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"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;

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What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if Thou would'st 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 a 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!

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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, 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 will 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!

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I've none, my pretty Innocent!

I know they do thee wrong,

I weep

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 soft, warm 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."

XXVII.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

The following tale was written as an Episode, in a work from which its length may perhaps exclude it. The facts are true; no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed.

O HAPPY time of youthful lovers, (thus
My story may begin) O balmy time,

In which a love-knot on a lady's brow

Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
To such inheritance of blessed fancy

(Fancy that sports more desperately with minds
Than ever fortune hath been known to do)
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years
Whose progress had a little overstepped
His stripling prime. A town of small repute,
Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne,
Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid
Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit

With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,

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