The ills of life, nor murmur’d nor complain’d. 
To vary pleasures, from the lady’s chest
Were drawn the pearly string and tabby vest;
Beads, jewels, laces, all their value shown,
With the kind notice—­“They will be your own.” 
   This hope, these comforts, cherish’d day by day,
To Dinah’s bosom made a gradual way;
Till love of treasure had as large a part,
As love of Rupert, in the virgin’s heart. 
Whether it be that tender passions fail,
From their own nature, while the strong prevail;
Or whether av’rice, like the poison-tree,
Kills all beside it, and alone will be;
Whatever cause prevail’d, the pleasure grew
In Dinah’s soul,—­she loved the hoards to view;
With lively joy those comforts she survey’d,
And love grew languid in the careful maid. 
   Now the grave niece partook the widow’s cares,
Look’d to the great, and ruled the small affairs;
Saw clean’d the plate, arranged the china-show,
And felt her passion for a shilling grow: 
Th’ indulgent aunt increased the maid’s delight,
By placing tokens of her wealth in sight;
She loved the value of her bonds to tell,
And spake of stocks, and how they rose and fell. 
   This passion grew, and gain’d at length such sway,
That other passions shrank to make it way;
Romantic notions now the heart forsook,
She read but seldom, and she changed her book;
And for the verses she was wont to send,
Short was her prose, and she was Rupert’s friend. 
Seldom she wrote, and then the widow’s cough,
And constant call, excused her breaking off;
Who now oppressed, no longer took the air,
But sat and dozed upon an easy chair. 
The cautious doctor saw the case was clear,
But judged it best to have companions near;
They came, they reason’d, they prescribed,—­at last,
Like honest men, they said their hopes were past;
Then came a priest—­’tis comfort to reflect
When all is over, there was no neglect: 
And all was over.—­By her husband’s bones,
The widow rests beneath the sculptured stones,
That yet record their fondness and their fame,
While all they left the virgin’s care became;
Stock, bonds, and buildings; it disturb’d her rest,
To think what load of troubles she possessed: 
Yet, if a trouble, she resolved to take
Th’ important duty for the donor’s sake;
She too was heiress to the widow’s taste,
Her love of hoarding, and her dread of waste. 
   Sometimes the past would on her mind intrude,
And then a conflict full of care ensued;
The thoughts of Rupert on her mind would press,
His worth she knew, but doubted his success: 
Of old she saw him heedless; what the boy
Forebore to save, the man would not enjoy;
Oft had he lost the chance that care would seize,
Willing to live, but more to live at ease: 
Yet could she not a broken vow defend,
And Heav’n, perhaps, might yet enrich her friend.