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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,
So the women kiss'd
1709.-TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY.
And an infant's idle laughter:
The New came dancing after!
Let Revelry hold her ladle ;
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 ;
And a health to Twenty-nine !
Alas for human happiness !
Alas for human sorrow!
What else will be our morrow ?
And Knavery stealing purses ;
And wits by making verses ;
The same stars set and shine ;
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 ;
Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And fond of talking treason;
And throw and write my line;
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;
The manacles that bound her,
To fasten them proudly round her;
And combat and combine ;
We shall be in Twenty-nine.
And Kenyon to sink the Nation;
And Peel the Association;
Will make ex-Chancellors merry ;
And throats in the County of Kerry ;
On the Cabinet's design;
It will do in Twenty-nine.
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;
In a dialect all divine ;
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;
And rather longer rubbers ;
How utterly ruin'd trade is ;
With half a hundred ladies;
Because a haughty spirit swell’d thy breast,
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
1712.—TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR.
In sweet contrast are ye met,
She is gentle ; she hath known
In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun,
She bears him onward to the greenwood
Holy, bright, and undefiled
Oh! may those enshrouded years
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
1713.—WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS
In sunshine and in shade;
In infancy we play'd.
A cloud is on thy brow;
Shall a light word part us now?
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.
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1803.
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! the thing ye love may change ;
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
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;
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-
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,
Lord Houghton.-Born 1809