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of that which came between, more sweet than each, And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, la whispers, like the whispers of the leaves
“It cannot be : my uncle's inind will change !" That tremble round a nightingale—in sighs
And days went on, and there was born a boy Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance,
To William ; then distresses came on him; Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, or difference, reconcilement, pledges given,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not,
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Spread the light haze along the river-shores,
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: And in the holiowe; or as once we met
“I have obey'd my uncle until now, Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain
And I have siun'd, for it was all thro' me
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
You know there has not been for these five years
Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad Behold her there,
of the full harvest, he may see the boy, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." My first, last love: the idol of my youth,
Aud Dora took the child, and went her way The darling of my manhood, and, alas !
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mouud
Far off the farmer came into the field
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. With farmer Allan at the farm abode
But when the morrow came, she rose and took William and Dora. William was his son,
The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And made a little wreath of all the flowers And often thought “ I'll make them man and wise." That grew about, and tied it ronnd his hat Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He had been always with her in the house,
He spied her, and he left his men at work, Thought not of Dura.
And came and said: “Where were you yesterday Then there came a day Whose child is that? What are you doing here." When Allan call'd his son, and said, “My son : So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, I married late, but I would wish to see
And answer'd softly, “This is William's child!" My grandchild on my knees before I die:
"And did I not,” said Allan, "did I not And I have set my heart upon a match.
Forbid you, Dora !" Dora said again, Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
“Do with me as you will, but take the child To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
And bless him for the sake of him that's goue !" 1 She is my brother's daughter : he and I
And Allan said, “I see it is a trick Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
I must be tanght my duty, and by you ! His daughter Dora; take her for your wife; You knew my word was law, and yet you dared For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy: For many years." But William answer'd short:
But go you hence, and never see me more." “I cannot marry Dora ; by my life,
So saying, he took the boy, that cried alond I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, “You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus ! And the boy's cry came to her from the field, But in my time a father's word was law,
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it:
Remembering the day when first she came, Consider, William : take a month to think,
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And let me have an answer to my wish ;
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. And never more darken my doors again."
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy ;
He says that he will never see me more." And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed Then answer'd Mary, “ This shall never be, A laborer 8 daughter, Mary Morrison.
That thou shonldst take my trouble on thyself: Then when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd And now I think, he shall not have the boy, His niece and said: “My girl, I love you well: For he will teach him hardness, and to slight But if you speak with him that was my son, His mother; therefore thou and I will go Or change a word with her he calls his wife, And I will have my boy, and bring him home My home is none of yours. My will is law." And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Then thou and I will live within oue honse,
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks And work for William's child, until he grows Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, of age to help us."
A flask of cider from his father's vats,
Prime which I knew; and so we sat and eat Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. And talk'd old matters over: who was dead, The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw Who married, who was like to be, and how The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, The races went, and who would rent the hall. Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; Aud babbled for the golden seal, that hung
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. And came again together on the king Then they came in : but when the boy beheld With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud ; His mother, he cried out to come to her :
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung And Allan set him down, and Mary said:
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang : “O Father-if you let me call you so
“ 0, who would fight and march and counter I never came a-begging for myself,
march, Or William, or this child; but now I come
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. And shovell'd up into a bloody trench O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
Where no one knows? but let me live my life. With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said,
“O, who would cast and balance at a desk, He could not ever rue his marrying me
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, I had been a patient wife: but, Sr, he said
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints That he was wrong to cross his father thus: Are full of chalk! but let me live my life. God bless him !' he said, 'and may he never know “ Who'd serve the state! for if I carved my namo The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, His face and pass'd—unhappy that I am!
I might as well have traced it in the sands; But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
The sea wastes all: but let me live my life. Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight “O, who would love! I woo'd a woman once, His father's memory; and take Dora back,
But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And let all this be as it was before."
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
Turns from the sea : but let me live my life." By Mary. There was silence in the room ;
He sang his song, and I replied with mine: And all at once the old man burst in sobs :
I found it in a volume, all of songs, “I have been to blame-to blame. I have kill'a Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, my son.
His books--the more the pity, so I saidI have kill'd him-but I loved him-my dear son. Came to the hammer here in March—and this May God forgive me !-I have been to blame. I set the words, and added names I knew. Kiss me, my children."
“Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me: Then they clung abont Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. And all the man was broken with remorse;
"Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; And all his love came back a hundred fold;
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, For thou art fairer than all else that is. Thinking of William.
“Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her So those four abode
breast, Within one house together; and as years
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: Went forward, Mary took another mate ;
I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn.
“I go, but I return: I would I were
So sang we each to either, Francis Hale,
The farmer's son who lived across the bay,
My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, "The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room Avd in the fallow leisure of my life, For love or money. Let us picnic there
Did what I would: but ere the night we rose At Audley Court."
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just I spoke, while Andley feast In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf Himm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd To Francis, with a basket on his arm,
The limit of the hills; and as we sank To Francis just alighted from the boat,
From rock to rock npon the glooming quay, And breathing of the sea. * With all my heart,"
The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, The bay was oily-calm; the harbor-buoy And rounded by the stillness of the beach
With one green sparkle ever and anon
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart.
WALKING TO THE MAIL.
owy look And chimneys muflled in the leafy vine.
Above the river, and, but a month ago,
The whole hillside was redder than a fox.
And when does this come by? | I was at school-a college in the South: James. The mail? At one o'clock.
There lived a flayflint near: we stole his fruit, John.
What is it now! His hens, his eggs; but there was law for us; James. A quarter to.
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, John.
Whose house is that I see? With meditative grunts of much content, No, not the County Member's with the vane : Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half
By night we dragg'd her to the college tower A score of gables.
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair James.
That ? Sir Edward Head's : With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow, But he's abroad: the place is to be sold.
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. John. O, his. He was not broken.
Large range of prospect had the mother sow, James.
No, sir, he, And but for daily loss of one she loved, Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood
As one by one we took them-but for this That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face As never sow was higher in this worldFrom all men, and commercing with himself, Might have been happy: but what lot is pure! He lost the sense that handles daily life
We took them all, till she was left alone That keeps us all in order more or less
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, And sick of home went overseas for change. And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. John. And whither ?
John. They found you out? James. Nay, who knows? he's here and there. James.
Not they. But let him go; his devil goes with him,
Well-after all As well as with his tepant, Jocky Dawes.
What know we of the secret of a man? John. What's that ?
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are James. You saw the man-on Monday, was it?
sound, There by the humpback'd willow; half stands up That we should mimic this raw fool the world, And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, And there he caught the younker tickling trout
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, Caught in flagrante-what's the Latin word ?- As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows Delicto: but his house, for so they say,
To Pity-more from ignorance than will. Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook
But put your best foot forward, or I fear The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes And rummaged like a rat; no servants stay'd : With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand The farmer vext packs ap his beds and chairs, As you shall see-three piebalds and a roan. And all his household stuff: and with this boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Bets out, and meets a friend who hails him, “What! You 're flitting !" " " Yes, we 're flitting," says the ghost,
EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) "O well," says he, “ you flitting with us too- O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake. Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year,
John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard. My one Oasis in the dust and drouth
James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: of city life; I was a sketcher then : A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs.
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge, John. O yet but I remember, ten years back- Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built T is now at least ten years—and then she was— When men knew how to build, upon a rock, Yon could not light upon a sweeter thing:
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock: A body slight and round, and like a pear
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot
New-comers from the Mersey, millionpaires, Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin
Here lived the Hills—a Tudor-chimneyed bulk As clean and white as privet when it flowers. of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull She was the daughter of a cottager,
The curate; he was fatter than his cure. Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, To what she is: a nature never kind!
Long learned names of agaric, moss, and fern, Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Kind nature is the best: those manners next Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, That fit us like a nature second-hand;
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, Which are indeed the manners of the great. His own–I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd
John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. And fear of change at home, that drove him hence.
James. That was the last drop in his cup of gall. And once I ask'd him of his early life, I once was vear him, when his bailiff brought And his first passion; and he answer'd me; A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince And well his words became him: was he not As from a venomous thing; he thought himself A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloqnence A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry
Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke. Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs “My love for Nature is as old as I; Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you know But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, That these two parties still divide the world- And three rich sennights more, my love for her. of those that want, and those that and till
My love for Nature and my lov
To some full music rose and sank the sun,
And some full music seem'd to move and change
With all the varied changes of the dark,
Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull :
“I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unrcal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world."
"Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe too low: But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into lis: Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear other music: yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream ?" I ask'd him half-sardonically.
“Give ? Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; “I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin: my ears could hear Her lightest breaths: her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came; Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part vo more."
The close “Your Letty, only yours;" and this
**0 leave me!" "Never, dearest, never: here
Nor cared to hear ? perhaps: yet long ago
Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem'd A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness; howso'er it was, He scarcely hit my humor, and I said:
“Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God bless-you right and left ? But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein : I have, I think,-Heaven knows-as much within; Have, or should have, but for a thought or two, That like a purple beech among the greens Looks out of place: 't is from no want in her: It is my shyness, or my self-distrnst, Or something of a wayward modern mind Dissecting passion. Time will set me right."
So spoke I knowing vot the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull “God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and iucrease of the world." And I and Edwin laugh'd; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles; and now we left The clerk hebind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound.
ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Altho' I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Untit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and sob, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and
cramps, A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and
snow: And I had hoped that ere this period.closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.
O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe, Not whisper any murmur of complaint, Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush'd My spirit flat before thee.
O Lord, Lord, Thon knowest I bore this better at the first,
But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My snit had wither'd, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rentroll Cupid of onr rainy isles. 'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more: She sont a note, the seal an Elle vous suit,
Foi I was strong and hale of body then :
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, House in the shade of comfortable roofs, Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon,
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, An angel stand and watch me, as I sang.
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints; Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh; Or in the night, after a little sleep, I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am, I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet So that I scarce can hear the people hum
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost, About the column's base, and almost blind,
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back;
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
A sinful man, conceived and born iu sin : 0 Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,
'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?
That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha! Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. They think that I am somewhat. What am I? For did not all thy martyrs die one death?
The silly people take me for a saint, For either they were stoned, or crucitied,
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here
Have all in all endured as much, and more To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. Than many just and holy men, whose names Bear witness, if I could have found a way
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. (And heedfully I sifted all my thought)
Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. More slowly-painful to subdue this home
What is it I can have done to merit this! of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,
I am a sinner viler than yon all. I had not stinted practice, O my God.
It may be I have wrought some miracles, For not alone this pillar-punishment,
And cured some halt and maim'd; but what of that: Not this alone I bore: but while I lived
It may be, no one, evev among the saints, In the white convent down the valley there, May match his pains with mine; but what of that? For many weeks about my loins I wore
Yet do not rise: for you may look on me, The rope that haled the buckets from the well, And in your looking you may kneel to God. Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; Speak! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? Aud spake not of it to a single soul,
I think you know I have some power with Fieaven Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin,
From my long penance: let him speak his wish. Betray'd my secret penance, so that all
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. My brethren marveli'd greatly. More than this They say that they are heal'd. An, hark! they I bore, whereof, o God, thou knowest all.
shont Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,"St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, I lived up there on yonder mountain side.
God reaps a harvest in me. O my sonl, My right leg chaiu'd into the crag, I lay
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ;
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice This is not told of any. They were saints. Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes it cannot be but that I shall be saved ; Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, “Behold a saint!" Except the spare chance-gift of those that came And lower voices saint me from above. To touch my body and be heal'd, and live: Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis And they say then that I work'd miracles,
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Cared lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all Knowest alone whether this was or no.
My mortal archives.
O my sons, my sons,
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon,
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become
Uunaturally boar with rime, do now That numbers forty cubits from the soil.
From my high nest of penance here proclaim I think that I have borne as much as this- That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 'Or else I dream-and for so long a time,
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, If I may measure time by yon slow light,
A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns- Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve; So much-even so.
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. And yet I know not well, I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again. For that the evil ones come here, and say,
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest: “Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer'd long They flapp'd my light ont as I read: I saw For ages and for ages!" then they prate
Their faces grow between me and my book: of penances I cannot have gone thro',
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall,
They burst my prayer.
Yet this way was left, Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies,
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify That Ileaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns;
But yet Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps,