The Widows dwell together—so we call The younger woman; widow’d are they all; But she, the poor Elizabeth, it seems Not life in her—she lives not, but she dreams; She looks on Philip, and in him can find Not much to mark in body or in mind— 290 He who was saved; and then her very soul Is in that scene—her thoughts, beyond control, Fix’d on that night, and bearing her along, Amid the waters terrible and strong; Till there she sees within the troubled waves The bodies sinking in their wat’ry graves, When from her lover, yielding up his breath, There comes a voice,—“Farewell, Elizabeth!” Yet Resignation in the house is seen, Subdued Affliction, Piety serene, 300 And Hope, for ever striving to instil The balm for grief—“It is the Heavenly will.” And in that will our duty bids us rest, For all that Heaven ordains is good, is best; We sin and suffer—this alone we know, Grief is our portion, is our part below; But we shall rise, that world of bliss to see, Where sin and suffering never more shall be. TALE XIX. _MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD’S LOVE._ I. I have remembrance of a BOY, whose mind Was weak: he seem’d not for the world design’d; Seem’d not as one who in that world could strive, And keep his spirits even and alive— A feeling BOY, and happy, though the less, From that fine feeling, form’d for happiness. His mother left him to his favourite ways, And what he made his pleasure brought him praise. Romantic, tender, visionary, mild, Affectionate, reflecting when a child, 10 With fear instinctive he from harshness fled, And gentle tears for all who suffer’d shed; Tales of misfortune touch’d his generous heart, Of maidens left, and lovers forced to part. In spite of all that weak indulgence wrought, That love permitted, or that flattery taught; In spite of teachers who no fault would find, The Boy was neither selfish nor unkind. Justice and truth his honest heart approved, And all things lovely he admired and loved. 20 Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales, he read, And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed. The long Romances, wild Adventures fired His stirring thoughts: he felt like Boy inspired. The cruel fight, the constant love, the art Of vile magicians, thrill’d his inmost heart: An early Quixote, dreaming dreadful sights Of warring dragons, and victorious knights— In every dream some beauteous Princess shone, The pride of thousands, and the prize of one. 30 Not yet he read, nor, reading, would approve The Novel’s hero, or its ladies’ love. He would Sophia for a wanton take, Jones for a wicked, nay a vulgar rake. He would no time on Smollett’s page bestow; Such men he knew not, would disdain to know: And if he read, he travell’d slowly on, Teazed by the tame and faultless Grandison.