That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?" This luckless Damsel look'd the village round, To find a friend, and one was quickly found: A pensive Widow, whose mild air and dress Pleased the sad nymph, who wish'd her soul's distress To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess. "What Lady that?" the anxious lass inquired, Who then beheld the one she most admired: "Here," said the Brother, "are no ladies seen - That is a widow dwelling on the Green; A dainty dame, who can but barely live On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give; She happier days has known, but seems at ease, And you may call her lady if you please: But if you wish, good sister, to improve, You shall see twenty better worth your love." These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught, This useless Widow was the one she sought: The father growl'd; but said he knew no harm In such connexion that could give alarm; "And if we thwart the trifler in her course, 'Tis odds against us she will take a worse." Then met the friends; the Widow heard the sigh That ask'd at once compassion and reply: - "Would you, my child, converse with one so poor, Yours were the kindness--yonder is my door: And, save the time that we in public pray, From that poor cottage I but rarely stray." There went the nymph, and made her strong complaints, Painting her woe as injured feeling paints. "Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel, Shock'd all day long, and sicken'd every meal; Could you behold our kitchen (and to you A scene so shocking must indeed be new), A mind like yours, with true refinement graced, Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste: And yet, in truth, from such a polish'd mind All base ideas must resistance find, And sordid pictures from the fancy pass, As the breath startles from the polish'd glass. "Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene, Without so pleasant, and within so clean; These twining jess'mines, what delicious gloom And soothing fragrance yield they to the room! What lovely garden! there you oft retire, And tales of woe and tenderness admire. In that neat case your books, in order placed, Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultur'd taste; And thus, while all about you wears a charm, How must you scorn the Farmer and the Farm!" The Widow smiled, and "Know you not," said she, "How much these farmers scorn or pity me; Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see? True, their opinion alters not my fate, By falsely judging of an humble state: This garden you with such delight behold, Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold; These plants which please so well your livelier sense, To mine but little of their sweets dispense: Books soon are painful to my failing sight, And oftener read from duty than delight; (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find Both joy and duty in the act combined;) But view me rightly, you will see no more Than a poor female, willing to be poor; Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers,