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.
V.

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.

VI.

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.
VII.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount-how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
VIII.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;

Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

IX.

I look for ghosts; but none will force Their way to me: 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead; For, surely, then I should have sight Of him I wait for day and night, With love and longings infinite.

X.

My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.

XI.

Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond 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! 1804.

XXV.

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?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little Darling! sleep again,

1805.

And wake when it is day.

XXVI.

MATERNAL GRIEF.

DEPARTED Child! I could forget thee once
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
Is present and perpetually abides

A shadow, never, never to be displaced
By the returning substance, seen or touched,
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
Absence and death how differ they! and how
Shall I admit that nothing can restore
What one short sigh so easily removed?—
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
O teach me calm submission to thy Will!
The Child she mourned had overstepped the
pale

Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air
That sanctifies its confines, and partook
Reflected beams of that celestial light
To all the Little-ones on sinful earth
Not unvouchsafed -a light that warmed and
cheered

Those several qualities of heart and mind
Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep,
Daily before the Mother's watchful eye,
And not hers only, their peculiar charms
Unfolded, beauty, for its present self,
And for its promises to future years,
With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed.
Have you espied upon a dewy lawn
A pair of Leverets each provoking each
To a continuance of their fearless sport,
Two separate Creatures in their several gifts
Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all'
That Nature prompts them to display, their

looks,

Their starts of motion and their fits of rest,
An undistinguishable style appears
And character of gladness, as if Spring

Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit Of the rejoicing morning were their own?

Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained And her twin Brother, had the parent seen Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, Death in a moment parted them, and left The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse Than desolate; for oft-times from the sound Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child, He knew it not) and from his happiest looks Did she extract the food of self-reproach, As one that lived ungrateful for the stay By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, Now first acquainted with distress and grief, Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned

with fear

Her sad approach, and stole away to find,
In his known haunts of joy where'er he might,
A more congenial object. But, as time
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child
To what he saw, he gradually returned,
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew
A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe
Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop
To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to
spread

Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks,
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were
calmed

And cheered; and now together breathe fresh air

In open fields; and when the glare of day
Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish
Befriends the observance, readily they join
In walks whose boundary is the lost One's

there

Amusement, where the Mother does not miss
Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf
In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite
Of pious faith the vanities of grief;
For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits
Transferred to regions upon which the clouds
Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed
Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs,
And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow,
Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of
Heaven

As now it is, seems to her own fond heart,
Immortal as the love that gave it being.

XXVII.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet-
A foggy day in winter time)

A Woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your Cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."" And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain

for me.

The bird and cage they both were his :
'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages

The 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."

XXIX.

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER.

ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned

In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she

mourned,

In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was
there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or
guessed,

My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I.

"Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest field:
Thy little sister is at play ;-

What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!

II.

Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a babe at home:
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 know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou:-alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.

III.

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!

IV.

My own dear Little-one will sigh,
Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
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 then
I should behold his face again!

V.

'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.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

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.

O HAPPY time of youthful lovers (thus
My story may begin) O balmy time,
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
To such inheritance of blessed fancy
(Fancy that sports more desperately with minds
Than ever fortune hath been known to do)
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by