<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tale II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE PARTING HOUR.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Minutely trace man's life; year after year,<br>Through all his days let all his deeds appear,<br>And then though some may in that life be strange,<br>Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change:<br>The links that bind those various deeds are seen,<br>And no mysterious void is left between.<br>But let these binding links be all destroyed,<br>All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd,<br>Let that vast gap be made, and then behold -<br>This was the youth, and he is thus when old;<br>Then we at once the work of time survey,<br>And in an instant see a life's decay;<br>Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise,<br>And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.<br>Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair -<br>A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,<br>Watching his looks with kind and pensive air;<br>Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the name<br>Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same;<br>Yet so allied are they, that few can feel<br>Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal;<br>Their years and woes, although they long have </div><div style="margin:10px 0">loved,<br>Keep their good name and conduct unreproved:<br>Thus life's small comforts they together share,<br>And while life lingers for the grave prepare.<br>No other subjects on their spirits press,<br>Nor gain such int'rest as the past distress:<br>Grievous events, that from the mem'ry drive<br>Life's common cares, and those alone survive,<br>Mix with each thought, in every action share,<br>Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.<br>To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,<br>Allen his name, was more than common joy;<br>And as the child grew up, there seem'd in him<br>A more than common life in every limb;<br>A strong and handsome stripling he became,<br>And the gay spirit answer'd to the frame;<br>A lighter, happier lad was never seen,<br>For ever easy, cheerful, or serene;<br>His early love he fix'd upon a fair<br>And gentle maid--they were a handsome pair.<br>They at an infant-school together play'd,<br>Where the foundation of their love was laid:<br>The boyish champion would his choice attend<br>In every sport, in every fray defend.<br>As prospects open'd, and as life advanced,<br>They walk'd together, they together danced;<br>On all occasions, from their early years,<br>They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;<br>Each heart was anxious, till it could impart<br>Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;<br>As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars<br>Broke out between them; jealousies and jars;<br>Causeless indeed, and follow'd by a peace,<br>That gave to love--growth, vigour, and increase.<br>Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,<br>Domestic thoughts young Alien's hours employ'd.<br>Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,<br>Rather intent the matron's part to learn;<br>Thus early prudent and sedate they grew,<br>While lovers, thoughtful--and though children, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">true.<br>To either parents not a day appeard,<br>When with this love they might have interfered.<br>Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;<br>And strong at last, they saw restriction vain;<br>Nor knew they when that passion to reprove,<br>Now idle fondness, now resistless love.<br>So while the waters rise, the children tread<br>On the broad estuary's sandy bed;<br>But soon the channel fills, from side to side<br>Comes danger rolling with the deep'ning tide;<br>Yet none who saw the rapid current flow<br>Could the first instant of that danger know.<br>The lovers waited till the time should come<br>When they together could possess a home:<br>In either house were men and maids unwed,<br>Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.<br>Then Allen's mother of his favourite maid<br>Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid:<br>'Dress and amusements were her sole employ,'<br>She said--'entangling her deluded boy;'<br>And yet, in truth, a mother's jealous love<br>Had much imagined and could little prove;<br>Judith had beauty--and if vain, was kind,<br>Discreet and mild, and had a serious mind.<br>Dull was their prospect.--When the lovers met,<br>They said, 'We must not--dare not venture yet.'<br>'Oh! could I labour for thee,' Allen cried,<br>'Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied;<br>On my own arm I could depend, but they<br>Still urge obedience--must I yet obey?'<br>Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg'd </div><div style="margin:10px 0">delay.<br>At length a prospect came that seem'd to smile,<br>And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle;<br>A kinsman there a widow's hand had gain'd,<br>'Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain'd;<br>Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,<br>And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.'<br>The elder brothers, who were not in love,<br>Fear'd the false seas, unwilling to remove;<br>But the young Allen, an enamour'd boy,<br>Eager an independence to enjoy,<br>Would through all perils seek it,--by the sea, -<br>Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.<br>The faithful Judith his design approved,<br>For both were sanguine, they were young, and loved.<br>The mother's slow consent was then obtain'd;<br>The time arrived, to part alone remain'd:<br>All things prepared, on the expected day<br>Was seen the vessel anchor'd in the bay.<br>From her would seamen in the evening come,<br>To take th' adventurous Allen from his home;<br>With his own friends the final day he pass'd,<br>And every painful hour, except the last.<br>The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,<br>To make the moments with less sorrow pass;<br>Intent the mother look'd upon her son,<br>And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed undone;<br>The younger sister, as he took his way,<br>Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay:<br>But his own Judith call'd him to the shore,<br>Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more; -<br>And there he found her--faithful, mournful, true,<br>Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu!<br>The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there<br>Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair:<br>Sweet were the painful moments--but, how sweet,<br>And without pain, when they again should meet!<br>Now either spoke as hope and fear impress'd<br>Each their alternate triumph in the breast.<br>Distance alarm'd the maid--she cried, ''Tis far</div><div style="margin:10px 0">!'<br>And danger too--'it is a time of war:<br>Then in those countries are diseases strange,<br>And women gay, and men are prone to change:<br>What then may happen in a year, when things<br>Of vast importance every moment brings!<br>But hark! an oar!' she cried, yet none appear'd -<br>'Twas love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd;<br>And she continued--'Do, my Allen, keep<br>Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;<br>Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail,<br>And stand in safety where so many fail;<br>And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,<br>Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;<br>Can I believe his love will lasting prove,<br>Who has no rev'rence for the God I love?<br>I know thee well! how good thou art and kind;<br>But strong the passions that invade thy mind -<br>Now, what to me hath Allen, to commend?'<br>'Upon my mother,' said the youth,' attend;<br>Forget her spleen, and, in my place appear,<br>Her love to me will make my Judith dear,<br>Oft I shall think (such comforts lovers seek),<br>Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;<br>Then write on all occasions, always dwell<br>On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well,<br>And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style.'<br>She answer'd, 'No,' but answer'd with a smile.<br>'And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,<br>Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime;<br>When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance<br>To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,<br>When every lad would on my lass attend,<br>Choose not a smooth designer for a friend:<br>That fawning Philip!--nay, be not severe,<br>A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear.'<br>Displeased she felt, and might in her reply<br>Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,<br>Now truly heard!--it soon was full in sight; -<br>Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;<br>For see!--his friends come hast'ning to the beach,<br>And now the gunwale is within the reach:<br>'Adieu!--farewell!--remember!'--and what more<br>Affection taught, was utter'd from the shore.<br>But Judith left them with a heavy heart,<br>Took a last view, and went to weep apart.<br>And now his friends went slowly from the place,<br>Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace,<br>Till all were silent!--for the youth she pray'd,<br>And softly then return'd the weeping maid.<br>They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,<br>And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled;<br>But when return'd the youth?--the youth no more<br>Return'd exulting to his native shore;<br>But forty years were past, and then there came<br>A worn-out man with wither'd limbs and lame,<br>His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age his </div><div style="margin:10px 0">frame.<br>Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,<br>Was Allen landing in his native bay,<br>Willing his breathless form should blend with </div><div style="margin:10px 0">kindred clay.<br>In an autumnal eve he left the beach,<br>In such an eve he chanced the port to reach:<br>He was alone; he press'd the very place<br>Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:<br>There stood his parents, there retired the maid,<br>So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;<br>And on that spot, through many years, his mind<br>Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd.<br>No one was present; of its crew bereft,<br>A single boat was in the billows left;<br>Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,<br>At the returning tide to sail away.<br>O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,<br>The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;<br>All silent else on shore; but from the town<br>A drowsy peal of distant bells came down:<br>From the tall houses here and there, a light<br>Served some confused remembrance to excite:<br>'There,' he observed, and new emotions felt,<br>'Was my first home--and yonder Judith dwelt;<br>Dead! dead are all! I long--I fear to know,'<br>He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.<br>Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise<br>Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:<br>Seamen returning to their ship, were come,<br>With idle numbers straying from their home;<br>Allen among them mix'd, and in the old<br>Strove some familiar features to behold;<br>While fancy aided memory: --'Man! what cheer?'<br>A sailor cried; 'Art thou at anchor here?'<br>Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace<br>Some youthful features in some aged face:<br>A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought<br>She might unfold the very truths he sought:<br>Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd:<br>'The Booths! yet live they?' pausing and oppress'd;<br>Then spake again: --'Is there no ancient man,<br>David his name?--assist me, if you can. -<br>Flemings there were--and Judith, doth she live?'<br>The woman gazed, nor could an answer give,'<br>Yet wond'ring stood, and all were silent by,<br>Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.<br>The woman musing said--'She knew full well<br>Where the old people came at last to dwell;<br>They had a married daughter, and a son,<br>But they were dead, and now remain'd not one.'<br>'Yes,' said an elder, who had paused intent<br>On days long past, 'there was a sad event; -<br>One of these Booths--it was my mother's tale -<br>Here left his lass, I know not where to sail:<br>She saw their parting, and observed the pain;<br>But never came th' unhappy man again:'<br>'The ship was captured'--Allen meekly said,<br>'And what became of the forsaken maid?'<br>The woman answer'd: 'I remember now,<br>She used to tell the lasses of her vow,<br>And of her lover's loss, and I have seen<br>The gayest hearts grow sad where she bas been;<br>Yet in her grief she married, and was made<br>Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,<br>And early buried--but I know no more:<br>And hark! our friends are hast'ning to the shore.'<br>Allen soon found a lodging in the town,<br>And walk'd a man unnoticed up and down,<br>This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face<br>He sometimes could among a number trace:<br>Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,<br>But of no favourites, and the rest were new:<br>A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,<br>Was reckon'd boundless.--Could he living be?<br>Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir<br>To a vast business, and a fortune fair.<br>No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,<br>With crutches went to take her dole of bread:<br>There was a friend whom he had left a boy,<br>With hope to sail the master of a hoy;<br>Him, after many a stormy day, he found<br>With his great wish, his life's whole purpose, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">crown'd.<br>This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face, -<br>'Yours is, my friend,' said he, 'a woeful case;<br>We cannot all succeed: I now command<br>The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land:<br>But when we meet, you shall your story tell<br>Of foreign parts--I bid you now farewell!'<br>Allen so long had left his native shore,<br>He saw but few whom he had seen before;<br>The older people, as they met him, cast<br>A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd -<br>'The man is Allen Booth, and it appears<br>He dwelt among us in his early years:<br>We see the name engraved upon the stones,<br>Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones,'<br>Thus where he lived and loved--unhappy change! -<br>He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.<br>But now a widow, in a village near,<br>Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;<br>Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came<br>Some strong emotions at the well-known name;<br>He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd<br>Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;<br>Then was she wedded, of his death assured.<br>And much of mis'ry in her lot endured;<br>Her husband died; her children sought their bread<br>In various places, and to her were dead.<br>The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,<br>Sickness nor pain, their hearts could disengage:<br>Each had immediate confidence; a friend<br>Both now beheld, on whom they might depend:<br>'Now is there one to whom I can express<br>My nature's weakness, and my soul's distress.'<br>Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart -<br>'Let me not lose thee--never let us part:<br>So heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,<br>It is not all distress to think and live.'<br>Thus Allen spoke--for time had not removed<br>The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved;<br>Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,<br>Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.<br>To her, to her alone, his various fate,<br>At various times, 'tis comfort to relate;<br>And yet his sorrow--she too loves to hear<br>What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear.<br>First he related how he left the shore,<br>Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more.<br>Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed course,<br>They met and yielded to the Spanish force;<br>Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas they bore their prey,<br>Who grieving landed from their sultry bay:<br>And marching many a burning league, he found<br>Himself a slave upon a miner's ground:<br>There a good priest his native language spoke,<br>And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke;<br>Kindly advanced him in his master's grace,<br>And he was station'd in an easier place;<br>There, hopeless ever to escape the land,<br>He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand;<br>In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day,<br>He saw his happy infants round him play;<br>Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,<br>Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries;<br>E'en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,<br>But his fond Isabel demanded, 'Why?'<br>Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,<br>And wept in pity for the English maid:<br>Thus twenty years were pass d, and pass'd his views<br>Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose:<br>His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint<br>'His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;<br>Make all his children infidels, and found<br>An English heresy on Christian ground.'<br>'Whilst I was poor,' said Allen, 'none would care<br>What my poor notions of religion were;<br>None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I pray'd,<br>If due obedience to the laws were paid:<br>My good adviser taught me to be still,<br>Nor to make converts had I power or will.<br>I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,<br>And never mention'd Luther in my life;<br>I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd,<br>And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd;<br>Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,<br>And was a most obedient Catholic.<br>But I had money, and these pastors found<br>My notions vague, heretical, unsound:<br>A wicked book they seized; the very Turk<br>Could not have read a more pernicious work;<br>To me pernicious, who if it were good<br>Or evil question'd not, nor understood:<br>Oh! had I little but the book possess'd,<br>I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest.'<br>Alas! poor Allen--through his wealth was seen<br>Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been:<br>Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown,<br>Are in an instant through the varnish shown.<br>He told their cruel mercy; how at last,<br>In Christian kindness for the merits past,<br>They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly,<br>Or for his crime and contumacy die;<br>Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight:<br>His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,<br>All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his </div><div style="margin:10px 0">flight.<br>He next related how he found a way,<br>Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy-Bay:<br>There in the woods he wrought, and there, among<br>Some lab'ring seamen, heard his native tongue:<br>The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain<br>With joyful force; he long'd to hear again:<br>Again he heard; he seized an offer'd hand,<br>'And when beheld you last our native land!'<br>He cried, 'and in what country? quickly say.'<br>The seamen answer'd--strangers all were they;<br>Only one at his native port had been;<br>He, landing once, the quay and church had seen,<br>For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew.<br>Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,<br>Sail where they sail'd, and, many a peril past,<br>They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast;<br>But him they found not, nor could one relate<br>Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.<br>This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd<br>For England's coast, again his fate prevailed:<br>War raged, and he, an active man and strong,<br>Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.<br>By various shores he pass'd, on various seas,<br>Never so happy as when void of ease. -<br>And then he told how in a calm distress'd,<br>Day after day his soul was sick of rest;<br>When, as a log upon the deep they stood,<br>Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;<br>Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas<br>Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the </div><div style="margin:10px 0">trees:<br>He gazed, he pointed to the scenes: --'There stand<br>My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land.<br>See! there my dwelling--oh! delicious scene<br>Of my best life: --unhand me--are ye men?'<br>And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind<br>Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.<br>He told of bloody fights, and how at length<br>The rage of battle gave his spirits strength:<br>'Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,<br>And he was left half-dead upon the coast;<br>But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men,<br>A fair subsistence by his ready pen.<br>'Thus,' he continued, 'pass'd unvaried years,<br>Without events producing hopes or fears.'<br>Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,<br>But years advancing undermined his health;<br>Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew<br>To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew:<br>He saw his parents, saw his fav'rite maid,<br>No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd;<br>And thus excited, in his bosom rose<br>A wish so strong, it baffled his repose:<br>Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;<br>To view his native soil, and there to die.<br>He then described the gloom, the dread he found,<br>When first he landed on the chosen ground,<br>Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd,<br>And how confused and troubled all appear'd;<br>His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd,<br>All views in future blighted and destroy'd:<br>His were a medley of be wild'ring themes,<br>Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.<br>Here his relation closes, but his mind<br>Flies back again some resting-place to find;<br>Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees<br>His children sporting by those lofty trees,<br>Their mother singing in the shady scene,<br>Where the fresh springs burst o'er the lively </div><div style="margin:10px 0">green; -<br>So strong his eager fancy, he affrights<br>The faithful widow by its powerful flights;<br>For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,<br>And cry--''Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!<br>Where are my children?'--Judith grieves to hear<br>How the soul works in sorrows so severe;<br>Assiduous all his wishes to attend,<br>Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;<br>Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes<br>Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.<br>'Tis now her office; her attention see!<br>While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,<br>Careful, she guards him from the glowing heat,<br>And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.<br>And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes<br>Of his best days, amid the vivid greens.<br>Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where ev'ry gale<br>Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring </div><div style="margin:10px 0">vale.<br>Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes<br>The night-bird's music from the thick'ning glooms?<br>And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,<br>Blaze not with fairy-light the phosphor-fly,<br>When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by?<br>This is the joy that now so plainly speaks<br>In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;<br>For he is list'ning to the fancied noise<br>Of his own children, eager in their joys:<br>All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss<br>Gives the expression, and the glow like this.<br>And now his Judith lays her knitting by,<br>These strong emotions in her friend to spy<br>For she can fully of their nature deem -<br>But see! he breaks the long protracted theme,<br>And wakes, and cries--'My God! 'twas but a dream.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395888" data-title="Tale II de George Crabbe" data-description="THE PARTING HOUR. Minutely trace man's life; year after year, Through all his days let all his deeds appear, And then though some may in that life be strange, Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change: The links that bind those various deeds ar..."></div> </div> </div>

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