Appear’d partaker both of grief and crime; He cared for nothing, nothing he pursued, But walk’d about in melancholy mood; He ceased to labour—all he loved before He now neglected, and would see no more; He said his flute brought only to his mind When he was happy, and his Fanny kind; And his loved walks, and every object near, 470 And every evening-sound she loved to hear, The shady lane, broad heath, and starry sky, Brought home reflections, and he wish’d to die. Yet there he stray’d, because he wish’d to shun The world he hated, where his part was done; As if, though lingering on the earth, he there Had neither hope nor calling, tie nor care. At length a letter from the daughter came, ‘Frances’ subscribed, and that the only name; She “pitied much her parents, spoke of fate, 480 And begg’d them to forget her, not to hate; Said she had with her all the world could give, And only pray’d that they in peace should live. That which is done is that we’re born to do— This she was taught, and she believed it true; True, that she lived in pleasure and delight, But often dream’d and saw the farm by night; The boarded room that she had kept so neat, And all her roses in the window-seat; The pear-tree shade, the jasmine’s lovely gloom, 490 With its long twigs that blossom’d in the room; But she was happy, and the tears that fell } As she was writing had no grief to tell; } We weep when we are glad, we sigh when we are well.” } A bill inclosed, that they beheld with pain And indignation, they return’d again; There was no mention made of William’s name, Check’d as she was by pity, love, and shame. William, who wrought for bread, and never sought More than the day demanded when he wrought, 500 Was to a sister call’d, of all his race The last, and dying in a distant place. In tender terror he approach’d her bed, Beheld her sick, and buried her when dead; He was her heir, and what she left was more Than he required, who was content before. With their minds’ sufferings, age, and growing pain, That ancient couple could not long remain, Nor long remain’d; and in their dying groan The suffering youth perceived himself alone; 510 For of his health or sickness, peace or care, He knew not one in all the world to share. Now every scene would sad reflections give, And most his home, and there he could not live; There every walk would now distressing prove, And of his loss remind him, and his love. With the small portion by his sister left He roved about as one of peace bereft; And by the body’s movements hoped to find A kind of wearied stillness in the mind, 520 And sooner bring it to a sleepy state, As rocking infants will their pains abate. Thus careless, lost, unheeding where he went, Nine weary years the wandering lover spent. His sole employment, all that could amuse,