The towers once lost, his view he bends,
Where the receding smoke ascends;
But when nor smoke nor towers arise,
To charm his heart or cheat his eyes;
When once he got entirely clear
From this enfeebling atmosphere;
His mind was braced, his spirits light,
His heart was gay, his humor bright;
Thus feeling, at his inmost soul,
The sweet reward of self-control.
Impatient now, and all alive,
He thought he never should arrive;
At last he spies Sir Gilbert's trees;
Now the near battlements he sees;
The gates he entered with delight,
And, self-announced, embraced the knight:
The youth his joy unfeigned expressed,
The knight with joy received his guest,
And owned with no unwilling tongue,
'Twas done like men when he was young;
Three weeks subducted, went to prove
A feeling like old-fashioned love.
For Celia, not a word she said,
But blushed, "celestial, rosy red!"
Her modest charms transport the youth,
Who promised everlasting truth.
Celia, in honor of the day,
Unusual splendor would display:
Such was the charm her sweetness gave,
He thought her wedgwood had been séve;
Her taste diffused a gracious air,
And chaste simplicity was there,
Whose secret power, though silent, great is,
The loveliest of the sweet penates.
Florio, now present to the scene,
With spirits light, and gracious mien,
Sir Gilbert's port politely praises,
And carefully avoids French phrases;
Endures the daily dissertation
On land-tax, and a ruined nation;
Listens to many a tedious tale
Of poachers who deserved a jail;
Heard all the business of the quorum,
Each cause and crime produced before 'em ;
Heard them abuse with complaisance
The language, wines, and wits of France;
Nor did he hum a single air,
While good Sir Gilbert filled his chair.
Abroad, with joy and grateful pride,
He walks, with Celia by his side:
A thousand cheerful thoughts arise,
Each rural scene enchants his eyes;
With transport he begins to look
On nature's all-instructive book;
No objects now seem mean or low,
Which point to Him from whom they flow.
A berry or a bud excites
A chain of reasoning which delights,
Which, spite of skeptic ebullitions,
Proves atheists not the best logicians.
A tree, a brook, a blade of grass,
Suggest reflections as they pass,
Till Florio, with a sigh, confessed
The simplest pleasures are the best!
Bellario's systems sink in air;
He feels the perfect, good, and fair.
As pious Celia raised the theme
To holy faith and love supreme,
Enlightened Florio learned to trace
In nature's God the God of
grace.
In wisdom as the convert grew,
The hours on rapid pinions flew ;
When called to dress, that Titus wore
A wig the altered Florio swore ;
Or else, in estimating time,
He ne'er had marked it as a crime,
That he had lost but one day's blessing
When we so many lose, by dressing.
The rest, suffice it now to say,
Was finished in the usual way.
Cupid, impatient for his hour,
Reviled slow Themis' tedious power,
Whose parchment legends, signing, sealing,
Are cruel forms for love to deal in.
At length, to Florio's eager eyes,
Behold the day of bliss arise!
The golden sun illumes the globe.
The burning torch, the saffron robe,
Just as of old, glad Hymen wears;
And Cupid, as of old, appears
In Hymen's train: so strange the case,
They hardly knew each other's face;
Yet both confessed, with glowing heart,
They never were designed to part.
Quoth Hymen, "Sure you're strangely slighted,
At weddings not to be invited."
"The reason's clear enough," quoth Cupid;
"My company is thought but stupid,
Where Plutus is the favorite guest,
For he and I scarce speak at best."
The self-same sun which joins the twain
Sees Flavia severed from her swain:
Bellario sues for a divorce,
And both pursue their separate course.
O wedded love! thy bliss how rare!
And yet the ill-assorted pair,
The pair who choose at fashion's voice,
Or drag the chain of venal choice,
Have little cause to curse the state;
Who make, should never blame their fate;
Such flimsy ties, say where's the wonder,
If Doctors' Commons snap asunder?
In either case, 'tis still the wife
Gives cast and color to the life.
Florio, escaped from fashion's school,
His heart and conduct learns to rule;
Conscience his useful life approves ;
He serves his God, his country loves;
Reveres her laws, protects her rights,
And, for her interests, pleads or fights;
Reviews with scorn his former life,
And, for his rescue, thanks his wife.
THE following trifle owes its birth and name to the mistake of a foreigner of distinction, who gave the literal appellation of the Bas-blue to a small party of friends, who had been often called, by way of pleasantry, the Blue Stockings. These little societies have been sometimes misrepresented. They were composed of persons distinguished, in general, for their rank, talents, or respectable character, who met frequently at Mrs. Vesey's and at a few other houses, for the sole purpose of conversation, and were different in no respect from other parties, but that the company did not play at cards.
May the author be permitted to bear her grateful testimony (which will not be suspected of flattery, now that most of the persons named in this poem are gone down to the grave) to the many pleasant and instructive hours she had the honor to pass in this company; in which, learning was as little disfigured by pedantry, good taste as little tinctured by affectation, and general conversation as little disgraced by calumny, levity, and the other censurable errors with which it is too commonly tainted, as has perhaps been known in any society.
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