’Tis true, no hero, but a farmer sues-- Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views; With him you cannot that affliction prove, That rends the bosom of the poor in love; Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days, Your friends’ approval, and your father’s praise, 360 Will crown the deed, and you escape _their_ fate Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late.” The damsel heard; at first th’ advice was strange, Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change. “I have no care,” she said, when next they met, “But one may wonder he is silent yet; He looks around him with his usual stare, And utters nothing--not that I shall care.” This pettish humour pleased th’ experienced friend-- None need despair, whose silence can offend; 370 “Should I,” resumed the thoughtful lass, “consent To hear the man, the man may now repent. Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough, Or give one hint, that ‘You may woo me now?’” “Persist, my love,” replied the friend, “and gain A parent’s praise, _that_ cannot be in vain.” The father saw the change, but not the cause, And gave the alter’d maid his fond applause. The coarser manners she in part removed, In part endured, improving and improved; 380 She spoke of household works, she rose betimes, And said neglect and indolence were crimes; The various duties of their life she weigh’d, And strict attention to her dairy paid; The names of servants now familiar grew, And fair Lucinda’s from her mind withdrew. As prudent travellers for their ease assume _Their_ modes and language to whose lands they come: So to the farmer this fair lass inclined, Gave to the business of the farm her mind; 390 To useful arts she turn’d her hand and eye; And by her manners told him--“You may try.” Th’ observing lover more attention paid, With growing pleasure, to the alter’d maid; He fear’d to lose her, and began to see That a slim beauty might a helpmate be; ’Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address’d, And in his Sunday robe his love express’d. She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy, Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; 400 But still she lent an unreluctant ear To all the rural business of the year; Till love’s strong hopes endured no more delay, And Harry ask’d, and Nancy named the day. “A happy change! my boy,” the father cried: “How lost your sister all her school-day pride?” The youth replied, “It is the widow’s deed: The cure is perfect, and was wrought with speed.”-- “And comes there, boy, this benefit of books, Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks? 410 We must be kind--some offerings from the farm To the white cot will speak our feelings warm; Will show that people, when they know the fact,