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Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit Of the rejoicing morning were their own?

Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained
And her twin Brother, had the parent seen
Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey,
Death in a moment parted them, and left
The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse
Than desolate; for oft-times from the sound
Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child,
He knew it not) and from his happiest looks
Did she extract the food of self-reproach,
As one that lived ungrateful for the stay
By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed
And tottering spirit.. And full oft the Boy,
Now first acquainted with distress and grief,
Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned
with fear

Her sad approach, and stole away to find,
In his known haunts of joy where'er he might,
A more congenial object. But, as time
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child
To what he saw, he gradually returned,
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew
A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe
Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop
To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to
spread

Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks,
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were
calmed

And cheered; and now together breathe fresh air

In open fields; and when the glare of day
Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish
Befriends the observance, readily they join
In walks whose boundary is the lost One's

grave,

Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there

Amusement, where the Mother does not miss
Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf
In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite
Of pious faith the vanities of grief;
For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits
Transferred to regions upon which the clouds
Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed
Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs,
And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow,
Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of
Heaven

As now it is, seems to her own fond heart,
Immortal as the love that gave it being.

XXVII.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet-
A foggy day in winter time)
A Woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead ;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your Cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird." And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

The bird and cage they both were his :
'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages

The singing-bird had gone with him;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind. From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his

mind.

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XXIX.

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER.

ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned

In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she

mourned,

In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was
there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,

Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,

My song the workings of her heart expressed.

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Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms;

For they confound me ;-where-where is
That last, that sweetest smile of his?

VI.

Oh! how I love thee !-we will stay
Together here this one half day.
My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came;
She with her mother crossed the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell:
Yet does my yearning heart to thee
Turn rather, though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!

VII.

-I cannot help it; ill intent
I've none, my pretty Innocent!
I weep-I know they do thee wrong,
These tears-and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me-they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that soft, warm face,
My heart again is in its place!

VIII.

While thou art mine, my little Love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove:
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee:
Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my darling's name;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little sister thou shalt be:

And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell him many tales of Thee."
1802.

XXX.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

The following tale was written as an Episode, in a work from which its length may perhaps exclude it. The facts are true; no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed.

O HAPPY time of youthful lovers (thus
My story may begin) O balmy time,
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
To such inheritance of blessed fancy
(Fancy that sports more desperately with minds
Than ever fortune hath been known to do)
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by
years

Whose progress had a little overstepped
His stripling prime. A town of small repute,
Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed
Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne,

a Maid

Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit

With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock, Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,

From which her graces and her honours sprung: And hence the father of the enamoured Youth,

With haughty indignation, spurned the thought
Of such alliance.-From their cradles up,
With but a step between their several homes,
Twins had they been in pleasure; after strife
And petty quarrels, had grown fond again;
Each other's advocate, each other's stay;
And, in their happiest moments, not content
If more divided than a sportive pair

Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering

Within the eddy of a common blast,
Or hidden only by the concave depth
Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight.
Thus, not without concurrence of an age
Unknown to memory, was an earnest given
By ready nature for a life of love,
For endless constancy, and placid truth;
But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay
Reserved, had fate permitted, for support
Of their maturer years, his present mind
Was under fascination;- he beheld
A vision, and adored the thing he saw.
Arabian fiction never filled the world

With half the wonders that were wrought for him.

Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring:

Life turned the meanest of her implements
Before his eyes, to price above all gold;
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine;
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory
The portals of the dawn; all paradise
Could, by the simple opening of a door,
Let itself in upon him :-pathways, walks,
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank,
Surcharged, within him, overblest to move
Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
To its dull round of ordinary cares;
A man too happy for mortality!

So passed the time, till whether through effect
Of some unguarded moment that dissolved
Virtuous restraint-ah, speak it, think it, not!
Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw
So many bars between his present state
And the dear haven where he wished to be
In honourable wedlock with his Love,
Was in his judgment tempted to decline
To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause
To nature for a happy end of all;
Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was
swayed,

And bear with their transgression, when I add
That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife,
Carried about her for a secret grief
The promise of a mother.

To conceal

The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid
Found means to hurry her away by night,
And unforewarned, that in some distant spot
She might remain shrouded in privacy,
Until the babe was born. When morning came,
The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss,
And all uncertain whither he should turn,
Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon
Discovering traces of the fugitives,

Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat.
Easily may the sequel be divined-
Walks to and fro-watchings at every hour;
And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may,
Is busy at her casement as the swallow

| Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach,
About the pendent nest, did thus espy
Her Lover!-thence a stolen interview,
Accomplished under friendly shade of night.

I pass the raptures of the pair ;-such theme
Is, by innumerable poets, touched
In more delightful verse than skill of mine
Could fashion; chiefly by that darling bard
Who told of Juliet and her Romeo,

And of the lark's note heard before its time,
And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds
In the unrelenting east.-Through all her courts
The vacant city slept; the busy winds,
That keep no certain intervals of rest,
Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed
Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat
Aloft-momentous but uneasy bliss!

To their full hearts the universe seemed hung
On that brief meeting's slender filament!

They parted; and the generous Vaudracour
Reached speedily the native threshold, bent
On making (so the Lovers had agreed)
A sacrifice of birthright to attain

A final portion from his father's hand;
Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then

would flee

To some remote and solitary place,
Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven,
Where they may live, with no one to behold
Their happiness, or to disturb their love.
But now of this no whisper; not the less,
If ever an obtrusive word were dropped
Touching the matter of his passion, still,
In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour
Persisted openly that death alone
Should abrogate his human privilege
Divine, of swearing everlasting truth,
Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved.

"You shall be baffled in your mad intent
If there be justice in the court of France,'
Muttered the Father.-From these words the
Youth

Conceived a terror; and, by night or day,
Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full soon
Found dreadful provocation for at night
When to his chamber he retired, attempt
Was made to seize him by three armed men,
Acting, in furtherance of the father's will,
Under a private signet of the State.
One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand
Slew, and as quickly to a second gave
A perilous wound-he shuddered to behold
The breathless corse; then peacefully resigned
His person to the law, was lodged in prison,
And wore the fetters of a criminal.

Have you observed a tuft of wingèd seed
That, from the dandelion's naked stalk,
Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use
Its natural gifts for purposes of rest,
Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro
Through the wide element? or have you marked
The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough,
Within the vortex of a foaming flood,
Tormented? by such aid you may conceive
The perturbation that ensued :-ah, no!
Desperate the Maid-the Youth is stained with

blood;

Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet!
Yet as the troubled seed and tortured bough
Is Man, subjected to despotic sway.

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For him, by private influence with the Court,
Was pardon gained, and liberty procured;
But not without exaction of a pledge,
Which liberty and love dispersed in air.

He flew to her from whom they would divide

him

These gleams

Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen
Propping a pale and melancholy face
Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus
His head upon one breast, while from the other
The Babe was drawing in its quiet food.

He clove to her who could not give him peace--That pillow is no longer to be thine,

Yea, his first word of greeting was,-"All right
Is gone from me; my lately-towering hopes,
To the least fibre of their lowest root,
Are withered; thou no longer canst be mine,
I thine the conscience-stricken must not woo
The unruffled Innocent,-I see thy face,
Behold thee, and my misery is complete!"
"One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden
One,

For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?"
Then with the father's name she coupled words
Of vehement indignation; but the Youth
Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought
Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense
Of hasty anger, rising in the eclipse
Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er
Find place within his bosom.-Once again
The persevering wedge of tyranny
Achieved their separation: and once more
Were they united,-to be yet again
Disparted, pitiable lot! But here
A portion of the tale may well be left
In silence, though my memory could add
Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time,
Was traversed from without; much, too, of
thoughts

That occupied his days in solitude

Under privation and restraint; and what, Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come,

And what, through strong compunction for the
past,

He suffered-breaking down in heart and mind!
Doomed to a third and last captivity,
His freedom he recovered on the eve
Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born,
presence tempted him to cherish schemes
Of future happiness. "You shall return,
Julia," said he, "and to your father's house
Go with the child.-You have been wretched;
yet

Its

The silver shower, whose reckless burthen
weighs

Too heavily upon the lily's head,
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.
Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
Go!-'tis a town where both of us were born;
None will reproach you, for our truth is known;
And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate
Remain unpitied, pity is not in man.
With ornaments-the prettiest, nature yields
Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy,
And feed his countenance with your own sweet
books

Till no one can resist him.-Now, even now,
I see him sporting on the sunny lawn;
My father from the window sees him too;
Startled, as if some new-created thing
Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods
Bounded before him ;-but the unweeting Child
Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart
So that it shall be softened, and our loves
End happily, as they began!"

Fond Youth! that mournful solace now must
pass

Into the list of things that cannot be !
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears
The sentence, by her mother's lips pronounced,
That dooms her to a convent.- Who shall tell,
Who dares report, the tidings to the lord
Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
Of her affections? so they blindly asked
Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down:
Composed and silent, without visible sign
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear
When the impatient object of his love
Of even the least emotion. Noting this,
Upbraided him with slackness, he returned
No answer, only took the mother's hand
And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain,
Or care that what so tenderly he pressed
Was a dependent on the obdurate heart
Of one who came to disunite their lives
For ever-sad alternative! preferred,
By the unbending Parents of the Maid,
To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.
-So be it!

A season after Julia had withdrawn
In the city he remained

To those religious walls. He, too, departs-
Who with him?-even the senseless Little-one.
With that sole charge he passed the city-gates,
For the last time, attendant by the side
In which the Babe was carried.
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,
To a hill,
The dwellers in that house where he had lodged
That rose a brief league distant from the town,
Accompanied his steps, by anxious love
Impelled; they parted from him there, and
stood

Watching below till he had disappeared
On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took,
Throughout that journey, from the vehicle
(Slow-moving ark of all his hopes!) that veiled
The tender infant: and at every inn,
And under every hospitable tree

At which the bearers halted or reposed,
Laid him with timid care upon his knees,
And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to
look,

Upon the nursling which his arms embraced.

This was the manner in which Vaudracour
Departed with his infant; and thus reached
His father's house, where to the innocent child
Admittance was denied. The young man spake
No word of indignation or reproof,
But of his father begged, a last request,
That a retreat might be assigned to him
Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell,
With such allowance as his wants required;
For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood
Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age
Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew:
And thither took with him his motherless Babe,
And one domestic for their common needs,
An aged woman. It consoled him here

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To attend upon the orphan, and perform
Obsequious service to the precious child,
Which, after a short time, by some mistake
Or indiscretion of the Father, died.--
The Tale I follow to its last recess

Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!

From this time forth he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An Inhabitant Of that same town, in which the pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs, By chance of business, coming within reach Of his retirement, to the forest lodge Repaired, but only found the matron there, Who told him that his pains were thrown away, For that her Master never uttered word To living thing-not even to her.-Behold! While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached;

But, seeing some one near, as on the latch Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk

And, like a shadow, glided out of view. Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place The visitor retired.

Thus lived the Youth

Cut off from all intelligence with man,
And shunning even the light of common day;
Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through
France

Full speedily resounded, public hope,

Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
Rouse him: but in those solitary shades
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind!
1805.

XXXI.

THE IDIOT BOY.

'Tis eight o'clock,-a clear March night,
The moon is up,-the sky is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from nobody knows where;
He lengthens out his lonely shout,
Halloo! halloo! a long halloo !
-Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?

And why on horseback have you set
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
Scarcely a soul is out of bed;
Good Betty, put him down again;
His lips with joy they burr at you,
But, Betty! what has he to do
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
But Betty's bent on her intent:
For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,
As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
And sorely puzzled are the twain,
For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale;

There's none to help poor Susan Code:
What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her Pony, that is mild and good;
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane,
Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim.—
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has on the well-girt saddle set
(The like was never heard of yet)
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And he must post without delay
Across the bridge and through the dale,
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town,
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There is no need of boot or spur,
There is no need of whip or wand;
For Johnny has his holly-bough,
And with a hurly-burly now

He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The Boy, who is her best delight,
Both what to follow, what to shun,
What do, and what to leave undone,
How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge,
Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all,-
Come home again, whate'er befal,
My Johnny, do, I pray you do."
To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too:
And then! his words were not a few,
Which Betty well could understand.
And now that Johnny is just going,
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
She gently pats the Pony's side,
On which her Idiot Boy must ride,
And seems no longer in a hurry.
But when the Pony moved his legs,
Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy!
For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For joy his head and heels are idle,
He's idle all for very joy.

And while the Pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left hand you may see
The green bough motionless and dead:
The Moon that shines above his head
Is not more still and mute than he.
His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship:
Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
And while the Mother, at the door,
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows,
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim,
How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her Idiot Boy,
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
He's at the guide-post-he turns right;
She watches till he's out of sight,
And Betty will not then depart.

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