“‘That other spoiler did as robbers do, Made poor our state, but not disgraceful too, This spoiler shames me, and I look within To find some cause that drew him on to sin; 750 He and the wretch who could thy worth forsake Are the fork’d adder and the loathsome snake; Thy snake could slip in villain-fear away, But had no fang to fasten on his prey. “‘Oh! my dear Lucy, I had thought to live With all the comforts easy fortunes give; A wife caressing, and caress’d--a friend, Whom he would guide, advise, consult, defend, And make his equal;--then I fondly thought Among superior creatures to be brought; 760 And, while with them, delighted to behold No eye averted, and no bosom cold;-- Then at my home, a mother, to embrace } My----Oh! my sister, it was surely base! } I might forget the wrong; I cannot the disgrace. } “‘Oh! when I saw that triumph in his eyes, I felt my spirits with his own arise; I call’d it joy, and said, the generous youth Laughs at my loss--no trial for his truth, It is a trifle he can not lament, 770 A sum but equal to his annual rent; And yet that loss, the cause of every ill, Has made me poor, and him--’ “‘O! poorer still; Poorer, my Jane, and far below thee now: The injurer he,--the injured sufferer thou; And shall such loss afflict thee?’-- “‘Lose I not With him what fortune could in life allot? Lose I not hope, life’s cordial, and the views } Of an aspiring spirit?--O! I lose } Whate’er the happy feel, whatever the sanguine choose. } “‘Would I could lose this bitter sense of wrong, 781 And sleep in peace--but it will not be long! And here is something, Lucy, in my brain-- I know not what--it is a cure for pain; But is not death!--no beckoning hand I see, No voice I hear that comes alone to me; It is not death, but change; I am not now As I was once--nor can I tell you how; Nor is it madness--ask, and you shall find In my replies the soundness of my mind: 790 O! I should be a trouble all day long; A very torment, if my head were wrong.’ “At times there is upon her features seen What moves suspicion--she is too serene. Such is the motion of a drunken man, Who steps sedately, just to show he can. Absent at times she will her mother call, And cry at mid-day, ‘then good night to all.’ But most she thinks there will some good ensue From something done, or what she is to do; 800 Long wrapt in silence, she will then assume An air of business, and shake off her gloom; Then cry exulting, ‘O! it must succeed, There are ten thousand readers--all men read: