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:
Whose child is that?

Where were you yesterday?

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 bowed 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 105 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 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,

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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

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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 so

I never came a-begging for myself,

Or William, or this child; but now I come

For Dora take her back; she loves you well.

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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 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 thro'!" Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd- unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you

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Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

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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.

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(3) CHARACTER-PIECES

CENONE

THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.

The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine
In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus

Stands up and takes the morning: but in front
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal

Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel,

The crown of Troas.

5

ΙΟ

Hither came at noon

Mournful Enone, wandering forlorn

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Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.

Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck

Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest.

She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill :
The grasshopper is silent in the grass:
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,

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25

Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead.
The purple flower droops: the golden bee
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake.

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,
And I am all aweary of my life.

'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,

Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.

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Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves

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That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks,

I am the daughter of a River-God,

Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all

My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,
A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be
That, while I speak of it, a little while
My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
I waited underneath the dawning hills,
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark,

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45

And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine:

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved,

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Came up from reedy Simois all alone.

'O mother Ida, harken ere I die.

Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft:

Far up the solitary morning smote

The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes

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I sat alone white-breasted like a star