Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate; Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use ('Tis fairly stock'd) of what it will produce: And now my blessing, not as any charm Or conjuration; but 'twill do no harm." Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and down, Now charm'd with promised sights in London-town, Now loth to leave his Grandam--lost the force, The drift and tenor of this grave discourse; But, in a general way, he understood 'Twas good advice, and meant, "My son be good;" And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean That lads should read their Bible, and be clean. The good old Lady, though in some distress, Begg'd her dear Stephen would his grief suppress: "Nay, dry those eyes, my child--and, first of all. Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall:' Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text For meditation till you hear the next; Within your Bible night and morning look - There is your duty, read no other book; Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen, And keep your conscience and your linen clean: Be you a Joseph, and the time may be When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee." "Nay," said the Father--"Hush, my son!" replied The Dame--"the Scriptures must not be denied." The Lad, still weeping, heard the wheels approach, And took his place within the evening coach, With heart quite rent asunder: on one side Was love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried; Wild beasts and wax-work fill'd the happier part Of Stephen's varying and divided heart: This he betray'd by sighs and questions strange, Of famous shows, the Tower, and the Exchange. Soon at his desk was placed the curious Boy, Demure and silent at his new employ; Yet as he could he much attention paid To all around him, cautious and afraid; On older Clerks his eager eyes were fix'd, But Stephen never in their council mix'd: Much their contempt he fear'd, for if like them, He felt assured he should himself contemn; "Oh! they were all so eloquent, so free, No! he was nothing--nothing could he be: They dress so smartly, and so boldly look, And talk as if they read it from a book; But I," said Stephen, "will forbear to speak, And they will think me prudent and not weak. They talk, the instant they have dropp'd the pen, Of singing-women and of acting-men: Of plays and places where at night they walk Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk; While other ladies for their pleasure sing, - Oh! 'tis a glorious and a happy thing: They would despise me, did they understand I dare not look upon a scene so grand; Or see the plays when critics rise and roar, And hiss and groan, and cry--Encore! encore! There's one among them looks a little kind; If more encouraged, I would ope my mind." Alas! poor Stephen, happier had he kept His purpose secret, while his envy slept! Virtue perhaps had conquer'd, or his shame At least preserved him simple as he came. A year elapsed before this Clerk began To treat the rustic something like a man;