A TALE. James Merrick Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.005 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. V. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 213-219. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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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 .