The angry matron her attendant Jane Summon'd in haste to soothe the fierce disdain: - "A vile detested wretch!" the Lady cried, "Yet shall she be by many an effort tried, And, clogg'd with debt and fear, against her will abide; And, once secured, she never shall depart Till I have proved the firmness of her heart: Then when she dares not, would not, cannot go I'll make her feel what 'tis to use me so." The pensive Colin in his garden stray'd, But felt not then the beauties it display'd; There many a pleasant object met his view, A rising wood of oaks behind it grew; A stream ran by it, and the village-green And public road were from the garden seen; Save where the pine and larch the bound'ry made, And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade. The Mother sat beside the garden-door, Dress'd as in times ere she and hers were poor; The broad-laced cap was known in ancient days, When madam's dress compell'd the village praise; And still she look'd as in the times of old, Ere his last farm the erring husband sold; While yet the mansion stood in decent state, And paupers waited at the well-known gate. "Alas, my son!" the Mother cried, "and why That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh? True we are poor, but thou hast never felt Pangs to thy father for his error dealt; Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain, For ever raised, and ever found in vain. He rose unhappy from his fruitless schemes, As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams; But thou wert then, my son, a playful child, Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild; Listening at times to thy poor mother's sighs With curious looks and innocent surprise; Thy father dying, thou my virtuous boy, My comfort always, waked my soul to joy; With the poor remnant of our fortune left, Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft: Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air, Have cast a smile on sadness and despair; Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace; And all around us wonder when they find Such taste and strength, such skill and power combined; There is no mother, Colin, no not one, But envies me so kind, so good a son; By thee supported on this failing side, Weakness itself awakes a parent's pride: I bless the stroke that was my grief before, And feel such joy that 'tis disease no more; Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth, And, soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health; The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise, And say, like thee were youth in earlier days; While every village-maiden cries, 'How gay, How smart, how brave, how good is Colin Grey!' "Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow; Fain would I think that Jesse still may come To share the comforts of our rustic home: She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid, When thou hast kindly brought the Vicar aid - When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain, Oh! I have seen her--she will come again."