sitting down Upon a stone to rest, She had a baby at her back And another at her breast; I ask’d her why she loiter’d there When the wind it was so chill; She turn’d her head and bade the child That scream’d behind be still. She told us that her husband served A soldier, far away, And therefore to her parish she Was begging back her way. We met a girl; her dress was loose And sunken was her eye, Who with the wanton’s hollow voice Address’d the passers by; I ask’d her what there was in guilt That could her heart allure To shame, disease, and late remorse? She answer’d, she was poor. I turn’d me to the rich man then For silently stood he, You ask’d me why the Poor complain, And these have answer’d thee. 

 

Metrical Letter

 Written from London 

 Margaret! my Cousin!—nay, you must not smile; I love the homely and familiar phrase; And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, However quaint amid the measured line The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, Sirring and Madaming as civilly As if the road between the heart and lips Were such a weary and Laplandish way That the poor travellers came to the red gates Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret, For many a day my Memory has played The creditor with me on your account, And made me shame to think that I should owe So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear So heavy a pack of business, that albeit I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I That for a moment you should lay to me Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some Who know how warm it beats. I am not one Who can play off my smiles and courtesies To every Lady of her lap dog tired Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up At once without a seed and take no root, Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere The little circle of domestic life I would be known and loved; the world beyond Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think That you should know me well, for you and I Grew up together, and when we look back Upon old times our recollections paint The same familiar faces. Did I wield The wand of Merlin’s magic I would make Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth, The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle Like that where whilome old Apollidon Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid The Sea Nymphs pile 

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