That may record my story nor let words-
Few must they be, and delicate in their touch
As light itself-be there withheld from Her
Who, through most wicked arts, was made an
orphan
By One who would have died a thousand times,
To shield her from a moment's harm. To you,
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her
In all things worthier of that noble birth,
Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve
Of restoration with your tenderest care
Watch over her, I pray- sustain her—
Several of the band (cagerly). Captain! Mur. No more of that; in silence hear my doom:
A hermitage has furnished fit relief
To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Romar., 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.
1795-6.
But how he will come, and whither he goes, There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring 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 covered 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 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me
You shall go to 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! 'tis 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?
He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him in ;
May drive at the windows,—we 'll laugh at his din ;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.
1806.
A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is past
Since your dear Mother went away,-
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.
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