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Forget her spleen, and in my place appear;
Her love to me will make my Judith dear:
Oft I shall think, (such comfort lovers seek,)
Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
Then write on all occasions, always dwell
On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well,
And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style."
She answer'd "No," but answer'd with a smile.
"And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime,
When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance
To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,
When every lad would on my lass attend,
Choose not a smooth designer for a friend :
That fawning Philip!-nay, be not severe,
A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear."
Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!-it soon was full in sight;-
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;—
For, see-his friends come hastening to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach :
Adieu-farewell!-remember!"—and what more
Affection taught was utter'd from the shore!
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart!
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still the dashing oar to trace,
Till all were silent!-for the youth she pray'd,
And softly then return'd the weeping maid.
They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled;
But when return'd the youth ?-the youth no The woman answer'd: "I remember now,
She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
Return'd exulting to his native shore;
But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man, with wither'd limbs and lame,
His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age
Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,
And of her lover's loss, and I have seen
The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been;
Yet in her grief she married, and was made
Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,
And early buried: but I know no more.
And hark! our friends are hastening to the shore."
Allen soon found a lodging in the town,
Willing his breathless form should blend with kin- And walk'd, a man unnoticed, up and down. dred clay.
This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face
He sometimes could among a number trace:
Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,
But of no favourites, and the rest were new;
A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,
Was reckon'd boundless.-Could he living be?
Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business and a fortune fair.
No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,
With crutches went to take her dole of bread.
There was a friend whom he had left a boy
With hope to sail the master of a hoy ;
Him, after many a stormy day, he found
With his great wish, his life's whole purpose,
In an autumnal eve he left the beach,
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach ;
He was alone; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace :
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many a year, his mind
Turn'd mournful back, half-sinking, half-resign'd.
No one was present; of its crew bereft.
A single boat was in the billows left;
Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away:
O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,
The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down :
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite :
Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory:-" Man! what cheer?"
A sailor cried; "art thou at anchor here ?"
Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face :
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought
Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd :
The Booths! yet live they?" pausing and op-
Then spake again;—“Is there no ancient man,
David his name?-assist me if you can.-
Flemmings there were-and Judith, doth she
The woman gazed, nor could an answer give;
Yet wondering stood, and all were silent by,
Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
The woman musing said,-" She knew full well
Where the old people came at last to dwell;
They had a married daughter and a son,
But they were dead, and now remain'd not one."
Yes," said an elder, who had paused intent
On days long pass'd, "there was a sad event;-
One of these Booths-it was my mother's tale-
Here left his lass, I know not where to sail :
She saw their parting, and observed the pain
But never came th' unhappy man again."
The ship was captured," Allen meekly said,
And what became of the forsaken maid ?"
This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face,
Yours is, my friend," said he, "a woful case;
We cannot all succeed; I now command
The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;
But when we meet you shall your story tell
Of foreign parts-I bid you now farewell!"
Allen so long had left his native shore,
He saw but few whom he had seen before;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd—
"The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
He dwelt among us in his early years;
We see the name engraved upon the stones,
Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones."
Thus where he lived and loved-unhappy change!
He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.
But now a widow, in a village near,
Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;
Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came
Some strong emotions at the well-known name;
He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;
| My good adviser taught me to be still,
Nor to make converts had I power or will.
I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,
And never mention'd Luther in my life;
I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd,
And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd:
Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,
And was a most obedient Catholic.
But I had money, and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound:
A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
Could not have read a more pernicious work;
To me pernicious, who if it were good
Or evil question'd not, nor understood:
Then was she wedded, of his death assured,
And much of misery in her lot endured;
Her husband died; her children sought their bread O! had I little but the book possess'd,
What my poor notions of religion were,
None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I pray'd,
If due obedience to the laws were paid:
In various places, and to her were dead.
The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,
Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage:
Each had immediate confidence; a friend
Both now beheld, on whom they might depend:
"Now is there one to whom I can express
My nature's weakness and my soul's distress."
Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart-
"Let me not lose thee-never let us part:
So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,
It is not all distress to think and live."
Thus Allen spoke-for time had not removed
The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved;
Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,
Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.
To her, to her alone, his various fate,
At various times, 'tis comfort to relate;
And yet his sorrow-she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear.
First he related how he left the shore,
Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more:
Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed course,
They met and yielded to the Spanish force;
Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas they bore their prey,
Who grieving landed from their sultry bay;
And marching many a burning league, he found
Himself a slave upon a miner's ground:
There a good priest his native language spoke,
And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke ;
Kindly advanced him in his master's grace,
And he was station'd in an easier place :
There, hopeless ever to escape the land,
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand ;
In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day
He saw his happy infants round him play;
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries;
E'en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,
But his fond Isabel demanded, "Why?"
Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,
And wept in pity for the English maid :
Thus twenty years were pass'd, and pass'd his views
Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose :
His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint
"His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;
Make all his children infidels, and found
An English heresy on Christian ground."
"Whilst I was poor," said Allen, "none would Of my best life-unhand me-are ye men?"
And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind
Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.
He told of bloody fights, and how at length
The rage of battle gave his spirit strength;
I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest."
Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seen
Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been :
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown
Are in an instant through the varnish shown.
He told their cruel mercy; how at last,
In Christian kindness for the merits past,
They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly
Or for his crime and contumacy die;
Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight:
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his
He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay :
There in the woods he wrought, and there, among
Some labouring seamen, heard his native tongue :
The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain
With joyful force; he long'd to hear again :
Again he heard; he seized an offer'd hand,
And when beheld you last our native land?"
He cried, "and in what country? quickly say”—
The seamen answer'd-strangers all were they ;
One only at his native port had been;
He, landing once, the quay and church had seen,
For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew.
Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,
Sail where they sail'd, and many a peril past,
They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast;
But him they found not, nor could one relate
Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.
This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd
For England's coast, again his fate prevail'd:
War raged, and he, an active man and strong,
Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.
By various shores he pass'd, on various seas,
Never so happy as when void of ease.-
And then he told how in a calm distress'd,
Day after day, his soul was sick of rest;
When, as a log upon the deep they stood,
Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;
Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas
Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the
He gazed, he pointed to the scenes :-"There stand
My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land;
See! there my dwelling-O! delicious scene
"Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,
And he was left half dead upon the coast;
But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men,
A fair subsistence by his ready pen.
"Thus," he continued, "pass'd unvaried years,
Without events producing hopes or fears.
Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,
But years advancing undermined his health;
Then oft-times in delightful dreams he flew
To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew:
He saw his parents, saw his favourite maid,
No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd;
And thus excited in his bosom rose
A wish so strong, it baffled his repose;
Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;
To view his native soil, and there to die.
He then described the gloom, the dread he
When first he landed on the chosen ground,
Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd,
And how confused and troubled all appear'd;
His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd,
All views in future blighted and destroy'd;
His were a medley of bewildering themes,
Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.
Here his relation closes, but his mind Flies back again some resting place to find; Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees His children sporting by those lofty trees, Their mother singing in the shady scene, Where the fresh springs burst o'er the green;
Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;
Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes
Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.
And weigh thy value with an even hand;
If thou beest rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough.
Merchant of Venice, act ii. sc. 7.
Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust
will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is,
(for which I may go the finer,) I will live a bachelor.
Much Ado about Nothing, act i. sc. 3.
Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
Macbeth, act v. sc. 3.
His promises are, as he then was, mighty,
And his performance, as he now is, nothing.
Henry VIII. act iv. sc. 2.
Far different he from that dull plodding tribe,
Whom it was his amusement to describe;
Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod,
But treading still as their dull fathers trod;
Who lived in times when not a man had seen
Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine:
He was of those whose skill assigns the prize
lively For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;
And who, in places where improvers meet,
To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;
Who in large mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms but as amusing things;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,
So strong his eager fancy, he affrights
The faithful widow by its powerful flights;
For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,
And cry-" "Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!
Where are my children ?"—Judith grieves to hear And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.
How the soul works in sorrows so severe;
Assiduous all his wishes to attend,
Two are the species in this genus known;
One, who is rich in his profession grown,
Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,
From fortune's favours and a favouring lease;
Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns ;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns;
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can-
This is the farmer made the gentleman.
"Tis now her office; her attention see!
While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,
Careful she guards him from the glowing heat,
And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.
The second species from the world is sent,
And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content;
GWYN was a farmer, whom the farmers all,
Who dwelt around, the Gentleman would call;
Whether in pure humility or pride,
They only knew, and they would not decide.
Of his best days, amid the vivid greens,
In books and men beyond the former read,
To farming solely by a passion led,
Or by a fashion: curious in his land;
Now planning much, now changing what he
Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where every gale
Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring vale;
Smiles not his wife, and listen's as there comes
The night-bird's music from the thickening glooms?
And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,
Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly,
Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd,
And ever certain to succeed the next;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade-
When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? This is the gentleman, a farmer made.
This is the joy that now so plainly speaks
In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;
For he is listening to the fancied noise
Of his own children, eager in their joys:
All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss
Gives the expression, and the glow like this.
And now his Judith lays her knitting by,
These strong emotions in her friend to spy;
For she can fully of their nature deem-
But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,
And wakes and cries—“ My God! 'twas but
Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew
Early in life, his reasons known to few;
Some disappointment said, some pure good sense,
The love of land, the press of indolence;
His fortune known, and coming to retire,
If not a farmer, men had call'd him 'squire
Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross'd the still tenor of his chosen life;
Much land he purchased, planted far around,
And let some portions of superfluous ground
a To farmers near him, not displeased to say,
My tenants," nor “our worthy landlord," they.
Fix'd in his farm, he soon display'd his skill
In small-boned lambs, the horse-shoe, and the drill;
From these he rose to themes of nobler kind,
And show'd the riches of a fertile mind;
To all around their visits he repaid,
And thus his mansion and himself display'd.
His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat,
And guests politely call'd his house a seat;
At much expense was each apartment graced,
His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste:
In full festoons the crimson curtains fell,
The sofas rose in bold elastic swell;
Mirrors in gilded frames display'd the tints
Of glowing carpets and of colour'd prints;
The weary eye saw every object shine,
And all was costly, fanciful, and fine.
If he pursues it, here and there it slides;
He would collect it, but it more divides;
This part and this he stops, but still in vain,
It slips aside, and breaks in parts again;
Till, after time and pains, and care and cost,
He finds his labour and his object lost.
As with his friends he pass'd the social hours,
His generous spirit scorn'd to hide its powers;
Powers unexpected, for his eye and air
"But most it grieves me,(friends alone are round,)
To see a man in priestly fetters bound:
Guides to the soul, these friends of Heaven contrive,
Long as man lives, to keep his fears alive;
Soon as an infant breathes, their rites begin;
Who knows not sinning, must be freed from sin;
Who needs no bond, must yet engage in vows;
Who has no judgment, must a creed espouse:
Advanced in life, our boys are bound by rules,
Are catechised in churches, cloisters, schools,
And train'd in thraldom to be fit for tools:
The youth grown up, he now a partner needs,
And lo! a priest, as soon as he succeeds.
What man of sense can marriage rites approve?
What man of spirit can be bound to love?
Forced to be kind! compell'd to be sincere!
Do chains and fetters make companions dear?
Prisoners indeed we bind; but though the bond
May keep them safe, it does not make them fond:
The ring, the vow, the witness, license, prayers,
All parties know! made public all affairs!
Gave no sure signs that eloquence was there;
Oft he began with sudden fire and force,
As loath to lose occasion for discourse;
Some, 'tis observed, who feel a wish to speak,
Will a due place for introduction seek;
On to their purpose step by step they steal,
And all their way, by certain signals, feel;
Others plunge in at once, and never heed
Whose turn they take, whose purpose they im- Such forms men suffer, and from these they date
A deed of love begun with all they hate :
Absurd! that none the beaten road should shun,
But love to do what other dupes have done.
"Well, now your priest has made you one of
Resolved to shine, they hasten to begin,
Of ending thoughtless—and of these was Gwyn.
And thus he spake-
"It grieves me to the soul
To see how man submits to man's control;
How overpower'd and shackled minds are led
In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred;
The coward never on himself relies,
But to an equal for assistance flies;
Man yields to custom as he bows to fate,
In all things ruled-mind, body, and estate;
In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply
To them we know not, and we know not why;
But that the creature has some jargon read,
And got some Scotchman's system in his head;
Some grave impostor, who will health ensure,
Long as your patience or your wealth endure;
But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew,
They have not health, and can they give it you?
These solemn cheats their various methods choose;
A system fires them, as a bard his muse:
Hence wordy wars arise; the learn'd divide,
And groaning patients curse each erring guide.
"Next, our affairs are govern'd, buy or sell,
Upon the deed the law must fix its spell;
Whether we hire or let, we must have still
The dubious aid of an attorney's skill;
They take a part in every man's affairs,
And in all business some concern is theirs ;
Because mankind in ways prescribed are found
Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground,
Each abject nature in the way proceeds,
That now to sheering, now to slaughter leads.
"Should you offend, though meaning no offence,
You have no safety in your innocence;
The statute broken then is placed in view,
And men must pay for crimes they never knew:
Who would by law regain his plunder'd store,
Would pick up fallen mercury from the floor;
Look you for rest? Alas! you look in vain.
If sick, he comes; you cannot die in peace,
Till he attends to witness your release;
To vex your soul, and urge you to confess
The sins you feel, remember, or can guess:
Nay, when departed, to your grave he goes
But there indeed he hurts not your repose.
'Such are our burdens; part we must sustain,
But need not link new grievance to the chain
Yet men like idiots will their frames surround
With these vile shackles, nor confess they're bound:
In all that most confines them they confide,
Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their
E'en as the pressure galls them, they declare,
(Good souls!) how happy and how free they are!
As madmen, pointing round their wretched cells,
Cry, lo! the palace where our honour dwells.'
"Such is our state: but I resolve to live
By rules my reason and my feelings give;
No legal guards shall keep enthrall'd my mind,
No slaves command me, and no teachers blind.
"Tempted by sins, let me their strength defy,
But have no second in a surplice by;
No bottle-holder, with officious aid,
To comfort conscience, weaken'd and afraid;
Then if I yield, my frailty is not known;
And, if I stand, the glory is my own.
When Truth and Reason are our friends, we
Alive! awake!—the superstitious dream.
"O! then, fair Truth, for thee alone I seek, Friend to the wise, supporter of the weak: From thee we learn whate'er is right and just; Forms to despise, professions to distrust;
Creeds to reject, pretensions to deride,
And, following thee, to follow none beside."
Such was the speech; it struck upon the car Like sudden thunder, none expect to hear. He saw men's wonder with a manly pride, And gravely smiled at guest electrified : "A farmer this!" they said; "O! let him seek That place where he may for his country speak; On some great question to harangue for hours, While speakers hearing, envy nobler powers!"
Wisdom like this, as all things rich and rare, Must he acquired with pains, and kept with care; In books he sought it, which his friends might view, When their kind host the guarding curtain drew. There were historic works for graver hours, And lighter verse, to spur the languid powers; There metaphysics, logic there had place; But of devotion not a single traceSave what is taught in Gibbon's florid page, And other guides of this inquiring age; There Hume appear'd, and near, a splendid book Composed by Gay's good lord of Bolingbroke: With these were mix'd the light, the free, the vain, And from a corner peep'd the sage Tom Paine : Here four neat volumes Chesterfield were named, For manners much and easy morals famed; With chaste Memoirs of Females, to be read When deeper studies had confused the head.
Such his resources, treasures where he sought For daily knowledge till his mind was fraught: Then when his friends were present, for their use He would the riches he had stored produce; He found his lamp burn clearer, when each day He drew for all he purposed to display: For these occasions, forth his knowledge sprung, As mustard quickens on a bed of dung; All was prepared, and guests allow'd the praise, For what they saw he could so quickly raise.
Such this new friend; and when the year came round,
The same impressive, reasoning sage was found;
Then, too, was seen the pleasant mansion graced
With a fair damsel-his no vulgar taste;
The neat Rebecca-sly, observant, still,
Watching his eye, and waiting on his will;
Simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek,
Her smiles spoke for her, she would seldom speak;
But watch'd each look, each meaning to detect,
And (pleased with notice) felt for all neglect.
With her lived Gwyn a sweet harmonious life, Who, forms excepted, was a charming wife: The wives indeed, so made by vulgar law, Affected scorn, and censured what they saw; And what they saw not, fancied; said 'twas sin, And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn: But he despised their rudeness, and would prove Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love; Fools as they were! could they conceive that rings
And parsons' blessings were substantial things?" They answered "Yes;" while he contemptuous spoke
Of the low notions held by simple folk;
Yet, strange that anger in a man so wise
Should from the notions of these fools arise;
Can they so vex us, whom we so despise ?
Brave as he was, our hero felt a dread
If to his bosom fear a visit paid,
It was, lest he should be supposed afraid;
Hence sprang his orders; not that he desired
The things when done; obedience he required;
And thus, to prove his absolute command,
Ruled every heart, and moved each subject hand,
Assent he ask'd for every word and whim,
To prove that he alone was king of him.
The still Rebecca, who her station knew,
With ease resign'd the honours not her due;
Well pleased, she saw that men her board would
And wish'd not there to see a female face;
When by her lover she his spouse was styled,
Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled;
But when he wanted wives and maidens round
So to regard her, she grew grave and frown'd:
And sometimes whisper'd, "Why should you respect
These people's notions, yet their forms reject?”
Gwyn, though from marriage bond and fetter free,
Still felt abridgement in his liberty;
Something of hesitation he betray'd,
And in her presence thought of what he said.
Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk'd astray,
His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray;
To be at church, to sit with serious looks,
To read her Bible and her Sunday books:
She hated all those new and daring themes,
And call'd his free conjectures, "devil's dreams :"
She honour'd still the priesthood in her fall,
And claim'd respect and reverence for them all;
Call'd them" of sin's destructive power the foes,
And not such blockheads as he might suppose."
Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes say
"Tis a kind fool, why vex her in her way?"
Her way she took, and still had more in view,
For she contrived that he should take it too.
The daring freedom of his soul, 'twas plain,
In part was lost in a divided reign;
A king and queen, who yet in prudence swayed Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey'd.
Yet such our fate, that when we plan the best, Something arises to disturb our rest: For though in spirits high, in body strong, Gwyn something felt-he knew not whatwrong;
He wish'd to know, for he believed the thing,
If unremoved, would other evil bring:
"She must perceive, of late he could not eat,
And when he walked, he trembled on his feet;
He had forebodings, and he seem'd as one
Stopp'd on the road, or threaten'd by a dun;
He could not live, and yet, should he apply
To those physicians-he must sooner die."
The mild Rebecca heard with some disdain,
And some distress, her friend and lord complain:
His death she fear'd not, but had painful doubt
What his distemper'd nerves might bring about;
With power like hers she dreaded an ally,
And yet there was a person in her eye;—
She thought, debated, fix'd; "Alas!" she said,
"A case like yours must be no more delay'd:
You hate these doctors, well! but were a friend
And doctor one, your fears would have an end :
My cousin Mollet-Scotland holds him now-
Is above all men skilful, all allow;
Of late a doctor, and within a while
Lest those who saw him kind should think him led; He means to settle in this favour'd isle ;