The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair :

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear
Beneath the covert of your cloak,
Protected from this cold, damp air?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burden, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,
"I had a Son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

"The bird and cage, they both were his : 'T was my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages

The singing-bird had gone with him;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind, From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;

there

I found it when my Son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear it with me, Sir; he took so much delight

in it."

1800.

XXVIII.

THE CHILDLESS FATHER.

"UP, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colors were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as

snow,

The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,

Filled the funeral basin* at Timothy's door;

* In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.

A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." But of this in my ears not a word did he speak; And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. 1800.

XXIX.

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER.

ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned,

In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell.

This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighboring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,

Endeavoring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I.

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 labor in the harvest field:

Thy little sister is at play ;

What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be

One little hour a child to me!

II.

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 at thy side

Sat 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.

III.

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!

IV.

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!

V.

'Tis gone,
There was a smile or two; yet, yet

- like dreams that we forget;

I can remember them, I see

The smiles, worth all the world to me.

Dear Baby! I must lay thee down ;