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Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,
That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling 't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength ;-come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There-indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile [He sits down. Her. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.
On this green bank.
Do not reproach me:
Those eyeballs dark-dark beyond hope of light,
Her. I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful
As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Is he not strong?
Which with the motion of a virtuous act
Her. Thy Mother too!-scarce had I gained the door,
I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told,
I did not think that, during that long absence,
such wise to rack her gentle heart
Eat been a tenfold cruelty.
a't wager on his life for twenty years.
Why, this is noble ! shake her off at once. War. Her virtues are his instruments.-A Man Was so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child-what! leave her thus, Arey to a deceiver ?-no-no-noTs in a word and then
Something is here
More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales
have reached his ear-you have had enemies.
Nr. Enemies 1-of his own coinage.
That may be,
be wherefore slight protection such as you
This last request.
Good Host, such tendance as you would expect
We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
Host. Fear not, I will obey you ;-but One so
And One so fair, it goes against my heart
Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir ?)
Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.
A look of mine would send him scouring back,
When you are by my side.
Will bring me back-protect him, Saints-farewell! [Exit IDONEA. Host. "Tis never drought with us-St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims,
Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:
Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.
Her. No, no, the business must be done.What means this riotous noise ?
Is broken, you will hear no more of him.
That noise !-would I had gone with her as far
Idonea would have fears for me, the Convent
And he must lead me back.
You are most lucky;
I have been waiting in the wood hard by
Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.
We'll not complain of that.
Her. My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour!
Osw. Most willingly!-Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm. [Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE,
Osw. (to himself coming out of the Hostel). I have prepared a most apt InstrumentThe Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering some
About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
Futer more Villagers, a Musician among them.
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,
Hat (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and Trotting alone along the beaten road,
theft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids,
Are bere, to send the sun into the west
Scans hanges to the Wood adjoining the Hostel—
MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering.
Var. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: first I saw him sitting there, alone, lisack upon my heart I know not how.
One To-day will clear up all. You marked a Cottage,
That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock
the brook-side: it is the abode of One, A Malen mnocent till ensnared by Clifford, We soon grew weary of her; but, alas!
she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cat off by her Betrayer, she dwells alore, A moves ber hands to any needful work: Size eats bez food which every day the peasants bragt her but; and so the Wretch has lived Tears; and no one ever heard her voice; Ba every night at the first stroke of twelve
quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard
puo the self-same spot, in rain or storm,
paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and oneshe paces round and round an Infant's grave, And the churchyard sod her feet have worn A how ring; they say it is knee-deep—— An! what is here !
14 male Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in storp a Child in her arms.
By Oh! Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled beart of living creature.-My poor Babe Varying, as I thought, crying for bread
I had none to give him; whereupon, asp of foxglove in his hand,
⚫ prased him so, that he was hushed at once: , into one of those same spotted bells
I became darting, which the Child with joy ord there, and held it to his ear,
And mddenly grew black, as he would die.
Came to my child as by my side he slept
Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice,
Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint-no matter-this good day Has made amends.
Beg. Thanks to you both; but, O sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes ?
Beg. Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one-it cuts me to the heartWell they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: This they can do, and look upon my faceBut you, Sir, should be kinder.
A blind old Greybeard and accosted him,
I'll tell you:
I was saying, Sir
He has the very hardest heart on earth;
Ay; and if truth were known
And he seemed angry.
Mar. Your life is at my mercy.
And I will tell you all!-You know not, Sir,
Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.
Osw. Nay, but speak out!
He flattered me, and said
What harvest it would bring us both; and so,
Parted with whom?
Beg. Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl
Mar. Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife!
Was of Kirkoswald-many a snowy winter
Osw. We've solved the riddle-Miscreant !
I met you at the threshold, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait
What's this?—I fear, good Woman, In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns