A Sketch
Born
in
the
garret,
in
the
kitchen
bred,
Promoted
thence
to
deck
her
mistress'
head;
Next
for
some
gracious
service
unexpress'd,
And
from
its
wages
only
to
be
guess'd
Raised
from
the
toilette
to
the
table,
where
Her
wondering
betters
wait
behind
her
chair.
With
eye
unmoved,
and
forehead
unabash'd,
She
dines
from
off
the
plate
she
lately
wash'd.
Quick
with
the
tale,
and
ready
with
the
lie,
The
genial
confidante,
and
general
spy,
Who
could,
ye
gods!
her
next
employment
guess--
An
only
infants
earliest
governess!
She
taught
the
child
to
read,
and
taught
so
well,
That
she
herself,
by
teaching,
learn'd
to
spell.
An
adept
next
in
penmanship
she
grows;
As
many
a
nameless
slander
deftly
shows.
What
she
had
made
the
pupil
of
her
art,
None
know--but
that
high
Soul
secured
the
heart,
And
panted
for
the
truth
it
could
not
hear,
With
longing
breast
and
undeluded
ear.
Foil'd
was
perversion
by
that
youthful
mind,
Which
Flattery
fool'd
not,
Baseness
could
not
blind,
Deceit
infect
not,
near
Contagion
soil,
Indulgence
weaken,
nor
Example
spoil,
Nor
master'd
Science
tempt
her
to
look
down
On
humbler
talents
with
a
pitying
frown,
Nor
Genius
swell,
nor
Beauty
render
vain,
Nor
Envy
ruffle
o
retaliate
pain,
Nor
Fortune
change,
Pride
raise,
nor
Passion
bow,
Nor
virtue
teach
austerity-till
now.
Serenely
purest
of
her
sex
that
live,
But
wanting
one
sweet
weakness--to
forgive,
Too
shock'd
at
faults
her
soul
can
never
know,
She
deems
that
all
could
be
like
her
below:
Foe
to
all
vice,
yet
hardly
Virtue's
friend,
For
Virtue
pardons
those
she
would
amend.
But
to
the
theme,
now
laid
aside
too
long,
The
baleful
burthen
of
this
honest
song,
Though
all
her
former
functions
are
no
more,
She
rules
the
circle
which
she
served
before.
If
mothers--none
know
why--before
her
quake;
If
daughters
dread
her
for
the
mothers'
sake;
If
early
habits--those
false
links,
which
bind
At
times
the
loftiest
to
the
meanest
mind
Have
given
her
power
too
deeply
to
instil
The
angry
essence
of
her
deadly
will;
If
like
a
snake
she
steal
within
your
walls,
Till
the
black
slime
betray
her
as
she
crawls;
If
like
a
viper
to
the
heart
she
wind,
And
leave
the
venom
there
she
did
not
find;
What
marvel
that
this
hag
of
hatred
works
Eternal
evil
latent
as
she
lurks,
To
make
a
Pandemonium
where
she
dwells,
And
reign
the
Hecate
of
domestic
hells?
Skill'd
by
a
touch
to
deepen
scandal's
tints
With
all
the
kind
mendacity
of
hints,
While
mingling
truth
with
falsehood,
sneers
with
smiles,
A
thread
of
candour
with
a
web
of
wiles:
A
plain
blunt
show
of
briefly--spoken
seaming,
To
hide
her
bloodless
heart's
soul-harden'd
scheming;
A
lip
of
lies;
a
face
form'd
to
conceal,
And,
without
feeling,
mock
at
all
who
feel:
With
a
vile
mask
the
Gorgon
would
disown
,
A
cheek
of
parchment,
and
an
eye
of
stone.
Mark,
how
the
channels
of
her
yellow
blood
Ooze
to
her
skin,
and
stagnate
there
to
mud,
Cased
like
the
centipede
in
saffron
mail,
Or
darker
greenness
of
the
scorpion's
scale--
(For
drawn
from
reptiles
only
may
we
trace
Congenial
colours
in
that
soul
or
face)
Look
on
her
features!
and
behold
her
mind
As
in
a
mirror
of
itself
defined:
Look
on
the
picture!
deem
it
not
o'ercharged
There
is
no
trait
which
might
not
be
enlarged:
Yet
true
to
'Nature's
journeymen,'
who
made
This
monster
when
their
mistress
left
off
trade--
This
female
dog-star
of
her
little
sky,
Where
all
beneath
her
influence
droop
or
die.
Oh!
wretch
without
a
tear-without
a
thought,
Save
joy
above
the
ruin
thou
hast
wrought--
The
time
shall
come,
nor
long
remote,
when
thou
Shalt
feel
far
more
than
thou
inflictest
now;
Feel
for
thy
vile
self-loving
self
in
vain,
And
turn
thee
howling
in
unpitied
pain.
May
the
strong
curse
of
crush
'd
affections
light
Back
on
thy
bosom
with
reflected
blight!
And
make
thee
in
thy
leprosy
of
mind
As
loathsome
to
thyself
as
to
mankind!
Till
all
thy
self-thoughts
curdle
into
hate,
Black--as
thy
will
for
others
would
create:
Till
thy
hard
heart
be
calcined
into
dust,
And
thy
soul
welter
in
its
hideous
crust.
Oh,
may
thy
grave
be
sleepless
as
the
bed,
The
widow'd
couch
of
fire,
that
thou
hast
spread!
Then,
when
thou
fain
wouldst
weary
Heaven
with
prayer,
Look
on
thine
earthly
victims--and
despair!
Down
to
the
dust!--and,
as
thou
rott'st
away,
Even
worms
shall
perish
on
thy
poisonous
clay.
But
for
the
love
I
bore,
and
still
must
bear,
To
her
thy
malice
from
all
ties
would
tear--
Thy
name--thy
human
name--to
every
eye
The
climax
of
all
scorn
should
hang
on
high,
Exalted
o'er
thy
less
abhorr'd
compeers--
And
festering
in
the
infamy
of
years.
