First Love

A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,     The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES,     And in his church there weekly knelt     At 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 gown     Untrimmed with lace or fur,     Yet not a husband in the town     But wished his wife like her.     Though sterner memories might fade,     You never could forget     The child-form of that baby-maid,     The Village Violet!     A simple frightened loveliness,     Whose sacred spirit-part     Shrank timidly from worldly stress,     And nestled in your heart.     POWLES woo'd with every well-worn plan     And all the usual wiles     With which a well-schooled gentleman     A simple heart beguiles.     The hackneyed compliments that bore     World-folks like you and me,     Appeared to her as if they wore     The crown of Poesy.     His winking eyelid sang a song     Her heart could understand,     Eternity seemed scarce too long     When BERNARD squeezed her hand.     He ordered down the martial crew     Of GODFREY'S Grenadiers,     And COOTE conspired with TINNEY to     Ecstaticise her ears.     Beneath her window, veiled from eye,     They nightly took their stand;     On birthdays supplemented by     The Covent Garden band.     And little ELLEN, all alone,     Enraptured sat above,     And thought how blest she was to own     The wealth of POWLES'S love.     I often, often wonder what     Poor ELLEN saw in him;     For calculated he was NOT     To please a woman's whim.     He wasn't good, despite the air     An M.B. waistcoat gives;     Indeed, his dearest friends declare     No 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 be     Was poor old AARON WOOD     (Disgraceful BERNARD'S curate he):     He was extremely good.     A BAYARD in his moral pluck     Without reproach or fear,     A quiet venerable duck     With fifty pounds a year.     No fault had he no fad, except     A tendency to strum,     In mode at which you would have wept,     A dull harmonium.     He had no gold with which to hire     The minstrels who could best     Convey a notion of the fire     That raged within his breast.     And so, when COOTE and TINNEY'S Own     Had 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 wheel     His plain harmonium.     He woke her every morn at two,     And having gained her ear,     In vivid colours AARON drew     The sluggard's grim career.     He warbled Apiarian praise,     And taught her in his chant     To 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 maid     Respected him, no doubt.     She told him of her early vow,     And said as BERNARD'S wife     It might be hers to show him how     To 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 wings     To BERNARD with his dangerous wealth     And all the woes it brings.