Became absorb'd in this unwelcome theme; Nay every meditation, every dream, Th'inexplicable sentence held to view, 'They're not both mine,' was every morning new: For, till this hour, the Maid had never prov'd How far she was enthrall'd, how much she lov'd: In that fond character he first appear'd; His kindness charm'd her, and his smiles endear'd: This dubious mystery the passion crost; Her peace was wounded, and her Lover lost. For _George_, with all his resolution strove To check the progress of his growing love; Or, if he e'er indulg'd a tender kiss, Th'unravell'd secret robb'd him of his bliss. Health's foe, Suspense, so irksome to be borne, An ever-piercing and retreating thorn, Hung on their Hearts, when Nature bade them rise, And stole Content's bright ensign from their eyes. _Anxiety. The Enquiry suggested_. The good folks saw the change, and griev'd to find These troubles labouring in _Phoebe's_ mind; They lov'd them both; and with one voice propos'd The only means whence _Truth_ might be disclos'd; That, when the Summer Months should shrink the rill, And scarce its languid stream would turn the Mill, When the Spring broods, and Pigs, and Lambs were rear'd, (A time when _George_ and _Phoebe_ might be spar'd,) Their birth-place they should visit once again, To try with joint endeavours to obtain From Record, or Tradition, what might be To chain, or set their chain'd affections free: Affinity beyond all doubts to prove; Or clear the road for Nature and for Love. Never, till now, did PHOEBE count the hours, Or think _May_ long, or wish away its flowers; With mutual sighs both fann'd the wings of Time; As we climb Hills and gladden as we climb, _Eager Expectation_. And reach at last the distant promis'd seat, Casting the glowing landscape at our feet Oft had the Morning Rose with dew been wet, And oft the journeying Sun in glory set, Beyond the willow'd meads of vigorous grass, The steep green hill, and woods they were to pass; When now: the day arriv'd: Impatience reign'd; And GEORGE,--by trifling obstacles detain'd-- His bending Blackthorn on the threshold prest, Survey'd the windward clouds, and hop'd the best. PHOEBE, attir'd with every modest grace, While Health and Beauty revell'd in her face, Came forth; but soon evinc'd an absent mind, For, back she turn'd for something left behind; Again the same, till George grew tir'd of home, And peevishly exclaim'd, _'Come, Phoebe, come.'_ Another hindrance yet he had to feel: As from the door they tripp'd with nimble heel, _The Old Soldier_.