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My Child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look ! Through luis whole body something ran, A inost strange working did I see; As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me. And then lie stretched his arms, how wild ! Oh mercy! like a helpless child. My little joy! my little pride! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee. O wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my Friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send; Too soon, my Friends, ye went away; For I had many things to say. I'll follow you across the snow; Ye travel heavily and slow; Jo spite of all my weary pain I 'll look upon your tents again. -My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood; The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I, Then wherefore should I fear to die?
THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.
« Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single Ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As sweet a flock as ever grazed! Upon the mountain did 'hey feed, They throve, and wc at home did thrive. -This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. « Six Children, Sir! had I to feed; Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the Parish asked relief. They said, I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the mountain fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread. “Do this : how can we give to you," They cried, “what to the poor is due?" «I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me-it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away! For me it was a woeful day. « Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stoppedLike blood-drops from my licart they dropped. Till thirty were not left alive They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
And I may say,
many a time
IN distant countries liave I been, yet
I have not often seen A healthy Man, a Man full grown, Wecp in the public roads alone. But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad bighway, I met; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet. Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a Lamb he had,
He saw me, and he turned aside,
— « Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;-
alas! to have received No tidings of an only child; To have despaired, and have believed, And be for evermore beguiled; Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! I catch at them, and then I miss; Was ever darkuess like to this?
He was among the prime in worth,
Ah! little doth the Young-one dream,
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
A PASTORAL BALLAD.' To fields which with covelous spirit we sold, Time beautiful Gelds, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a burthen of
gold, Wall ve bat have been as contented as they. ban the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his
band; PEL, Alha, be true to me, Allan,- we'll die bfute be shall go with an inch of the land!» There dwelt se, as happy as birds in their bowers; l'afetiered as bees that in gardens abide; We rould do what we chose with the land, it was ours; And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. l'El Dor we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one overburthened with sin,
my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate, I sok at the fields-But I cannot go in! 5220 ) walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, sopst in the shade of my grandfather's tree, A sera face it puts on, as if ready to say, «What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!» Tith oar pastores about us, we could not be sad! ez ermfort was near if we ever were crost; be: the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had, *sked them all, -and our birth-right was lost. I tibadging sire of an innocent son, ** ) must now be a wanderer!—but peace to that strain !
oi of evening's repose when our labour was done, The sabbaths return-and its leisure's soft chain! And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, fra etacertul, at suprise, the hill where I stood, Lasting down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep Tuaz be priokled the field-'I was like youth in my blood! 5- I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; 1st tuntimes, hear the church-bell with a sigla, - folox's the thought-We've no land in the vale, Tout six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!
My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. TEEBE art thou, my beloved Son, Ware art thou, worse to me than dead! Ou fod me, prosperous or undone! txt, if the grase be now tly bed, Why am I ignorant of the same Tiwi I may rest; and neither blame Ku sarrov may attend thy name?
I look for Ghosts; but none will force
power to shake me as they pass :
I question things, and do not find
unkind. Beyond participation lie My troubles, and beyond relief : If any chance to heave a sigh, They pity me and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end; I have no other earthly friend.
THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.
BY A FEMALE FRIEND.
The days are cold, the nights are long,
Save thee, my pretty Love!
Then why so busy thou? Nay! start not at that sparkling light; "T is but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane bedropped with rain : Then, little Darling ! sleep again!
And wake when it is day.
THE CHILDLESS FATHER. «UP, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.» -Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as show, The girls on the hills made a holiday show. Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door; A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away! Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut With a leisurely motion the door of his but. Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, « The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.» But of this in my ears not a word did be speak, And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
The ancient Spirit is not dead;
She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
When from those lofty thoughts I woke,
She answered, soon as she the question heard, « A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singiog-bird.
«I had a Son,--the waves might roar,
And I have inavelled weary miles to see
« The Bird and Caye they both were his :
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 English ground, Where she was childless, daily would repair To a poor neighbouring Collage; as I found, For sake of a young child whose home was there. Once, having seen her take with fond embrace This Infant to herself, I framed a lay, Endcavouring, in my rative tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Child might say : And thus, from what I knew, had beard, and guessed, My song the workings of her heart expressed.
« Dear Babe, tliou Daughter of another,
' In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of Bor-wood is placed ai the door of the house from which the coftin is taken up, and each person who autends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.
« Contentment, liope, and Mother's clee,
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.)
Across the waters I am come, And I kave left a Babe at home : A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me-I'm no enemy : I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest For thee, sweet Baby!- thou hast tried, Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; Good, good art thou ;-alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee. « Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; An Infant Thou, a Mother I ! Nine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou-spite of these my tears. Abs! before I left the spot, My Baby and its dwelling-place; The Nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be sbed upon an Jofant's face, li vas unlucky'--po, no, no; No truth is in them who say so! • My own dear Little-one will sigh, Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. * Ele pides,' they 'll say, “it is his doom, And
you may see his hour is come.' Oh! bad he but thy chiecrful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him—and then I should bebold his face again! «Tis gone-like dreams that we forget; There was a smile or two-yel-yet I can remember them, I sec The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; Smiles hast Thou, bright ones of thy own; I capool keep thee in my arms, By those bewildering glances crost la which the light of his is lost. • Ob! how I love thee!- we still stay Together here this one half day. My sister's Child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England caine ; She with her Mother crossed the sea ; The Babe and Mother near me dwell : Wy Darling, she is not to me What thou art ! though I love her well : Rest, laude Stranger, rest thee here! Sever was any Child more dear! <-I cannot help it-Il intent I've none, my pretty Innocent! I veep-1 know they do thee wrong, These tears—and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek 1 cold it is! but thou art good; Thise
eyes are on me-they would speak, I think, to help me if they coulde Blessings upon that soft, warm face, My heart again is in its place! • While thou art mice, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
O HAPPY time of youthful lovers, (thus
Thus, not without concurrence of an age Unknown to inemory, 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 dawa; all paradise Could, by the simple opening of a door, Let itself in upon him: pathways, walks,
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank, Their happiness, or to disturb their love.
But now of this no whisper; not the less,
If ever an obtrusive word were dropped To its dull round of ordinary cares;
Touching the matter of his passion, still, A man too happy for mortality!
In his stern Father's hearing, Vaudracour
Persisted openly that death alone
Divine, of swearing everlasting truth,
Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved.
« You shall be baffled in your mad intent And the dear haven where he wished to be
If there be justice in the Court of France, In honourable wedlock with his Love,
Muttered the Father.- From these words die Youth Was in his judgment templed to decline
Conceived a terror,-and, by night or day, To perilous weakness, and entrust liis cause
Stirred nowhere without weapons—that full soon To nalure for a happy end of all;
Found dreadful provocation : for at night Deem that by such fond liope the Youth was swayed, When to his chamber he retired, attempt And bear with their transgression, when I add
Was made to seize him by three armed men, That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife,
Acting, in furtherance of the Father's will, Carried about her for a secret grief
Under a private signet of the State.
One, did the Youtlis ungovernable hand
Assault and slay ;-and to a second gave
A perilous wound,-he shuddered to behold Found means to hurry her away by night
The breathless corse; then peacefully resigned And unforewarned, that in some distant spot
Uis person to the law, was lodged in prison,
And wore the fetters of a criminal.
Have you beheld a luft of winged seed
That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon
Mounted aloft is suffered not to use Discovering traces of the fugitives,
Its natural gifts for purposes of rest, Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat.
Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro The sequel may be easily divived,
Through the wide element? or have you marked Walks to and fro-wateliings at every hour;
The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may,
Within the vortex of a foaming flood, Is busy at her casement as the swallow
Tormented ? by such aid you may conceive Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach,
The perturbation of each mind;-ah, no! About the pendant nest, did thus espy
Desperate the Maid-the Youth is stained with blood! Her Lover!-thence a stolen interview,
But as the troubled seed and tortured bough Accomplished under friendly shade of night.
Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. I pass the raptures of the Pair ;-such theme
For him, by private influence with the Court, Is, by innumerable poets, touched
Was pardon gained, and liberty procured; In more delightful verse than skill of mine
But not without exaction of a pledge Could fashion, chietly by that darling bard
Which liberty and love dispersed in air. Who told of Juliet and her Romeo,
He flew to bier from whom they would divide himAnd of the lark's note beard before its time,
lle clove to her who could not give him peace-
To the least libre of their lowest root,
Are withered;-thou no longer canst be mine, Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed
I thine-the Conscience-stricken must not woo Hier fires, that like mysterious pulses beat
The unruftled Ionocent, - I see thy face,
Behold thee, and my misery is complete!»
«Onc, are we not?» cxclaimed the Maiden-«Que,
For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?» They parted; and the generous Vaudracour
Then with the Father's name she coupled words Reached speedily the native threshold, bent
Of vehement iodignation; but the Youth On making (so the Lovers had agreed)
Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought A sacrifice of birthright to attain
Uncharitable, no presumptuous rising
Of basty censure, modelled in the eclipse
Find place within his bosom.-Once again
The persevering wedge of tyranny Where they may live, with no one to behold
Ichieved their separation ;-and once more