How passion rose thro' circumstantial

grades

Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed
I had not staid so long to tell you all,
But while I mused came Memory with
sad eyes,

Holding the folded annals of my youth;
And while I mused, Love with knit brows
went by,

And with a flying finger swept my lips,
And spake, 'Be wise: not easily forgiven
Are those who, setting wide the doors
that bar

The secret bridal chambers of the heart,
Let in the day.' Here, then, my words
have end.

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells

Of that which came between, more sweet than each,

In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves

That tremble round a nightingale

in

sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter

ance,

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell

Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,

And vows, where there was never need of vows,

And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting

stars;

shores,

ing wind,

been intent

DORA.

WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.'

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd toward William; but the youth, because

He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, 'My son :

I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and

he died

In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your

wife;

For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,

For many years.' But William arswer'd short:

'I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:

You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to

think,

And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,

And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years

So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'

And Dora took the child, and went

her way

Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies

grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his

men

Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to

him,

But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose

and took

The child once more, and sat upon the mound;

And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?'

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child!'

And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I not Forbid you, Dora?' Dora said again : 'Do with me as you will, but take the child,

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!'

down her head,

Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She
bow'd down

And wept in secret; and the reapers
reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was
dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood

Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise

To God, that help'd her in her widow-
hood.

And Dora said, 'My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more.'
Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on
thyself:

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 have my boy, and bring him

home;

And I will beg of him to take thee back: But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house,

And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us.'

So the women kiss'd

77

cheeks,

hung

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before.'

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:

'I have been to blame-to blame. I have kill'd my son.

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, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay,

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 upon the game, how scarce it was

This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm,

The four-field 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