Now, at the pretty ’lizabethan lodge
There liv’d (as said before) old Andrew Hodge,
Unable to perform on the estate
Aught else—and hardly that—than ope the gate:
No plan more suitable could Jove contrive—
Nor any member of the starry hive—
Than that good George to Rollingate should come
And help poor Andrew, and make this his home:
Thus, then arrang’d; time now flew very fast,
And George’s grievous hours were flown at last:
His sundry goods were ready for the van,
And he was now become an alter’d man.
The sun brought joy that usher’d in the day,
And so the hour when he was on the way:
For many a trial had fall’n to George’s lot
Since he first occupied that little cot;
But he had borne them all most patiently,
And never shrunk in his adversity
From that great duty, pray’r!—his great support,
His refuge in affliction, and resort.
Farewell to Westonbury, and farewell
To cottage, garden, grunters, fowls, and all;
In other hands their welfare now is cast,
And well for them if they’re as good’s the last!
“George Hollybrand”—they almost learn’d to speak,
But now he’s gone they’re doubly dumb and meek.
Ten hours were told; Jane listens to the wind,
Whose genial breathings thus impress’d her mind:
She fondly fancied that the breeze would bear
The far-off rumbling to her anxious ear;
’Twas not in vain—her fancy served her well,
As now the favouring winds bore up the vale
The welcome sound. Ah! who her joy could tell?—
Yet happier still when she beheld the van
(At every pulse which beat) advancing on:
She waved her ’kerchief as it drew in sight,
And thus anticipated her delight;
Her father answer’d the uplifted sign,
Then soon their tears with mutual scope combine,
For one more instant and a scene ensued
When the joy-liquid unprevented flowed.