Next, when this first and most propitious brief
Had reach’d the cot, alternate joy and grief
With equal pressure influenc’d Jane’s breast,
And oft at night prevented needful rest;
Her sire, (as she,) alternately would sigh,—
As oft he smil’d as oft bedew’d his eye:
“A month,” said George, “will soon have pass’d away,
And then a week, and then another day,
And then the moment when my child is gone!—
And I (he said most sorrowf’lly), alone!”
Jane sobb’d and sigh’d, whilst George desired her cease—
“It’s all for good, my dear, come be at peace,”
Said he; but no,—her heart, poor girl, was full:
No human solacy could then control
Her virtuous bosom; nought could check the flood,
Until she clasp’d her hands and look’d to God!
And then she scann’d the cottage whitewash’d walls,
Where hung a picture of “Niag’ra Falls;”
’Mong several others—one, our Saviour’s birth,[196]
Seem’d, of them all, the one of greatest worth,
For she had learnt to love Him: then again
Jane read the letter in more hopeful strain,
And grew more reconciled unto her fate:
Some of her childhood scenes she’d ’numerate;—
To Jane’s sweet memory would oft recur
The fun and frolic at the village fair,—
Held once a year,—and whither she would go
To hear the bumpkin band, and see the “show:”
This was a happy period of her life:
Her mother liv’d, and was a loving wife
To Hollybrand. (Ah! George had praised her so
That when she died most dreadful was the blow.)[197]
As then each Sunday morning came along
Jane heard the village-church bells go ding-dong,
(When her dear mother liv’d and stay’d at home)
And, with her father, forth would early roam
To pay their homage on the Sabbath day,
In God’s own house. The villagers would say
(Though with a sort of semi-jealous air)—
“That Jenny gain’d admirers everywhere:”
Well! no one, rich or poor, could pass her by
Without being charm’d with her impressive eye:
And whilst at church she rais’d her voice to God,
Was never seen to chatter, laugh, or nod:
And never fail’d to gather every word,
As it would fall upon her list’ning ear:—
Sometimes poor “Jenny” dropp’d a silent tear,
And some kind folks began to pity her—
Poor girl; for then her mother lay so ill,
It almost made the child, herself, unwell.
T’her poor dear mother she’d read the Sunday book,
Turn up her eyes and with a solemn look—
Yet with a kind of smile—say this (and more)—
“O Lord, have mercy on the sick, and poor!”
[196] The proper title of this picture was, no doubt, “The birth of our
Saviour.”
[197] Affliction.