Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

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,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a Desart thrown
Inheritest the Lion's Den ;

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

[ocr errors]

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.

XX.

ONCE in a lonely Hamlet I sojourned

In which a Lady driv'n 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 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, thou 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
'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!

« AnteriorContinuar »