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, "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 take 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 house, and stood

self;

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

saw

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

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'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
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

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

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 Twentyeight,

Must roll through Twenty-nine.

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.

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;

My patron will sate his pride from plate,
And his thirst from Bordeaux wine-
His 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 older-
How 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 Twentyeight

I shall worship in Twenty-nine.

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

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 life-
His 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.

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 thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness-prone to fade

And bending weakly to the thunder

shower

Still 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 resoundeth;

Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth;

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 disarming!

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 laughing brothers,

1712. TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR.
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'd 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;

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.

1713-WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS
TOGETHER.

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 slumber'd

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.

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 there.

In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun, She bears him onward to the greenwood tree;

Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless

one,

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

Lullaby!

Though a proud Earl 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 despair;

I can make visions of a different home,

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

come

There, Allan Percy, I am safe with thee!

Lullaby!

Thou art mine own-I'll bear thee where I list

Far from the dull proud tower and donjon keep;

From my long hair the pearl chains I'll untwist,

And with a peasant's heart sit down and

weep.

Thy glittering broider'd robe, my precious one,
Changed for a simpler covering shall be;
And I will dream thee Allan Percy's son,
And think poor Allan guards thy sleep with

me.

Lullaby!

Hon. Mrs. Norton.-Born 1808.

1715.-LOVE NOT.

Love 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.
Love not!

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.

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.

1717. THE BROOK-SIDE.

I wander'd by the brook-side,
I wander'd by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow-
The 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.

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.

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