Tales | Page 7

not a smooth designer for a friend:?That fawning Philip!--nay, be not severe,?A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear."
Displeased she felt, and might in her reply?Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,?Now truly heard!--it soon was full in sight; -?Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;?For see!--his friends come hast'ning to the beach,?And now the gunwale is within the reach:?"Adieu!--farewell!--remember!"--and what more?Affection taught, was utter'd from the shore.?But Judith left them with a heavy heart,?Took a last view, and went to weep apart.?And now his friends went slowly from the place,?Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace,?Till all were silent!--for the youth she pray'd,?And softly then return'd the weeping maid.
They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,?And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled;?But when return'd the youth?--the youth no more?Return'd exulting to his native shore;?But forty years were past, and then there came?A worn-out man with wither'd limbs and lame,?His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age his frame.?Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,?Was Allen landing in his native bay,?Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. In an autumnal eve he left the beach,?In such an eve he chanced the port to reach:?He was alone; he press'd the very place?Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:?There stood his parents, there retired the maid,?So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;?And on that spot, through many years, his mind?Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd.
No one was present; of its crew bereft,?A single boat was in the billows left;?Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,?At the returning tide to sail away.?O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,?The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;?All silent else on shore; but from the town?A drowsy peal of distant bells came down:?From the tall houses here and there, a light?Served some confused remembrance to excite:?"There," he observed, and new emotions felt,?"Was my first home--and yonder Judith dwelt;?Dead! dead are all! I long--I fear to know,"?He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise?Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:?Seamen returning to their ship, were come,?With idle numbers straying from their home;?Allen among them mix'd, and in the old?Strove some familiar features to behold;?While fancy aided memory: --"Man! what cheer?"?A sailor cried; "Art thou at anchor here?"?Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace?Some youthful features in some aged face:?A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought?She might unfold the very truths he sought:?Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd:?"The Booths! yet live they?" pausing and oppress'd;?Then spake again: --"Is there no ancient man,?David his name?--assist me, if you can. -?Flemings there were--and Judith, doth she live?"?The woman gazed, nor could an answer give,'?Yet wond'ring stood, and all were silent by,?Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.?The woman musing said--"She knew full well?Where the old people came at last to dwell;?They had a married daughter, and a son,?But they were dead, and now remain'd not one."
"Yes," said an elder, who had paused intent?On days long past, "there was a sad event; -?One of these Booths--it was my mother's tale -?Here left his lass, I know not where to sail:?She saw their parting, and observed the pain;?But never came th' unhappy man again:"?"The ship was captured"--Allen meekly said,?"And what became of the forsaken maid?"?The woman answer'd: "I remember now,?She used to tell the lasses of her vow,?And of her lover's loss, and I have seen?The gayest hearts grow sad where she bas been;?Yet in her grief she married, and was made?Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,?And early buried--but I know no more:?And hark! our friends are hast'ning to the shore."
Allen soon found a lodging in the town,?And walk'd a man unnoticed up and down,?This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face?He sometimes could among a number trace:?Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,?But of no favourites, and the rest were new:?A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,?Was reckon'd boundless.--Could he living be??Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir?To a vast business, and a fortune fair.?No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,?With crutches went to take her dole of bread:?There was a friend whom he had left a boy,?With hope to sail the master of a hoy;?Him, after many a stormy day, he found?With his great wish, his life's whole purpose, crown'd.?This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face, -?"Yours is, my friend," said he, "a woeful case;?We cannot all succeed: I now command?The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land:?But when we meet, you shall your story tell?Of foreign parts--I bid you now farewell!"
Allen so long had left his native shore,?He saw but few whom he had seen before;?The older people, as they met him, cast?A pitying look, oft