The favourite studies of the fair betray’d;
Beneath the window was the toilet spread,
And the fire gleam’d upon a crimson bed. 
   In Anna’s looks and falling tears were seen
How interesting had their subjects been: 
“Oh! then,” resumed the Friend, “I plainly find
That you and Stafford know each other’s mind;
I must depart, must on the world be thrown,
Like one discarded, worthless, and unknown;
But, shall I carry, and to please a foe,
A painful secret in my bosom?  No! 
Think not your Friend a reptile you may tread
Beneath your feet, and say, the worm is dead;
I have some feeling, and will not be made
The scorn of her whom love cannot persuade: 
Would not your word, your slightest wish, effect
All that I hope, petition, or expect? 
The power you have, but you the use decline —
Proof that you feel not, or you fear not mine. 
There was a time when I, a tender maid,
Flew at a call, and your desires obey’d;
A very mother to the child became,
Consoled your sorrow, and conceal’d your shame;
But now, grown rich and happy, from the door
You thrust a bosom-friend, despised and poor;
That child alive, its mother might have known
The hard, ungrateful spirit she had shown.” 
   Here paused the Guest, and Anna cried at length —
“You try me, cruel friend! beyond my strength;
Would I had been beside my infant laid,
Where none would vex me, threaten, or upbraid!”
   In Anna’s looks the Friend beheld despair;
Her speech she soften’d, and composed her air;
Yet, while professing love, she answer’d still —
“You can befriend me, but you want the will.” 
They parted thus, and Anna went her way,
To shed her secret sorrows, and to pray. 
   Stafford, amused with books, and fond of home,
By reading oft dispell’d the evening gloom;
History or tale—­all heard him with delight,
And thus was pass’d this memorable night. 
   The listening Friend bestow’d a flattering smile: 
A sleeping boy the mother held the while;
And ere she fondly bore him to his bed,
On his fair face the tear of anguish shed. 
And now his task resumed, “My tale,” said he,
“Is short and sad, short may our sadness be!”
   “The Caliph Harun, as historians tell, {5}
Ruled, for a tyrant, admirably well;
Where his own pleasures were not touch’d, to men
He was humane, and sometimes even then. 
Harun was fond of fruits and gardens fair,
And woe to all whom he found poaching there: 
Among his pages was a lively Boy,
Eager in search of every trifling joy;
His feelings vivid, and his fancy strong,
He sigh’d for pleasure while he shrank from wrong: 
When by the Caliph in the garden placed,
He saw the treasures which he long’d to taste;
And oft alone he ventured to behold
Rich hanging fruits with rind of glowing gold;
Too long he stay’d forbidden bliss to view,
His virtue failing as his longings grew;