Tales | Page 9

his country long.?By various shores he pass'd, on various seas,?Never so happy as when void of ease. -?And then he told how in a calm distress'd,?Day after day his soul was sick of rest;?When, as a log upon the deep they stood,?Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;?Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas?Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees:?He gazed, he pointed to the scenes: --"There stand?My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land.?See! there my dwelling--oh! delicious scene?Of my best life: --unhand me--are ye men?"?And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind?Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.
He told of bloody fights, and how at length?The rage of battle gave his spirits strength:?'Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,?And he was left half-dead upon the coast;?But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men,?A fair subsistence by his ready pen.?"Thus," he continued, "pass'd unvaried years,?Without events producing hopes or fears."?Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,?But years advancing undermined his health;?Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew?To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew:?He saw his parents, saw his fav'rite maid,?No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd;?And thus excited, in his bosom rose?A wish so strong, it baffled his repose:?Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;?To view his native soil, and there to die.?He then described the gloom, the dread he found,?When first he landed on the chosen ground,?Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd,?And how confused and troubled all appear'd;?His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd,?All views in future blighted and destroy'd:?His were a medley of be wild'ring themes,?Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.
Here his relation closes, but his mind?Flies back again some resting-place to find;?Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees?His children sporting by those lofty trees,?Their mother singing in the shady scene,?Where the fresh springs burst o'er the lively green; -?So strong his eager fancy, he affrights?The faithful widow by its powerful flights;?For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,?And cry--"'Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!?Where are my children?"--Judith grieves to hear?How the soul works in sorrows so severe;?Assiduous all his wishes to attend,?Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;?Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes?Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.
'Tis now her office; her attention see!?While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,?Careful, she guards him from the glowing heat,?And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.
And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes?Of his best days, amid the vivid greens.?Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where ev'ry gale?Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring vale.?Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes?The night-bird's music from the thick'ning glooms??And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,?Blaze not with fairy-light the phosphor-fly,?When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by??This is the joy that now so plainly speaks?In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;?For he is list'ning to the fancied noise?Of his own children, eager in their joys:?All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss?Gives the expression, and the glow like this.?And now his Judith lays her knitting by,?These strong emotions in her friend to spy?For she can fully of their nature deem -?But see! he breaks the long protracted theme,?And wakes, and cries--"My God! 'twas but a dream."
TALE III.
THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.
Pause then,?And weigh thy value with an even hand;?If thou beest rated by thy estimation,?Thou dost deserve enough.
SHAKESPEARE, Merchant of Venice.
Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any,?I will do myself the right to trust none: and the?fine is (for which I may go the finer), I will live?a bachelor.
Much Ado about Nothing.
Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
Macbeth.
His promises are, as he then was, mighty;?And his performance, as he now is, nothing.
Henry VIII.

Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all,?Who dwelt around, "the Gentleman" would call;?Whether in pure humility or pride,?They only knew, and they would not decide.
Far different he from that dull plodding tribe?Whom it was his amusement to describe;?Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod,?But treading still as their dull fathers trod;?Who lived in times when not a man had seen?Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine!?He was of those whose skill assigns the prize?For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;?And who, in places where improvers meet,?To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;?Who in large mansions live like petty kings,?And speak of farms but as amusing things;?Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,?And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.
Two are the species in this genus known;?One, who is rich in his profession grown,?Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,?From fortune's favours and a favouring lease;?Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns;?Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns;?Who