Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained
And her twin Brother, had the parent seen,
Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of
prey,
Death in a moment parted them, and left
The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse
Than desolate; for ofttimes from the sound
Of the survivor's sweetest voice, (dear child,
He knew it not!) and from his happiest looks,
Did she extract the food of self-reproach,
As one that lived ungrateful for the stay
By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed
And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy,
Now first acquainted with distress and grief,
Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned with
fear

Her sad approach, and stole away to find,
In his known haunts of joy, where'er he might,
A more congenial object. But, as time
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child
To what he saw, he gradually returned,
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew
A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe
Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop
To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread
Faint color over both their pallid cheeks,
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were
calmed

And cheered; and now together breathe fresh air
In
open fields; and when the glare of day

Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish
Befriends the observance, readily they join

In walks whose boundary was the lost One's grave,
Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there
Amusement, where the Mother does not miss
Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf
In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite
Of pious faith the vanities of grief;

For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits
Transferred to regions upon which the clouds
Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed
Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs,
And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow,
Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of
Heaven,

As now it is, seems to her own fond heart
Immortal as the love that gave it being.

XXVII.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet, —
A foggy day in winter-time)

A Woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime:
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it,” said I, “that you bear
Beneath the covert of your cloak,
Protected from this cold, damp air?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burden, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,
"I had a Son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain

for me.

"The bird and cage, they both were his: 'T was my Son's bird; and neat and trim

He kept it: many voyages

The singing-bird had gone with him;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind, From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,

And pipe its song in safety; there
I found it when my Son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!
I bear it with me, Sir;- he took so much delight

in it."

1800.

XXVIII.

THE CHILDLESS FATHER.

"UP, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colors were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as

snow,

The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,

Filled the funeral basin* at Timothy's door;

* In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.

A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
"The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead."
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak ;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

1800.

XXIX.

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER.

ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned,

In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell.

This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighboring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.