To God, that help'd her in her widow- | That he was wrong to cross his father hood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; That thou shouldst take my trouble on And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will beg of him to take thee back: thus: God bless him!' he said, and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd-unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn His father's memory; and take Dora back, So Mary said, and Dora hid her face "I have been to blame- to blame. I have kill'd my son. And work for William's child, until he I have kill'd him- but I loved him grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of hisarm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her : "O Father! - if you let me call you SO I never came a-begging for myself, come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he He could not ever rue his marrying me -- my dear son. May God forgive me! I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with re morse; And all his love came back a hundred- And for three hours he sobb'd o'er So those four abode AUDLEY COURT. "THE Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and For love or money. Let us picnic there I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' lay, And rounded by the stillness of the beach | Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall: Then touch'd how scarce it was This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, upon the game, The fourfield system, and the price of grain; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin | And in the fallow leisure of my life hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang "Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into a bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life. "Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. "Who 'd serve the state? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all but let me live my life. "Oh! who would love? I woo'd a rose And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down The bay was oily calm; the harbor-buoy Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm, With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TO THE MAIL. There by the humpback'd willow; half | Kind nature is the best those manners stands up And bristles; half has fall'n and made a Delicto: but his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat: no servant stay'd: The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, "What! You're flitting!" "Yes, we're flitting," says the ghost, (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) "O well," says he, "you flitting with A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. O yet but I remember, ten years back. "T is now at least ten years - and then she was You could not light upon a sweeter thing: A body slight and round, and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager, Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd To what she is: a nature never kind! Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. next That fit us like a nature second-hand ; Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailiff brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing: he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built When men knew how to build, upon a rock, With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, New-comers from the Mersey, millionnaires, Here lived the Hills—a Tudor-chimneyed bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own- I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. And once I ask'd him of his early life, And his first passion; and he answer'd me; And well his words became him: was he not A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke. "My love for Nature is as old as I ; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her, And some full music seem'd to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day between; Revolving toward fulfilment, made it For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe." |