First Love
A CLERGYMAN in Berkshire dwelt,The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES,And in his church there weekly kneltAt least a hundred souls.
There little ELLEN you might see,The modest rustic belle;In maidenly simplicity,She loved her BERNARD well.
Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gownUntrimmed with lace or fur,Yet not a husband in the townBut wished his wife like her.
Though sterner memories might fade,You never could forgetThe child-form of that baby-maid,The Village Violet!
A simple frightened loveliness,Whose sacred spirit-partShrank timidly from worldly stress,And nestled in your heart.
POWLES woo’d with every well-worn planAnd all the usual wilesWith which a well-schooled gentlemanA simple heart beguiles.
The hackneyed compliments that boreWorld-folks like you and me,Appeared to her as if they woreThe crown of Poesy.
His winking eyelid sang a songHer heart could understand,Eternity seemed scarce too longWhen BERNARD squeezed her hand.
He ordered down the martial crewOf GODFREY’S Grenadiers,And COOTE conspired with TINNEY toEcstaticise her ears.
Beneath her window, veiled from eye,They nightly took their stand;On birthdays supplemented byThe Covent Garden band.
And little ELLEN, all alone,Enraptured sat above,And thought how blest she was to ownThe wealth of POWLES’S love.
I often, often wonder whatPoor ELLEN saw in him;For calculated he was notTo please a woman’s whim.
He wasn’t good, despite the airAn M.B. waistcoat gives;Indeed, his dearest friends declareNo greater humbug lives.
No kind of virtue decked this priest,He’d nothing to allure;He wasn’t handsome in the least,—He wasn’t even poor.
No—he was cursed with acres fat(A Christian’s direst ban),And gold—yet, notwithstanding that,Poor ELLEN loved the man.
As unlike BERNARD as could beWas poor old AARON WOOD(Disgraceful BERNARD’S curate he):He was extremely good.
A BAYARD in his moral pluckWithout reproach or fear,A quiet venerable duckWith fifty pounds a year.
No fault had he—no fad, exceptA tendency to strum,In mode at which you would have wept,A dull harmonium.
He had no gold with which to hireThe minstrels who could bestConvey a notion of the fireThat raged within his breast.
And so, when COOTE and TINNEY’S OwnHad tootled all they knew,And when the Guards, completely blown,Exhaustedly withdrew,
And NELL began to sleepy feel,Poor AARON then would come,And underneath her window wheelHis plain harmonium.
He woke her every morn at two,And having gained her ear,In vivid colours AARON drewThe sluggard’s grim career.
He warbled Apiarian praise,And taught her in his chantTo shun the dog’s pugnacious ways,And imitate the ant.
Still NELL seemed not, how much he played,To love him out and out,Although the admirable maidRespected him, no doubt.
She told him of her early vow,And said as BERNARD’S wifeIt might be hers to show him howTo rectify his life.
“You are so pure, so kind, so true,Your goodness shines so bright,What use would ELLEN be to you?Believe me, you’re all right.”
She wished him happiness and health,And flew on lightning wingsTo BERNARD with his dangerous wealthAnd all the woes it brings.