And hear one sigh, then liberty farewell. 
   “But, John, remember we cannot maintain
A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain. 
“Doubt much of friendship:  shouldst thou find a friend
Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend;
Should he the praises he has heard report,
And confidence (in thee confiding) court;
Much of neglected Patrons should he say,
And then exclaim—­’How long must merit stay!’
Then show how high thy modest hopes may stretch,
And point to stations far beyond thy reach;
Let such designer, by thy conduct, see
(Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee;
And he will quit thee, as a man too wise
For him to ruin first, and then despise. 
   “Such are thy dangers:  —­yet, if thou canst steer
Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear,
Then may’st thou profit; but if storms prevail,
If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail, —
No more of winds or waters be the sport,
But in thy father’s mansion, find a port.” 
   Our poet read.—­“It is in truth,” said he,
“Correct in part, but what is this to me? 
I love a foolish Abigail! in base
And sordid office! fear not such disgrace: 
Am I so blind?” “Or thou wouldst surely see
That lady’s fall, if she should stoop to thee!”
“The cases differ.”  “True! for what surprise
Could from thy marriage with the maid arise? 
But through the island would the shame be spread,
Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed.” 
   John saw not this; and many a week had pass’d,
While the vain beauty held her victim fast;
The Noble Friend still condescension show’d,
And, as before, with praises overflowed;
But his grave Lady took a silent view
Of all that pass’d, and smiling, pitied too. 
   Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief,
Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf;
The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods
Roar’d with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods: 
All green was vanish’d, save of pine and yew,
That still displayed their melancholy hue;
Save the green holly with its berries red,
And the green moss that o’er the gravel spread. 
   To public views my Lord must soon attend;
And soon the ladies—­would they leave their friend? 
The time was fix’d—­approach’d—­was near—­was come;
The trying time that fill’d his soul with gloom: 
Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose,
And cried, “One hour my fortune will disclose;
Terrific hour! from thee have I to date
Life’s loftier views, or my degraded state;
For now to be what I have been before
Is so to fall, that I can rise no more.” 
   The morning meal was past; and all around
The mansion rang with each discordant sound;
Haste was in every foot, and every look
The trav’ller’s joy for London-journey spoke: 
Not so our youth; whose feelings at the noise
Of preparation, had no touch of joys: 
He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn,