XXXV.

Thus passed Eliza's hours; some maids would know

Much better how to wile away their time; Would on some new admirer quickly throw Their eyes, and not risk losing all their prime: That she for no such consolation sought,

I must say proves a shocking want of thought.

XXXVI.

But so it was, and if a nunnery

Had there been found, near which no creature male

Could venture to approach, Eliza, I

Suspect, had been content to take the veil.

Odd taste! Who else in England would a nun
Become in eighteen hundred twenty-one?

XXXVII.

Few I believe, some ugly jades may live

Neglected or forsaken, and who therefore

To Heaven would very liberally give

Those treasures no man can be found to care for.

The lovely, though they might avoid much evil

In this way, had much rather face the Devil.

XXXVIII.

So pensive, pale, and lonely, but quite calm,

And anxious others' sorrows to abate, Eliza look'd as if Time's healing balm Already reconciled her to her fate. One afternoon disturbed the pensive fair, A loud rat-tat ;-a sound unusual there.

XXXIX.

The door was open'd, and a stranger burst
With small regard for ceremony in;
Eliza felt surprise, nor saw at first

He who to speak was ready to begin,
A bleeding sufferer on his shoulder bore,
Whose dying struggle seemed already o'er.

XL.

"Your pardon, Lady, I sincerely crave," The stranger said, "that I so rudely enter; To save my friend from an untimely grave,

Thus rashly in your presence made me venture. To find a surgeon I must run some distance, And he requires immediately assistance.

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XLI.

Will you permit me, then, to leave him here,

That I may expeditiously seek aid,

He may expire else ere relief be near.

But little elocution will persuade

A maid to succour. Pity, sure will move,
For one whose only error has been love.

XLII.

"A lady loved my friend, was loved by him;
The fair intending to become his wife
Eloped. Alas! a churlish brother's whim
Produced, unhappily, this fatal strife.
To tell you more I cannot now delay;
That pitying glance assures me he may stay."

XLIII.

Eliza, shuddering, view'd the lifeless form,

But could not speak. The friend did right to guess

Her bosom with sincere compassion warm,

Could never hesitate to acquiesce.

Few hasty words in gratitude he said,

While on a couch his helpless charge he laid.

XLIV.

The wounded man with blood was all besmear'd,

It marr'd his clothes and so disguised his face, That, had her brother in such state appear'd,

His features she had been perplex'd to trace. The mother came, and now his pulse was trying, And she at once declared the man was dying.

XLV.

And so, of course, the parent and the daughter Concluded useless every aid to be;

But yet some water, which the latter brought her,

The mother thought could do no harm, and she Gently began his countenance to flood,

And wash'd away a little of the blood.

XLVI.

'Twas then Eliza recognised her lover,

In him whose being seem'd so nearly ended. Dim grew her eye, while fix'd upon the rover, And even respiration was suspended.

Her mother, occupied with Takeall's case.

Mark'd not the changes in Eliza's face.

XLVII.

Ought she to feel affliction? Tom though shot,

Was proved a wild inconstant reckless wight, And would not many say that he had got Exactly that which served him very right? Devote to truth, I must not here conceal Some philanthropic ladies thus would feel;

XLVIII.

And wish the sufferer to revive, that they

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Might tell- The consequences now you see

When naughty men go wickedly astray;

You had not suffer'd thus if true to me.

You can't recover;-I deplore your woe,
But where when dead can you expect to go?"

XLIX.

Not so Eliza ;-all the pain she felt

Was for the wanderer's desperate condition;

She on his sufferings, not his errors dwelt ;

To life she sought to wake him, not contrition :

Revengeful feelings to her breast unknown,

She wept his situation, not her own.