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XXXIII.

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XXVIII.

XXXIV.

XXIX.

Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed XXVII.

For our departure; wished and wished-nor knew, It was indeed a miserable hour

'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed,
When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,

That happier days we never more must view.
Peering above the trees, the steeple tower

The parting signal streamed-at last the land withdrew.
That on his marriage day sweet music made!
T'I then, he hoped his bones might there be laid
Close by my mother in their native bowers:

But the calm summer season now was past.
Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed; —

On as we drove, the equinoctias deep
I could not pray;— through tears that fell in showers
Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! Ran mountains high before the howling blast,

And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep.

We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, There was a youth whom I had loved so long,

Untaught that soon such anguish must ersue, That when I loved him not I cannot say:

Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song

That we the mercy of the waves should ru.“: We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May;

We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other;

The pains and plagues that on our heads came down We talked of marriage and our marriage day; Disease and famine, agony and fear, And I in truth did love him like a brother,

In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,
For never could I hope to meet with such another.

It would unman the firmest heart to hear.
All perished-all in one remorseless year,

Husband and children ! one by one, by sword
Two years were passed since to a distant town
He had repaired to ply a gainful trade:

And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear
What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown!

Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed !

A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.” To him we turned :

we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said,

Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept ;

Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed
And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

Yet nature, with excess of grief o'erborne,
From her full eyes their watery load released.

He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased,
We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest

He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, With daily bread, by constant toil supplied.

And saw the dawn opening the silvery east Three lovely babes had laid upon my breast ;

With rays of promise, north and southward sent;
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,

And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament.
And knew not why. My happy father died,
When threatened war reduced the children's meal:
Thrice happy that for him the grave could hide

“O come,” he cried, “come, after weary night The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,

Of such rough storm, this happy change to view.”
And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not

So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight
Over her brow, like dawn of gladness threw;
Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue
Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear,
And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew:
The whilst her.comrade to her pensive cheer
Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled

XXXV.

XXX.

XXXVI,

heal.

XXXI.

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Twas a hard change; an evil time was come;
We had no bope, and no relief could gain:
But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum
Best round to clear the streets of want and pain.
My husband's arms now only served to strain
Me and his children hungering in his view;
In such distnay my prayers and tears were vain :
To join those miserable men he few,

near.

XXXVII,

They looked, and saw a lengthening road, and wain
That rang down a bare slope not far remote:

And how to the sea-coast

, with numbers more, we drew. The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain,

XXXII.

"There were we long neglected, and we bore
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed;
Green fields before us, and our native shore,
We creathed a pestilential air, that made

Whistled the wagoner with merry note,
The cock far off sounded his clarion throat;
But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed,
Only were told there stood a lonely cot
A long mile thence. While thither they pursued
Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewer

F

XLT.

XXXVII.

There, pains which nature could no more support, * Peaceful as this immeasurable plain

With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest,

And, after many interruptions short In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could cral: The very ocean hath its hour of rest.

Cnsought for was the belp that did my lie recal. I too forgot the heavings of my breast.

XLIV. How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were!

Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain
As quiet all within me. I was blest,

Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory:
And looked, and fed upon the silent air
Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.

I heard my neighbours in their beds complain

Of many things which dever troubled me-
XXXIX.

Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,
Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps,

Of looks where common kindness had no pari,

Of service done with cold formality,
And groans that rage of racking famine spoke;
The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps,

Fretting the ferer round the languid heart,
The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead
The shriek that from the distant battle broke,

man start. The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke

These things just serred to stir the slumbering sense, To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!

With strength did memory return; and, thence

Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,
XL.

At houses, men, and common light, amazed.
Some mighty gull of separation past,

The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, I seemed transported to another world;

Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed: A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, The impatient mariner the sail unfurled,

And gave me food—and rest, more welcome, more desired. And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled

XLVI.
The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home
And from all hope I was for ever hurled.

Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly
For me-farthest from earthly port to roam

With panniered asses driven from door to door; Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might But life of happier sort set forth to me,

And other joys my fancy to allure

The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong)

In barn uplighted; and companions boon, That I, at last, a resting-place had found;

Well met from far with revelry secure • Here will I dwell,' said I, ómy whole life long,

Among the forest glades, while jocund June Roaming the illimitable waters round;

Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned,

XLVII. And end my days upon the peaceful food.' —

But ill they suited me — those journeys dark To break my dream the vessel reached its bound;

O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,

To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch.

The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, No help I sought, in sorrow turned adrift,

The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock;

And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Nor moreel to my mouth that day did lift,

Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Nor raised my hand at any door to knock.

Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding Ilny where, with his drowsy mates, the cock

still. I'rom the crome-timber of an outhouse hung: Dismally wolled, that night, the city clock!

What could I do, unaided and unblest? Ai morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,

My father! gone was every friend of thine:
Not to the begyar's language could I fit my tongue.

And kindred of dead husband are at best
Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,

With little kindness would to me incline.
Nu pustul a becond day; and, when the third

Nor was I then for toil or service fit; Was conne, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; in deep demir, by tightful wishes stirred,

In open air forgetful would I sit La mar the sea-side I reached a ruined fort;

Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

coine.

XLI.

XLII.

XLVIII.

XLIII,

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Asked him in scorn what business there he had;
What kina of plunder he was hunting now;
The gallows would one day of him be glad ;-
Though inward anguish damped the sailor's brow,
Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.

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LV.

L.

Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched
With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round
His battered head, a groan the sailor fetched
As if he saw — there and upon that ground -
Strange repetition of the deadly wound
He had himself inflicted. Through his brain
At once the griding iron passage found;
Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain.

Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed,
Through tears have seen him towards that world descend
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
Three years a wanderer now my course I bend-
Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friend
Have I."—She ceased, and weeping turned away;
As if because her tale was at an end,
She wept ; because she had no more to say
Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

LVI.

LI.

Within himself he said — What hearts have we!
The blessing this a father gives his child !
Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,
Suffering not doing ill — fate far more mild.
The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled
The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;
He kissed his son — so all was reconciled.
Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke
Ere to his lips it came, the sailor them bespoke.

True sympathy the sailor's looks expressed,
Har looks—for pondering he was mute the while.
of ancial order's care for wretchedness,
Of time's sure help to calm and reconcile,
Six's second spring and hope's long-treasured smile,
Twas not for him to speak -a man so tried.
l'et to relieve her heart, in friendly style
Proverbial words of comfort he applied,
And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.

LVII.

LII.

“ Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law
Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece;
Much need have ye that time more closely draw
The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,
And that among so few there still be peace:
Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes
Your pains shall ever with your years increase ?"-.
While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.

Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight,
Together smoking in the sun's slant beam,
Rise various wreaths that into one unite
Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam:
Fair spectacle, - but instantly a scream
Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent;
They paised, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme,
And temale cries. Their course they thither bent,
And met a man who foamed with anger vehement.

LVIII.

LIII.

I woman stood with quivering lips and pale,
And, pointing to a little child that lay
Siretched on the ground, began a piteous tale;
How in a simple freak of thoughtless play
He had provoked his father, who straightway.
As if each blow were deadlier than the last,
Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay
The soldier's widow heard and stood aghast ;
And stern looks on the man her grey-haired comrade cast.

Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look
Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene
Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook,
That babbled on through groves and meadows green;
A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between;
The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays,
And melancholy lowings intervene
Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,
Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's

rays.

LIX.

LIV.

His voice with indignation rising high
Buch further deed in manhood's name forbade;
Ton peasant, wild in passion, made reply
Vith bitter insult and revilings sad;

They saw and heard, and winding with the road
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;
Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed
Their weary frames, she hoped, would soon regale.
Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale
It was a rustic inn;- the board was spread,
The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail,
And lustily the master carved the bread,
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.

LX.

LXVI.

LXI.

LXVII.

LXII.

LXVIII.

But sickness stopped me in an early stage Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;

Of my sad journey; and within the wain Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.

They placed me – there to end life's pilgrimage, She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart

Unless beneath your roof I may remain:
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease,

For I shall never see my father's door again.
She left him there ; for, clustering round his knees,
With his oak staff the cottage children played;

“ My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees

But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade

May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed.

Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak

Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.— A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;

Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.

Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, She saw the carmar bend to scoop the flood

My husband served in sad captivity As the wain fronted her,- wherein lay one,

On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him

free.
A pale-faced woman, in disease far gone.
The carman wet her lips as well behoved ;
Bed under her lean body there was none,

“A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Though even to die near one she most had loved Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers

Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread;

Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, The soldier's widow learned with honest pain

Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,

A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain

In vain to find a friendly face we try, The jolting road and morning air severe.

Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. “A sad sight is here,”

“For evil tongues made oath how on that day She cried aloud ; and forth ran out in haste

My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. Now he had fled, and whither none could say,

And he had done the deed in the dark wood

Near his own home!- but he was mild and good; While to the door with eager speed they ran,

Never on earth was gentler creature seen; From her barc straw the woman half upraised He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. Her bony visage -- gaunt and deadly wan;

My husband's loving kindness stood between No pity asking, on the group she gazed

Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife — "God be praised, Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath I have a house that I can call my own;

The sailor knew too well. That wickedness Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone !" His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death

He saw his wife's lips move his name to bless

With her last words, unable to suppress So in they bear her to the chimney seat,

His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And busily, though yet with fear, untie

And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet

He cried — “Do pity me! That thou shouldst live And chafo her temples, careful hands apply.

I neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but forgive!" Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said "I thank you all; if I must die,

To tell the change that voice within her wrought The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear;

Nature by sign or sound made no essay;
Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,
And every mortal pang dissolved away.

Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;
Barred overy comfort labour could procure,

Yet still while over her the husband bent, Suffering what no endurance could assiiage,

A look was in her face which seemed to say, I was compelled to seek my father's door,

“ Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent Though loth to be a burthen on his age.

Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content."

LXIII.

LXIX.

LXIV.

LXX.

LXV.

LXXI.

1

Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the

following composition, some eight or ten lines, which I have not She slept in peace, — his pulses throbbed and stopped,

scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is Breathless he gazed upon her face, – then took proper however to add, that they would not have been used else.

where, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish Her hand in bis, and raised it, but both dropped,

this Tragedy. When on his own he cast a rueful look.

February 28, 1842.
Mis ears were never silent; sleep forsook
His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;

LXXII.

ti

LXXIII.

ACT I.
All night from time to time under him shook

SCENE, road in a Wood.
The filvor as he lay shuddering on his bed;
And oft he groaned aloud, “ O God, that I were dead!"

WALLACE and Lacy.

Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let us hie The soldier's widow lingered in the cot;

Back to our post, and strip the Scottish foray

Of their rich spoil, ere they recross the border.
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care
Through which his wife, to that kind shelter brought,

- Pity that our young chief will have no part Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer

In this good service.
Wal.

Rather let us grieve
He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
The corse interred, not one hour he remained

That, in the undertaking which has caused
Beneath their roof, but to the open air

His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, A burtben, now with fortitude sustained,

Companionship with one of crooked ways,
He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

From whose perverted soul can come no good
To our confiding, open-hearted, leader.

Lacy. True; and, remembering how the band havi Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared

proved Por act and suffering, to the city straight

That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, He journeyed, and forth with his crime declared : Well may we wonder he has gained such power " And from your doom,” he added, “now I wait, Over our much-loved captain. Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate."

Wal.

I have heard
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:

Of some dark deed to which in early life
"0) welcome sentence which will end though late," His passion drove him — then a voyager
He said, " the pangs that to my conscience came Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing
Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" In Palestine ?

Lacy. Where he despised alike
His fate was pitied. Him in iron case

Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)

Let us begone — the band may else be foiled. They hung not :— no one on his form or face

[E.ceune Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;

Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED.
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought

Wil. Be cautious, my dear master!
Mar.

I perceive
That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle
About their love, as if to keep it warm.
Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This

stranger,

For such he is -
THE BORDERERS.

Mar.

Your busy fancies, Wilfred,
Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?

Wil. You know that you have saved his life.
Mar.

I know it
Wil. And that he hates you ! - Pardon me, perhaps

That word was hasty.
Forester.

Mar.

Fy! no more of it.
ELDRED, a Peasant.
Peasant, Pilgrims, &c.

Wil. Dear master! gratitude 's a heavy burden
To a proud soul. — Nobody loves this Oswald.
Yourself, you do not love him.
Mar.

I do more,
I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart
Are natural; and from no one can be learnt
More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience
Has given him power to teach: and then for courage
And enterprise - what perils hath he shunned!

LXXIV.

By lawless curiosity or chance,
When into storm the evening sky is wrought,
Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance,
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

a Tragedy.
(COMPOSED 1795–6.)*

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

MARLADORE

Of the band of

Borderers.

Mesut

IDONEA.
Wund Servanito MAMADUKE. Female Beggar.

ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED.
Boeke, Borders of England and Scotland.

TINE, the Reign of Henry III.

* See Note 3

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