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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395892" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tale V</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE PATRON.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Borough-Bailiff, who to law was train'd,<br>A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd,<br>He had his way in life's rough ocean steer'd<br>And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd;<br>He saw where others fail'd, and care had he,<br>Others in him should not such feelings see:<br>His sons in various busy states were placed,<br>And all began the sweets of gain to taste,<br>Save John, the younger, who, of sprightly parts,<br>Felt not a love for money-making arts:<br>In childhood feeble, he, for country air,<br>Had long resided with a rustic pair;<br>All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs,<br>Of lovers' sufferings and of ladies' wrongs;<br>Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight,<br>For breach of promise, guilty men to fright;<br>Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with </div><div style="margin:10px 0">these,<br>All that on idle, ardent spirits seize;<br>Robbers at land and pirates on the main,<br>Enchanters foil'd, spells broken, giants slain;<br>Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers,<br>Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice </div><div style="margin:10px 0">flowers,<br>And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.<br>From village-children kept apart by pride,<br>With such enjoyments, and without a guide,<br>Inspired by feelings all such works infused,<br>John snatch'd a pen, and wrote as he perused:<br>With the like fancy he could make his knight<br>Slay half a host, and put the rest to flight;<br>With the like knowledge he could make him ride<br>From isle to isle at Parthenissa's side;<br>And with a heart yet free, no busy brain<br>Form'd wilder notions of delight and pain,<br>The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain.<br>Such were the fruits of John's poetic toil -<br>Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil:<br>He nothing purposed but with vast delight,<br>Let Fancy loose, and wonder'd at her flight:<br>His notions of poetic worth were high,<br>And of his own still-hoarded poetry; -<br>These to his father's house he bore with pride,<br>A miser's treasure, in his room to hide;<br>Till spurr'd by glory, to a reading friend,<br>He kindly show'd the sonnets he had penn'd:<br>With erring judgment, though with heart sincere,<br>That friend exclaim'd, 'These beauties must appear</div><div style="margin:10px 0">.'<br>In magazines they claim'd their share of fame,<br>Though undistinguish'd by their author's name;<br>And with delight the young enthusiast found<br>The muse of Marcus with applauses crown'd.<br>This heard the father, and with some alarm;<br>'The boy,' said he, 'will neither trade nor farm,<br>He for both law and physic is unfit,<br>Wit he may have, but cannot live on wit:<br>Let him his talents then to learning give,<br>Where verse is honour'd, and where poets live.'<br>John kept his terms at college unreproved,<br>Took his degree, and left the life he loved;<br>Not yet ordain'd, his leisure he employ'd<br>In the light labours he so much enjoy'd;<br>His favourite notions and his daring views<br>Were cherish'd still, and he adored the Muse.<br>'A little time, and he should burst to light,<br>And admiration of the world excite;<br>And every friend, now cool and apt to blame<br>His fond pursuit, would wonder at his fame.'<br>When led by fancy, and from view retired,<br>He call'd before him all his heart desired;<br>'Fame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess,<br>And beauty next an ardent lover bless;<br>For me the maid shall leave her nobler state,<br>Happy to raise and share her poet's fate.'<br>He saw each day his father's frugal board,<br>With simple fare by cautious prudence stored:<br>Where each indulgence was foreweigh'd with care,<br>And the grand maxims were to save and spare:<br>Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed,<br>All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled;<br>And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind,<br>Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind:<br>Slaves of the ring and lamp! what need of you,<br>When Fancy's self such magic deeds can do?<br>Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind,<br>To common subjects stoop'd our poet's mind;<br>And oft when wearied with more ardent flight,<br>He felt a spur satiric song to write;<br>A rival burgess his bold Muse attack'd,<br>And whipp'd severely for a well known fact;<br>For while he seem'd to all demure and shy,<br>Our poet gazed at what was passing by;<br>And e'en his father smiled when playful wit,<br>From his young bard, some haughty object hit.<br>From ancient times, the borough where they dwelt<br>Had mighty contests at elections felt;<br>Sir Godfrey Ball, 'tis true, had held in pay<br>Electors many for the trying day;<br>But in such golden chains to bind them all<br>Required too much for e'en Sir Godfrey Ball.<br>A member died, and to supply his place<br>Two heroes enter'd for th' important race;<br>Sir Godfrey's friend and Earl Fitzdonnel's son,<br>Lord Frederick Darner, both prepared to run;<br>And partial numbers saw with vast delight<br>Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight.<br>Our poet's father, at a first request,<br>Gave the young lord his vote and interest;<br>And what he could our poet, for he stung<br>The foe by verse satiric, said and sung.<br>Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal,<br>And felt as lords upon a canvass feel;<br>He read the satire, and he saw the use<br>That such cool insult, and such keen abuse,<br>Might on the wavering minds of voting men produce;<br>Then too his praises were in contrast seen,<br>'A lord as noble as the knight was mean.'<br>'I much rejoice,' he cried, 'such worth to find;<br>To this the world must be no longer blind:<br>His glory will descend from sire to son,<br>The Burns of English race, the happier Chatterton.'<br>Our poet's mind now hurried and elate,<br>Alarm'd the anxious parent for his fate;<br>Who saw with sorrow, should their friend succeed,<br>That much discretion would the poet need.<br>Their friends succeeded, and repaid the zeal<br>The Poet felt, and made opposers feel,<br>By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet!)<br>An invitation to his noble seat.<br>The father ponder'd, doubtful if the brain<br>Of his proud boy such honour could sustain;<br>Pleased with the favours offer'd to a son,<br>But seeing dangers few so ardent shun.<br>Thus when they parted, to the youthful breast<br>The father's fears were by his love impress'd:<br>'There will you find, my son, the courteous ease<br>That must subdue the soul it means to please;<br>That soft attention which e'en beauty pays<br>To wake our passions, or provoke our praise;<br>There all the eye beholds will give delight,<br>Where every sense is flatter'd like the sight;<br>This is your peril; can you from such scene<br>Of splendour part, and feel your mind serene,<br>And in the father's humble state resume<br>The frugal diet and the narrow room?'<br>To this the youth with cheerful heart replied,<br>Pleased with the trial, but as yet untried;<br>And while professing patience, should he fail,<br>He suffered hope o'er reason to prevail.<br>Impatient, by the morning mail conveyed,<br>The happy guest his promised visit paid;<br>And now arriving at the Hall, he tried<br>For air composed, serene and satisfied;<br>As he had practised in his room alone,<br>And there acquired a free and easy tone:<br>There he had said, 'Whatever the degree<br>A man obtains, what more than man is he?'<br>And when arrived--'This room is but a room;<br>Can aught we see the steady soul o'ercome?<br>Let me in all a manly firmness show,<br>Upheld by talents, and their value know.'<br>This reason urged; but it surpassed his skill<br>To be in act as manly as in will:<br>When he his Lordship and the Lady saw<br>Brave as he was, he felt oppress'd with awe;<br>And spite of verse, that so much praise had won,<br>The poet found he was the Bailiff's son.<br>But dinner came, and the succeeding hours<br>Fix'd his weak nerves, and raised his failing </div><div style="margin:10px 0">powers;<br>Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice<br>On some remark, and bravely broke the ice;<br>So that, at night, reflecting on his words,<br>He found, in time, he might converse with lords.<br>Now was the Sister of his Patron seen -<br>A lovely creature, with majestic mien;<br>Who, softly smiling, while she looked so fair,<br>Praised the young poet with such friendly air;<br>Such winning frankness in her looks express'd,<br>And such attention to her brother's guest;<br>That so much beauty, join'd with speech so kind,<br>Raised strong emotions in the poet's mind;<br>Till reason fail'd his bosom to defend,<br>From the sweet power of this enchanting friend. -<br>Rash boy! what hope thy frantic mind invades?<br>What love confuses, and what pride persuades?<br>Awake to truth! shouldst thou deluded feed<br>On hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed.<br>What say'st thou, wise one?--'that all powerful </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Love<br>Can fortune's strong impediments remove;<br>Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth,<br>The pride of genius with the pride of birth.'<br>While thou art dreaming thus, the Beauty spies<br>Love in thy tremor, passion in thine eyes;<br>And with th' amusement pleased, of conquest vain,<br>She seeks her pleasure, careless of thy pain;<br>She gives thee praise to humble and confound,<br>Smiles to ensnare, and flatters thee to wound.<br>Why has she said that in the lowest state<br>The noble mind ensures a noble fate?<br>And why thy daring mind to glory call? -<br>That thou may'st dare and suffer, soar and fall.<br>Beauties are tyrants, and if they can reign,<br>They have no feeling for their subjects' pain:<br>Their victim's anguish gives their charms applause,<br>And their chief glory is the woe they cause:<br>Something of this was felt, in spite of love,<br>Which hope, in spite of reason, would remove.<br>Thus lived our youth, with conversation, books,<br>And Lady Emma's soul-subduing looks:<br>Lost in delight, astonish'd at his lot,<br>All prudence banish'd, all advice forgot -<br>Hopes, fears, and every thought, were fix'd upon </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the spot.<br>'Twas autumn yet, and many a day must frown<br>On Brandon-Hall, ere went my Lord to town;<br>Meantime the father, who had heard his boy<br>Lived in a round of luxury and joy,<br>And justly thinking that the youth was one<br>Who, meeting danger, was unskill'd to shun;<br>Knowing his temper, virtue, spirit, zeal,<br>How prone to hope and trust, believe and feel;<br>These on the parent's soul their weight impress'd,<br>And thus he wrote the counsels of his breast: -<br>'John, thou'rt a genius; thou hast some </div><div style="margin:10px 0">pretence,<br>I think, to wit,--but hast thou sterling sense?<br>That which, like gold, may through the world go </div><div style="margin:10px 0">forth,<br>And always pass for what 'tis truly worth:<br>Whereas this genius, like a bill must take<br>Only the value our opinions make.<br>'Men famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain.<br>Treat those of common parts with proud disdain;<br>The powers that wisdom would, improving, hide,<br>They blaze abroad with inconsid'rate pride;<br>While yet but mere probationers for fame,<br>They seize the honour they should then disclaim;<br>Honour so hurried to the light must fade,<br>The lasting laurels flourish in the shade.<br>'Genius is jealous: I have heard of some<br>Who, if unnoticed, grew perversely dumb;<br>Nay, different talents would their envy raise;<br>Poets have sicken'd at a dancer's praise;<br>And one, the happiest writer of his time,<br>Grew pale at hearing Reynolds was sublime;<br>That Rutland's Duchess wore a heavenly smile -<br>'And I,' said he, 'neglected all the while!'<br>'A waspish tribe are these, on gilded wings,<br>Humming their lays, and brandishing their stings:<br>And thus they move their friends and foes among,<br>Prepared for soothing or satiric song.<br>'Hear me, my Boy; thou hast a virtuous mind -<br>But be thy virtues of the sober kind;<br>Be not a Quixote, ever up in arms<br>To give the guilty and the great alarms:<br>If never heeded, thy attack is vain;<br>And if they heed thee, they'll attack again;<br>Then too in striking at that heedless rate,<br>Thou in an instant may'st decide thy fate.<br>'Leave admonition--let the vicar give<br>Rules how the nobles of his flock should live;<br>Nor take that simple fancy to thy brain,<br>That thou canst cure the wicked and the vain.<br>'Our Pope, they say, once entertain'd the whim,<br>Who fear'd not God should be afraid of him;<br>But grant they fear'd him, was it further said,<br>That he reform'd the hearts he made afraid?<br>Did Chartres mend? Ward, Waters, and a score<br>Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore?<br>Was Cibber silenced? No; with vigour blest,<br>And brazen front, half earnest, half in jest,<br>He dared the bard to battle, and was seen<br>In all his glory match'd with Pope and spleen;<br>Himself he stripp'd, the harder blow to hit,<br>Then boldly match'd his ribaldry with wit;<br>The poet's conquest truth and time proclaim,<br>But yet the battle hurt his peace and fame.<br>'Strive not too much for favour; seem at ease.<br>And rather please thyself, than bent to please:<br>Upon thy lord with decent care attend,<br>But not too near; thou canst not be a friend;<br>And favourite be not, 'tis a dangerous post -<br>Is gain'd by labour, and by fortune lost:<br>Talents like thine may make a man approved,<br>But other talents trusted and beloved.<br>Look round, my son, and thou wilt early see<br>The kind of man thou art not form'd to be.<br>'The real favourites of the great are they<br>Who to their views and wants attention pay,<br>And pay it ever; who, with all their skill,<br>Dive to the heart, and learn the secret will;<br>If that be vicious, soon can they provide<br>The favourite ill, and o'er the soul preside,<br>For vice is weakness, and the artful know<br>Their power increases as the passions grow;<br>If indolent the pupil, hard their task;<br>Such minds will ever for amusement ask;<br>And great the labour! for a man to choose<br>Objects for one whom nothing can amuse;<br>For ere those objects can the soul delight,<br>They must to joy the soul herself excite;<br>Therefore it is, this patient, watchful kind<br>With gentle friction stir the drowsy mind:<br>Fix'd on their end, with caution they proceed,<br>And sometimes give, and sometimes take the lead;<br>Will now a hint convey, and then retire,<br>And let the spark awake the lingering fire;<br>Or seek new joys, and livelier pleasures bring<br>To give the jaded sense a quick'ning spring.<br>'These arts, indeed, my son must not pursue;<br>Nor must he quarrel with the tribe that do:<br>It is not safe another's crimes to know,<br>Nor is it wise our proper worth to show: -<br>'My lord,' you say, 'engaged me for that worth;' -<br>True, and preserve it ready to come forth:<br>If questioned, fairly answer,--and that done,<br>Shrink back, be silent, and thy father's son;<br>For they who doubt thy talents scorn thy boast,<br>But they who grant them will dislike thee most:<br>Observe the prudent; they in silence sit,<br>Display no learning, and affect no wit;<br>They hazard nothing, nothing they assume,<br>But know the useful art of acting dumb.<br>Yet to their eyes each varying look appears,<br>And every word finds entrance at their ears.<br>'Thou art Religion's advocate--take heed,<br>Hurt not the cause, thy pleasure 'tis to plead;<br>With wine before thee, and with wits beside,<br>Do not in strength of reasoning powers confide;<br>What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain,<br>They will deny, and dare thee to maintain;<br>And thus will triumph o'er thy eager youth,<br>While thou wilt grieve for so disgracing truth.<br>With pain I've seen, these wrangling wits among,<br>Faith's weak defenders, passionate and young;<br>Weak thou art not, yet not enough on guard,<br>Where wit and humour keep their watch and ward:<br>Men gay and noisy will o'erwhelm thy sense,<br>Then loudly laugh at truth's and thy expense;<br>While the kind ladies will do all they can<br>To check their mirth, and cry, 'The good young man</div><div style="margin:10px 0">!'<br>'Prudence, my Boy, forbids thee to commend<br>The cause or party of thy noble friend;<br>What are his praises worth, who must be known,<br>To take a Patron's maxims for his own?<br>When ladies sing, or in thy presence play,<br>Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away;<br>'Tis not thy part, there will be list'ners round,<br>To cry Divine! and dote upon the sound;<br>Remember, too, that though the poor have ears,<br>They take not in the music of the spheres;<br>They must not feel the warble and the thrill,<br>Or be dissolved in ecstasy at will;<br>Beside, 'tis freedom in a youth like thee<br>To drop his awe, and deal in ecstasy!<br>'In silent ease, at least in silence, dine,<br>Nor one opinion start of food or wine:<br>Thou knowest that all the science thou can boast,<br>Is of thy father's simple boil'd or roast;<br>Nor always these; he sometimes saved his cash,<br>By interlinear days of frugal hash:<br>Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou be so vain<br>As to decide on claret or champagne?<br>Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime,<br>Who order port the dozen at a time?<br>When (every glass held precious in our eyes)<br>We judged the value by the bottle's size:<br>Then never merit for thy praise assume,<br>Its worth well knows each servant in the room.<br>'Hard, Boy, thy task, to steer thy way among<br>That servile, supple, shrewd, insidious throng;<br>Who look upon thee as of doubtful race,<br>An interloper, one who wants a place:<br>Freedom with these, let thy free soul condemn,<br>Nor with thy heart's concerns associate them.<br>'Of all be cautious--but be most afraid<br>Of the pale charms that grace My Lady's Maid;<br>Of those sweet dimples, of that fraudful eye,<br>The frequent glance designed for thee to spy;<br>The soft bewitching look, the fond bewailing sigh:<br>Let others frown and envy; she the while<br>(Insidious syren!) will demurely smile;<br>And for her gentle purpose, every day<br>Inquire thy wants, and meet thee in thy way;<br>She has her blandishments, and, though so weak,<br>Her person pleases, and her actions speak:<br>At first her folly may her aim defeat;<br>But kindness shown, at length will kindness meet:<br>Have some offended? them will she disdain,<br>And, for thy sake, contempt and pity feign;<br>She hates the vulgar, she admires to look<br>On woods and groves, and dotes upon a book;<br>Let her once see thee on her features dwell,<br>And hear one sigh, then liberty farewell.<br>'But, John, remember we cannot maintain<br>A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain.<br>'Doubt much of friendship: shouldst thou find a </div><div style="margin:10px 0">friend<br>Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend;<br>Should he the praises he has heard report,<br>And confidence (in thee confiding) court;<br>Much of neglected Patrons should he say,<br>And then exclaim--'How long must merit stay!'<br>Then show how high thy modest hopes may stretch,<br>And point to stations far beyond thy reach;<br>Let such designer, by thy conduct, see<br>(Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee;<br>And he will quit thee, as a man too wise<br>For him to ruin first, and then despise.<br>'Such are thy dangers: --yet, if thou canst </div><div style="margin:10px 0">steer<br>Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear,<br>Then may'st thou profit; but if storms prevail,<br>If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail, -<br>No more of winds or waters be the sport,<br>But in thy father's mansion, find a port.'<br>Our poet read.--'It is in truth,' said he,<br>'Correct in part, but what is this to me?<br>I love a foolish Abigail! in base<br>And sordid office! fear not such disgrace:<br>Am I so blind?' 'Or thou wouldst surely see<br>That lady's fall, if she should stoop to thee!'<br>'The cases differ.' 'True! for what surprise<br>Could from thy marriage with the maid arise?<br>But through the island would the shame be spread,<br>Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed.'<br>John saw not this; and many a week had pass'd,<br>While the vain beauty held her victim fast;<br>The Noble Friend still condescension show'd,<br>And, as before, with praises overflowed;<br>But his grave Lady took a silent view<br>Of all that pass'd, and smiling, pitied too.<br>Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief,<br>Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf;<br>The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods<br>Roar'd with strong blasts, with mighty showers the </div><div style="margin:10px 0">floods:<br>All green was vanish'd, save of pine and yew,<br>That still displayed their melancholy hue;<br>Save the green holly with its berries red,<br>And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread.<br>To public views my Lord must soon attend;<br>And soon the ladies--would they leave their friend?<br>The time was fix'd--approach'd--was near--was come;<br>The trying time that fill'd his soul with gloom:<br>Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose,<br>And cried, 'One hour my fortune will disclose;<br>Terrific hour! from thee have I to date<br>Life's loftier views, or my degraded state;<br>For now to be what I have been before<br>Is so to fall, that I can rise no more.'<br>The morning meal was past; and all around<br>The mansion rang with each discordant sound;<br>Haste was in every foot, and every look<br>The trav'ller's joy for London-journey spoke:<br>Not so our youth; whose feelings at the noise<br>Of preparation, had no touch of joys:<br>He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn,<br>With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn:<br>The ladies came; and John in terror threw<br>One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew;<br>Not with such speed, but he in other eyes<br>With anguish read--'I pity, but despise -<br>Unhappy boy!--presumptuous scribbler!--you,<br>To dream such dreams!--be sober, and adieu!'<br>Then came the Noble Friend--'And will my Lord<br>Vouchsafe no comfort; drop no soothing word?<br>Yes, he must speak;' he speaks, 'My good young </div><div style="margin:10px 0">friend,<br>You know my views; upon my care depend;<br>My hearty thanks to your good father pay,<br>And be a student.--Harry, drive away.'<br>Stillness reign'd all around; of late so full<br>The busy scene, deserted now and dull:<br>Stern is his nature who forbears to feel<br>Gloom o'er his spirits on such trials steal;<br>Most keenly felt our poet as he went<br>From room to room without a fix'd intent;<br>'And here,' he thought, 'I was caress'd; admired<br>Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired.<br>The change how grievous!' As he mused, a dame<br>Busy and peevish to her duties came;<br>Aside the tables and the chairs she drew,<br>And sang and mutter'd in the poet's view: -<br>'This was her fortune; here they leave the poor;<br>Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more;<br>I had a promise'--here his pride and shame<br>Urged him to fly from this familiar dame;<br>He gave one farewell look, and by a coach<br>Reach'd his own mansion at the night's approach.<br>His father met him with an anxious air,<br>Heard his sad tale, and check'd what seem'd </div><div style="margin:10px 0">despair:<br>Hope was in him corrected, but alive;<br>My lord would something for a friend contrive;<br>His word was pledged: our hero's feverish mind<br>Admitted this, and half his grief resigned:<br>But, when three months had fled, and every day<br>Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away,<br>The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull;<br>He utter'd nothing, though his heart was full;<br>Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks,<br>And all forgetful of his Muse and books;<br>Awake he mourn'd, but in his sleep perceived<br>A lovely vision that his pain relieved: -<br>His soul, transported, hail'd the happy seat,<br>Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet;<br>Where joys departed came in blissful view<br>Till reason waked, and not a joy he knew.<br>Questions now vex'd his spirit, most from those<br>Who are call'd friends, because they are not foes:<br>'John?' they would say; he, starting, turn'd </div><div style="margin:10px 0">around,<br>'John!' there was something shocking in the sound:<br>Ill brook'd he then the pert familiar phrase,<br>The untaught freedom and th' inquiring gaze;<br>Much was his temper touch'd, his spleen provoked,<br>When ask'd how ladies talk'd, or walk'd, or look'd?<br>'What said my Lord of politics! how spent<br>He there his time? and was he glad he went?'<br>At length a letter came, both cool and brief,<br>But still it gave the burden'd heart relief:<br>Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the youth<br>Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick's truth;<br>Summon'd to town, he thought the visit one<br>Where something fair and friendly would be done;<br>Although he judged not, as before his fall,<br>When all was love and promise at the hall.<br>Arrived in town, he early sought to know<br>The fate such dubious friendship would bestow;<br>At a tall building trembling he appear'd,<br>And his low rap was indistinctly heard;<br>A well-known servant came--'Awhile,' said he,<br>'Be pleased to wait; my Lord has company.'<br>Alone our hero sat; the news in hand,<br>Which though he read, he could not understand:<br>Cold was the day; in days so cold as these<br>There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze.<br>The vast and echoing room, the polish'd grate,<br>The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate;<br>The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest,<br>He then had thought it freedom to have press'd;<br>The shining tables, curiously inlaid,<br>Were all in comfortless proud style display'd;<br>And to the troubled feelings terror gave,<br>That made the once-dear friend the sick'ning slave.<br>'Was he forgotten?' Thrice upon his ear<br>Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near:<br>Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke<br>On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke;<br>Oft as a servant chanced the way to come,<br>'Brings he a message?' no! he passed the room.'<br>At length 'tis certain; 'Sir, you will attend<br>At twelve on Thursday!' Thus the day had end.<br>Vex'd by these tedious hours of needless pain,<br>John left the noble mansion with disdain;<br>For there was something in that still, cold place,<br>That seemed to threaten and portend disgrace.<br>Punctual again the modest rap declared<br>The youth attended; then was all prepared:<br>For the same servant, by his lord's command,<br>A paper offer'd to his trembling hand:<br>'No more!' he cried: 'disdains he to afford<br>One kind expression, one consoling word?'<br>With troubled spirit he began to read<br>That 'In the Church my lord could not succeed;'<br>Who had 'to peers of either kind applied,<br>And was with dignity and grace denied;<br>While his own livings were by men possess'd,<br>Not likely in their chancels yet to rest;<br>And therefore, all things weigh'd (as he my lord,<br>Had done maturely, and he pledged his word),<br>Wisdom it seem'd for John to turn his view<br>To busier scenes, and bid the Church adieu!'<br>Here grieved the youth: he felt his father's </div><div style="margin:10px 0">pride<br>Must with his own be shocked and mortified;<br>But, when he found his future comforts placed<br>Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced -<br>In some appointment on the London quays,<br>He bade farewell to honour and to ease;<br>His spirit fell, and from that hour assured<br>How vain his dreams, he suffer'd and was cured.<br>Our Poet hurried on, with wish to fly<br>From all mankind, to be conceal'd, and die.<br>Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views<br>Did that one visit to the soul infuse,<br>Which cherished with such love, 'twas worse than </div><div style="margin:10px 0">death to lose.<br>Still he would strive, though painful was the </div><div style="margin:10px 0">strife,<br>To walk in this appointed road of life;<br>On these low duties duteous he would wait,<br>And patient bear the anguish of his fate.<br>Thanks to the Patron, but of coldest kind,<br>Express'd the sadness of the Poet's mind;<br>Whose heavy hours were pass'd with busy men,<br>In the dull practice of th' official pen;<br>Who to superiors must in time impart;<br>(The custom this) his progress in their art:<br>But so had grief on his perception wrought,<br>That all unheeded were the duties taught;<br>No answers gave he when his trial came,<br>Silent he stood, but suffering without shame;<br>And they observed that words severe or kind<br>Made no impression on his wounded mind:<br>For all perceived from whence his failure rose,<br>Some grief, whose cause he deign'd not to disclose.<br>A soul averse from scenes and works so new,<br>Fear ever shrinking from the vulgar crew;<br>Distaste for each mechanic law and rule.<br>Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool;<br>A grieving parent, and a feeling mind,<br>Timid and ardent, tender and refined:<br>These all with mighty force the youth assail'd,<br>Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail'd:<br>When this was known, and some debate arose,<br>How they who saw it should the fact disclose,<br>He found their purpose, and in terror fled<br>From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread.<br>Meantime the parent was distress'd to find<br>His son no longer for a priest design'd;<br>But still he gain'd some comfort by the news<br>Of John's promotion, though with humbler views;<br>For he conceived that in no distant time<br>The boy would learn to scramble and to climb;<br>He little thought his son, his hope and pride,<br>His favour'd boy, was now a home denied:<br>Yes! while the parent was intent to trace<br>How men in office climb from place to place,<br>By day, by night, o'er moor and heath, and hill,<br>Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will,<br>Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill.<br>Thus as he sat, absorb'd in all the care<br>And all the hope that anxious fathers share,<br>A friend abruptly to his presence brought,<br>With trembling hand, the subject of his thought;<br>Whom he had found afflicted and subdued<br>By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude.<br>Silent he enter'd the forgotten room,<br>As ghostly forms may be conceived to come;<br>With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright,<br>He look'd dismayed, neglect, despair, affright;<br>But dead to comfort, and on misery thrown,<br>His parent's loss he felt not, nor his own.<br>The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud,<br>And drew around him an astonish'd crowd;<br>The sons and servants to the father ran,<br>To share the feelings of the griev'd old man.<br>'Our brother, speak!' they all exclam'd 'explain<br>Thy grief, thy suffering:'--but they ask'd in vain:<br>The friend told all he knew; and all was known,<br>Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown;<br>But, if obscure the cause, they all agreed<br>From rest and kindness must the cure proceed:<br>And he was cured; for quiet, love, and care,<br>Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair;<br>Yet slow their progress, and as vapours move<br>Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove;<br>All is confusion, till the morning light<br>Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight;<br>More and yet more defined the trunks appear,<br>Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear; -<br>So the dark mind of our young poet grew<br>Clear and sedate; the dreadful mist withdrew;<br>And he resembled that bleak wintry scene,<br>Sad, though unclouded; dismal, though serene.<br>At times he utter'd, 'What a dream was mine!<br>And what a prospect! glorious and divine!<br>Oh! in that room, and on that night to see<br>Those looks, that sweetness beaming all on me;<br>That syren-flattery--and to send me then,<br>Hope-raised and soften'd, to those heartless men;<br>That dark-brow'd stern Director, pleased to show<br>Knowledge of subjects I disdain'd to know;<br>Cold and controlling--but 'tis gone--'tis past;<br>I had my trial, and have peace at last.'<br>Now grew the youth resigned: he bade adieu<br>To all that hope, to all that fancy drew;<br>His frame was languid, and the hectic heat<br>Flush'd on his pallid face, and countless beat<br>The quick'ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore<br>The slender form that soon would breathe no more.<br>Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain'd,<br>And not a lingering thought of earth remain'd;<br>Now heaven had all, and he could smile at Love,<br>And the wild sallies of his youth reprove;<br>Then could he dwell upon the tempting days,<br>The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise;<br>Victorious now, his worldly views were closed,<br>And on the bed of death the youth reposed.<br>The father grieved--but as the poet's heart<br>Was all unfitted for his earthly part;<br>As, he conceived, some other haughty fair<br>Would, had he lived, have led him to despair;<br>As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out<br>All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt;<br>While the strong faith the pious youth possess'd,<br>His hope enlivening gave his sorrows rest;<br>Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy<br>For his aspiring and devoted boy.<br>Meantime the news through various channels </div><div style="margin:10px 0">spread,<br>The youth, once favour'd with such praise, was </div><div style="margin:10px 0">dead:<br>'Emma,' the lady cried, 'my words attend,<br>Your syren-smiles have kill'd your humble friend;<br>The hope you raised can now delude no more,<br>Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore.'<br>Faint was the flush of anger and of shame,<br>That o'er the cheek of conscious beauty came:<br>'You censure not,' said she, 'the sun's bright </div><div style="margin:10px 0">rays,<br>When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze;<br>And should a stripling look till he were blind,<br>You would not justly call the light unkind:<br>But is he dead? and am I to suppose<br>The power of poison in such looks as those?'<br>She spoke, and pointing to the mirror, cast<br>A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass'd.<br>My Lord, to whom the poet's fate was told,<br>Was much affected, for a man so cold:<br>'Dead!' said his lordship, 'run distracted, mad!<br>Upon my soul I'm sorry for the lad;<br>And now no doubt th' obliging world will say<br>That my harsh usage help'd him on his way:<br>What! I suppose, I should have nursed his muse,<br>And with champagne have brighten'd up his views;<br>Then had he made me famed my whole life long,<br>And stunn'd my ears with gratitude and song.<br>Still should the father bear that I regret<br>Our joint misfortune--Yes! I'll not forget.'<br>Thus they: --the father to his grave convey'd<br>The son he loved, and his last duties paid.<br>'There lies my Boy,' he cried, 'of care bereft,<br>And heaven be praised, I've not a genius left:<br>No one among ye, sons! is doomed to live<br>On high-raised hopes of what the Great may give;<br>None, with exalted views and fortunes mean,<br>To die in anguish, or to live in spleen:<br>Your pious brother soon escaped the strife<br>Of such contention, but it cost his life;<br>You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend,<br>And in your own exertions find the friend.'</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>
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<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=395892" data-title="Tale V de George Crabbe" data-description="THE PATRON.

A Borough-Bailiff, who to law was train'd,
A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd,
He had his way in life's rough ocean steer'd
And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd;
He saw where others fail'd, and care had he,
Others in hi..."></div>
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