She wanted something permanent and sure: 280 If they were friends, then equal be their lot, And she was free to speak if they were not.” Despair and terror seized the wife, to find The artful workings of a vulgar mind: Money she had not, but the hint of dress Taught her new bribes, new terrors to redress; She with such feeling then described her woes, That envy’s self might on the view repose; Then to a mother’s pains she made appeal, And painted grief like one compell’d to feel. 290 Yes! so she felt, that in her air, her face, In every purpose, and in every place; In her slow motion, in her languid mien, The grief, the sickness of her soul were seen. Of some mysterious ill the husband sure, Desired to trace it, for he hoped to cure; Something he knew obscurely, and had seen His wife attend a cottage on the green; Love, loth to wound, endured conjecture long, Till fear would speak, and spoke in language strong. 300 “All I must know, my Anna--truly know Whence these emotions, terrors, troubles flow; Give me thy grief, and I will fairly prove Mine is no selfish, no ungenerous love.” Now Anna’s soul the seat of strife became: Fear with respect contended, love with shame; But fear, prevailing, was the ruling guide, Prescribing what to show and what to hide. “It is my friend,” she said--“but why disclose A woman’s weakness struggling with her woes? 310 Yes, she has grieved me by her fond complaints, The wrongs she suffers, the distress she paints; Something we do--but she afflicts me still, And says, with power to help, I want the will. This plaintive style I pity and excuse, Help when I can, and grieve when I refuse; But here my useless sorrows I resign, And will be happy in a love like thine.” The husband doubted; he was kind but cool:-- “’Tis a strong friendship to arise at school; 320 Once more then, love, once more the sufferer aid-- I too can pity, but I must upbraid; Of these vain feelings then thy bosom free, Nor be o’erwhelm’d by useless sympathy.” The wife again despatch’d the useless bribe, Again essay’d her terrors to describe; Again with kindest words entreated peace, And begg’d her offerings for a time might cease. A calm succeeded, but too like the one That causes terror ere the storm comes on: 330 A secret sorrow lived in Anna’s heart, In Stafford’s mind a secret fear of art; Not long they lasted--this determined foe Knew all her claims, and nothing would forego; Again her letter came, where Anna read, “My child, one cause of my distress, is dead; Heav’n has my infant.” “Heartless wretch!” she cried, “Is this thy joy?”--“I am no longer tied: Now will I, hast’ning to my friend, partake