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Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh, That follows the thought — We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.

WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone !
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, 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 darkness like to this?

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

Ah! little doth the Young-one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his Mother unawares !
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a Mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.

Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought; and, being blind,
Said, “Pride shall help me in my wrong
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:” and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door ;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

They dwindled, Sir, sad sighe: to see !
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one:
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none; —
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock."

REPENTANCE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

Tax fields which with covetons spirit we sold,
Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day,
Would have brought us more good than a burthen of

gold,
Could we but have been as contented as they.

When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I,
“Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his

hand;

But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,
Before he shall go with an inch of the land !"

we'll die

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers;
Cnfettered as bees that in gardens abide;
We could do what we chose with the land, it was ours;
And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

But now we are strangers, go early or late ;
And often, like one overburthened with sin,
With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate,
I look at the fields — but I cannot go in!
When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day,
Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,
A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,
*** What ails you, that you must come creeping to me !"
With our pastures about us, we could not be sad;
Our comfort was near, if we ever were crost;
But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had,
We slighted them all, — and our birth-right was lost.

Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son who must now be a wanderer! – but peace to that

strain! Think of evening's repose when our labour was done, The Sabbath's return - and its leisure's soft chain ! And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, Imking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field — 't was like youth in my

blood!

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Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and ond 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!

for me.

"The Bird and Cage they both were his:
'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages
This 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.

“He to a Fellow-lodger's care
Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety ; – there
I found it when my Son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!
I bear it with me, Sir

, he took so much delight in it."

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.

BY MY SISTER.

The days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,

Save thee, my pretty Love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,

Then why so busy thou?

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 i

th the cry of the hounds."

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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 knowest 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!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou — spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place;
The Nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky' — no, 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.
'He pines, they'll say, “it is his doon,
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful 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 the
I should behold his face again!

'Tis gone — like dreams that we forget;
There was a smile or two-yet — yet
I can remember them, I see
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 cannot keep thee in my arms,
By those bewildering glances crost
In which the light of his is lost.

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:
My Darling, she is not to me
What thou art! though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any Child more dear!

- 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;

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Thine eyes are on me they would speak, By ready nature for a life of love,
I think, to help me if they could.

For endless constancy, and placid truth;
Blessings upon that soft, warm face,

Bnt whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay My heart again is in its place!

Reserved, had fate permitted, for support

Of their maturer years, his present mind While thou art mine, my little Love,

Was under fascination; -he beheld This cannot be a sorrowful grove;

A vision, and adored the thing he saw. Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee,

Arabian fiction never filled the world I seem to find them all in thee:

With half the wonders that were wrought for him. Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;

Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring; I'll call thee by my Darling's name;

Life turned the meanest of her implements, Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,

Before his eyes, to price above all gold; Thy features seem to me the same;

The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine; His little Sister thou shalt be;

Her chamber window did surpass in glory And, when once more my home I see,

The portals of the dawn; all paradise I'll tell him many tales of Thee."

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
VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
To its dull round of ordinary cares;

A man too happy for mortality!
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.

So passed the time, till, whether through effect Of some unguarded moment that dissolved

Virtuous restraint – ah, speak it — think it not! O Happy time of youthful lovers (thus

Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw My story may begin) O balmy time,

So many bars between his present state In which a love-knot on a lady's brow

And the dear haven where he wished to be Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!

In honourable wedlock with his Love, To such inheritance of blessed fancy

Was in his judgment tempted to decline (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause Than ever fortune hath been known to do)

To nature for a happy end of all; The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed Whose progress had a little overstepped

And bear with their transgression, when I add His stripling prime. A town of small repute, That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife, Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, Carried about her for a secret grief Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid The promise of a mother. Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,

To conceal Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,

The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid From which her graces and her honours sprung: Found means to hurry her away by night, And hence the father of the enamoured Youth, And unforewarned, that in some distant spot With haughty indignation, spurned the thought

She might remain shrouded in privacy, Of such alliance. — From their cradles up,

Until the babe was born. When morning came, Wita but a step between their several homes, The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, Twing had they been in pleasure; after strife

And all uncertain whither he should turn,
And petty quarrels, had

grown
fond again;

Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon Each other's advocate, each other's stay;

Discovering traces of the fugitives, And strangere to content if long apart,

Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat. Or more divided than a sportive pair

The sequel may be easily divined Of sen-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering

Walks to and fro — watchings at every hour; Within the oddy of a common blast,

And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may,
Or hidden only by the concave depth

Is busy at her casement as the swallow
Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight. Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach,

About the pendent nest, did thus espy
Thue, not without concurrence of an age

Her Lover! - thence a stolen inter ,iew, ۲۱۸ ۲۱۷۱۱۱ ۱۱ ۱۰ ۱۱۱۱۱۱۱۱۱۱۷, ۱۷ ۱۶ (earnest given

Accomplished under friendly shade of night.

Within the vortex of a foaming flood,
Tormented ? by such aid you may conceive
The perturbation of each mind :— ah, no!
Desperate the Maid the Youth is stained with blood;
But as the troubled seed and tortured bough
Is Man, subjected to despotic sway.

I pass the raptures of the Pair; - such theme ls, 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, Mored 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!

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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 – He clove to her who could not give him peace 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 !"

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They parted; and the generous Vandracour 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, Cpon the altar, to the Maid he loved.

“One, are we not ?" exclaimed the Maiden ---"Onn 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, no presumptuous rising Of hasty censure, modelled 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 !

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" You shall be baffled in your mad intent If there be justice in the Court of France," Sluttered 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, Inder a private signet of the State. One, did the Youth's ungovernable hand Assault and slay; — and 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.

Hare

you

beheld a tuft of winged 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,

Doomed to a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, Its 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 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!- 't is a Town where both of us were born; None will reproach you, for our truth is known;

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