VI.

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

VII.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount-how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

VIII.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;

Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

IX.

I look for ghosts; but none will force

Their to me 'tis falsely said way

That there was ever intercourse

Between the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.

X.

My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.

XI.

Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief:

If

any chance to heave a sigh, They pity me, and not my grief.

Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend!

1804.

XXIII.

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.

BY A FEMALE FRIEND.

THE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;

Then hush again upon my

breast;

All merry things are now at rest,

Save thee, my pretty Love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little Darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.

1805.

XXIV.

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 burthen, 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 :
'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; 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.