Sweet twilight,—of all other hours most blest
For those whose prospect is their needed rest;
When down the western sphere of heav’n had gone
The great and good—the all propitious sun.
Oh, Heaven! how gracious is that mid-way hour,
When all the day-birds seek their somb’rous bow’r;
And when—if not in full—the quartering moon
Attracts the eye to the celestial zone,—
Such then the hour when George in lowly state
Trod erst the precincts of old Rollingate,
Where he was welcome—not by her alone,
Whom love begat and law decreed his own,
But every one, and one[218] among them all
Who had for years adorn’d the princely hall;
She bade him happiness and kiss’d his hand,
And wrought her friendship with George Hollybrand:
Thus then. And now the genial feast prepared
No longer waited but was meetly shared,
Till at a moderate hour they all repaired
To rest. Joy reign’d supreme; but with the morn
(Ah! where the rose, there also thrives the thorn.)
Came grief; for then the sadful news was borne
Of Andrew Hodge’s death!—the dear old man
Had swoon’d, and died just at the hour of one;
Death, monster evil, seem’d to ’ve long’d the hour
For his dark deed, and forced life’s chamber-door:
His awful mandate found n’ opposing force
So in an instant Hodge was fell’d a corse.
No longer would the poor old man relate
His thousand tales about dear Rollingate.
No longer would he make his morning-call
And quaff the goblet in the “Servants’ hall,”
Which he had done for many and many a year
And claim’d his usual “horn-and-half” of beer.
Nor would he e’er interrogate again—
As he would call her—his “young Mistress Jane,”
And list to her sweet replicating word
When he would ask about his absent lord.
No longer would the folks attending church
Behold him strutting through the western porch;
Nor would the parson ever more espy
Old Andrew Hodge, with his auxiliar eye;[219]
Nor would the children run again to meet
Him, all expectant of their Sunday sweet:—
No, no!—old Andrew now had breathed his last,
And all those trivial joys for ever past.
[218] Aunt Toogood.
[219] A magnifying glass, which poor old Andrew was in the habit of using
when reading.