withdrew,
And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew;
There on her knees, to Heaven she grieving pray’d
For change of prospect to a tortured maid. 
   Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire
Had left him all industrious men require,
Saw the pale Beauty,—­and her shape and air
Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear: 
“For my small farm what can the damsel do?”
He said,—­then stopp’d to take another view: 
“Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn
Of household cares,—­for what can beauty earn
By those small arts which they at school attain,
That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?”
   This luckless Damsel look’d the village round,
To find a friend, and one was quickly found: 
A pensive Widow, whose mild air and dress
Pleased the sad nymph, who wish’d her soul’s distress
To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess. 
   “What Lady that?” the anxious lass inquired,
Who then beheld the one she most admired: 
“Here,” said the Brother, “are no ladies seen —
That is a widow dwelling on the Green;
A dainty dame, who can but barely live
On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give;
She happier days has known, but seems at ease,
And you may call her lady if you please: 
But if you wish, good sister, to improve,
You shall see twenty better worth your love.” 
   These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught,
This useless Widow was the one she sought: 
The father growl’d; but said he knew no harm
In such connexion that could give alarm;
“And if we thwart the trifler in her course,
’Tis odds against us she will take a worse.” 
   Then met the friends; the Widow heard the sigh
That ask’d at once compassion and reply:  —
“Would you, my child, converse with one so poor,
Yours were the kindness—­yonder is my door: 
And, save the time that we in public pray,
From that poor cottage I but rarely stray.” 
   There went the nymph, and made her strong complaints,
Painting her woe as injured feeling paints. 
   “Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel,
Shock’d all day long, and sicken’d every meal;
Could you behold our kitchen (and to you
A scene so shocking must indeed be new),
A mind like yours, with true refinement graced,
Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste: 
And yet, in truth, from such a polish’d mind
All base ideas must resistance find,
And sordid pictures from the fancy pass,
As the breath startles from the polish’d glass. 
   “Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene,
Without so pleasant, and within so clean;
These twining jess’mines, what delicious gloom
And soothing fragrance yield they to the room! 
What lovely garden! there you oft retire,
And tales of woe and tenderness admire. 
In that neat case your books, in order placed,
Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultur’d taste;
And thus, while all about you wears a charm,