Classic Poem

Her fortunate stars had to Julia given,
Of lovers a numerous train,
Who for twelvemonths, or more, had incessantly striven
To win her fair hand—but in vain.
They were all youths of merit, although they were poor,
And to one she'd nigh given her heart;
But her father he lik'd the pecun'ary ore,
Insomuch that in one of his passions he swore
That Julia should ne'er again enter his door,
If to him she her hand should impart.

Her mama urg'd with much assiduity too,
When she thought of becoming a wife,
The advantage of keeping the maxim in view,
That ‘gold's the best passport thro' life.’
And she too, like papa, was a little severe
In adverting to Julia's love;
Who, she said, was but just in her seventeenth year,
And had beauty, forsooth, which she'd not the least fear,
Would raise her some day to a much higher sphere,
Than that in which Cyprian could move.

Now Julia's mama, I am asham'd to declare,
Talk'd much of the volume of Fate,
Thought the marriage of people was register'd there,
Ere they came to this sublun'ry state.
Thought 'twas Fate, and not Heaven's immediate will,
By which human affairs were controll'd;
And took care into Julia's mind to instil
The same doctrine, whence sprung a most serious ill,
Which, that others may shun it, I've taken my quill,
With all due respect, to unfold.

It was late on the close of an estival day
When Julia, in serious mood,
Stole out unperceived, and pursued her lone way
By the verge of a neighbouring wood;
And the sun, in his last golden splendor array'd,
Had long sunk from the occident sky,
And the landscape around seem'd dissolving to shade,
For the last evening twilight had almost decay'd
When under an oak the contemplative maid
Sat, to ponder on moments gone by.

But lo! by the moon indistinctly reveal'd,
A strange figure poor Julia perceives,
And behind the bare trunk of the oak, half conceal'd,
She is trembling with fear, like its leaves.
A strange figure indeed—is it human?—oh no,
Else where is its hat or its bonnet?
And yet it is bent, as with age like a bow,
And it walks with a stick, and its head is hung low,
But so monstrous a hump on its back seems to grow,
That it freezes her blood to look on it.

Each step that it treads adds to Julia's fear,
She moves not—her breath is suspended;
And still it approaches more near—still more near,
They speak,—and her fears are all ended.
'Twas a gipsy proceeding fatigu'd to the tent
That was pitch'd in a neighbouring nook,
And her gait was inclin'd and her strength was nigh spent,
For under the weight of two infants she bent,
And hobbling, and grumbling, and poking she went,
Nor behind or before deign'd to look.

She told Julia she saw (so endow'd were her eyes)
Each event that hung over her head,
And nam'd certain amours, and some scandal and lies,
That her envious neighbours had spread.
She moreover describ'd each of Julia's beaus,
(When the silver she once had possessed)
Of whom one was genteel, and as fair as a rose,
With hair like a raven, and eyes black as sloes,
And that he , whate'er she might at that time suppose,
Was destin'd with her to be blest.

The gipsy retir'd, and young Julia reclin'd
Once again in the shade of the oak,
And revolving the thing once or twice in her mind,
In these words she her sentiment spoke:
‘Her description of Cyprian is all very right,
(Yet I cannot believe the prediction)
He is rather genteel, his complexion is light,
His eyes are rather dark, and his hair black as night,
And I certainly think I his love should requite,
Were it not for my father's restriction.

‘Well my parents say this, “if you e'er give your hand
To that Cyprian, you'll certainly rue it;”
And yet, against all they so justly command,
My planet compels me to do it.
My parents' advice should, I know, be pursued,
As should all their commands be obey'd;
And could I but do it, obey them I would,
Because I'm aware they are meant for my good,
But what Fate has appointed can not be withstood,
As mama has herself often said.’

She finish'd,—and had she been left to her choice,
It would, I conceive, have been clear,
That it was, of the two, MOTHER DESTINY'S voice
Which she seem'd most inclin'd to revere.
She did so,—and now she is Cyprian's bride,
(And may joy on their nuptials await);
And the gold that her father in anger denied,
Is by Cyprian's industry partly supplied,
And they never repine—no, wate'er may betide,
They never repine at their fate.