Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 130 Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her; And Allan set him down, and Mary said: 'O father!-- if you let me call you so— I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora; take her back, she loves you well. 140 O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus. "God bless him!" he said, "and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!" Then he turn'd His face and pass'd - unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to Went forward Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death To Francis, with a basket on his arm, With all my Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 10 We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, 20 Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast; Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip. I 70 go to-night; I come to-morrow morn. I go, but I return; I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.' So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son, who lived across the bay, My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere, Did what I would. But ere the night we stay'd. 30 The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, 'What! You 're flitting!' 'Yes, we 're flitting,' says the ghost For they had pack'd the thing among the beds. 'O, well,' says he, 'you flitting with us too! Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again.' John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once; 40 A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. O, yet but I remember, ten years back 'Tis now at least ten years and then she was '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 unreal 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, 50 And for the good and increase of the world.' 'Parson,' said I, 'you pitch the pipe too But I have sudden touches, and can run I ask'd him half-sardonically. 'Give? 59 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 breath; her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and |