See! on her bosom rests the sign of sin,
The glaring proof of naughty thoughts within;
What! 'tis a cross; come hither-as a friend
Thus from thy neck the shameful badge I rend."
"Rend, if you dare," said Dighton; "you shall
find

A man of spirit, though to peace inclined;
Call me ungrateful! have I not my pay
At all times ready for th' expected day?—
To share my plenteous board you deign to come,
Myself your pupil, and my house your home;
And shall the persons who my meat enjoy
Talk of my faults, and treat me as a boy?
Have you not told how Rome's insulting priests
Led their meck laymen like a herd of beasts;
And by their fleecing and their forgery made
Their holy calling an accursed trade?
Can you such acts and insolence condemn,
Who to your utmost power resemble them?
"Concerns it you what books I set for sale?
The tale perchance may be a virtuous tale;
And for the rest, 'tis neither wise nor just,
In you, who read not, to condemn on trust;
Why should th' Archdeacon's Charge your spleen
excite ?

Je, or perchance th' archbishop, may be right.
"That from your meetings I refrain, is true;
meet with nothing pleasant-nothing new;
But the same proofs, that not one text explain,
And the same lights, where all things dark remain;
I thought you saints on earth-but I have found
Some sins among you, and the best unsound:
You have your failings, like the crowds below,
And at your pleasure hot and cold can blow.
When I at first your grave deportment saw,
(I own my folly,) I was fill'd with awe;
You spoke so warmly, and it seems so well,
I should have thought it treason to rebel;
Is it a wonder that a man like me
Should such perfection in such teachers see?
Nay, should conceive you sent from heaven to brave
The host of sin, and sinful souls to save?
But as our reason wakes, our prospects clear,
And failings, flaws, and blemishes appear.
"When you were mounted in your rostrum high,
We shrank beneath your tone, your frown, your eye;
Then you beheld us abject, fallen, low,
And felt your glory from our baseness grow;
Touch'd by your words, I trembled like the rest,
And my own vileness and your power confess'd:
These, I exclaim'd, are men divine, and gazed
On him who taught, delighted, and amazed;
Glad when he finish'd, if by chance he cast
One look on such a sinner, as he pass'd.

"But when I view'd you in a clearer light,
And saw the frail and carnal appetite;
When, at his humble prayer, you deign'd to eat
Saints as you are, a civil sinner's meat;
When as you sat contented and at ease,
Nibbling at leisure on the ducks and pease;
And, pleased some comforts in such place to find,
You could descend to be a little kind;

And gave us hope, in heaven there might be room
For a few souls besides your own to come;
While this world's good engaged your carnal view,
And like a sinner you enjoy'd it too;
All this perceiving, can you think it strange
That change in you should work an equal change?"

Wretch that thou art," an elder cried, "and gone For everlasting."- "Go thyself," said John;

Depart this instant, let me hear no more

My house my castle is, and that my door."

The hint they took, and from the door withdrew,
And John to meeting bade a long adieu;
Attach'd to business, he in time became
A wealthy man of no inferior name.
It seem'd, alas! in John's deluded sight,
That all was wrong because not all was right;
And when he found his teachers had their stains,
Resentment and not reason broke his chains:
Thus on his feelings he again relied,

And never look'd to reason for his guide:
Could he have wisely view'd the frailty shown,
And rightly weigh'd their wanderings and his

own,

He might have known that men may be sincere,
Though gay and feasting on the savoury cheer;
That doctrines sound and sober they may teach,
Who love to eat with all the glee they preach;
Nay, who believe the duck, the grape, the pine,
Were not intended for the dog and swine;
But Dighton's hasty mind on every theme.
Ran from the truth, and rested in th' extreme:
Flaws in his friends he found, and then withdrew
(Vain of his knowledge) from their virtues too.
Best of his books he loved the liberal kind,
That, if they improve not, still enlarge the mind;
And found himself, with such advisers, free
From a fix'd creed, as mind enlarged could be.
His humble wife at these opinions sigh'd,
But her he never heeded till she died:
He then assented to a last request,
And by the meeting window let her rest;
And on her stone the sacred text was seen,
Which had her comfort in departing been.

Dighton with joy beheld his trade advance,
Yet seldom publish'd, loath to trust to chance;
Then wed a doctor's sister-poor indeed,
But skill'd in works her husband could not read ⚫
Who, if he wish'd new ways of wealth to seek,
Could make her half-crown pamphlet in a week;
This he rejected, though without disdain,
And chose the old and certain way to gain.
Thus he proceeded, trade increased the while,
And fortune woo'd him with perpetual smile:
On early scenes he sometimes cast a thought,
When on his heart the mighty change was wrought
And all the ease and comfort converts find
Was magnified in his reflecting mind:
Then on the teacher's priestly pride he dwelt,
That caused his freedom, but with this he felt
The danger of the free-for since that day,
No guide had shown, no brethren join'd his way
Forsaking one, he found no second creed,
But reading doubted, doubting what to read.
Still, though reproof had brought some present
pain,

The gain he made was fair and honest gain;
He laid his wares, indeed, in public view,
But that all traders claim a right to do:
By means like these, he saw his wealth increase,
And felt his consequence, and dwelt in peace.

Our hero's age was threescore years and five,
When he exclaim'd, "Why longer should I strive?
Why more amass, who never must behold
A young John Dighton, to make glad the old ?"

(The sons he had to early graves were gone,
And girls were burdens to the mind of John.)
Had I a boy, he would our name sustain,
That now to nothing must return again;
But what are all my profits, credit, trade,
And parish honours ?-folly and parade."

Thus Dighton thought, and in his looks appear'd
Sadness increased by much he saw and heard:
The brethren often at the shop would stay,
And make their comments ere they walk'd away:
They mark'd the window, fill'd in every pane
With lawless prints of reputations slain;
Distorted forms of men with honours graced,
And our chief rulers in derision placed :
Amazed they stood, remembering well the days
When to be humble was their brother's praise,
When at the dwelling of their friend they stopp'd
To drop a word, or to receive it dropp'd;
Where they beheld the prints of men renown'd,
And far-famed preachers pasted all around;

I had my comforts, and a growing trade
Gave greater pleasure than a fortune made;
And as I more possess'd and reason'd more,
I lost those comforts I enjoy'd before,
When reverend guides I saw my table round,
And in my guardian guest my safety found:
Now sick and sad, no appetite, no ease,
Nor pleasure have I, nor a wish to please;
Nor views, nor hopes, nor plans, nor taste have I,
Yet sick of life, have no desire to die."

He said, and died; his trade, his name is gone,
And all that once gave consequence to John.
Unhappy Dighton! had he found a friend,
When conscience told him it was time to mend!
A friend discreet, considerate, kind, sincere,
Who would have shown the grounds of hope and
fear;

And proved that spirits, whether high or low,
No certain tokens of man's safety show;
Had reason ruled him in her proper place,

sleek!

They look'd as speaking what is wo to speak :)
On these the passing brethren loved to dwell-
How long they spake! how strongly! warmly!
well!

What power had each to dive in mysteries deep,
To warm the cold, to make the harden'd weep;
To lure, to fright, to soothe, to awe the soul,
And listening flocks to lead and to control!

But now discoursing, as they linger'd near,
They tempted John (whom they accused) to hear
Their weighty charge-" And can the lost one feel,
As in the time of duty, love, and zeal;
When all were summon'd at the rising sun,
And he was ready with his friends to run;
When he, partaking with a chosen few,
Felt the great change, sensation rich and new?
No! all is lost, her favours Fortune shower'd
Upon the man, and he is overpower'd;
The world has won him with its tempting store
Of needless wealth, and that has made him poor:
Success undoes him, he has risen to fall,
Has gain'd a fortune, and has lost his all;
Gone back from Sion, he will find his age
Loath to commence a second pilgrimage;
He has retreated from the chosen track;

And now must ever bear the burden on his back."
Hurt by such censure, John began to find
Fresh revolutions working in his mind;
He sought for comfort in his books, but read
Without a plan or method in his head;
What once amused, now rather made him sad,
What should inform, increased the doubts he had;
Shame would not let him seek at church a guide,
And from his meeting he was held by pride;
His wife derided fears she never felt,
And passing brethren daily censures dealt;
Hope for a son was now for ever past,
He was the first John Dighton, and the last;
His stomach fail'd, his case the doctor knew,
But said, "He still might hold a year or two."
"No more!" he said, "but why should I complain?
A life of doubt must be a life of pain:
Could I be sure-but why should I despair?
I'm sure my conduct has been just and fair;
In youth indeed I had a wicked will,
But I repented, and have sorrow still:

THAN old George Fletcher, on the British coast, Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast; Kind, simple, and sincere-he seldom spoke, But sometimes sang and choruss'd," Hearts of Oak;" In dangers steady, with his lot content, His days in labour and in love were spent. He left a son so like him, that the old With joy exclaim'd, " 'tis Fletcher we behold;" But to his brother when the kinsmen came, And view'd his form, they grudged the father's

name.

George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad, With just the failings that his father had; Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact, With just the virtues that his father lack'd.

George lived at sea; upon the land a guestHe sought for recreation, not for rest; While, far unlike, his brother's feebler form Shrank from the cold, and shudder'd at the storm; Still with the seaman's to connect his trade, The boy was bound where blocks and ropes were made.

George, strong and sturdy, had a tender mind, And was to Isaac pitiful and kind;

A very father, till his art was gain'd,
And then a friend unwearied he remain'd:
He saw his brother was of spirit low,
His temper peevish, and his motions slow;
Not fit to bustle in a world, or make
Friends to his fortune for his merit's sake:
But the kind sailor could not boast the art
Of looking deeply in the human heart;
Else had he seen that this weak brother knew
What men to court, what objects to pursue;
That he to distant gain the way discern'd,
And none so crooked but his genius learn'd.

Isaac was poor, and this the brother felt;
He hired a house, and there the landsman dwelt;
Wrought at his trade, and had an easy home,
For there would George with cash and comforts

come;

And when they parted, Isaac look'd around,
Where other friends and helpers might be found.
He wish'd for some port-place, and one might fall,
He wisely thought, if he should try for all;
He had a vote-and, were it well applied,
Might have its worth-and he had views beside;
Old Burgess Steel was able to promote

An humble man who served him with a vote;
For Isaac felt not what some tempers feel,
But bow'd and bent the neck to Burgess Steel;
And great attention to a lady gave,

His ancient friend, a maiden spare and grave:
One whom the visage long and look demure
Of Isaac pleased-he seem'd sedate and pure;
And his soft heart conceived a gentle flame
For her who waited on this virtuous dame :
Not an outrageous love, a scorching fire,
But friendly liking and chastised desire;
And thus he waited, patient in delay,
In present favour and in fortune's way.

George then was coasting-war was yet delay'd,
And what he gain'd was to his brother paid;
Nor ask'd the seaman what he saved or spent:
But took his grog, wrought hard, and was

content;

Till war awaked the land, and George began To think what part became a useful man:

Press'd, I must go; why then, 'tis better far
At once to enter like a British tar,

Than a brave captain and the foe to shun,
As if I fear'd the music of a gun."

“Go not!” said Isaac-" You shall wear disguise." "What!" said the seaman, “clothe myself with lies ?"

"O! but there's danger."-" Danger in the fleet?
You cannot mean, good brother, of defeat;
And other dangers I at land must share--
So now adieu! and trust a brother's care."
Isaac awhile demurr'd—but, in his heart,
So might he share, he was disposed to part:
The better mind will sometimes feel the pain
Of benefactions-favour is a chain;

And hear me, brother, whether pay or prize, One-half to thee I give and I devise;

For thou hast oft occasion for the aid

Of learn'd physicians, and they will be paid:
Their wives and children men support, at sea,
And thou, my lad, art wife and child to me:
Farewell! I go where hope and honour call,
Nor does it follow that who fights must fall."
Isaac here made a poor attempt to speak,
And a huge tear moved slowly down his cheek;
Like Pluto's iron drop, hard sign of grace,
It slowly roll'd upon the rueful face,
Forced by the striving will alone its way to trace.

Years fled-war lasted-George at sea remain'd,
While the slow landsman still his profits gain'd:
An humble place was vacant; he besought
His patron's interest, and the office caught;
For still the virgin was his faithful friend,
And one so sober could with truth commend,
Who of his own defects most humbly thought,
And their advice with zeal and reverence sought:
Whom thus the mistress praised, the maid approved,
And her he wedded whom he wisely loved.

No more he needs assistance-but, alas! He fears the money will for liquor pass; Or that the seaman might to flatterers lend, Or give support to some pretended friend : Still he must write-he wrote, and he confess'd That, till absolved, he should be sore distress'd; But one so friendly would, he thought, forgive The hasty deed-heaven knew how he should live; But you," he added, “as a man of sense,

Have well consider'd danger and expense:
I ran, alas! into the fatal snare,

And now for trouble must my mind prepare ;
And how, with children, I shall pick my way,
Through a hard world, is more than I can say:
Then change not, brother, your more happy state,
Or on the hazard long deliberate."

George answer'd gravely, “It is right and fit, In all our crosses, humbly to submit: Your apprehensions are unwise, unjust; Forbear repining, and expel distrust." He added, "Marriage was the joy of life," And gave his service to his brother's wife; Then vow'd to bear in all expense a part, And thus concluded, "Have a cheerful heart." Had the glad Isaac been his brother's guide, In these same terms the seaman had replied; At such reproofs the crafty landsman smiled, And softly said, "This creature is a child."

Twice had the gallant ship a capture made, And when in port the happy crew were paid, Home went the sailor, with his pocket stored, Ease to enjoy, and pleasure to afford; His time was short, joy shone in every face, Isaac half fainted in the fond embrace : The wife resolved her honour'd guest to please, The children clung upon their uncle's knees;

disdain ;

While beings form'd in coarser mould will hate
The helping hand they ought to venerate;
No wonder George should in this cause prevail,
With one contending who was glad to fail:
"Isaac, farewell! do wipe that doleful eye;
Crying we came, and groaning we may die.
Let us do something 'twixt the groan and cry:

health,

And George exclaim'd, "Ah! what to this is wealth?
Better," said he, " to bear a loving heart,
Than roll in riches-but we now must part!"

All yet is still-but hark! the winds o'ersweep The rising waves, and howl upon the deep; Ships late becalm'd on mountain-billows rideSo life is threaten'd, and so man is tried.

The mother bade him from the loft refrain,
But, though with caution, yet he went again;
And now his tales the sailor feebly told,
His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold:
The tender boy came often to entreat

His good kind friend would of his presents eat;
Purloin'd or purchased, for he saw, with shame,
The food untouch'd that to his uncle came;
Who, sick in body and in mind, received
The boy's indulgence, gratified and grieved.
“Uncle will die!" said George-the piteous
wife

Exclaim'd, "She saw no value in his life;
But sick or well, to my commands attend,
And go no more to your complaining friend."
The boy was vex'd; he felt his heart reprove
The stern decree.-What! punish'd for his love!
No! he would go, but softly to the room,
Stealing in silence-for he knew his doom.

Once in a week the father came to say,

George, are you ill?"-and hurried him away; Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell, And often cry, "Do use my brother well:" And something kind, no question, Isaac meant, Who took vast credit for the vague intent. But truly kind, the gentle boy essay'd To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid; But now the father caught him at the door, And, swearing-yes, the man in office swore, And cried, "Away! How! brother, I'm surprised, That one so old can be so ill advised: Let him not dare to visit you again, Your cursed stories will disturb his brain; Is it not vile to court a foolish boy, Your own absurd narrations to enjoy ? What! sullen!-ha! George Fletcher! you shall

see,

Proud as you are, your bread depends on me!"

He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went, Then cool'd and felt some qualms of discontent; And thought on times when he compell'd his son To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one : But the wife's wrath o'ercame the brother's pain, And shame was felt, and conscience rose in vain. George yet stole up, he saw his uncle lie Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh: So he resolved, before he went to rest, To comfort one so dear and so distress'd; Then watch'd his time, but with a childlike art, Betray'd a something treasured at his heart:

Th' observant wife remark'd, "The boy is grown

So like your brother, that he seems his own;
So close and sullen! and I still suspect
They often meet-do watch them and detect."
George now remark'd that all was still

night,

And hasten'd up with terror and delight;
Uncle" he cried, and softly tapp'd the door;
"Do let me in"-but he could add no more;
The careful father caught him in the fact,
And cried,-" You serpent! is it thus you act?
Back to your mother!"-and with hasty blow,
He sent th' indignant boy to grieve below;
Then at the door an angry speech began-
"Is this your conduct ?—is it thus you plan?
Seduce my child, and make my house a scene
Of vile dispute What is it that you mean ?—

at

George, are you dumb? do learn to know your friends,

And think a while on whom your bread depends:
What! not a word? be thankful I am cool-
But, sir, beware, no longer play the fool;
Come! brother, come! what is that you seek
By this rebellion ?-Speak, you villain, speak!--
Weeping! I warrant-sorrow makes you dumb:
I'll ope your mouth, impostor! if I come :
Let me approach-I'll shake you from the bed,
You stubborn dog-O God! my brother's dead!"
Timid was Isaac, and in all the past

He felt a purpose to be kind at last;
Nor did he mean his brother to depart,
Till he had shown this kindness of his heart:
But day by day he put the cause aside,
Induced by avarice, peevishness, or pride.
But now awaken'd, from this fatal time
His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime:
He raised to George a monumental stone,
And there retired to sigh and think alone;
An ague seized him, he grew pale, and shook-
"So," said his son, "would my poor uncle look."...
And so, my child, shall I like him expire."-
No! you have physic and a cheerful fire."-
"Unhappy sinner! yes, I'm well supplied
With every comfort my cold heart denied."
He view'd his brother now, but not as one
Who vex'd his wife by fondness for her son;
Not as with wooden limb, and seaman's tale,
The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale:
He now the worth and grief alone can view
Of one so mild, so generous, and so true;
"The frank, kind brother, with such open heart,
And I to break it-'twas a demon's part!"

So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels, Nor his unkindness palliates or conceals. "This is your folly," said his heartless wife. "Alas! my folly cost my brother's life; It suffer'd him to languish and decay, My gentle brother, whom I could not pay, And therefore left to pine, and fret his life away." He takes his son, and bids the boy unfold All the good uncle of his feelings told, All he lamented-and the ready tear Falls as he listens, soothed, and grieved to hear. "Did he not curse me, child ?"-" He never cursed,

But could not breathe, and said his heart would burst."-