Yet, while professing love, she answered still-- “You can befriend me, but you want the will.” They parted thus, and Anna went her way, 460 To shed her secret sorrows, and to pray. Stafford, amused with books, and fond of home, By reading oft dispell’d the evening gloom; History or tale--all heard him with delight, And thus was pass’d this memorable night. The listening friend bestow’d a flattering smile; A sleeping boy the mother held the while; And, ere she fondly bore him to his bed, On his fair face the tear of anguish shed. And now, his task resumed, “My tale,” said he, 470 “Is short and sad, short may our sadness be!”-- “The Caliph Harun[8], as historians tell, Ruled, for a tyrant, admirably well; Where his own pleasures were not touch’d, to men He was humane, and sometimes even then. Harun was fond of fruits, and gardens fair; And wo to all whom he found poaching there. Among his pages was a lively boy, Eager in search of every trifling joy; His feelings vivid, and his fancy strong, 480 He sigh’d for pleasure while he shrank from wrong; When by the caliph in the garden placed, He saw the treasures which he long’d to taste; And oft alone he ventured to behold Rich hanging fruits with rind of glowing gold; Too long he staid forbidden bliss to view, His virtue failing, as his longings grew; Athirst and wearied with the noon-tide heat, Fate to the garden led his luckless feet; With eager eyes and open mouth he stood, 490 Smelt the sweet breath, and touch’d the fragrant food; The tempting beauty sparkling in the sun Charm’d his young sense--he ate, and was undone. When the fond glutton paused, his eyes around He turn’d, and eyes upon him turning found; Pleased he beheld the spy, a brother-page, A friend allied in office and in age; Who promised much that secret he would be, But high the price he fix’d on secrecy. “‘Were you suspected, my unhappy friend,’ 500 Began the boy, ‘where would your sorrows end? In all the palace there is not a page The caliph would not torture in his rage: I think I see thee now impaled alive, Writhing in pangs--but come, my friend! revive; Had some beheld you, all your purse contains Could not have saved you from terrific pains; I scorn such meanness; and, if not in debt, Would not an asper on your folly set.’ “The hint was strong; young Osmyn search’d his store For bribes, and found he soon could bribe no more; 511 That time arrived, for Osmyn’s stock was small, And the young tyrant now possess’d it all; The cruel youth, with his companions near, Gave the broad hint that raised the sudden fear; Th’ ungenerous insult now was daily shown, And Osmyn’s peace and honest pride were flown;