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Then with the father's name she coupled words - That pillow is no longer to be thine,
Fond Youth ! that mournful solace now must pass
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse
The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced, Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er
That dooms her to a convent.—Who shall tell, Find place within his bosom.-Once again Who dares report, the tidings to the lord The persevering wedge of tyranny
Of her affections ? so they blindly asked Achieved their separation : and once more
Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight Were they united,—to be yet again
Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down : Disparted, pitiable lot! But here
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear A portion of the tale may well be left
Composed and silent, without visible sign
Of even the least emotion. Noting this,
No answer, only took the mother's hand
And kissed it ; seemingly devoid of pain, Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come, Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, And what, through strong compunction for the past, Was a dependant on the obdurate heart He suffered-breaking down in heart and mind ! Of one who came to disunite their lives
For ever- sad alternative ! preferred, Doomed to a third and last captivity,
By the unbending Parents of the Maid,
To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.
In the city he remained
A season after Julia had withdrawn Julia,” said he, “and to your father's house To those religious walls. He, too, departs Go with the child.—You have been wretched; yet who with him ?-even the senseless Little-one. The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs With that sole charge he passed the city-gates, Too heavily upon the lily's head,
For the last time, attendant by the side Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
In which the Babe was carried. To a hill, Go !—'tis a town where both of us were born; That rose a brief league distant from the town, None will reproach you, for our truth is known; The dwellers in that house where he had lodged And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate Accompanied his steps, by anxious love Remain unpitied, pity is not in man.
Impelled ;-they parted from him there, and stood With ornaments—the prettiest, nature yields Watching below till he had disappeared Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy, On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took, And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks Throughout that journey, from the vehicle Till no one can resist him.-Now, even now, (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes !) that veiled I see him sporting on the sunny lawn;
The tender infant: and at every inn, My father from the window sees him too ; And under every hospitable tree Startled, as if some new-created thing
At which the bearers halted or reposed, Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods Laid him with timid care upon his knees, Bounded before him ;-but the unweeting Child And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart Upon the nursling which his arms embraced. So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily, as they began !”
This was the manner in which Vaudracour
These gleams Departed with his infant ; and thus reached Appeared but seldom ; oftener was he seen His father's house, where to the innocent child Propping a pale and melancholy face
Admittance was denied. The young man spake Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus
No word of indignation or reproof,
That a retreat might be assigned to him
_Why bustle thus about your door,
Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, With such allowance as his wants required ; For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew; And thither took with him his motherless Babe, And one domestic for their common needs, An aged woman. It consoled him here To attend upon the orphan, and perform Obsequious service to the precious child, Which, after a short time, by some mistake Or indiscretion of the Father, died. The Tale I follow to its last recess Of suffering or of peace, I know not which : Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!
Scarcely a soul is out of bed;
But Betty's bent on her intent;
There's not a house within a mile,
From this time forth he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An Inhabitant Of that same town, in which the pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs, By chance of business, coming within reach Of his retirement, to the forest lodge Repaired, but only found the matron there, Who told him that his pains were thrown away, For that her Master never uttered word To living thing---not even to her.-Behold! While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached; But, seeing some one near, as on the latch Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunkAnd, like a shadow, glided out of view. Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place The visitor retired.
Thus lived the Youth
And Betty's husband 's at the wood,
And Betty from the lane has fetched
And he is all in travelling trim,-
And he must post without delay
THE IDIOT BOY.
'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night,
There is no need of boot or spur,