From reason’s path, it shunn’d dishonour’s too; It made my taste refined, my feelings nice, And placed an angel in the way of vice. “This angel now, whom I no longer view’d, Far from this scene her destined way pursued; No more that mansion held a form so fair, She was away, and beauty was not there. “Such, my dear Richard, was my early flame, My youthful frenzy--give it either name; It was the withering bane of many a year, 360 That past away in causeless hope and fear-- The hopes, the fears, that every dream could kill, Or make alive, and lead my passive will. “At length I learnt one name my angel bore, And Rosabella I must now adore: Yet knew but this--and not the favour’d place That held the angel or th’ angelic race; Nor where, admired, the sweet enchantress dwelt, But I had lost her--that, indeed, I felt. “Yet, would I say, she will at length be mine! 370 Did ever hero hope or love resign? Though men oppose, and fortune bids despair, } She will in time her mischief well repair, } And I, at last, shall wed this fairest of the fair! } “My thrifty uncle, now return’d, began To stir within me what remain’d of man; My powerful frenzy painted to the life, And ask’d me if I took a dream to wife? Debate ensued, and, though not well content, Upon a visit to his house I went. 380 He, the most saving of mankind, had still Some kindred feeling; he would guide my will, And teach me wisdom--so affection wrought, That he to save me from destruction sought: To him destruction, the most awful curse Of misery’s children, was--an empty purse! He his own books approved, and thought the pen An useful instrument for trading men; But judged a quill was never to be slit Except to make it for a merchant fit. 390 He, when inform’d how men of taste could write, Look’d on his ledger with supreme delight; Then would he laugh, and, with insulting joy, Tell me aloud, ‘that’s poetry, my boy; These are your golden numbers--them repeat, } The more you have, the more you’ll find them sweet-- } Their numbers move all hearts--no matter for their feet. } Sir, when a man composes in this style, What is to him a critic’s frown or smile? What is the puppy’s censure or applause 400 To the good man who on his banker draws, Buys an estate, and writes upon the grounds, ‘Pay to A. B. an hundred thousand pounds?’ Thus, my dear nephew, thus your talents prove; Leave verse to poets, and the poor to love.’ “Some months I suffered thus, compell’d to sit And hear a wealthy kinsman aim at wit; Yet there was something in his nature good, And he had feeling for the tie of blood.