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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
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
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
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.
• 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
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
WALKING TO THE MAIL.
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
What is it now?
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.