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Were they united,—to be yet again
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, a 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!—t is 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 fiernain unpitied, pity is not in man. With ornaments—the prettiest, nature yields or art can fashion, shall you deck your 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
of even the least emotion.
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!" These gleams 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 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—-cemingly 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, oy 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 In the city he remained A season after Julia had withdrawn To those religious walls.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 words of indignation or reproof, Iut 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 infant 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 Inliabitant
Thus lived the Youth
Unto his Horse, there feeding free,
And that's the very Pony too! where is she, where is Betty Foy? She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring waterfall she hears, And cannot find her Idiot Boy.
Your Pony's worth his weight in gold :
And Betty sees the Pony too :
She looks again—her arms are up—
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,
And now she's at the Pony's tail,
She kisses o'er and o'er again iiim whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She is happy here, is happy there, She is uneasy every where; tler limbs are all alive with joy.
She pats the Pony, where or when
• Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
By this the stars were almost gone, The moon was setting on the hill, So pale you scarcely looked at her: The little birds began to stir, Though yet their tongues were still.
The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
Long time lay Susan lost in thought,
She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
« Alas! what is become of them "
Away she posts up hill and down,
The Owls have hardly sung their last,
For while they all were travelling home,
Now Johnny all night long had heard The Owls in tuneful concert strive; No doubt too he the Moon had seen; For in the moonlight he had been From eight o'clock till five.
And thus, to Betty's question, he
MICHAEL, A paston Al. Poevi.
If from the public way you turn your steps