Of vast importance every moment brings! But hark! an oar!" she cried, yet none appear'd - 'Twas love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd; And she continued--"Do, my Allen, keep Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep; Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail, And stand in safety where so many fail; And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride, Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide; Can I believe his love will lasting prove, Who has no rev'rence for the God I love? I know thee well! how good thou art and kind; But strong the passions that invade thy mind - Now, what to me hath Allen, to commend?" "Upon my mother," said the youth," attend; Forget her spleen, and, in my place appear, Her love to me will make my Judith dear, Oft I shall think (such comforts lovers seek), Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak; Then write on all occasions, always dwell On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well, And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style." She answer'd, "No," but answer'd with a smile. "And now, my Judith, at so sad a time, Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime; When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance, When every lad would on my lass attend, Choose not a smooth designer for a friend: That fawning Philip!--nay, be not severe, A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear." Displeased she felt, and might in her reply Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh, Now truly heard!--it soon was full in sight; - Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night; For see!--his friends come hast'ning to the beach, And now the gunwale is within the reach: "Adieu!--farewell!--remember!"--and what more Affection taught, was utter'd from the shore. But Judith left them with a heavy heart, Took a last view, and went to weep apart. And now his friends went slowly from the place, Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace, Till all were silent!--for the youth she pray'd, And softly then return'd the weeping maid. They parted, thus by hope and fortune led, And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled; But when return'd the youth?--the youth no more Return'd exulting to his native shore; But forty years were past, and then there came A worn-out man with wither'd limbs and lame, His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age his frame. Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay, Was Allen landing in his native bay, Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. In an autumnal eve he left the beach, In such an eve he chanced the port to reach: He was alone; he press'd the very place Of the sad parting, of the last embrace: There stood his parents, there retired the maid, So fond, so tender, and so much afraid; And on that spot, through many years, his mind Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd. No one was present; of its crew bereft, A single boat was in the billows left; Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay, At the returning tide to sail away.