Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount, how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
An incommnnicable sleep..
I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me: 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Betwixt the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me and not my grief.
Then come to me, my son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end
I have no other earthly friend.
THE CHILDLESS FATHER.
"UP, Timothy, up with your staff and away! [will stay; Not a soul in the village this morning The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, [hounds." And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the
Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and [were seen; green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, [door; Filled the funeral basin* at Timothy's A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; [his last. One child did it bear, and that child was
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, [away! The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut With a leisurely motion the door of his
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." [speak, But of this in my ears not a word did he And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
Once, having seen her take with fond embrace
This infant to herself, I framed a lay; Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to [say:
Such things as she unto the child might
And thus, from what I knew, had heard,
and guessed,
[pressed.
My song the workings of her heart ex-
"Dear babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest-feld:
Thy little sister is at play;
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!
"Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a babe at home :
A long, long way of land and sea
Come to me-I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest
For thee, sweet baby!-thou hast tried,
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou;-alas to me
Far more than I can be to thee.
"Here, little darling, dost thou lie;
An infant thou, a mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou-spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place;
The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky'-no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!
"My own dear little one will sigh,
Sweet babe! and they will let him die.
He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom.
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him-and then
I should behold his face again!
There was a smile or two-yet-yet ""Tis gone-like dreams that we forget; I can remember them, I see
The smile worth all the world to me.
Dear baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms,
By those bewildering glances crost
In which the light of his is lost.
"Oh! how I love thee!-we still stay
Together here this one half day.
My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came;
She with her mother crossed the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell:
My darling, she is not to me
What thou art! though I love her well:
Rest, little stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!
"—I cannot help it-ill intent
I've none, my pretty innocent!
I weep-I know they do thee wrong,
These tears-and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me-they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that soft, warm face,
My heart again is in its place!
"While thou art mine, my little love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee:
Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my darling's name ;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little sister thou shalt be:
And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell him many tales of thee.'
VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.
The following tale was written as an episode in
a work from which its length may perhaps
exclude it. The facts are true; no invention
as to these has been exercised, as none was
needed.
Он, happy time of youthful lovers, (thus
My story may begin,) oh, balmy time,
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
To such inheritance of blessed fancy
(Fancy that sports more desperately with
minds
The high-born Vaudracour was brought,
by years
Whose progress had a little overstepped
His stripling prime.
repute,
Among the vine-clad mountains of
Auvergne,
[wooed a maid
Was the youth's birthplace. There he
Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit
With answering vows. Plebeian was the
stock,
Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,
From which her graces and her honours
sprung:
[youth,
And hence the father of the enamoured
With haughty indignation, spurned the
thought
Of such alliance.-From their cradles up,
With but a step between their several
homes,
[strife
Twins had they been in pleasure; after
And petty quarrels, had grown fond again;
Each other's advocate, each other's stay;
And strangers to content if long apart,
Or more divided than a sportive pair
Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are
hovering
Within the eddy of a common blast,
Or hidden only by the concave depth
Of neighbouring billows from each other's
sight.
Thus, not without concurrence of an age Unknown to memory,
By ready nature, for a life of love,
For endless constancy, and placid truth;
But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay
Reserved, had fate permitted, for support
Of their maturer years,
his present mind
Was under fascination;-he beheld
A vision, and adored the thing he saw.
Arabian fiction never filled the world
With half the wonders that were wrought
Earth breathed in one great presence of the
for him.
[spring;
Life turned the meanest of her implements,
Before his eyes, to price above all gold;
The house she dwelt in was a sainted
shrine:
Her chamber window did surpass in glory
The portals of the dawn; all paradise
Could, by the simple opening of a door,
Let itself in upon him: pathways, walks,
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit
sank,
Than ever fortune hath been known to do) | Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
Surcharged, within him,-overblest to move
In the unrelenting east.-Through all her
The vacant city slept; the busy winds,
That keep no certain intervals of rest,
Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy dis-
played
Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat
Aloft;-momentous but uneasy bliss!
To their full hearts the universe seemed
On that brief meeting's slender filament!
"You shall be baffled in your mad intent If there be justice in the court of France, Muttered the father.-From these words the youth
Conceived a terror, and, by night or day, Stirred nowhere without weapons-that full soon
Found dreadful provocation: for at night
When to his chamber he retired, attempt
Was made to seize him by three, armèd
men,
Acting, in furtherance of the father's will,
Under a private signet of the state.
One, did the youth's ungovernable hand
Assault and slay, and to a second gave
A perilous wound, -he shuddered to behold
The breathless corse; then peacefully re-
signed
His person to the law, was lodged in prison,
And wore the fetters of a criminal.
Have you beheld a tuft of winged seed
That, from the dandelion's naked stalk,
Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use
Its natural gifts for purposes of rest,
Doomed to a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. "You shall return, Julia," said he, "and to your father's house Go with the child. You have been wretched; yet [then weighs The silver shower, whose reckless burToo heavily upon the lily's head, Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.
Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
Go!-'tis a town where both of us were None will reproach you, for our truth is born; [known; And if, amidst those once-bright bowers, Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. Or art can fashion, shall you deck your With ornaments-the prettiest nature yields And feed his countenance with your own boy, [sweet looks Till no one can resist him.-Now, even now, I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; My father from the window sees him too; Startled, as if some new-created thing Enriched the earth, or faery of the woods Bounded before him ;-but the unweeting child (heart Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily- -as they began!"
These gleams Appeared but seldom : oftener was he seen Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the mother's bosom; resting thus His head upon one breast, while from the other
The babe was drawing in its quiet food.
That pillow is no longer to be thine,
Fond youth! that mournful solace now
must pass
Into the list of things that cannot be !
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears
The sentence, by her mother's lip pro-
nounced,
[shall tell,
That dooms her to a convent.
Who dares report the tidings to the
lord
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Of her affections? So they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
Of agony had pressed the sufferer down ;
|