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Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt,
Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were
You should prepare to meet him.
Iden.
I have nothing
To do with others; help me to my Father-
[She turns and sees MARMADUKE leaning
on ELEANOR-throws herself upon his
neck, and after some time,

In joy I met thee, but a few hours past;
And thus we meet again; one human stay
Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so.
Mar. In such a wilderness-to see no thing,
No, not the pitying moon!

Idon.

And perish so. Mar. Without a dog to moan for him. Idon. Think not of it, But enter there and see him how he sleeps, Tranquil as he had died in his own bed. Mar. Tranquil-why not?

Idon.

Mar.

Oh, peace!

He is at peace;

His body is at rest: there was a plot,
A hideous plot, against the soul of man:
It took effect-and yet I baffled it,
In some degree.
Idon.
Between us stood, I thought,
A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven
For both our needs; must 1, and in thy pre-

sence,

Alone partake of it?-Beloved Marmaduke!

Mar. Give me a reason why the wisest thing That the earth owns shall never choose to die, But some one must be near to count his groans. The wounded deer retires to solitude, And dies in solitude: all things but man, All die in solitude.

[Moving towards the cottage door. Mysterious God, If she had never lived I had not done it!Idon. Alas! the thought of such a cruel death Has overwhelmed him.—I must follow. Eld.

Lady!

You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion

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If e'er he entereth the house of God,
The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head;
And let him, when he would lie down at night,,
Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow!
Mar. My voice was silent, but my heart
hath joined thee.

Idon (leaning on MARMADUKE). Left to the mercy of that savage Man! How could he call upon his Child !-O Friend! [Turns to MARMADUKE.

My faithful true and only Comforter.
Mar. Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses
her). (To ELDRED). Yes, varlet, look,
The devils at such sights do clap their hands.
[ELDRED retires alarmed.
Idon. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly
pale;

Hast thou pursued the monster?
Mar.
I have found him.—
Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the

flames!

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Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, The extremes of suffering meet in absolute [He gives her a letter. Idon. (reads) "Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judgment has befallen the man who calls himself your father; he is now with me, as his signature will show: abstain from conjecture till you see me.

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"HERBERT. "MARMADUKE." The writing Oswald's; the signature my

Father's:

(Looks steadily at the paper) And here is yours, or do my eyes deceive me? You have then seen my Father? Mar. Upon this arm.

He has leaned

Idon. You led him towards the Convent? Mar. That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle.

Thither

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Name him not.
Enter female Beggar.

Enter Oswald.

Oswald (to himself). Strong to o'erturn, strong
also to build up. [To MARMADUKE.

The starts and sallies of our last encounter
Were natural enough; but that, I trust,
Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains
That fettered your nobility of mind-
Delivered heart and head!

Let us to Palestine ;
This is a paltry field for enterprise.

Mar. Ay, what shall we encounter next?
This issue-

Beg. And he is dead!-that Moor-how shall 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening
I cross it?

By night, by day, never shall I be able

To travel half a mile alone.-Good Lady!

darkness,

And weakness crowned with the impotence of
death!-

Forgive me!-Saints forgive me. Had I Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient,

thought

It would have come to this!-
Idon. What brings you hither? speak!
Beg. (pointing to MARMADUKE). This inno-
cent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told
him

Such tales of your dead Father!--God is my
judge,

I thought there was no harm: but that bad
Man,

He bribed me with his gold, and looked so
fierce.

(ironically).

Start not!-Here is another face hard by ;
Come, let us take a peep at both together,
And, with a voice at which the dead will quake,
Resound the praise of your morality-
Of this too much.

[Drawing OSWALD towards the Cottage-
stops short at the door.

Men are there, millions, Oswald,
Who with bare hands would have plucked out
thy heart

And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised
Above, or sunk below, all further sense

Mercy! I said I know not what-oh pity me-
I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter-Of
Pity me, I am haunted;-thrice this day

My conscience made me wish to be struck
blind;

And then I would have prayed, and had no
voice.

Idon. (to MARMADUKE). Was it my Father?—
no, no, no, for he

Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind,
Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life.
-But hear me. For one question, I have a
heart

That will sustain me. Did you murder him?
Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But learn

the process:

Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt
Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt,
Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and
truth

And innocence, embodied in his looks,

His words and tones and gestures, did but serve
With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped
Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded.
Then pity crossed the path of my resolve:
Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast,
Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal
Of the bleak Waste-left him-and so he died!
[IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar, ELEANOR,
&c., crowd round, and bear her off.
Why may we speak these things, and do no

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provocation. Leave me, with the weight
Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart,
Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine.
Coward I have been; know, there lies not now
Within the compass of a mortal thought,
A deed that I would shrink from;-but to
endure,

That is my destiny. May it be thine:
Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth
To feed remorse, to welcome every sting
Of penitential anguish, yea with tears.
When seas and continents shall lie between us—
The wider space the better-we may find
In such a course fit links of sympathy,
An incommunicable rivalship
Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view.
[Confused voices-several of the band enter
-rush upon OSWALD and seize him.
One of them. I would have dogged him to
the jaws of hell-

Osw. Ha! is it so !-That vagrant Hag!

this comes

[Aside.

Of having left a thing like her alive!
Several voices. Despatch him!
Osw.
If I pass beneath a rock
And shout, and, with the echo of
my voice,
Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me,
I die without dishonour. Famished, starved,
A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!

[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MAR

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Wallace, upon these Borders,
Many there be whose eyes will not want cause
To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms!
Raise on that dreary Waste a monument
That may record my story: nor let words-
Few must they be, and delicate in their touch
As light itself-be there withheld from Her
Who, through most wicked arts, was made an
orphan

By One who would have died a thousand times,
To shield her from a moment's harm. To you,
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her
In all things worthier of that noble birth,
Whose long-suspended rights are now on the

eve

Of restoration: with your tenderest care Watch over her, I pray-sustain her

Several of the band (eagerly). Captain! Mar. No more of that; in silence hear my doom:

A hermitage has furnished fit reliet
To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer must I go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on-

A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life-till anger is appeased
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.
1795-6.

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iv.

FORESIGHT.

THAT is work of waste and ruin-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them-here are many:
Look at it-the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.
Pull the primrose, sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.
-Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil

Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!
Primroses, the Spring may love them—
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,

Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower:

And for that promise spare the flower! 1802.

V.

CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE

YEARS OLD.

LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone

Than when both young and old sit gathered round

And take delight in its activity:

Even so this happy Creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her

Is blithe society, who fills the air

With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay
couched;

Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir

Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers, Or from before it chasing wantonly

The many-coloured images imprest Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 1811.

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:
-But let him range round; he does us no
harm,

We build up the fire, we're snug and warm; Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light; Books have we to read,-but that half-stifled knell,

Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. -Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there

He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

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VI.

ADDRESS TO A CHILD,

DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING.

BY MY SISTER.

WHAT way does the Wind come? What way

does he go?

He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height

Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;

He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp 'larum ;-but, if you should
look,

There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
-Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in the
place?

Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!
As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will

see

That he has been there, and made a great rout, And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;

Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig

That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

VII.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

BY THE SAME.

A MONTH, Sweet little-ones, is past
Since your dear Mother went away,―
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,-
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"
Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near;
"Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,

And long, long vales to travel through ;-
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?
No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity.
Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly:
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.'
Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

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