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, 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 incommnnicable 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.
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.
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 those lofty thoughts I woke, 'What treasure," said I, do you bear, Beneath the covert of your cloak, Protected from the cold damp air ?" She answered, soon as she the question heard,
"A simple burden, sir, a little singingbird.
"I had a son,-the waves might roar,
He feared them not, a sailor gay!
But he will cross the deep no more: 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."
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, No truth is in them who say so! It was unlucky '-no, no, no;
"My own dear little one will sigh, Sweet babe! and they will let him die. And you may see his hour is come.' He pines,' they'll say, it is his doom. Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, And countenance like a summer's day, Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, They would have hopes of him-and then I should behold his face again!
There was a smile or two-yet-yet ""Tis gone-like dreams that we forget; I can remember them, I see The smile worth all the world to me.
Dear baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms; Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms, By those bewildering glances crost In which the light of his is lost.
"Oh! how I love thee!-we still stay Together here this one half day.
My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came; She with her mother crossed 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, little stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear!
Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock, From which her graces and her honours [youth, And hence the father of the enamoured With haughty indignation, spurned the thought
Of such alliance.-From their cradles up. With but a step between their several homes, [strife Twins had they been in pleasure; after And petty quarrels, had grown fond again; Each other's advocate, each other's stay; And strangers to content if long apart, Or more divided than a sportive pair Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering
Within the eddy of a common blast, Or hidden only by the concave depth Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight.
By ready nature, for a life of love, For endless constancy, and placid truth; But whatsoever of such rare treasure lay Reserved, had fate permitted, for support Of their maturer years, his present mind Was under fascination;-he beheld A vision, and adored the thing he saw. Arabian fiction never filled the world With half the wonders that were wrought for him. Earth breathed in one great presence of the [spring, Life turned the meanest of her implements, Before his eyes, to price above all gold; The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine:
Her chamber window did surpass in glory The portals of the dawn; all paradise Could, by the simple opening of a door, Let itself in upon him: pathways, walks, Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank,
Surcharged, within him,-overblest to move Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
Is busy at her casement as the swallow Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach, About the pendent nest, did thus espy Her lover thence a stolen interview,
Accomplished under friendly shade of night.
To some remote and solitary place, Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, Their happiness, or to disturb their love. Where they may live, with no one to behold But now of this no whisper; not the less, If ever an obtrusive word were dropped Touching the matter of his passion, still, In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour Persisted openly that death alone Should abrogate his human privilege Upon the altar. to the maid he loved. Divine, of swearing everlasting truth,
"You shall be baffled in your mad intent If there be justice in the court of France," Muttered the father.-From these words the youth
Conceived a terror,—and, by night or day, Stirred nowhere without weapons-that full soon
Found dreadful provocation: for at night When to his chamber he retired, attempt Was made to seize him by three armed
Acting, in furtherance of the father's will, One, did the youth's ungovernable hand Under a private signet of the state. Assault and slay, and to a second gave A perilous wound,-he shuddered to behold I pass the raptures of the pair;-such The breathless corse; then peacefully retheme
Is, by innumerable poets, touched
In more delightful verse than skill of mine Could fashion, chiefly by that darling bard Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, And of the lark's note heard before its time, And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds
His person to the law, was lodged in prison, And wore the fetters of a criminal.
Have you beheld a tuft of winged seed That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use Its natural gifts for purposes of rest,
Doomed to a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. "You shall return. Julia," said he, "and to your father's house Go with the child. You have been wretched; yet [then weighs The silver shower, whose reckless burToo heavily upon the lily's head, Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. Malice, beholding you, will melt away. Go!-'tis a town where both of us were None will reproach you, for our truth is born; [known; And if, amidst those once-bright bowers, Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. Or art can fashion, shall you deck your With ornaments-the prettiest nature yields And feed his countenance with your own boy, [sweet looks I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; Till no one can resist him.-Now, even now, My father from the window sees him too:
Startled, as if some new-created thing Enriched the earth, or faery of the woods Bounded before him ;-but the unweeting child Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's [heart So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily-as they began!"
Appeared but seldom : oftener was he seen These gleams Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the mother's bosom; resting thus His head upon one breast, while from the
The babe was drawing in its quiet food. That pillow is no longer to be thine, Fond youth! that mournful solace now must pass
Into the list of things that cannot be ! Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears The sentence, by her mother's lip pro- nounced, [shall tell,
That dooms her to a convent. Who dares report the tidings to the
Of her affections? So they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
Of agony had pressed the sufferer down ;
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