Jane had, indeed, her flights, but had in them What we could pity, but must not condemn; For they were always pure and oft sublime, And such as triumph’d over earth and time: Thoughts of eternal love that souls possess, Foretaste divine of Heaven’s own happiness. Oft had he seen them, and esteem had sprung In his free mind for maids so sad and young, So good and grieving, and his place was high 70 In their esteem, his friendly brother’s nigh, But yet beneath; and when he said adieu! Their tone was kind, and was responsive too. Parting was painful; when adieu he cried, “You will return?” the gentle girls replied; “You must return! your Brother knows you now, But to exist without you knows not how; Has he not told us of the lively joy He takes—forgive us—in the Brother-boy? He is alone and pensive; you can give 80 Pleasure to one by whom a number live In daily comfort—sure for this you met, That for his debtors you might pay a debt— The poor are call’d ungrateful, but you still Will have their thanks for this—indeed you will.” Richard but little said, for he of late Held with himself contention and debate. “My Brother loves me, his regard I know, But will not such affection weary grow? He kindly says, ‘defer the parting day,’ 90 But yet may wish me in his heart away; Nothing but kindness I in him perceive, In me ’tis kindness then to take my leave. Why should I grieve if he should weary be? There have been visitors who wearied me; He yet may love, and we may part in peace, Nay, in affection—novelty must cease— Man is but man; the thing he most desires Pleases awhile—then pleases not—then tires; George to his former habits and his friends 100 Will now return, and so my visit ends.” Thus Richard communed with his heart; but still He found opposed his reason and his will; Found that his thoughts were busy in this train, And he was striving to be calm in vain. These thoughts were passing, while he yet forbore To leave the friends whom he might see no more. Then came a chubby child and sought relief, Sobbing in all the impotence of grief; A full-fed girl she was, with ruddy cheek, 110 And features coarse, that grosser feelings speak, To whom another miss, with passions strong, And slender fist, had done some baby-wrong. On Lucy’s gentle mind had Barlow wrought To teach this child, whom she had labouring taught With unpaid love—this unproductive brain Would little comprehend, and less retain. A farmer’s daughter, with redundant health, And double Lucy’s weight and Lucy’s wealth, Had won the man’s regard, and he with her 120 Possess’d the treasure vulgar minds prefer. A man of thrift, and thriving, he possess’d What he esteem’d of earthly good the best; And Lucy’s well-stored mind had not a charm For this true lover of the well-stock’d farm,