful threats, design'd For the weak spirit and the grov'ling mind; But that, engaged by thoughts and views sublime, I wage free war with grossness and with crime." Thus look'd he proudly on the vulgar crew, Whom statutes govern, and whom fears subdue. Faith, with his virtue, he indeed profess'd, But doubts deprived his ardent mind of rest; Reason, his sovereign mistress, fail'd to show Light through the mazes of the world below; Questions arose, and they surpass'd the skill Of his sole aid, and would be dubious still; These to discuss he sought no common guide, But to the doubters in his doubts applied; When all together might in freedom speak, And their loved truth with mutual ardour seek. Alas! though men who feel their eyes decay Take more than common pains to find their way, Yet, when for this they ask each other's aid, Their mutual purpose is the more delay'd: Of all their doubts, their reasoning clear'd not one, Still the same spots were present in the sun; Still the same scruples haunted Edward's mind, Who found no rest, nor took the means to find. But though with shaken faith, and slave to fame, Vain and aspiring on the world he came; Yet was he studious, serious, moral, grave, No passion's victim, and no system's slave; Vice he opposed, indulgence he disdain'd, And o'er each sense in conscious triumph reign'd.

Who often reads, will sometimes wish to write,
And Shore would yield instruction and delight:
A serious drama he design'd, but found
'Twas tedious travelling in that gloomy ground;
A deep and solemn story he would try,
But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid it by ;
Sermons he wrote, but they who knew his creed,
Or knew it not, were ill disposed to read;
And he would lastly be the nation's guide,
But, studying, fail'd to fix upon a side;
Fame he desired, and talents he possess'd,
But loved not labour, though he could not rest,
Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind,
That, ever working, could no centre find.

'Tis thus a sanguine reader loves to trace
The Nile forth rushing on his glorious race;
Calm and secure the fancied traveller goes
Through sterile deserts and by threat'ning foes;
He thinks not then of Afric's scorching sands,
Th' Arabian sea, the Abyssinian bands;
Fasils and Michaels, and the robbers all,
Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call;
He of success alone delights to think,

He views that fount, he stands upon the brink,
And drinks a fancied draught, exulting so to drink.

In his own room, and with his books around,
His lively mind its chief employment found;
Then idly busy, quietly employ'd,
And, lost to life, his visions were enjoy'd:
Yet still he took a keen inquiring view
Of all that crowds neglect, desire, pursue;
And thus abstracted, curious, still, serene,
He, unemploy'd, beheld life's shifting scene;
Still more averse from vulgar joys and cares,
Still more unfitted for the world's affairs.

There was a house where Edward oft times went,
And social hours in pleasant trifling spent;
He read, conversed and reason'd, sang and play'd,
And all were happy while the idler stay'd:
Too happy one, for thence arose the pain,
Till this engaging trifler came again.

But did he love? We answer, day by day, The loving feet would take th' accustom'd way, The amorous eye would rove as if in quest Of something rare, and on the mansion rest; The same soft passion touch'd the gentle tongue, And Anna's charms in tender notes were sung; The ear too seem'd to feel the common flame, Sooth'd and delighted with the fair one's name; And thus as love each other part possess'd, The heart, no doubt, its sovereign power confess'd.

Pleased in her sight, the youth required no more;
Not rich himself, he saw the damsel poor;
And he too wisely, nay, too kindly loved,
To pain the being whom his soul approved.

A serious friend our cautious youth possess'd,
And at his table sat a welcome guest;
Both unemploy'd, it was their chief delight ́
To read what free and daring authors write;
Authors who loved from common views to soar,
And seek the fountains never traced before;
Truth they profess'd, yet often left the true