XXIII.

REPENTANCE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a burden of gold,

Could we but have been as contented as they.

When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand;

But, Allan,

be true to me, Allan,

we 'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!"

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers, Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide;

We could do what we liked with the land, it was

ours;

And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

But now we are strangers, go early or late;
And often, like one overburdened with sin,
With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate,
I look at the fields, but I cannot go in !

When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's

day,

Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,

A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,

"What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!"

With our pastures about us, we could not be sad;
Our comfort was near if we ever were crost;
But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we

had,

We slighted them all, and our birthright was lost.

O ill-judging sire of an innocent son,

Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that

The Sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft chain !

And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep

That besprinkled the field; 't was like youth in my blood!

Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh,

That follows the thought, We've no land in the

vale,

Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!

XXIV.

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET

1804.

I.

WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
O 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?

II.

Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;

To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
And been for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!

I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?

III.

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;

Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:

If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

IV.

Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.

V.

Neglect me! no, I suffered long

From that ill thought; and, being blind,
Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed": and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.

VI.

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honor and of gain,
O do not dread thy mother's door!
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;

And worldly grandeur I despise,
And Fortune with her gifts and lies.

VII.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; They mount, how short a voyage brings

The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

VIII.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou, upon a desert thrown,
Inheritest the lion's den;

Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

IX.

I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me: 't is falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Between 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.