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Heart-broken, and his father help'd him

not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they

know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and

thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and

said : *I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he

chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you : You know there has not been for these

five years So full a harvest : let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat ; that when his heart

is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's

gone.' And Dora took the child, and went her

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

yesterday? 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

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Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies

grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not ; for none of all his


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

Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to

him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers

reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was


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 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

thyself : And, now I think, he shall not have the

boy, For he will teach him hardness, 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

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 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. 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 meI 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

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

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stretch'd out

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.

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• The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and

not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court.'

I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow

quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea. With all my

heart,' Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro'

the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn.

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 pillard 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.

Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and

eat And talk'd old matters over ; who was

dead, Who married, who was like to be, and

how The races went, and who would rent the

hall : Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce

it was This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd

the farm, The four-field system, and the price of

grain ; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we

split, And came again together on the king With heated faces ;. till he laugh'd aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin

hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and

sang-Oh! who would fight and march and

countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell’d up into some bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live

my life. • Oh! who would cast and balance at

a desk,

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Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd

stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk? but let me live my life. · Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved

my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all : but let me live my

life. "Oh! who would love? I wood a

woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn'd from her, as a

thorn Turns from the sea; but let me live my

life.' He sang his song, and I replied with

mine : I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir

Robert's pride, His books—the more the pity, so I saidCame to the hammer here in March -

and this I set the words, and added names I knew. 'Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream

of me : Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is

mine. Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. Sleep, breathing health and peace

upon her breast : Sleep, brcathing love and trust against

her lip : I 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


John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh

the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a


Is yon plantation where this byway joins
The turnpike?

James. Yes.
John. And when does this come by?
James. The mail ? At one o'clock.

What is it now?
James. A quarter to.

John. Whose house is that I see? No, not the County Member's with the

vane : Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and

half A score of gables.


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