Still she was silent, nothing seem’d to see,
But sat and sigh’d in pensive reverie. 
   The friends prepared new subjects to begin,
When tall Susannah, maiden starch, stalk’d in;
Not in her ancient mode, sedate and slow,
As when she came, the mind she knew, to know;
Nor as, when list’ning half an hour before,
She twice or thrice tapp’d gently at the door;
But all decorum cast in wrath aside,
“I think the devil’s in the man!” she cried;
“A huge tall sailor, with his tawny cheek
And pitted face, will with my lady speak;
He grinn’d an ugly smile, and said he knew,
Please you, my lady, ’t would be joy to you: 
What must I answer?”—­Trembling and distress’d
Sank the pale Dinah by her fears oppress’d;
When thus alarm’d and brooking no delay,
Swift to her room the stranger made his way. 
   “Revive, my love!” said he, “I’ve done thee harm;
Give me thy pardon,” and he look’d alarm: 
Meantime the prudent Dinah had contrived
Her soul to question, and she then revived. 
   “See! my good friend,” and then she raised her head,
“The bloom of life, the strength of youth is fled;
Living we die; to us the world is dead;
We parted bless’d with health, and I am now
Age-struck and feeble—­so I find art thou;
Thine eye is sunken, furrow’d is thy face,
And downward look’st thou—­so we run our race;
And happier they whose race is nearly run,
Their troubles over, and their duties done.” 
   “True, lady, true—­we are not girl and boy,
But time has left us something to enjoy.” 
“What! hast thou learn’d my fortune?—­yes, I live
To feel how poor the comforts wealth can give: 
Thou too perhaps art wealthy; but our fate
Still mocks our wishes, wealth is come too late.” 
   “To me nor late nor early; I am come
Poor as I left thee to my native home: 
Nor yet,” said Rupert, “will I grieve; ’tis mine
To share thy comforts, and the glory thine: 
For thou wilt gladly take that generous part
That both exalts and gratifies the heart;
While mine rejoices”—­“Heavens!” return’d the maid,
“This talk to one so wither’d and decay’d? 
No! all my care is now to fit my mind
For other spousal, and to die resigned: 
As friend and neighbour, I shall hope to see
These noble views, this pious love in thee;
That we together may the change await,
Guides and spectators in each other’s fate;
When fellow pilgrims, we shall daily crave
The mutual prayer that arms us for the grave.” 
   Half angry, half in doubt, the lover gazed
On the meek maiden, by her speech amazed;
“Dinah,” said he, “dost thou respect thy vows? 
What spousal mean’st thou?—­thou art Rupert’s spouse;
That chance is mine to take, and thine to give: 
But, trifling this, if we together live: 
Can I believe, that, after all the past,
Our vows, our loves, thou wilt be false at last? 
Something thou hast—­I know not what—­in