Mark how this hope lit up dear Toogood’s breast.—
How her maternal heart seem’d lull’d to rest;
How she endeavour’d—though ’twere vain to try—
To stay the tear now issuing from her eye;
How she attempted to describe her joy,
And seem’d in raptures with her darling boy!—
At length, as though empower’d by Him on high,
She doffs her tears and draws this imagery—
“There are,” she said, “some who make chary wives,
Are blest with families, and live their lives
In sweet contentment, happiness and love,
Whose guardian is the mighty One above;
But there are others who without a thought
Waste bags of gold and lack at last a groat
Wherewith to pay, and then—but when too late—
In tears discover their impoverish’d state;
Whilst, on the other hand, those keeping well in mind—
Economy, will always comfort find;
Their homes their castles—whether small or great—
Are ramparts of defence by day or night,—
No bitter whinings, nor remorseless sighs,
Reproachful twitt’rings o’er invented lies,
Are theirs, but truthful love’s protectorate:
And may God grant it—so at Rollingate!”—
Such was the purport of Aunt Toogood’s tale—
A sort of lecture on a little scale;
Perhaps experience of some family feud
Had prompted this extemporaneous mood,
Or the remembrance of some ruined pair
Impelled her speech to tell of their despair;
For ’t seemed to give th’ old lady much relief
When she had summarised her tale of grief,
As then again her countenance bespoke
Her readiness to embrace a passing joke;
And she in turn some funny things would say,
Then leave to Jove to solve the mystery;
Till Night (nocturnal goddess of the skies)
Invades the hall in mystical disguise
And with due courteousness involved their eyes.