XVII. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Seven years, alas! to have received To have despaired, and have believed, I catch at them, and then I miss; I look for Ghosts; but none will force Their way to me; 'tis falsely said My apprehensions come in crowds; Beyond participation lie If My troubles, and beyond relief: XVIII. THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. BY A FEMALE FRIEND. THE days are cold, the nights are long, Save thee, my pretty Love! The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; Nay! start not at that sparkling light; And wake when it is day. XIX. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. ONE morning (raw it was and wet, 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; 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, 1 She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird. "I had a Son, -the waves might roar, He feared them not, a Sailor gay! But he will cross the waves no more: In Denmark he was cast away; And I have travelled many miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. "The Bird and Cage they both were his ; 'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This Singing-bird had gone with him; When last he sailed he left the Bird behind; As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. "He to a Fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, I found it when my Son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it.' |