STOP , lady stop, my wretched tale attend,
And to my wants your kind assistance lend:
So may kind fortune e’er propitious be,
And smile on you–tho’ sore she frowns on me.
A hapless child–(false-nam’d of love) was I,
And at a rich man’s door, expos’d did lie;
But no kind pity warm’d this great man’s breast,
He no compassion for my fate express’d;
But tearing hastily, with scorn and pride,
A paper which about my waist was tied,
To a church-warden had me thence convey’d,
And no attention to my cries he paid.
The harsh church-warden, never one was worse,
Consign’d me to a cruel parish nurse:
No tender mother dried my infant tears,
No father’s fostering hand my childhood rears;
But meagre want, and negligence combin’d,
To a spare growth my puny limbs confin’d;
To early misery and sadness doom’d,
The rose of health upon my cheek ne’er bloom’d:
No wavy ringlets wanton’d in my hair,
For barbarous scissars cropp’d each ringlet there.
And, soon almost as I could lisp a sound,
To a rough chimney-sweeper I was bound.
In ceaseless misery my hours are spent,
Stranger to hope, to comfort, to content:
A wretched sustenance I seek to gain,
Tho’ every moment is an age of pain.
Lady, I see soft pity in your eye,
And from your bosom bursts the tender sigh;
Is it a tear I see upon your cheek?
And does it kind compassion for me speak?
Ah! sure that heart must good, must generous be,
Which feels thus warmly for a wretch like me.
Oh! answer quick, the anxious hearer said,
Doth on your arm appear a mark of red,
Ah! if it does, expose it to my view,
Perchance I meet a long-lost son in you.
The arm is bared, the mark appears in sight,
The eager parent views it with delight;
Then springing forward, with a frantic joy,
Her out-stretched arms embrace the sweeper-boy:
Which he returns, unconscious and amaz’d,
Whilst his expressive eyes upon her gaz’d.
Ah child, she said, abandon’d and forlorn,
Oft have I rued the hour when you were born,
How oft, for you, have flow’d the bitter tears,
For you what horrors suffer’d, and what fears;
But heaven, in pity, hath restor’d my son,
And now whate’er befals, its will be done.
And here, my son, attend my story too,
A simple tale it is, but strictly true:
Ah! that my sorrows may a warning be,
And never maiden be deceiv’d like me.
A rustic damsel, in my mean attire,
I drew attentions from our village squire,
Whose handsome person, and whose manners mild,
Conceal’d a heart deprav’d, and passions wild.
The village maids with pain his presence see,
Not thinking what a victim I should be;
They envy’d me, alas! they little knew,
The scene of misery I should go thro’:
Fatal to me, was the distinctions paid,
Fatal to me each faithless vow he made;
For when my fullest confidence was won,
He triumph’d o’er me, and I was undone.
Soon I experienc’d slight and cold disdain,
Remorse and agony my bosom pain;
The deepest wound I bore to female pride,
To sue to man, to sue, and be denied.
And when began bleak winter’s chilling rain,
He hied to town, and we ne’er met again.
What words can paint the anguish of my mind,
Where could I pity, where concealment find;
Knowing I soon should bear a mother’s name,
Dreading alike both poverty and shame;
The stern upbraiding of my father’s ire,
The scorn, the censures, which I should acquire,
I up to town my painful way pursue,
In hopes, at least, to make a friend for you.
Here misery unknown my steps attend,
In vain I seek for council, or a friend;
Pale poverty is fix’d before my eyes,
And hope, and joy, and consolation flies.
In a cold garret, on a winter’s night,
You, my poor orphan, first beheld the light:
With floods of tears, I bathed your infant face,
In which I could your father’s likeness trace;
In hopes on his harsh nature to prevail,
I pen’d, with trembling hand, your hapless tale;
Once more with tenderness you were embrac’d,
And on your breast the written paper plac’d:
Then wrapp’d in warmest garments of my store,
I left you at your cruel father’s door.
‘Tis needless here to tell each separate grief,
At length kind fate administer’d relief;
A worthy lady mark’d my face of woe,
Down which the trickling tears in torrents flow,
The fix’d expression of my mind’s dispair,
My robes neglected–my dishevell’d hair;
With words of tenderness she me address’d,
And a desire to know my woes express’d.–
All words of kindness to my ear were new,
Quick to my heart the soft vibration flew,
With all the artless eloquence of truth,
I told the tale of my unguarded youth.
Within her breast the warmest pity glow’d,
And from her lips, soft soothing accents flow’d:
Nobly she offer’d her protecting hand,
And hope’s expiring embers–now were fann’d;
My boundless gratitude, my boundless joy,
She well observ’d, yet felt for the alloy,
In the hard fate of my deserted boy.
Six months were pass’d in plenty and in ease,
Every endeavour I exert to please,
And find with joy my efforts are not vain,
For every hour, more influence I gain.
To India’s coast ’twas now her lot to steer,
The length of voyage fill’d her mind with fear;
She mourn’d the leaving tender friends behind,
And thought their equals she should never find:
‘Twas then in me, she found a true relief,
My talents and my converse, soothed her grief.
With her I vow’d to live, with her to die,
That naught should sever gratitude’s firm tye.
A prosp’rous voyage, brought us to Bengal,
Where urgent business did her presence call:
Short was our residence on India’s coast,
E’er I a flattering conquest had to boast;
A man of honor, and of boundless wealth,
Of noble lineage, but declining health,
Made me an offer of his heart and hand;
Could I a tender such as this withstand;
But gratitude and honor bade me tell,
The sorrows which my former youth befel.
Noble in soul, his love remain’d the same,
As tho’ I brought to him unsullied fame:
Again he urg’d me to become his bride,
And soon were Hymen’s bands between us tied;
My kind protectress bless’d the gracious power,
Which let her witness, this auspicious hour.
And shortly after I became a wife,
She, in my arms, resign’d her spotless life.
And now ten years in happiness I dwelt,
And, but for you, no sorrow ever felt;
Then was I doom’d to lose of men the best,
That ever tender, grateful woman blest.
In prayers for me were breathed his latest sighs,
And on my bursting heart he clos’d his eyes.
My riches great, my power unconfin’d,
England and you again engage my mind.
Soon I return’d to this my native shore,
This land, I hop’d, would my lost child restore.
Vain was my search, of you I found no trace,
The author long since dead of my disgrace;
None knew of such a child, or heard it said,
If such a one had been, it must be dead:
All hope had vanished, but this happy day
Restores my son, and drives despair away.
Kind Providence in mercy sent me here,
Your piteous accents caught my ready ear;
Your tale of sorrow answer’d to my own,
And whisp’ring nature cry’d, behold your son.
Come then, till now neglected and despis’d,
By sorrow humbled, and by want disguis’d:
Come then, and share the blessings of my state,
Where bounteous Fortune pays the debt of Fate.
(Caroline Maxwell)
More Poetry from Caroline Maxwell:
Caroline Maxwell Poems based on Topics: Love, Mind, Friendship, Fear, Sadness, Joy & Excitement, Fame, Fate & Destiny, Name, Sense & Perception, Night- Gowry's Conspiracy (Caroline Maxwell Poems)
- Rosetta (Caroline Maxwell Poems)
- The Heir Of Tyrconnel; Or, The Threatening Spectre (Caroline Maxwell Poems)
- The Old Man In Blue (Caroline Maxwell Poems)
- Sir Stephen - Part II (Caroline Maxwell Poems)
- Edwin And Isabel; Or The Nabob (Caroline Maxwell Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, Life Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Soul Poems, Faces Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Youth PoemsBased on Keywords: attentions, hearer, negligence, concealment, disguis, censures, prosp, upbraiding, bengal, tye, observ