Nay, when at length he strikes with manly force, 340 The cramp may seize him, and impede his course. Encouraged thus, our clerk again essay’d The daring act, though daunted and afraid; Succeeding now, though partial his success, And pertness mark’d his manner and address, Yet such improvement issued from his books, That all discern’d it in his speech and looks. He ventured then on every theme to speak, And felt no feverish tingling in his cheek; His friend, approving, hail’d the happy change; 350 The clerks exclaim’d--“’Tis famous, and ’tis strange.”-- Two years had pass’d; the youth attended still, (Though thus accomplish’d) with a ready quill; He sat th’ allotted hours, though hard the case, While timid prudence ruled in virtue’s place; By promise bound, the son his letters penn’d To his good parent, at the quarter’s end. At first, he sent those lines, the state to tell Of his own health, and hoped his friends were well; He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind, 360 And needed nothing--then his name was sign’d; But now he wrote of Sunday walks and views, Of actors’ names, choice novels, and strange news; How coats were cut, and of his urgent need For fresh supply, which he desired with speed. The father doubted, when these letters came, To what they tended, yet was loth to blame: “Stephen was once _my duteous son_, and now _My most obedient_--this can I allow? Can I with pleasure or with patience see 370 A boy at once so heartless, and so free?” But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told, That love and prudence could no more withhold: “Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grown A rake and coxcomb--this he grieved to own; His cousin left his church, and spent the day Lounging about in quite a heathen way; Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace To show the shame imprinted on his face. I search’d his room, and in his absence read 380 Books that I knew would turn a stronger head: The works of atheists half the number made, The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade; Which neither man nor boy would deign to read, If from the scandal and pollution freed. I sometimes threaten’d, and would fairly state My sense of things so vile and profligate; But I’m a cit, such works are lost on me-- They’re knowledge, and (good Lord!) philosophy.” “Oh, send him down,” the father soon replied; 390 “Let me behold him, and my skill be tried: If care and kindness lose their wonted use, Some rougher medicine will the end produce.” Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom-- “Go to the farmer? to the rustic’s home? Curse the base threat’ning--” “Nay, child, never curse; Corrupted long, your case is growing worse.”--