The young girl, when she started, was weeping most bitterly, and sobbed as though her heart would break. Being a stranger, I dared not intrude upon her sorrow, but I longed to speak comfort to the poor wanderer. To take one shade of grief from a sorrowing heart, affords me more sincere pleasure, than all the luxuries of a winter campaign, however brilliant it may be. The sight of her grief brought on a train of thought, and suggested the following lines to my mind:—
What makes thy bosom heave, thy tears o’erflow, Say, hast thou ever felt the throb of wo? Has sorrow ever come, fair girl, to thee, To dash thy cup of joy with misery? But such is life!—too sure the brightest sky That ever beamed to bless a mortal eye, Must pass away; The sweetest flower that ever yet has bloomed, By Nature’s law, is all too early doomed To know decay.
Has she, the idol of thy friendship, proved A traitress, where she fondly vowed she loved? Or is it but affection’s tear, That falls at leaving friends so dear? Grievest thou to leave this lovely scene, Where all thy early joys have been, Thy youthful hours? Where thou hast frolicked through the days, With childhood’s many pleasant ways, In summer bowers?
What, weeping still? believe ’tis folly To give full way to melancholy. Youth should be as an April day, Then smiles should chase those tears away; For if in youth deep sorrows come, Oh, where shall mem’ry find a home, In after years, To linger on, and raise a smile, Amidst the world’s deceit and guile, And other cares?
Say, hast thou left thy parents dear, And need their smiles thy heart to cheer? For all these woes there is a cure— They never can ’gainst Time endure. If one of these is not thy grief, Then cannot Time bring thee relief; For should it prove, What now I deem thy cause for cares, There is no cure in after years For hopeless love.
I accosted the youth, whose appearance so interested me, and found him intelligent, but of a wildly romantic turn of mind, on which fancy might work her wildest spells. He told me that he was a musician, and proceeding to the metropolis to get his works published. Without friends or connections, I greatly feared—for I know something of these publishers—that his speculations would prove but a source of annoyance to him, without yielding him any profitable return. I offered to give him letters of introduction to my friends, to introduce him to my circle of acquaintance, and it was extensive; in short to be a patron to him in his outset of life. But, with expressions of fervent gratitude, he modestly declined my assistance, saying, “that he had determined to rely solely on his own resources, to depend upon no one, but to let whatever talent he possessed make a road to fortune for itself.” How confident is youth! How trusting in its own powers. He fancied that he knew, and was prepared for all the delays and disappointments endured by those who have to dance attendance upon the all-powerful publishers. However, while we were taking refreshments, I wrote a note to one of my most powerful friends, an amateur devotedly attached to the study of music, and prevailed upon him to accept it, and made him promise to use it if he did not find fortune so smiling as he expected. I gave him my address when we parted, and begged him to remember me when he was in need of a sincere friend.