A Thornewill Tree

To a Lady who visited the Auther Mary's Page
when she was in great distress

MARY BAILEY

TO A LADY
WHO VISITED THE AUTHOR WHEN SHE WAS IN GREAT DISTRESS

The night was dark, and damp, and cold,
And summer's sun was o'er,
When ladies to the fire creep,
And shut the parlour door.

Not such the lady of my theme,
Fair virtue's greatest proof;
She left her comfortable hearth,
And sought my humble roof:

No damps nor darkness did she fear,
Nor hesitating stand;
She knew that poverty was here,
And keen affliction's hand.

The day and evening hard I work'd,
In sickness, and in pain.
In hopes, for my dear little babes,
Some fire and bread to gain.

The clock went eight—my work was done,
Away, in haste I fled;
Nor had I then the slightest doubt,
But soon to obtain some bread

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POEMS OF A NOTTOGHAM LACE RUNNER

But disappointment mock'd my hopes,—
Back, pennyless, I came:
'Tis only you, can sympathize,
Who've known and felt the same.

With uprais'd eyes to Heaven, I cried—
O God! how hard's my lot;
Nor was a prison dreaded more
Than entering my cot.

Each infant eye on me was fix'd;
With woe my utterance fled,
While all the four, at once, did lisp-
Pray, mother, where's the bread?

My heart was full, I could not speak,
With grief my eyes ran o'er;
But, ere I could petition Heaven,
A rap was at my door.

Heaven knows our wants before we ask;
This was His wise decree;
He look'd below—saw none more fit,
His messenger to be.

Then entered in my much-lov'd friend.
My great distress to share,
And on her arm a basket held,
Which pride would blush to bear.

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MARY BAILEY

With looks so placid, meek, and mild,
She set the burden down:
Plenty and novelty at once
My empty board did crown.

To replenish next my fireless grate,
Her ready purse she drew;
And inward satisfaction felt,
Which misers never knew.

Ye Powers above! watch o'er the maid.
All scarcity controul;
Pour down your plenty in her lap,
Nor bind her generous soul.

Fate often breaks the bosoms cord,—
That nature's finest string:
Just such this lady's heart was form'd
And oft that hearts been wrong'd.

May keen remorse my slumbers break.
If I'm so base and rude
To wound her gen'rous, feeling heart
With vile ingratitude.

If half her goodness I rehearse,
Or half her favours tell,
My little, poor, imperfect verse
Must to a volume swell.