Classic Poem

I.

Thus to his Friend an angry Father spoke —
" Nay, do not think that I the Will revoke
My cruel Son in every way I've tried,
And every vice have found in him but pride;
For he, of pride possess'd, would meaner vices hide
Money he wastes, I will not say he spends;
He neither makes the poor nor rich his friends —
To those be nothing gives, to these he never lends.

'Tis for himself each legal pale he breaks;
He joins the miser's spirit to the rake's:
Like the worst Roman in the worst of times,
He can be guilty of conflicting crimes;
Greedy of others' wealth, unknown the use,
And of his own contemptuously profuse.

To such a mind shall I my wealth confide,
That you to nobler, worthier ends, may guide?
No! let my Will my scorn of vice express,
And let him learn repentance from distress."

So said the Father; and the Friend, who spurn'd
Wealth ill-acquired, his sober speech return'd —
" The youth is faulty, but his faults are weigh'd
With a strong bias, and by wrath repaid;
Pleasure deludes him, not the vain design
Of making vices unallied combine.
He wastes your wealth, for he is yet a boy;
He covets more for he would more enjoy.
For, my good friend, believe me, very few,
At once are prodigals and misers too —
The spendthrift vice engrafted on the Jew.
Leave me one thousand pounds; for I confess
I have my wants, and will not tax you less
But your estate let this young man enjoy;
If he reforms, you've saved a grateful boy,
If not, a father's cares and troubles cease,
You've done your duty, and may rest in peace. "

The Will in hand, the Father musing stood,
Then gravely answer'd, " Your advice is good;
Yet take the paper, and in safety keep;
I'll make another Will before I sleep;
But if I hear of some atrocious deed,
That deed I'll burn, and yours will then succeed.
Two thousand I bequeath you. No reproof!
And there are small bequests — he'll have enough;
For if he wastes, he would with all be poor,
And if he wastes not, he will need no more. "

The Friends then parted: this the Will possess'd,
And that another made — so things had rest.

George, who was conscious that his Father grew
Sick and infirm, engaged in nothing new;
No letters came from injured man or maid,
No bills from wearied duns; that must be paid,
No fierce reproaches from deserted fair,
Mix'd with wild tenderness of desperate prayer;
So hope rose softly in the parent's breast,
He dying call'd his son and fondly blest,
Hail'd the propitious tear, and mildly sunk to rest.

Unhappy Youth! ere yet the tomb was closed,
And dust to dust convey'd in peace reposed,
He sought his father's closet, search'd around,
To find a Will! the important Will was found.

Well pleased he read, " These lands, this manor all,
Now call me master! — I obey the call. "
Then from the window look'd the valley o'er,
And never saw it look so rich before
He view'd the dairy, view'd the men at plough,
With other eyes, with other feelings now,
And with a new-form'd taste found beauty in a cow
The distant swain who drove the plough along
Was a good useful slave, and passing strong!
In short, the view was pleasing, nay, was fine,
" Good as my father's, excellent as mine! "

Again he reads, — but he had read enough;
What follow'd put his virtue to a proof.
" How this? to David Wright two thousand pounds!
A monstrous sum! beyond all reason! — zounds!
This is your friendship running out of bounds.

Then here are cousins Susan, Robert, Joe,
Five hundred each. Do they deserve it? No!
Claim they have none — I wonder if they know
What the good man intended to bestow!
This might be paid — but Wright's enormous sum
Is — I'm alone — there's nobody can come —
'T is all his hand, no lawyer was employ'd
To write this prose, that ought to be destroy'd!
To no attorney would my father trust:
He wish'd his son to judge of what was just;
As if he said, " My boy will find the Will,
And, as he likes, destroy it or fulfil"
This now is reason, this I understand —
What was at his, is now at my command.
As for this paper, with these cousins' names,
I — 't is my Will — commit it to the flames
Hence! disappear! now am I lord alone:
They'll groan, I know, but, curse them, let them groan.
Who wants his money like a new-made heir,
To put all things in order and repair?
I need the whole the worthy man could save,
To do my father credit in his grave;
It takes no trifle to have squires convey'd
To their last house with honour and parade,
All this, attended by a world of cost,
Requires, demands, that nothing should be lost.
These fond bequests cannot demanded be —
Where no Will is, can be no legacy;
And none is here! I safely swear it — none! —
The very ashes are dispersed and gone.
All would be well, would that same sober Friend,
That Wright, my father on his way attend:
My fears — but why afraid? — my troubles then would end "

In triumph, yet in trouble, meets our Squire
The friends assembled, who a Will require.
" There is no Will, " he said — They murmur and retire

Days pass away, while yet the Heir is blest
By pleasant cares, and thoughts that banish rest;
When comes the Friend, and asks, in solemn tone,
If he may see the busy Squire alone.

They are in private — all about is still —
When thus the Guest: — " Your father left a Will,
And I would see it. " — Rising in reply,
The youth beheld a fix'd and piercing eye,
From which his own receded; and the sound
Of his own words was in disorder drown'd.
He answer'd softly, — " I in vain have spent
Days in the search; I pray you be content;
And if a Will — " The pertinacious man,
At if displeased, with steady tone began; —
" There is a Will — produce it, for you can. " —

" Sir, I have sought in vain, and what the use?
What has no being, how can I produce? "

" Two days I give you; to my words attend, "
Was the reply, " and let the business end "

Two days were past, and still the same reply
To the same question — " Not a Will have I. "
More grave, more earnest, then the Friend appear'd;
He spoke with power, as one who would be heard, —
" A Will your father made! I witness'd one "
The Heir arose in anger — " Sir, begone!
Think you my spirit by your looks to awe?
Go to your lodgings, friend, or to your law:
To what would you our easy souls persuade?
Once more I tell you, not a Will was made:
There's none with me, I swear it — now, deny
This if you can! " —
" That, surely, cannot I;
Nay, I believe you, and as no such deed
Is found with you, this surely will succeed! " —

He said, and from his pocket slowly drew
Of the first testament a copy true,
And held it spread abroad, that he might see it too
" Read, and be sure; your parent's pleasure see —
Then leave this mansion and these lands to me "

He said, and terror seized the guilty youth;
He saw his misery, meanness, and the truth;
Could not before his stern accuser stand,
Yet could not quit that hall, that park, that land;
But when surprise had pass'd away, his grief
Began to think in law to find relief.

" While courts are open, why should I despair
Juries will feel for an abandon'd heir:
I will resist, " he said, impell'd by pride: —
" I must submit, " recurring fear replied.
As wheels the vane when winds around it play,
So his strong passions turn'd him every way;
But growing terrors seized th' unhappy youth:
He knew the Man, and more, he knew — the Truth
When, stung by all he fear'd, and all he felt,
He sought for mercy, and in terror knelt.

Grieved, but indignant, — " Let me not despise
Thy father's son, " replied the Friend: " arise!
To my fix'd purpose your attention lend,
And know, your fate will on yourself depend.

Thou shalt not want, young man! nor yet abound,
And time shall try thee, if thy heart be sound;
Thou shalt be watch'd till thou hast learn'd to know
Th' All-seeing Watcher of the world below,
And worlds above, and thoughts within; fron Whom
Must be thy certain, just, and final doom.
Thy doors all closely barr'd, thy windows blind,
Before all silent, silent all behind —
Thy hand was stretch'd to do whate'er thy soul
In secret would — no mortal could control.
Oh, fool! to think that thou thy act couldst keep
From that All-piercing Eye, which cannot sleep!

Go to thy trial! and may I with thee,
A fellow-sinner, who to mercy flee —
That mercy find, as justly I dispense
Between thy frailty and thy penitence.

Go to thy trial! and be wise in time,
And know that no man can conceal a crime
God and his Conscience witness all that's done,
And these he cannot cheat, he cannot shun.
What, then, could fortune, what could safety give,
If He with these at enmity must live?

Go! " — and the young man from his presence went,
Confused, uncertain of his own intent —
To sin, if pride prevail'd; if soften'd, to repent.

II

P . — L IVES yet the Friend of that unhappy Boy,
Who could the Will that made him rich destroy,
And made him poor? And what the after-plain,
For one so selfish, of that stern, good man?

F . — " Choose, " said this Friend, " thy way in life, and I
Will means to aid thee in thy work supply. "
He will the army, thought this guardian, choose,
And there the sense of his dishonour lose.

Humbly he answer'd, — " With your kind consent,
Of your estate I would a portion rent,
And farm with care — "

" Alas! the wretched fruit
Of evil habit! he will hunt and shoot "

So judged the Friend, but soon perceived a change,
To him important, and to all men strange.
Industrious, temperate, with the sun he rose,
And of his time gave little to repose:
Nor to the labour only bent his will,
But sought experience, and improved with skill;
With cautious prudence placed his gains to use,
Inquiring always, " What will this produce? "

The Friend, not long suspicious, now began
To think more kindly of the alter'd man —
In his opinion alter'd, but, in truth,
The same the spirit that still ruled the youth:
That dwelt within, where other demons dwell,
Avarice unsated, and insatiable.

But this Wright saw not: he was more inclined
To trace the way of a repenting mind;
And he was now by strong disease assail'd,
That quickly o'er the vital powers prevail'd:
And now the son had all, was rich beyond
His fondest hope, and he, indeed, was fond.

His life's great care has been his zeal to prove,
And time to dotage has increased his love
A Miser now, the one strong passion guides
The heart and soul: there's not a love besides
Where'er he comes, he sees in every face
A look that tells him of his own disgrace.
Men's features vary, but the mildest show
" It is a tale of infamy we know. "
Some with contempt the wealthy miser view,
Some with disgust, yet mix'd with pity too;
A part that looks of wrath and hatred wear,
And some, less happy, lose their scorn in fear.

Meanwhile, devoid of kindness, comfort, friends,
On his possessions solely he depends.

Yet is he wretched; for his fate decrees
That his own feelings should deny him ease
With talents gifted, he himself reproves,
And can but scorn the vile pursuit he loves;
He can but feel that there abides within
The secret shame, the unrepented sin,
And the strong sense, that bids him to confess
He has not found the way to happiness

But 't is the way where he has travell'd, long, —
And turn he will not, though he feels it wrong;
Like a sad traveller, who, at closing day,
Finds he has wander'd widely from his way,
Yet wanders on, nor will new paths explore,
Till the night falls, and he can walk no more.