'Hast thou not shunn'd thy untaught mates, And to some secret nook, With drooping gait, and musing eye, Thy lonely step betook? 'There hath not thy attention dwelt Upon the letter'd page, Lost, as it seem'd to all beside, Like some sequester'd sage? 'And wouldst thou not, with eager haste, Thy musings had descried? 'Oft have I deem'd thou couldst explore 'But sorrow, greedy, grudging, coy, Its treasur'd cares, and to the world 'All as the miser's heaped hoards, They serve, at once, to sooth and pain 'Me had capricious fortune doom'd Thine equal in degree, Long, long ere now, I had desir'd To know thine history; 'But who their worldly honours wear With meekness chaste and due, Decline to ask, lest the request Should bear commandment's hue. 'Yet now thy tongue hath spoke aloud Thy grateful piety, No longer be thy story kept In painful secrecy. 'Give me to know thy dawn of life; Unfold, with simple truth, 'Now, late in life, 'tis time, I ween, 'Here shalt thou find a quiet rest, 'Hast thou a wish, a hope to frame, Is there a good, a higher bliss, 'Is there within thy aged breast The smallest aching void? 'All I entreat, in lieu, is this, Unfold, with simple truth, Not to thy master, but thy friend, So generous Moyle intent bespake Who rais'd, at length, his drooping head, Richard Plantagenet reciteth his Tale. HARD task to any, but thyself, to tell The story of my birth and treacherous fate, Or paint the tumults in my breast that swell, At recollection of my infant state! Oft have I labour'd to forget my birth, And check'd remembrance, when in cruel wise, From time's abyss she would the tale draw forth, And place my former self before my eyes. Yet I complain not, though I feel anew, And yet it may be-is-nay, it must be best, Whate'er Heaven's righteous laws forman ordain; Weak man! who lets one sigh invade his breast, For earthly grandeur, fugitive as vain! The time of Richard's service, at Eastwell-place, was near sixty years. Perchance contentment had not been my mate, If in exalted life my feet had trod, Or my hands borne, in transitory state, The victor's truncheon, or the ruler's rod. My course, perchance, had been one dazzling glare Of splendid pride, and I in vain had sought The quiet comforts of this humble sphere, Rest undisturb'd, and reason's tranquil thought. But whither roam I? O! forgive, my kind, Enough!-they're flown-and now my tongue prepares, Thou source of every good by me possess'd! To pour a tale into thy wondering ears, [breast. Full threescore years close-lock'd within my Oft those care-woven, long protracted years, Plac'd in a rural, soft, serene retreat, With a deep-learn'd divine I held abode, Who sought, by pious laws and conduct meet, The way to immortality and God. By him instructed, I attain'd the sweet, The precious blessings, that from learning flow; He fann'd in my young breast the genial heat, That bids th' expanding mind with ardour glow. He taught me with delighted eye to trace The comely beauties of the Mantuan page, Nor stopp'd he there, preceptor excellent! Heaven's genuine pity glistening in his eyes, So taught this pious man, so thought, so did, A general good, like heav'n's all-cheering dew! Thus guided, thus inform'd, thus practice-drawn, In guileless peace my spring of life was spent, My leisure-hours I sported o'er the lawn, Nor knew what restless care or sorrow meant. A courteous stranger, ever and anon, My kind instructor's due reward supplied; But still my name, my birth, alike unknown, Wrapp'd in the gloom of secrecy lay hid. One antumn-morn (the time I well recall) [seat. Where state and splendour seem'd to hold their |