XVII.

THE AFFLICTION

OF

MARGARET.

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 despaired, 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?

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

If

My troubles, and beyond relief:
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.

XVIII.

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.

XIX.

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 treasure," said I, "do you bear,
Beneath the covert of your Cloak
Protected from the cold damp air?"

1

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird.

"I had a Son,

-the waves might roar,

He feared them not, a Sailor gay!

But he will cross the waves no more:

In Denmark he was cast away;

And I have travelled many 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;

As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.

"He to a Fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
Till he came back again; and there

I found it when my Son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!

I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it.'