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النشر الإلكتروني

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 (eagerly).
Captain!
Mar. 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 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.

1795-6.

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But how he will come, and whither he goes, There's never a scholar in England knows.

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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 faggot 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

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:

Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; -But let him range round; he does us no harm,

Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir

Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,

Or from before it chasing wantonly

The many-coloured images imprest

Upon the bosom of a placid lake.

1811.

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.

VI.

ADDRESS TO A CHILD,

DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING.

BY MY SISTER.

WHAT way does the Wind come? What way does

he go?

He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky

height

Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding

flight;

He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;

VII.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

BY THE SAME.

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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