A TALE. By Mr. MERRICK. IF Virtue prompt thy willing mind To actions gen'rous, good and kind; Fortune beyond thy hopes shall bless Thy toils, and crown them with success: But he whose bounties only rise From prospects of a future prize, With sorrow shall compute his gains, And reap repentance for his pains. Precepts are often found to fail, So take instruction from my tale. In ancient days there liv'd a priest, Inshrin'd within whose pious breast Fair Virtue shone; his open look Gave sanction to each word he spoke. Fix'd to no home, in mean array, From place to place he took his way, Instructing as he went along, And dealing blessings to the throng. The truth he labour'd to express, In language plain as was his dress; Yet all with secret rapture hung On every accent of his tongue: A silent eloquence there ran Through all the actions of the man; They mark'd his soul's unblemish'd frame, His precept and his life the same. It chanc'd, as musing once he stray'd, Around him night's descending shade Unheeded stole; through paths unknown With darkling steps he wander'd on, And wish'd to shroud his weary head Beneath some hospitable shed. When through the gloom a sudden ray Sprung forth, and shot across the way, Led by the light, a cott he found: A pious dame the mansion own'd, Whose open heart, tho' small her store, Ne'er turn'd the stranger from her door. Think at the sight of such a guest, What transport rose within her breast: With joy the friendly board she spread, And plac'd him in her warmest bed. Deep sunk in sleep the trav'ler lay, Tir'd with the labours of the day. 'Tis best, as ablest critics deem, To suit your language to your theme; Obsequious to their rules, the Muse In humbler strain her tale pursues. The matron, while her thankful guest Had shar'd with her the slender feast, With curious eye had view'd him o'er, Had mark'd the tatter'd garb he wore, And through the yawning frieze had seen No traces of a shirt within. And now her hands with pious care A shirt of home-spun cloth prepare: 'Twas coarse, but would the longer hold, And serve to fence him from the cold. The toil employ'd her all the night, And ended with the rising light. The priest arose at break of day, And hasten'd to pursue his way; With thanks he took the finish'd vest, The hospitable dame he bless'd, "And that thy charity, he said, "May fall with int'rest on thy head, "May thy first work, when I am gone, "Continue 'till the setting sun. " She heard; but soon her houshold care Had banish'd from her thoughts the pray'r; The remnant of her cloth she took, And measur'd out her little stock. Beneath her hands the length'ning piece Surpriz'd her with a vast increase; Astonish'd at a sight so new, She measur'd still and still it grew. As when in sleep, with winged pace O'er hills and plains we urge the race, With eager hopes we onward bend, And think our labour near its end; But mimick Fancy soon supplies New scenes to cheat our wond'ring eyes: Before our feet new plains extend, New vallies sink, new hills ascend, And still the goal, when these are o'er, Appears as distant as before. In such a dream with such surprize, From morn to eve the woman plies Her task; but when the setting ray Had clos'd her labour with the day, With joy the wond'rous heap survey'd, And saw her bounty well repay'd. A neighb'ring dame, the story known, Much wish'd to make the case her own; For tho' she ne'er was seen before To lodge the stranger or the poor, She wisely thought on one so good Her charity were well bestow'd. As by her door his journey lay, She stop'd the trav'ler on his way; Beg'd him to enter and receive Such welcome as her house could give: The priest comply'd, and ent'ring found The board with various plenty crown'd; On heaps of down he past the night, And slumber'd 'till the morning light. At break of day the dame address'd In friendly guise her rev'rend guest: Linen so coarse, she said, was ne'er Design'd for Christian backs to wear; And as it griev'd her to survey Such virtue in so mean array, Herself had toil'd with sleepless eyes To furnish him with fresh supplies: Fine was the texture, such as comes From wealthy Holland's skilful looms. The priest accepts the proffer'd boon, He thanks her for her kindness shown, And grateful as he leaves her door, Repeats the pray'r he made before. Just parted from the holy man, With eager haste the matron ran To reach her cloth, and had design'd To measure what was left behind; But thinking first, that as the pray'r For the whole day had fix'd her care, One labour would employ it all, And leave no time for Nature's call, Ere to the destin'd work she goes, She deems it best to pluck a rose. The hissing geese, as forth she went, Gave omens of the dire event; The herds, that graz'd the neighb'ring plain, Look'd up, and snuff'd the coming rain; The bird that screams at midnight hours, (Diviner of approaching show'rs) Full on the left, with hideous croak, Stood flutt'ring on a blasted oak. Amazement seiz'd the trembling dame, When first she saw the plenteous stream: She wonder'd much, and much she fear'd; And think how Niobe appear'd, When chang'd into a rock she stood, And at her feet the headlong flood, With downward force impetuous ran, High foaming, o'er the delug'd plain; So look'd the dame, when all around The torrent smoak'd upon the ground: Still spreading wider than before, It seem'd a sea without a shore. Your bards that wrote in heathen days, Had such a theme employ'd their lays, Had tortur'd their inventive brain, With dire portents to fill the strain; Had bid the neighb'ring river mourn His alter'd stream and tainted urn; Or made the Naiads lift their heads, Astonish'd from their wat'ry beds, And, seated on the river's side, Squeeze from their locks the briny tide. But little skill'd in Pagan lore; I pass such idle fancies o'er: Truth is my care, whose lovely face Shines brightest in the plainest dress. At eve the torrent stopt its course; Stung with vexation and remorse; The dame laments her fruitless cost, Her hopes deceiv'd, her labour lost. Nor think that here her suff'rings end, Reproach and infamy attend: Surrounding boys, where-e'er she came, With insults loud divulge her shame; And farmers stop her with demands Of recompence for damag'd lands.