The Lady, still relentless, saw him come,
And said "I wonder, has the wretch a home?"
"A hut! a hovel!" "Then his fate appears
To suit his crime."-" Yes, lady, not his years;—
No! nor his sufferings-nor that form decay'd.”
"Well! let the parish give its paupers aid:
You must the vileness of his acts allow.".
"And you, dear lady, that he feels it now.'
"When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect,
Can they the pity they refused expect?
He that doth evil, evil shall he dread."-

"The snow," quoth Susan, "falls upon his bed—
It blows beside the thatch-it melts upon his head."
"Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to feel.”-
"Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal;
"Through his bare dress appears his shrivell'd skin,
And ill he fares without, and worse within:
With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow,
What cold, pain, peril, must the sufferer know!"
"Think on his crime."-" Yes, sure 'twas very wrong;
But look (God bless him!) how he gropes along."
"Brought me to shame."-Oh! yes, I know it all-
What cutting blast! and he can scarcely crawl;
He freezes as he moves-he dies! if he should fall:
With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet-
And must a Christian perish in the street,

In sight of Christians ?-There! at last, he lies ;-
Nor unsupported can he ever rise:

He cannot live." "But is he fit to die ?"

Here Susan softly mutter'd a reply,

Look'd round the room-said something of its state, Dives the rich, and Lazarus at his gate;

And then aloud-" In pity do behold

The man affrighten'd, weeping, trembling, cold:
Oh! how those flakes of snow their entrance win
Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within.
His very heart seems frozen as he goes,
Leading that starved companion of his woes:
He tried to pray-his lips, I saw them move,
And he so turn'd his piteous looks above;
But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed,
And, ere he spoke, the lips in misery closed:
Poor suffering object! yes, for ease you pray'd,
And God will hear-He only, I'm afraid."

"Peace! Susan, peace! pain ever follows sin."-
"Ah! then," thought Susan, "when will ours begin i
When reach'd his home, to what a cheerless fire
And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire!
Yet ragged, wretched as it is, that bed
Takes half the space of his contracted shed;
I saw the thorns beside the narrow grate,
With straw collected in a putrid state:
There will he, kneeling, strive the fire to raise,
And that will warm him, rather than the blaze:

The sullen, smoky blaze, that cannot last
One moment after his attempt is past;
And I so warmly and so purely laid,
To sink to rest indeed, am afraid."

"Know you his conduct ?"-"Yes, indeed I know,
And how he wanders in the wind and snow;
Safe in our rooms the threat'ning storm we hear,
But he feels strongly what we faintly fear."
"Wilful was rich, and he the storm defied;
Wilful is poor, and must the storm abide,"
Said the stern Lady; " 'tis in vain to feel;
Go and prepare the chicken for our meal."
Susan her task reluctantly began,

And utter'd as she went-"The poor old man!"
But while her soft and ever-yielding heart
Made strong protest against her lady's part,
The lady's self began to think it wrong
To feel so wrathful and resent so long.

"No more the wretch would she receive again,
No more behold him-but she would sustain;
Great his offence, and evil was his mind-
But he had suffer'd, and she would be kind:
She spurn'd such baseness, and she found within
A fair acquittal from so foul a sin;

Yet she too err'd, and must of Heaven expect
To be rejected, him should she reject."

Susan was summon'd-" I'm about to do
A foolish act, in part seduced by you;
Go to the creature-say that I intend,
Foe to his sins, to be his sorrow's friend:
Take, for his present comforts, food and wine,
And mark his feelings at this act of mine:
Observe if shame be o'er his features spread,
By his own victim to be soothed and fed;
But, this inform him, that it is not love
That prompts my heart, that duties only move.
Say, that no merits in his favour plead,

But miseries only, and his abject need;

Nor bring me grov'ling thanks, nor high-flown praise; I would his spirits, not his fancy, raise: Give him no hope that I shall ever more A man so vile to my esteem restore; But warn him rather, that, in time of rest, His crimes be all remember'd and confess'd: I know not all that form the sinner's debt, But there is one that he must not forget." The mind of Susan prompted her with speed To act her part in every courteous deed: All that was kind she was prepared to say, And keep the lecture for a future day; When he had all life's comforts by his side, Pity might sleep, and good advice be tried. This done, the mistress felt disposed to look, As self-approving, on a pious book;

Yet, to her native bias still inclined,
She felt her act too merciful and kind;
But when, long musing on the chilling scene
So lately past the frost and sleet so keen-
The man's whole misery in a single view-
Yes! she could think some pity was his due.

Thus fix'd, she heard not her attendant glide
With soft slow step-till, standing by her side,
The trembling servant gasp'd for breath, and shed
Relieving tears, then utter'd, "He is dead!"

"Dead!" said the startled Lady.-"Yes, he fell
Close at the door where he was wont to dwell;
There his sole friend, the Ass, was standing by,
Half dead himself, to see his Master die."

Expired he then, good Heaven! for want of food?""No! crusts and water in a corner stood:

To have this plenty, and to wait so long,
And to be right too late, is doubly wrong:
Then, every day to see him totter by,
And to forbear-Oh! what a heart had I!"
"Blame me not, child; I tremble at the news."
""Tis my own heart," said Susan, "I accuse:
To have this money in my purse-to know
What grief was his, and what to grief we owe;
To see him often, always to conceive

How he must pine and languish, groan and grieve,
And every day in ease and peace to dine,

And rest in comfort!-What a heart is mine!"

TALE XVIII.

THE WAGER.

"Tis thought your deer doth hold you at a bay.
I choose her for myself;

If she and I are pleased, what's that to you!
Let's send each one to his wife,

And he whose wife is most obedient

Shall win the wager.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench,

I love her ten times more than e'er I did.

Taming of the Shrew.

COUNTER and CLUBB were men in trade, whose paina Credit, and prudence, brought them constant gains; Partners and punctual, every friend agreed

Counter and Clubb were men who must succeed.

When they had fix'd some little time in life,

Each thought of taking to himself a wife:

As men in trade alike, as men in love,
They seem'd with no according views to move;
As certain ores in outward view the same,

They show'd their difference when the magnet came.
Counter was vain: with spirit strong and high,
"Twas not in him like suppliant swain to sigh:
"His wife might o'er his men and maids preside,
And in her province be a judge and guide;
But what he thought, or did, or wish'd to do,
She must not know, or censure if she knew;
At home, abroad, by day, by night, if he
On aught determined, so it was to be:
How is a man," he ask'd, "for business fit,
Who to a female can his will submit?
Absent a while, let no inquiring eye
Or plainer speech presume to question why:
But all be silent; and, when seen again,
Let all be cheerful-shall a wife complain?
Friends I invite, and who shall dare t' object,
Or look on them with coolness or neglect?
No! I must ever of my house be head,
And, thus obey'd, I condescend to wed."

Clubb heard the speech-" My friend is nice, said he; A wife with less respect will do for me:

How is he certain such a prize to gain

What he approves, a lass may learn to feign,
And so affect t' obey till she begins to reign;
A while complying, she may vary then,
And be as wives of more unwary men;
Beside, to him who plays such lordly part,
How shall a tender creature yield her heart;
Should he the promised confidence refuse,
She may another more confiding choose;
May show her anger, yet her purpose hide,
And wake his jealousy, and wound his pride.
In one so humbled, who can trace the friend?
I on an equal, not a slave, depend;

If true, my confidence is wisely placed,
And being false, she only is disgraced."

Clubb, with these notions, cast his eye around;
And one so easy soon a partner found.
The lady chosen was of good repute;

Meekness she had not, and was seldom mute;
Though quick to anger, still she loved to smile,
And would be calm if men would wait a while:
She knew her duty, and she loved her way,
More pleased in truth to govern than obey;
She heard her priest with reverence, and her spouse
As one who felt the pressure of her vows;
Useful and civil, all her friends confess'd-
Give her her way, and she would choose the best;
Though some indeed a sly remark would make-
Give it her not, and she would choose to take.

All this, when Clubb some cheerful months had spent,

He saw, confess'd, and said he was content.

Counter meantime selected, doubted, weigh'd,
And then brought home a young complying maid;
A tender creature, full of fears as charms,

A beauteous nursling from its mother's arms;
A soft, sweet blossom, such as men must love,
But to preserve must keep it in the stove:
She had a mild, subdued, expiring look-
Raise but the voice, and this fair creature shook;
Leave her alone, she felt a thousand fears-
Chide, and she melted into floods of tears;
Fondly she pleaded, and would gently sigh,
For very pity, or she knew not why;
One whom to govern none could be afraid-
Hold up the finger, this meek thing obey'd;
Her happy husband had the easiest task-
Say but his will, no question would she ask;
She sought no reasons, no affairs she knew,
Of business spoke not, and had nought to do.

Oft he exclaim'd, "How meek! how mild! how kind! With her 'twere cruel but to seem unkind;

Though ever silent when I take my leave,

It pains my heart to think how hers will grieve; "Tis heaven on earth with such a wife to dwell,

I am in raptures to have sped so well;

But let me not, my friend, your envy raise,
No! on my life, your patience has my praise."

His Friend, though silent, felt the scorn implied-
"What need of patience?" to himself he cried:
"Better a woman o'er her house to rule,

Than a poor child just hurried from her school;
Who has no care, yet never lives at ease;
Unfit to rule, and indisposed to please.
What if he govern, there his boast should end;
No husband's power can make a slave his friend."
It was the custom of these Friends to meet
With a few neighbours in a neighbouring street;
Where Counter ofttimes would occasion seize
To move his silent Friend by words like these:
"A man," said he, "if govern'd by his wife,
Gives up
his rank and dignity in life;
Now, better fate befalls my Friend and me."-
He spoke, and look'd th' approving smile to see.
The quiet partner, when he chose to speak,
Desired his friend "another theme to seek;
When thus they met, he judged that state-affairs
And such important subjects should be theirs :"
But still the partner, in his lighter vein,
Would cause in Clubb affliction or disdain ;
It made him anxious to detect the cause

Of all that boasting:-" Wants my friend applause?
This plainly proves him not at perfect ease,
For, felt he pleasure, he would wish to please.
These triumphs here for some regrets atone-