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To travel half a mile alone. - Good lady!
Forgive me!-Saints forgive me. Had I thought
It would have come to this!-

Idon.
What brings you hither? speak!
Beg. (pointing to MARMADUKE). This innocent gen-
tleman. Sweet heavens! I told him

Such tales of your dead father! - God is my judge,
I thought there was no harm: but that bad man,
He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce.
Mercy! I said I know not what―O, pity me—
I said, sweet lady, you were not his daughter-
Pity me, I am haunted; - thrice this day

My conscience made me wish to be struck blind;
And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.
Idon. (to MARMADUKE.) Was it my father?-no,
no, no, for he

Was meek, and patient, feeble, old and blind,
Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life.
For one question, I have a heart

But hear me.

That will sustain me. Did you murder him?

Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. (ironically.)
Start not! Here is another face hard by;
Come, let us take a peep at both together,
And, with a voice at which the dead will quake,
Resound the praise of your morality—
Of this too much.

[Drawing OSWALD towards the collage — stops
short at the door.

Men are there, millions, Oswald,
Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart
And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised
Above, or sunk below, all further sense
Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight
Of that old man's forgiveness on thy heart,
Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine.
Coward I have been; know, there lies not now
Within the compass of a mortal thought

A deed that I would shrink from;- but to endure,
That is my destiny. May it be thine:
Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth

Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the To feed remorse, to welcome every sting

process:

Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt
Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt,

Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth
And innocence, embodied in his looks,

His words and tones and gestures, did but serve
With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped
Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded.
Then pity crossed the path of my resolve:
Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast,
Idonea! thy blind father, on the ordeal
Of the bleak waste-left him

- and so he died!-
[IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar, ELEANOR, &c.,
crowd round, and bear her off.

Why may we speak these things, and do no more;
Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power,
And words that tell these things be heard in vain?
She is not dead. Why!- if I loved this woman,
I would take care she never woke again
But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me,
And say, no blame was mine-and so, poor fool,
Will waste her curses on another name.

Of penitential anguish, yea with tears.
When seas and continents shall lie between us
The wider space the better - we may find
In such a course fit links of sympathy,
An incommunicable rivalship

Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view.
[Confused voices-several of the band enter-
rush upon OswALD and seize him.
One of them. I would have dogged him to the jaws

of hell!

Osw. Ha! is it so!-That vagrant hag!-this comes
Of having left a thing like her alive!
Several voices. Despatch him!

Osw.

[Aside.

If I pass beneath a rock
And shout, and, with the echo of my voice,
Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me,

I die without dishonour. Famished, starved,

A fool and coward blended to my wish!

[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE. Wal. "T is done! (stabs him.)

Another of the band. The ruthless traitor!
Mar.

[He walks about distractedly. With that reproof I do resign a station
Of which I have been proud.

Enter OSWALD.

OSWALD. (to himself.) Strong to o'erturn, strong

also to build up.

[TO MARMADUKE.
The starts and sallies of our last encounter
Were natural enough; but that, I trust,
Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains
That fettered your nobility of mind-
Delivered heart and head!

A rash deed!

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Brothers in arms!

To weep that I am gone.
Raise on that dreary waste a monument

Let us to Palestine; That may record my story: nor let words -
Few must they be, and delicate in their touch

This is a paltry field for enterprise.
Mar. Ay, what shall we encounter next? This As light itself-be there withheld from her
issue-

"T was nothing more than darkness deepening darkness,

And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!

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Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer must I go,
The spectre of that innocent man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on-

A man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life-till anger is appeased
In Heaven, and mercy gives me leave to die.

NOTES

ΤΟ

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.

Note 1, p. 25.

Of the Poems in this class, "THE EVENING WALK" AN: "DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES" were first published in They are reprinted with some unimportant alteme that were chiefly made very soon after their ta. It would have been easy to amend them, ay passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the tempbut attempts of this kind are made at the risk **ring those characteristic features which, after all, * be regarded as the principal recommendation of vende poems

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Note 2, p. 39.

And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly.' From a short MS. poem read to me when an underrate, by my schoolfellow and friend, Charles Farish, sace deceased. The verses were by a brother of La man of promising genius, who died young.

Note 3, p. 45.

'The Borderers.

Tas Dramatic Piece, as noticed in its title-page, was posed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till

within the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading persons of the drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so are there no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of "The Borderers" was composed.—1842.

POEMS

REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD

My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a Man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is Father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.*

TO A BUTTERFLY.

STAY near me do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in Thee,
Historian of my Infancy!

Float near me: do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bringest, gay Creature as thou art:
A solemn image to my heart,
My Father's Family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My Sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the Butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey-with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

FORESIGHT,

"THE CHARGE OF A CHILD TO HIS YOUNGER

COMPANION.

THAT is work of waste and ruin-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them-here are many:
Look at it-the Flower is small,
Sail and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.

• See Note.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.

- Here are Daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the Cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty Daffodil

Make your bed, and make your bower: Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the spring may love them
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured Strawberry-flower.
When the months of Spring are fled
Hither let us bend our walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;

And for that promise spare the Flower!

CHARACTERISTICS

OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; And Innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; And feats of cunning; and the pretty round Of trespasses, affected to provoke Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth,

Not less if unattended and alone

Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity,

Even so this happy creature of herself

Is all-sufficient; solitude to her

Is blithe society, who fills the air

With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping Fawn's

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And rings a sharp 'larum ; — but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were cover'd with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,

Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
-Yet seek him,-and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

As soon as 't is daylight, to-morrow with me,
You shall go the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about:
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

-But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! 't is the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
- Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

By the same.

A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is passed
Since your dear Mother went away,
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy! The eldest heard with steady glee; Silent he stood; then laughed amain, And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; "Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his Sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs, without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

IIer Lrother now takes up the note, And echoes back his Sister's glee; They hug the Infant in my arms, As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,-
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And "all since Mother went away!"

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