Till she began to totter, and the child

Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry

Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke,

And my dream awed me:-well-but what are dreams? Yours came but from the breaking of a glass,

And mine but from the crying of a child.”

"Child? No!" said he, "but this tide's roar, and his, Our Boanerges with his threats of doom, And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms (Altho' I grant but little music there)

Went both to make your dream: but if there were
A music harmonizing our wild cries,

Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about,

Why, that would make our passions far too like
The discords dear to the musician.

No

One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven :
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune

With nothing but the Devil!"

"True' indeed!

One of our town, but later by an hour

Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore;
While you were running down the sands, and made

The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap,

Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news.
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night ?

I had set my heart on your forgiving him
Before you knew. We must forgive the dead.”

"Dead! who is dead?"

"The man your eye pursued.

A little after you had parted with him,
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease."

"Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he

To die of? dead!"

66 Ah, dearest, if there be

A devil in man, there is an angel too,

And if he did that wrong you charge him with,
His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again.
Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleep
Without her little birdie '? well then, sleep,
And I will sing you' birdie.'"

Saying this,

The woman half turn'd round from him she loved,
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night
Her other, found (for it was close beside)
And half embraced the basket cradle-head
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough
That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd
The cradle, while she sang this baby song.

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.

"She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep.
He also sleeps-another sleep than ours.
He can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear,
And I shall sleep the sounder ! "

Then the man,

"His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : I do forgive him!"

"Thanks, my love," she said,

"Your own will be the sweeter," and they slept.

CXV

THE GRANDMOTHER

I

AND Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like ə

man.

And Willy's wife has written: she never was overwise,
Never the wife for Willy: he wouldn't take my advice.

II

For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his

grave.

Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one. Eh-but he wouldn't hear me and Willy, you say, is

gone.

III

Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock; Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock. "Here's a leg for a babe of a week!" says doctor; and he would be bound,

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.

IV

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!

I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so

young.

I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.

Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;

But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

VI

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.

I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of

woe,

Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

VII

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well

That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would

not tell.

And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar!

But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.

VIII

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise,

That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with

outright,

But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

IX

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day;

And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of

May.

Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been! But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.

X

And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.

XI

All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm,

Willy, he didn't see me,-and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; Ah, there's no fool like the old one—it makes me angry now.

XII

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant;

Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. And I said, "Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same,

You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name."

XIII

And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine:

"Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.

And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or

ill;

But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still.”

XIV

"Marry you, Willy!" said I, "but I needs must speak my mind,

And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind."

But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, "No, love, no;"

Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers

a crown.

But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.