The Parish Register | Page 6

shalt lose the cares that he must find.
"Ah!" quoth our village Grocer, rich and old,?"Would I might one such cause for care behold!"?To whom his Friend, "Mine greater bliss would be,?Would Heav'n take those my spouse assigns to me."
Aged were both, that Dawkins, Ditchem this,?Who much of marriage thought, and much amiss;?Both would delay, the one, till--riches gain'd,?The son he wish'd might be to honour train'd;?His Friend--lest fierce intruding heirs should come,?To waste his hoard and vex his quiet home.
Dawkins, a dealer once, on burthen'd back?Bore his whole substance in a pedlar's pack;?To dames discreet, the duties yet unpaid,?His stores of lace and hyson he convey'd:?When thus enriched, he chose at home to stop,?And fleece his neighbours in a new-built shop;?Then woo'd a spinster blithe, and hoped, when wed,?For love's fair favours and a fruitful bed.?Not so his Friend;--on widow fair and staid?He fix'd his eye, but he was much afraid;?Yet woo'd; while she his hair of silver hue?Demurely noticed, and her eye withdrew:?Doubtful he paused--"Ah! were I sure," he cried,?No craving children would my gains divide;?Fair as she is, I would my widow take,?And live more largely for my partner's sake."?With such their views some thoughtful years they pass'd,?And hoping, dreading, they were bound at last.?And what their fate? Observe them as they go,?Comparing fear with fear and woe with woe.?"Humphrey!" said Dawkins, "envy in my breast?Sickens to see thee in thy children blest:?They are thy joys, while I go grieving home?To a sad spouse, and our eternal gloom:?We look despondency; no infant near,?To bless the eye or win the parent's ear;?Our sudden heats and quarrels to allay,?And soothe the petty sufferings of the day:?Alike our want, yet both the want reprove;?Where are, I cry, these pledges of our love??When she, like Jacob's wife, makes fierce reply,?Yet fond--Oh! give me children, or I die:?And I return--still childless doom'd to live,?Like the vex'd patriarch--Are they mine to give??Ah! much I envy thee thy boys, who ride?On poplar branch, and canter at thy side;?And girls, whose cheeks thy chin's fierce fondness know,?And with fresh beauty at the contact glow."
"Oh! simple friend," said Ditchem, "wouldst thou gain?A father's pleasure by a husband's pain??Alas! what pleasure--when some vig'rous boy?Should swell thy pride, some rosy girl thy joy;?Is it to doubt who grafted this sweet flower,?Or whence arose that spirit and that power?
"Four years I've wed; not one has passed in vain;?Behold the fifth! behold a babe again!?My wife's gay friends th' unwelcome imp admire,?And fill the room with gratulation dire:?While I in silence sate, revolving all?That influence ancient men, or that befall;?A gay pert guest--Heav'n knows his business--came;?A glorious boy! he cried, and what the name??Angry I growl'd,--My spirit cease to tease,?Name it yourselves,--Cain, Judas, if you please;?His father's give him,--should you that explore,?The devil's or yours: --I said, and sought the door.?My tender partner not a word or sigh?Gives to my wrath, nor to my speech reply;?But takes her comforts, triumphs in my pain,?And looks undaunted for a birth again."
Heirs thus denied afflict the pining heart,?And thus afforded, jealous pangs impart;?Let, therefore, none avoid, and none demand?These arrows number'd for the giant's hand.
Then with their infants three, the parents came,?And each assign'd--'twas all they had--a name;?Names of no mark or price; of them not one?Shall court our view on the sepulchral stone,?Or stop the clerk, th' engraven scrolls to spell,?Or keep the sexton from the sermon bell.
An orphan-girl succeeds: ere she was born?Her father died, her mother on that morn:?The pious mistress of the school sustains?Her parents' part, nor their affection feigns,?But pitying feels: with due respect and joy,?I trace the matron at her loved employ;?What time the striplings, wearied e'en with play,?Part at the closing of the summer's day,?And each by different path returns the well-known way?Then I behold her at her cottage-door,?Frugal of light;--her Bible laid before,?When on her double duty she proceeds,?Of time as frugal--knitting as she reads:?Her idle neighbours, who approach to tell?Some trifling tale, her serious looks compel?To hear reluctant,--while the lads who pass,?In pure respect, walk silent on the grass:?Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes,?Till solemn prayers the daily duties close.?But I digress, and lo! an infant train?Appear, and call me to my task again.
"Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?"?I ask the Gardener's wife, in accents mild:?"We have a right," replied the sturdy dame; -?And Lonicera was the infant's name.?If next a son shall yield our Gardener joy,?Then Hyacinthus shall be that fair boy;?And if a girl, they will at length agree?That Belladonna that fair maid shall be.
High-sounding words our worthy Gardener gets,?And at his club to wondering swains repeats;?He then of Rhus and Rhododendron speaks,?And Allium calls his onions and his leeks;?Nor weeds are now, for whence arose the weed,?Scarce plants, fair herbs, and curious flowers proceed,?Where Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions