THE STORY OF DAVID BOOTH.
The mother's slow consent was then obtain'd ;
The time arrived, to part alone remain'd:
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor'd in the bay.
From her would seamen in the evening come,
To take th' adventurous Allen from his home;
With his own friends the final day he pass'd,
And every painful hour, except the last.
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass;
Intent the mother look'd upon her son,
And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed undone ;
The younger sister, as he took his way,
Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay:
But his own Judith call'd him to the shore,
Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more ;And there he found her-faithful, mournful, true,
Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu!
The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there
Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair:
Sweet were the painful moments-but, how sweet,
And without pain, when they again should meet!
Now either spoke as hope and fear impress'd
Each their alternate triumph in the breast.
Distance alarm'd the maid-she cried, ""Tis far!"
And danger too-" it is a time of war:
Then in those countries are diseases strange,
And women gay, and men are prone to change :
What then may happen in a year, when things
Of vast importance every moment brings!
But hark! an oar!" she cried, yet none appear'd— 'Twas love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd;
And she continued-" Do, my Allen, keep
Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;
Believe it good, nay, glorious, to prevail,
And stand in safety where so many fail;
And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,
THE STORY OF DAVID BOOTH.
Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;
Can I believe his love will lasting prove,
Who has no rev'rence for the God I love?
I know thee well! how good thou art, and kind;
But strong the passions that invade thy mind-
Now, what to me hath Allen to commend?"
"Upon my mother," said the youth, "attend;
Forget her spleen, and, in my place, appear:
Her love to me will make my Judith dear.
Oft I shall think (such comforts 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 't is 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 hast'ning 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.
THE STORY OF DAVID BOOTH.
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 more
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 his frame; Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,
Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay.
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 years, 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 :
"There," he observed, and new emotions felt,
"Was my first home-and yonder Judith dwelt;
Dead! dead are all! I long-I fear to know,”
He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:
Seamen returning to their ships, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home:
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
THE STORY OF DAVID BOOTH.
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 oppress'd;
Then spake again :-" Is there no ancient man,
David his name?-assist me, if you can.—
Flemings they were; and Judith, doth she live?"
The woman gazed, nor could an answer give ;
Yet, wond'ring, 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 past, "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?"
The woman answer'd: "I remember now,
She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
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 hast'ning to the shore."
COME, Patrick, clear up the storms on your brow;
You were kind to me once-will you frown on me now?—
Shall the storm settle here, when from heaven it departs,
And the cold from without find its way to our hearts?
No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather
Is easily borne when we bear it together.
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