“No letters, Tom?” said Richard—“None to-day.”— “Excuse me, Brother, I must now away; Matilda never in her life so long Deferr’d—Alas! there must be something wrong!” “Comfort!” said George, and all he could he lent; } Wait till your promised day, and I consent; } Two days, and those of hope, may cheerfully [be] spent. } “And keep your purpose, to review the place, My choice; and I beseech you do it grace: Mark each apartment, their proportions learn, 10 And either use or elegance discern; Look o’er the land, the gardens, and their wall, Find out the something to admire in all; And, should you praise them in a knowing style, I’ll take it kindly—it is well—a smile.” * * * * * Richard must now his morning visits pay, And bid farewell! for he must go away. He sought the Rector first, not lately seen, For he had absent from his parish been; “Farewell!” the younger man with feeling cried, 20 “Farewell!” the cold but worthy priest replied; “When do you leave us?”—“I have days but two.”— “’Tis a short time—but, well—Adieu, adieu!” “Now here is one,” said Richard, as he went To the next friend in pensive discontent, With whom I sate in social, friendly ease, Whom I respected, whom I wish’d to please; Whose love professed, I question’d not, was true— And now to hear his heartless, ‘Well! adieu!’ “But ’tis not well—and he a man of sense, 30 Grave, but yet looking strong benevolence; Whose slight acerbity and roughness told To his advantage; yet the man is cold; Nor will he know, when rising in the morn, That such a being to the world was born. “Are such the friendships we contract in life? O! give me then the friendship of a wife! Adieus, nay, parting-pains to us are sweet: They make so glad the moments when we meet. “For, though we look not for regard intense 40 Or warm professions in a man of sense, Yet in the daily intercourse of mind I thought that found which I desired to find, Feeling and frankness—thus it seem’d to me, And such farewell!—Well, Rector, let it be!” Of the fair sisters then he took his leave, Forget he could not, he must think and grieve; Must the impression of their wrongs retain, Their very patience adding to his pain; And still, the better they their sorrows bore, 50 His friendly nature made him feel them more. He judged they must have many a heavy hour When the mind suffers from a want of power; When, troubled long, we find our strength decay’d, And cannot then recal our better aid; For to the mind ere yet that aid has flown, Grief has possess’d, and made it all his own; And patience suffers, till, with gather’d might, The scatter’d forces of the soul unite. But few and short such times of suffering were 60 In Lucy’s mind, and brief the reign of care.