The time arrived, to part alone remain’d: 
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor’d in the bay. 
From her would seamen in the evening come,
To take th’ adventurous Allen from his home;
With his own friends the final day he pass’d,
And every painful hour, except the last. 
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass;
Intent the mother look’d upon her son,
And wish’d th’ assent withdrawn, the deed undone;
The younger sister, as he took his way,
Hung on his coat, and begg’d for more delay: 
But his own Judith call’d him to the shore,
Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more; —
And there he found her—­faithful, mournful, true,
Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu! 
The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there
Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair: 
Sweet were the painful moments—­but, how sweet,
And without pain, when they again should meet! 
Now either spoke as hope and fear impress’d
Each their alternate triumph in the breast. 
   Distance alarm’d the maid—­she cried, “’Tis far!”
And danger too—­“it is a time of war: 
Then in those countries are diseases strange,
And women gay, and men are prone to change: 
What then may happen in a year, when things
Of vast importance every moment brings! 
But hark! an oar!” she cried, yet none appear’d —
’Twas love’s mistake, who fancied what it fear’d;
And she continued—­“Do, my Allen, keep
Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;
Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail,
And stand in safety where so many fail;
And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,
Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;
Can I believe his love will lasting prove,
Who has no rev’rence for the God I love? 
I know thee well! how good thou art and kind;
But strong the passions that invade thy mind —
Now, what to me hath Allen, to commend?”
“Upon my mother,” said the youth,” attend;
Forget her spleen, and, in my place appear,
Her love to me will make my Judith dear,
Oft I shall think (such comforts lovers seek),
Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
Then write on all occasions, always dwell
On hope’s fair prospects, and be kind and well,
And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style.” 
She answer’d, “No,” but answer’d with a smile. 
“And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime;
When with our youthful neighbours ’tis thy chance
To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,
When every lad would on my lass attend,
Choose not a smooth designer for a friend: 
That fawning Philip!—­nay, be not severe,
A rival’s hope must cause a lover’s fear.” 
   Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix’d some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!—­it soon was full in sight; —