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 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
Mary saw the boy
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
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.'
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, 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 His mother, he cried out to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!-if you let me call
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. 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
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.
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 hundredfold ;
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.
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 through 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 pillar'd 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.
There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 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 fourfield 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 a bloody trench
Where no one knows? but let me live my life.
'Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool,
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