The Decision. a Tale for Widow's

Clarissa, sprightly once and gay, Now sign'd the tedious hours away: She mourn'd the kindest husband gone, The husband much—but more the man. Dark weeds conceal'd the fair from view; Yet mightily became her, too! She veil'd her pretty blubber'd face, And wept her dear—with such a grace!

But, lo! young Florimond appears, To dry the joyless widow's tears; His suit she heard with warm disdain, Protested all his hopes were vain; Her hands she wrung, her robe she rent, And wept, and "wonder'd what he meant!" Yet thro' the drop that drown'd her eye, 'Tis said there shone a spark of joy; And sage diviners could foretel, That Florimond might yet do well.

A scruple now disturb'd her head, "Whether it were a sin to wed?" Queries and doubts her brain possess'd, And busy Conscience broke her rest: So, to resolve this knotty case, She seeks the curate of the place. "A Casuist?"—Deep—"Of judgment sound? Yes! fam'd for parts—the parish round.

Clarissa, with the rising sun, Approach'd her friend, and thus begun— "Full sixty times hath yonder light Arose, as oft hath sunk in night, Since the lamented hour that gave My faithful consort to the grave: And, sure, no second love shall e'er Efface the image, still so dear! Clarissa, to his memory just, For ever shall revere his dust. Yet cruel Prudence may require What else were foreign to Desire; And, midst a weight of cares, you know, What can a helpless woman do? My heedless servants slight my call; My farmers break, my houses fall: And Florimond, with winning air, Tells me they want a husband's care. What does my learned Doctor say?"— "Why, marry, sure—without delay."—

"But should the lover prove unkind, A tyrant o'er a tender mind, How hard my lot, condemn'd to mingle Tears with my cup."—"Why, then, live single."

"But what if an obdurate fair Should drive a lover to despair? You know the foolish freaks of men; I dread the thought!"—"Nay, take him, then!"

"But should he squander my estate, And pawn my jewels, rings, and plate; And witless I, by folly led, Be turn'd adrift to beg my bread?"

The Doctor, vers'd in womankind, Perceiv'd the workings of her mind.

"Madam," he cries, "when truth we seek, All argument is often weak: When reasons weigh on either part, Opinion vainly tries her art; So, till descending Truth prevails, She sits suspended o'er the scales. A way more speedy shall be tied; A tongue shall speak that never ly'd. Know, Madam, then, my parish-bell Is famous for advising well; Whate'er the point in question be, It hits the matter to a T: Thus, as it dictates by it's tone, You sure must wed—or lie alone."

Now tow'rd the church in haste they go. "The widow chearful?"—But so, so! Yet vows whate'er the answer given, She piously will yield to Heaven. The Doctor, too, exhorts the fair To listen and decide with care. And now, the mystery to unfold, He turn'd the key, the bell he toll'd. The widow mus'd, and knit her brow— "Well, Madam, pray, what think ye now?" (Here first she sobb'd, and wip'd her eye, Then labour'd out a doleful sigh:) "Think, Doctor? Why, the case is plain: Alas! I find resistance vain!— Ah, Florimond! and must I yield? In Heaven, 'tis said, our doom is seal'd. Yet not by choice—by fate I'm won; The will of Heaven be ever done! The bell ordains thee to my bed; For, hark! it fairly bids me "wed!"— Dear Doctor, then—I speak with sorrow— Be sure you be at home to-morrow?

Think you the simple tale too long? Then hear the moral of my song: The moral to no sex confin'd, Regards alike all human kind.

Sly passion, and distemper'd sense, Usurp the form of evidence; And truth and falshood, good and ill, Receive their tincture from the will. Man boasts his reason's power in vain; The pageant drags a hidden chain: A varied shape each object wears, Just as he wishes, hopes, or fears; His deepest thought, his vaunted rule, Is Passion's slave, or Folly's fool. 'Tis hence we blindly can approve The very faults of those we love; 'Tis hence we blindly can debate The noblest deeds of those we hate. Abroad thus works perverted will; At home our views are darker still: And actions deem'd absurd in thee, Are prudent, wise, and just, in me. Self-love adores her own caprice, Still deifies each darling vice; And, by the colour of a name, Removes at once the guilt and shame. The prodigal is generous, free: The Miser boasts oeconomy: Gay, the Debauch'd; the Proud is great; The bold Oppressor hates a Cheat; The fawning Slave obliges all; And mad Revenge is Honour's call.

Thus Passion shoots thro' every part; The brain is tainted with the heart: Weak Judgment falls before Temptation; And Reason—is but Inclination.