With a Pocket-Book

Accept this tribute, H——d, as the pledge Of my assured conviction that thy trust Ne’er had been stain’d by those imputed faults Which hurl’d thee from thy station, where yon towers, Gothic and grand, arise, diffusing far The blessings of their Lord. Where still subsists State, by swoln pride unstain’d; home-residence, Munificence, with ever-open gate; Ready supply to want; protection kind, As Chieftains to their clans in olden time When tenantry was filial. Haply now, V——, in thy domain is found, exempt From feudal vassalage, each feudal good.

H——, ’twas lately thine those lofty halls Watchful to guard;—those fair and ample lawns Flank’d with their woods luxuriant; numerous fields Rich in the food of flocks and herds, that range A second Canaan; or, of higher use, Wave wide their bending gold in Ceres’ smile. Yes; to protect them e’en with Argus’ eyes, From menial riot, and the injurious arts, Servile and peculant, was thine;—to spread, With even hand, the delegated store Of liberal charity. Then didst thou rouse To daily action thy experienced skill; Talents commensurate to highest trust; Attachment warm, and all the energies That brave the winter storms, and scorn the suns Parching the plains at noon-tide; strenuous still Well to discharge thy duty. Ah, too well, For thine own safety, was that duty done! Less faithful service ill could brook the glance Piercing extortion’s veil; nor would endure Thy voice of just reproof, nor the firm hand Curbing profusion. Then were form’d those wiles, That, woven round thy late confiding lord, And his ingenuous lady, by degrees, Disgraced thee in their trust; themselves all truth, Long deeming faithful those who very long Had bask’d in their bright rays, while thou to them Wert but a man of yesterday. And thus Those smiles benign, that cheered thee through thy months Of arduous designation, faded grown, Sunk, ere ’twas long, in that unpierc’d eclipse Suspicion gendered, which the kindling heart Suspected without cause, so seldom knows Patient to suffer. All the Briton woke, And, for an interval, Discretion lost Remembrance of that maxim, which enjoins The servant to submission, meek of eye, Of voice unmurmuring, howsoe’er accused Where real fault is none. So did’st thou rush Into the snare which Falsehood had prepared To banish whom it fear’d; make thee provoke The fate which Goodness, by delay, perchance Had learnt thou did’st not merit. Much I grieved Talents so rare, and energies so prompt, Should, through misdeeming, be forsaken found By thy thrice gracious lord. The deep, dark work Of evidence untrue, from Hate avow’d, And from dissembled Friendship; while the last, Assuming grief for errors well devised, Won thy abused master to belief. So sly IAGO warp’d the noble MOOR! So ZANGA pitied LEONORA’S guilt!

’Twas a black cloud burst o’er thee. For a time Thou stood’st like a young tree by lightning struck, Struck, but not blasted. Yet thy leaves did droop As they would wither. Soon the timely dew Of springing Hope revived them. In those hours Mark’d I the starting tear, by manly pride Dispersed or ere it fell; the quivering lip And the clear conscience which rebuked thy nerves, Steadying them quickly. Now the hour is come, Ample of recompence; th’ illustrious house That nursed thy youth to virtue, and that gave, Resign’d thee rather to more arduous trust, Opes wide its sheltering gates, and reinstates Him whom it deems incapable of fraud, Or scarce less guilty negligence; since years Of faithfulness unswerving, had inspired Such confidence, as no delusive breath, Calumniating through interest, could destroy.

Well knows thy generous young lord, that he, Whom his loved father, wise and good, had train’d, Trusted, and never found that trust betray’d, Could not at once apostatize, and rush On vices unhabitual, that must wrong His noble patron, while they madly risk’d Destruction to his own well-founded hopes.

And that young lord, heir of his father’s spirit, He is the day-spring which succeeds the storm That shook his forest-tree; his are the dews In whose kind balm its lately drooping leaves Smile on the sun!—And he is haply serv’d By one of proved fidelity, whose heart No sting of envy feels, no jealous fears Illiberal; but who welcomes thy return With all a brother’s gladness. Upright men Act ever thus, and love congenial worth.

That strain was gratulant; yet, ah! the thought Is ever grievous, that his lord and thine, In youth’s high noon, and in the rising hours Of life and fame, droops heart-struck o’er the tomb; Turns the impassion’d, recollecting eye, On a crush’d rose, and its soon-perish’d bud!

Lamented fate! that he should inly pine In double deprivation; often steal Beneath the shadowy languish of the moon, Mourning his blasted hopes; a loved, lost wife, Fair as the spring when May’s pellucid morns Crimson the orient; while no sparkling stream, Fresh from the rock, in those soft hours of prime, Was purer than her mind. She died!—yet still All was not lost!—An infant pledge of love, Sweet transcript of her mother’s charms, a while Smiled consolation!—but O! second pang Scarcely less keen, when to the recent grave Of his soul’s treasure, he resign’d her child!

Yet, surely happiness is still in store For B——’s virtue, thus severely tried, When time has balm’d his wounds! in store for him Who loses not in grief’s funereal gloom, The care of others’ welfare!—O! for him May that coy flower of life blossom again, Twined with no spray ill-omen’d!—So desires Her heart, which oft has ponder’d and deplored The lurking cypress in his bridal wreath.

Servant obliged, deserve his guardian love, Who, with a youthful Daniel’s judgement weighs A charge improbable; who clears thy fame, Who gives thee back to fair prosperity And gratitude’s superior bliss!—Be thine To serve him long and truly! To that end Oft pour thy secret soul to Heaven in prayer, Whose aiding grace, never implored in vain, When ask’d sincerely, shall direct thy ways; Shine on the zenith of thy life; illume Waning existence, and shall pour its light Into the dreary chambers of the grave; Confine of boundless bliss, or utter woe, As faith and virtue, or as scorn and sin Refine, or stain our being. Faithful thou First to thy God, from him receive the power Well to discharge thy debt to human worth.