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And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and

took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said, “Where were you yes

terday? Whose child is that? What are you doing

here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 66 This is William's

child!” " And did I not,” said Allan, “ did I not Forbid you, Dora ?” Dora said again : “Do with me as you will, but tako the child And bless him for the sake of him that's

gone!” And Allan said, “I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you

dared To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy ; But go you hence, and never see me more.'

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers

fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her

head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd

down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's honse, and

stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, “ My uncle took the boy ; But, Mary, let me live and work with you; He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, “ This shall never be. That thou shouldst take my trouble on thy

And clapt him on the hands and on the

cheeks, 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 sat him down, and Mary said:

“O father !—if you let me call you soI never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora : take her back; she loves you well. Oh, 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 through !' Then

he turn'a 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

slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs :“I have been to blame—to blame! I have

kill'd my son! I have kill'd him—but I loved him-my dear

son! May God forgive me! I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children!

Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many

times And all the man was broken with remorse ; And all his love came back a hundred-fold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's

child, Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

Alfred Tennyson.Born 1810.


And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him harshness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch ; they peep'd and


I heard a sick man's dying sigh,

And an infant's idle laughter:
The Old Year went with mourning by-

The New came dancing after!
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear

Let Revelry hold her ladle ;
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier-

Fling roses on the cradle


The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,

Mutes to wait on the funeral state,

Pages to pour the wine ;
A requiem for Twenty-eight,

And a health to Twenty-nine !

Alas for human happiness !

Alas for human sorrow!
Our yesterday is nothingness-

What else will be our morrow ?
Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,

And Knavery stealing purses ;
Still cooks must live by making tarts,

And wits by making verses ;
While sages prate, and courts debate,

The same stars set and shine ;
And the world, as it roll'd through Twenty-

eight, Must roll through Twenty-nine.

My patron will sate his pride from plate,

And his thirst from Bordeaux wineHis nose was red in Twenty-eight,

'Twill be redder in Twenty-nine. And O! I shall find how, day by day,

All thoughts and things look olderHow the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay,

And the heart of Friendship colder ;
But still I shall be what I have been,

Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And seldom troubled with the spleen,

And fond of talking treason;
I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate,

And throw and write my line;
And the woman I worshipp'd in Twenty.

I shall worship in Twenty-nine.

W. M. Praed.-Born 1802, Died 1839.

Some king will come, in heaven's good time,

To the tomb his father came to; Some thief will wade through blood and crime

To a crown he has no claim to;
Some suffering land will rend in twain

The manacles that bound her,
And gather the links of the broken chain

To fasten them proudly round her;
The grand and great will love and hate,

And combat and combine ;
And much where we were in Twenty-eight,

We shall be in Twenty-nine.
O'Connell will toil to raise the rent,

And Kenyon to sink the Nation;
And Shiel will abuse the Parliament,

And Peel the Association;
And thought of bayonets and swords

Will make ex-Chancellors merry ;
And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords

And throats in the County of Kerry ;
And writers of weight will speculate

On the Cabinet's design;
And just what it did in Twenty-eight

It will do in Twenty-nine.
And the goddess of Love will keep her smiles,

And the god of Cups his orgies; And there'll be riots in St. Giles,

And weddings in St. George's ; And mendicants will sup like kings,

And lords will swear like lacqueys ; And black eyes oft will lead to rings,

And rings will lead to black eyes;
And pretty Kate will scold her mate,

In a dialect all divine ;
Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,

They will part in Twenty-nine.

1710.–PICTURE OF TWILIGHT. Oh, twilight ! Spirit that dost render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with

earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams; Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and

sweet Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward

feet, Who, slow returning from his task of toil, Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, And, though such radiance round him brightly

glows, Marks the small spark his cottage-window

throws. Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, Recalls the treasures of his narrow lifeHis rosy children and his sunburnt wife, To whom his coming is the chief event Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, And these poor cottagers have only cast One careless glance on all that show of pride, Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside ; But him they wait for, him they welcome home, Fix'd sentinels look forth to see him come ; The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; For him the watching of that sturdy boy, For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, For him—who plods his sauntering way along Whistling the fragment of some village song !

Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweetlight, Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night! As in impatient hope he stands apart, Companion'd only by his beating heart, And with an eager fancy oft beholds The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds.

Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1808.

My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs,

And talk of his oils and blubbers;
My aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns,

And rather longer rubbers ;
My cousin in parliament will prove

How utterly ruin'd trade is ;
My brother, at Eton, will fall in love

With half a hundred ladies;

Because a haughty spirit swell’d thy breast,
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the

Mingling with every playful infant wile
A mimic majesty that made us smile.
And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou

Aneye of resolute and successful schemingFair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless

browFit for the world's strife, not for poet's

dreaming; And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both! yet each succeeding claim,

I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forth with admitted, equal and the same ;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing, Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, But in the mother's heart found room for all.

Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1808.

1711.-THE MOTHER'S HEART. When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest born, first hope, and dearest

treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy

years, And natural piety that lean'd to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient of rebuke when justly givenObedient, easy to be reconciled, And meekly cheerful—such wert thou, my child. Not willing to be left : still by my side Haunting my walks, while summer-day was

dying; Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide Through the dark room, where I was sadly

lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. O boy! of such as thcu are oftenest made

Earth’s fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy fresḥness—prone to

fadeAnd bending weakly to the thunder

showerStill round the loved, thy heart found force

to bind, And clung like woodbine shaken in the wind. Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, With thy sweet temper and thy spirit free, Didst come as restless as a bird's wing

glancing, Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth : Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of

joy! Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re

soundeth ; Thine was the eager spirit nonght could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief re

boundeth ; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye! And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness

warming; The coaxing smile—the frequent soft caressThe earnest, tearful prayer all wrath dis

arming! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reach'd

its bound. At length thou camest—thou, the last and

least, Nicknamed “the emperor' by thy langhing


Rosy child, with forehead fair,
Coral lip, and shining hair,
In whose mirthful, clever eyes
Such a world of gladness lies;
As thy loose curls idly straying
O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing,
Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine
With the glittering light of thine,-
Who shall say, who gazes now,
Which is fairest, she or thou ?

In sweet contrast are ye met,
Such as heart could ne'er forget:
Thou art brilliant as a flower,
Crimsoning in the sunny hour;
Merry as a singing-bird,
In the green wood sweetly heard ;
Restless as if fluttering wings
Bore thee on thy wanderings;
Ignorant of all distress,
Full of childhood's carelessness.

She is gentle ; she hath known
Something of the echo'd tone
Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes,
In this world of many woes.
On her brow such shadows are
As the faint cloud gives the star,
Veiling its most holy light,
Though it still be pure and bright;
And the colour in her cheek
To the hue on thine is weak,
Save when flush'd with sweet surprise,
Sudden welcomes light her eyes;
And her softly chisell’a face
(But for living, moving grace)
Looks like one of those which beam
In th' Italian painter's dream,-
Some beloved Madonna, bending
O'er the infant she is tending ;

In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun,

She bears him onward to the greenwood


Holy, bright, and undefiled
Mother of the Heaven-born child;
Who, tho' painted strangely fair,
Seems but made for holy prayer,
Pity, tears, and sweet appeal,
And fondness such as angels feel ;
Baffling earthly passion's sigh
With serenest majesty!

Oh! may those enshrouded years
Whose fair dawn alone appears, —
May that brightly budding life,
Knowing yet nor sin nor strife,-
Bring its store of hoped-for joy,
Mother, to thy laughing boy !
And the good thou dost impart
Lie deep-treasured in his heart,
That, when he at length shall strive
In the bad world where we live,
Thy sweet name may still be blest
As one who taught his soul true rest!

Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1808.

Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless

one, The place where an Earl's son should cradled be?

Lullaby! Though a proud Farl be father to my child, Yet on the sward my blessed babe shall

lie; Let the winds lull him with their murmurs

wild, And toss the green boughs upwards to the

sky. Well knows that Earl how long my spirit

pined. I loved a forester, glad, bold, and free; And had I wedded as my heart inclined, My child were cradled 'neath the greenwood tree.

Lullaby! Slumber thou still, my innocent_mine own,

While I call back the dreams of other days. In the deep forest I feel less alone Than when those palace splendors mock

my gaze. Fear not! my arm shall bare thee safely back ;

I need no squire, no page with bended knee, To bear my baby through the wildwood track, Where Allan Percy used to roam with me.

Lullaby! Here I can sit; and while the fresh wind

blows, Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair, Giving thy cheek a deeper tinge of rose, I can dream dreams that comfort my de

spair ; I can make visions of a different home,

Such as we hoped in other days might be ; There no proud Earl's unwelcome footsteps


We have been friends together,

In sunshine and in shade;
Since first beneath the chestnut trees

In infancy we play'd.
But coldness dwells within thy heart-

A cloud is on thy brow;
We have been friends together

Shall a light word part us now?
We have been gay together;

We have laugh'd at little jests; For the fount of hope was gushing,

Warm and joyous, in our breasts. But laughter now hath fled thy lip,

And sullen glooms thy brow; We have been gay together

Shall a light word part us now ? We have been sad together

We have wept, with bitter tears, O’er the grass-grown graves, where slum.

The hopes of early years.
The voices which are silent there

Would bid thee clear thy brow;
We have been sad together-
O! what shall part us now?

Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1803.

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1714.—ALLAN PERCY. It was a beauteous lady richly dress'd ;

Around her neck are chains of jewels rare; A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast, And a young child is softly slumbering


1715.—LOVE NOT. Lore not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly

flowers Things that are made to fade and fall away Ere they have blossom’d for a few short hours.

Love not!

Love not! the thing ye love may change ;
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not!
Love not! the thing you love may die-
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth.


The king blew a blast on his bugle horn.

(Silence !) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo return'd on the cold grey morn,

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide ; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,

Who had yearn'd for his voice while dying! The panting steed, with a drooping crest,

Stood weary. The king return'd from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gush'd forth which he strove to

check; He bow'd his head on his charger's neck: "O, steed—that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying !"

Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1808.

Love not! oh warning vainly said
In present hours as in years gone by :
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
Faultless, immortal, till they change or die.

Love not!
Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1808.

1716.—THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. Word was brought to the Danish King

(Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would


(O! ride as though you were flying !) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl;

And his Rose of the Isles is dying!

1717.—THE BROOK-SIDE. I wander'd by the brook-side, I wander'd by the mill; I could not hear the brook flowThe noisy wheel was still ; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;
I watch'd the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid ;
For I listen'd for a footfall,
I listen'd for a word
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need ;

(O! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers stagger'd and sank ; Bridles were slacken'd, and girths were burst; But ride

as they would, the king rode first, For his Rose of the Isles lay dying !

He came not,-no, he came not-
The night came on alone-
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne ;
The evening wind pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd-
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry !) They have fainted, and faltered, and homewara

gone; His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying ! The king look'd back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled ; They pass'd the drawbridge with clattering

din, Then he dropp'd ; and only the king rode in

Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying ;

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind ;
A hand was on my shoulder-
I knew its touch was kind :
It drew me nearer--nearer,-
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

Lord Houghton.-Born 1809

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