THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET

OF

WHERE art thou, my beloved son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone !
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same,
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;

To have despair'd, and have believed,
And be for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss,
I catch at them, and then I miss ;
Was ever darkness like to this?

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power hath even his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares !
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.

Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
From that ill thought, and, being blind,
Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:" and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.

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.

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.

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

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

I look for ghosts, but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Betwixt 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.

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.

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.

ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourn'd,

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

This lady, dwelling upon English ground,
Where she was childless, daily did repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young child whose home was there.

Once did I see her clasp the child about,
And take it to herself; and I, next day,
Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out
Such things as she unto this child might say:

And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd,
My song the workings of her heart express'd.
"Dear babe, though daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!

An infant's face and looks are thine;
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest-field:
Thy little sister is at play ;-

What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!

"Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me-I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest

For thee, sweet baby!-thou hast tried,
Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou ;-alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.

"Here, little darling, dost thou lie ;
An infant thou, a mother I!

Mine wilt thou be-thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou, spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,

My baby and its dwelling-place,

The nurse said to me, Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face,

It was unlucky'-no, no, no;

No truth is in them who say so!

"My own dear little one will sigh,
Sweet babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him-and then
I should behold his face again!

"Tis gone-forgotten-let me do
My best-there was a smile or two;
I can remember them: I see

The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast thou, sweet ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms,
For they confound me as it is-
I have forgot those smiles of his.

"Oh! how I love thee !-we will stay
Together here this one half-day.

My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France across the ocean came;
She with her mother cross'd the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell:
My darling, she is not to me
What thou art! though I love her well:
Rest, litt.e stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!

"I cannot help it-ill intent
I've none, my pretty innocent!
I weep-I know they do thee wrong,
These tears-and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me-they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that quiet face,

• My heart again is in its place!

"While thou art mine, my little love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee.

Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my darling's name;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little sister thou shalt be:
And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell him many tales of thee."

HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from o'er the main.
She has a baby on her arm,

Or else she were alone;

And underneath the haystack warm,

And on the greenwood stone,

She talk'd and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.

"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle here,
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

"A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breasts, and pull'd at me.
But then there came a sight of joy;
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he.
"Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers press'd.
The breeze I see is in the tree;
It comes to cool my babe and me.
"Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rocks' edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,

He saves for me my precious soul:
Then happy lie, for bless'd am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.

"Then, do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be;

And I will always be thy guide
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know
The leaves that make the softest bed;
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing
As merry as the birds in spring.

Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: 'Tis all thine own!-and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, "Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. "Dread not their taunts, my little life; I am thy father's wedded wife;