She frown’d, and rudely pointed to the door;
Whate’er he wrote, he saw unread return’d,
And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn’d: 
Nay, fix’d suspicion where he might confide,
And sacrificed his passion to his pride. 
Lucy, meantime, though threaten’d and distress’d,
Against her marriage made a strong protest: 
All was domestic war; the Aunt rebell’d
Against the sovereign will, and was expell’d;
And every power was tried, and every art,
To bend to falsehood one determined heart;
Assail’d, in patience it received the shock,
Soft as the wave, unshaken as the rock: 
But while th’ unconquer’d soul endures the storm
Of angry fate, it preys upon the form;
With conscious virtue she resisted still,
And conscious love gave vigour to her will;
But Lucy’s trial was at hand; with joy
The Mother cried—­“Behold your constant boy —
Thursday—­was married:  —­take the paper, sweet,
And read the conduct of your reverend cheat;
See with what pomp of coaches, in what crowd
The creature married—­of his falsehood proud! 
False, did I say?—­at least no whining fool;
And thus will hopeless passions ever cool: 
But shall his bride your single state reproach? 
No! give him crowd for crowd, and coach for coach. 
Oh! you retire; reflect then, gentle miss,
And gain some spirit in a cause like this.” 
   Some spirit Lucy gain’d; a steady soul,
Defying all persuasion, all control: 
In vain reproach, derision, threats were tried;
The constant mind all outward force defied,
By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail’d by pride;
Fix’d in her purpose, perfect in her part,
She felt the courage of a wounded heart;
The world receded from her rising view,
When heaven approach’d as earthly things withdrew;
Not strange before, for in the days of love,
Joy, hope, and pleasure, she had thoughts above,
Pious when most of worldly prospects fond,
When they best pleased her she could look beyond;
Had the young priest a faithful lover died,
Something had been her bosom to divide;
Now heaven had all, for in her holiest views
She saw the matron whom she fear’d to lose;
While from her parent, the dejected maid
Forced the unpleasant thought, or thinking pray’d. 
   Surprised, the mother saw the languid frame,
And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame;
Once with a frown she cried, “And do you mean
To die of love—­the folly of fifteen?”
But as her anger met with no reply,
She let the gentle girl in quiet die;
And to her sister wrote, impell’d by pain,
“Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain.” 
Lucy meantime profess’d with joy sincere,
That nothing held, employ’d, engaged her here. 
   “I am an humble actor, doom’d to play
A part obscure, and then to glide away: 
Incurious how the great or happy shine,
Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine;
In its best prospect I but wish’d for life,