Then with the father's name she coupled words Of vehement indignation; but the Youth Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense Of hasty anger rising 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!
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!-'tis a town where both of us were born; None will reproach you, for our truth is known; And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate Remain unpitied, pity is not in man.
With ornaments the prettiest, nature yields Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy, And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks Till no one can resist him.-Now, even now, I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; My father from the window sees him too; Startled, as if some new-created thing Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods Bounded before him ;-but the unweeting Child Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily, as they began!"
Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus His head upon one breast, while from the other The Babe was drawing in its quiet food.
-That pillow is no longer to be thine,
Fond Youth! that mournful solace now must pass Into the list of things that cannot be ! Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced, That dooms her to a convent.-Who shall tell, Who dares report, the tidings to the lord Of her affections? so they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down : The word, by others dreaded, he can hear Composed and silent, without visible sign Of even the least emotion. Noting this, When the impatient object of his love Upbraided him with slackness, he returned No answer, only took the mother's hand And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain, Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, Was a dependant on the obdurate heart Of one who came to disunite their lives For ever-sad alternative! preferred, By the unbending Parents of the Maid, To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. -So be it!
In the city he remained A season after Julia had withdrawn To those religious walls. He, too, departs Who with him?-even the senseless Little-one. With that sole charge he passed the city-gates, For the last time, attendant by the side Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, In which the Babe was carried. To a hill, That rose a brief league distant from the town, The dwellers in that house where he had lodged Accompanied his steps, by anxious love Impelled; they parted from him there, and stood Watching below till he had disappeared On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took, Throughout that journey, from the vehicle (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes!) that veiled The tender infant: and at every inn, And under every hospitable tree At which the bearers halted or reposed, Laid him with timid care upon his knees, And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, Upon the nursling which his arms embraced.
This was the manner in which Vaudracour Departed with his infant; and thus reached His father's house, where to the innocent child Admittance was denied. The young man spake No word of indignation or reproof, But of his father begged, a last request, That a retreat might be assigned to him
Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, With such allowance as his wants required; For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew; And thither took with him his motherless Babe, And one domestic for their common needs, An aged woman. It consoled him here To attend upon the orphan, and perform Obsequious service to the precious child, Which, after a short time, by some mistake Or indiscretion of the Father, died.— The Tale I follow to its last recess
Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!
From this time forth he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An Inhabitant Of that same town, in which the pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs, By chance of business, coming within reach Of his retirement, to the forest lodge Repaired, but only found the matron there, Who told him that his pains were thrown away, For that her Master never uttered word To living thing-not even to her.---Behold! While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached; But, seeing some one near, as on the latch Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk— And, like a shadow, glided out of view. Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place The visitor retired.
-Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret ? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
Scarcely a soul is out of bed; Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
But Betty's bent on her intent; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband 's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale; What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetched Her Pony, that is mild and good; Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim,— And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has on the well-girt saddle set (The like was never heard of yet) Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And he must post without delay Across the bridge and through the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand; For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a hurly-burly now
He shakes the green bough in his hand.
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