Her sailor brought them, when from his first voyage
He came so sun-burnt and so tall, she scarce
Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth.
Like a memorial of far better days,
The large old Bible, with its silver clasps,
Lay on the table; and a fragrant air
Came from the window: there stood a rose tree-
Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich
With thousand buds, and beautifully blown flowers:
It was a slip from that which grew beside
The cottage, once her own, which ever drew
Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane
Where her home stood, the home where yet she
thought
To end her days in peace;-that was the hope
That made life pleasant, and it had been fed
By the so ardent spirits of her boy,
Who said that God would bless the efforts made
For his old mother.-Like a holiday
Each Sunday came, for then her patient way
She took to the white church of her own village,
A long five miles; and many marvell'd, one
So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church.
They knew not how delicious the fresh air,
How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad
The sunshine of the country, to the eyes
That look'd so seldom on them. She would sit
Long after service on a grave, and watch
The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn,
The lane where yet her home might be; and then
Return with lighten'd heart to her dull street,
Refresh'd with hope and pleasant memories,-
Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell,
Wherein, they say, the rolling of the sea
Is heard distinct; pray for her absent child,
Bless him, then dream of him.-
A shout awoke the sleeping town, the night
Rang with the fleet's return, and victory!
Men that were slumbering quietly, rose up
And join'd the shout; the windows gleam'd with lights,
The bells rang forth rejoicingly, the paths
Were fill'd with people; even the lone street
Where the poor widow dwelt was roused, and sleep
Was thought upon no more that night. Next day-
A bright and sunny day it was-high flags
Waved from each steeple, and green boughs were
hung
In the gay market-place; music was heard,
Bands that struck up in triumph; and the sea
Was cover'd with proud vessels; and the boats
Went to-and-fro the shore, and waving hands
Beckon❜d from crowded decks to the glad strand
Where the wife waited for her husband,-maids
Threw the bright curls back from their glist'ning eyes,
And look'd their best ;-and as the splashing oar
Brought their dear ones to the land, how every voice
Grew musical with happiness!
And there
Stood that old widow woman with the rest,
Watching the ship wherein had sail'd her son.
A boat came from the vessel,heavily
It toil'd upon the waters, and the oars
Were dipp'd in slowly. As it near'd the beach,
A moaning sound came from it, and a groan
Burst from the lips of all the anxious there,
When they look'd on each ghastly countenance;
For that lone boat was fill'd with wounded men,
Bearing them to the hospital-and then
That aged woman saw her son. She pray'd,
And gain'd her prayer, that she might be his nurse,
And take him home. He lived for many days.
It soothed him so to hear his mother's voice,
To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses,
The roses that were gather'd one by one
For him, by his fond parent nurse; the last
Was placed upon his pillow, and that night,
That very night, he died! And he was laid
In the same church-yard where his father lay,-
Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd.
The grave was closed; but still the widow sat
Upon a sod beside, and silently
(Her's was not grief that words had comfort for)
The funeral train pass'd on, and she was left
Alone amid the tombs; but once she look'd
Towards the shadowy lane, then turn'd again,
As desolate and sick at heart, to where
Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead together!
She went home to her lonely room. Next morn
Some enter'd it, and there she sat,
Her white hair hanging o'er the wither'd hands
On which her pale face leant; the Bible lay
Open beside, but blister'd were the leaves
With two or three large tears, which had dried in:
Oh, happy she had not survived her child!
And many pitied her, for she had spent
Her little savings, and she had no friends;
But strangers made her grave in that church-yard,
And where her sailor slept, there slept his mother!
SMALL TALK.
SMALL talk is indispensable at routs,
But more so at a little coterie,
Where friends, in number eight-or thereabout-
Meet to enjoy loquacity and tea.
If small talk were abolish'd, I've my doubts
If ladies would survive to fifty-three;
Nor shall the stigma, ladies, fall on you,
Men love a little bit of small talk too.
What changes there would be, if no tongues ran
Except in sober sense and conversation;
There's many a communicative man
Would take to silence and to cogitation. "Twould stop old maids (if aught that's earthly can) And cut the thread of many an oration:
Old bachelors would daudle through the day,
And go on in a very humdrum way.
What would become of those who, when at prayers,
Lean down their heads, and whisper in their pews;
Those at the play who give themselves such airs,
Careful each celebrated speech to lose?
How would the poor man suffer, who prepares
For small snug parties which he can't refuse?
What would become of all the gay pursuits,
If all gay people suddenly turn'd mutes?
Partners at balls would look extremely blue,
While waiting for their turn to point the toe;
Youths tête-à-tête would scarce know what to do,
Over their juice of grape, or juice of sloe:
Two people in a chaise might travel through
England and Wales-and they in fact might go
Over the continent, and all the way
Be confidential once or twice a-day.
Lovers would think it very hard, I fear,
If sober sense they were condemn'd to speak;
Husbands and wives a voice would seldom hear,
Unless it happen'd to be washing week;
The language of the eyes, I think, 't is clear,
Old married people very seldom seek:
(Couples oft disagree, I'm told)--but this
Is just by way of a parenthesis.
How very peaceable we should be then,
None would have words, even bullies would be dumb;
How changed would be the busy hum of men;
The fame of certain wits would prove a hum;
Tatlers, deprived of speech, would seize a pen,
They are a nuisance not to be o'ercome;
Schemers the credulous no more would balk,
For schemes would very rarely end in talk.
These changes are not all;-I'll not proceed, I've mention'd quite enough in my narration; They'd be so universal, that indeed
They'd baffle any man's investigation. To calculate them all-I must exceed
George Bidder, who is famed for calculation: Arithmetic to him's a pleasant game
"He lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came!"
DEAR COUSIN,-I write this in haste,
To beg you will get for Mamma
A pot of best Jessamine paste,
And a pair of shoe-buckles for "Pa,"
At Exeter Change;-then just pop
Into Aldersgate-street for the prints-
And, while you are there, you can stop
For a skein of white worsted at Flint's.
Papa wants a new razor-strop,
And Mamma wants a Chinchelli muff;
Little Bobby's in want of a top,
And my aunt wants six pen'orth of snuff.
Just call in St. Martin's-le-Grand
For some goggles for Mary (who squints,)
Get a pound of bees-wax in the Strand,
And the skein of white worsted at Flint's.
And while you are there, you may stop
For some souchong in Monument Yard;
And while you are there, you can pop
Into Mary'bone-street for some lard;
And while you are there, you can call
For some silk, of the latest new tints,
At the mercer's not far from Whitehall-
And remember the worsted at Flint's.
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