Such as our true philosophers disdain-- “They laugh to see what vulgar minds pursue-- } Truth, as a mistress, never in their view-- } But there the shadow flies, and that, they cry, is true.” } Thus, at the college and the meeting train’d, 721 My lover seem’d his acmè to have gain’d; With some compassion I essay’d a cure: “If truth be hidden, why art thou so sure?” This he mistook for tenderness, and cried, “If sure of thee, I care not what beside!” Compelled to silence, I, in pure disdain, Withdrew from one so insolent and vain; He then retired; and, I was kindly told, In pure compassion grew estranged and cold. 730 My mother died; but, in my grief, drew near A bosom friend, who dried the useless tear; We lived together: we combined our shares Of the world’s good, and learn’d to brave its cares. We were the ladies of the place, and found Protection and respect the country round; We gave, and largely, for we wish’d to live In good repute--for this ’tis good to give; Our annual present to the priest convey’d Was kindly taken--we in comfort pray’d. 740 There none molested in the crimson pew The worthy ladies, whom the vicar knew; And we began to think that life might be-- Not happy all, but innocently free. My friend in early life was bound to one Of gentle kindred, but a younger son. He fortune’s smile with perseverance woo’d, And wealth beneath the burning sun pursued. There, urged by love and youthful hope, he went, Loth; but ’twas all his fortune could present. 750 From hence he wrote; and, with a lover’s fears, And gloomy fondness, talk’d of future years; To her devoted, his Priscilla found His faithful heart still suffering with its wound, That would not heal. A second time she heard; And then no more; nor lover since appear’d. Year after year the country’s fleet arrived, Confirm’d her fear, and yet her love survived; It still was living; yet her hope was dead, And youthful dreams, nay, youth itself, was fled; 760 And he was lost: so urged her friends, so she At length believed, and thus retired with me. She would a dedicated vestal prove, And give her virgin vows to heaven and love; She dwelt with fond regret on pleasures past, With ardent hope on those that ever last; Pious and tender, every day she view’d With solemn joy our perfect solitude; Her reading, that which most delighted her, That soothed the passions, yet would gently stir; 770 The tender, softening, melancholy strain, } That caused not pleasure, but that vanquished pain, } In tears she read, and wept, and long’d to read again. } But other worlds were her supreme delight, And there, it seem’d, she long’d to take her flight;