Nor would the wretches for his marriage stay, But bore him off, in barbarous triumph bore, And left us all our miseries to deplore. There were wives, maids, and mothers on the beach, And some sad story appertain’d to each; 180 Most sad to Ruth--to neither could she go! But sat apart, and suffer’d matchless wo! On the vile ship they turn’d their earnest view, } Not one last [look] allow’d,--not one adieu! } They saw the men on deck, but none distinctly knew. } And there she staid, regardless of each eye, With but one hope, a fervent hope to die. Nor cared she now for kindness--all beheld Her, who invited none, and none repell’d; For there are griefs, my child, that sufferers hide, 190 And there are griefs that men display with pride; But there are other griefs that, so we feel, We care not to display them nor conceal: Such were our sorrows on that fatal day, More than our lives the spoilers tore away; Nor did we heed their insult--some distress } No form or manner can make more or less, } And this is of that kind--this misery of a press! } ‘They say such things must be--perhaps they must; But, sure, they need not fright us and disgust; 200 They need not soul-less crews of ruffians send At once the ties of humble love to rend. A single day had Thomas stay’d on shore, He might have wedded, and we ask’d no more; And that stern man, who forced the lad away, Might have attended, and have graced the day; His pride and honour might have been at rest, It is no stain to make a couple blest! Blest!--no, alas! it was to ease the heart Of one sore pang, and then to weep and part! 210 But this he would not.--English seamen fight For England’s gain and glory--it is right; But will that public spirit be so strong, Fill’d, as it must be, with their private wrong? Forbid it, honour, one in all the fleet Should hide in war, or from the foe retreat! But is it just, that he who so defends His country’s cause, should hide him from her friends? Sure, if they must upon our children seize, They might prevent such injuries as these; 220 Might hours--nay, days--in many a case allow, And soften all the griefs we suffer now. Some laws, some orders might in part redress The licensed insults of a British press, That keeps the honest and the brave in awe, Where might is right, and violence is law. ‘Be not alarm’d, my child; there’s none regard What you and I conceive so cruel-hard: There is compassion, I believe; but still One wants the power to help, and one the will, 230 And so from war to war the wrongs remain, While Reason pleads, and Misery sighs, in vain. ‘Thus my poor Ruth was wretched and undone, Nor had an husband for her only son,