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Oswald (to himself). Strong to o'erturn, Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside. strong also to build up.

o MARMADUKE.

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Several voices. Despatch him!

Osw. If I pass beneath a rock And shout, and with the echo of my voice, Bring down a heap of rubbish and it crush me,

I die without dishonor. Famished, starved, A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!

[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE.

Wal. 'Tis done! (stabs him). Another of the band. The ruthless traitor! Mar. A rash deed!With that reproof I do resign a station Of which I have been proud. Wil. (approaching MARMADUKE). O my poor Master!

Mar. Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred,

Why art thou here?

[Turning to WALLACE. Wallace, upon these Borders, Many there be whose eyes will not want

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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 here
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 1 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.

POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF

CHILDHOOD.

1.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;

So was it when my life began
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. 1804.

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THAT is work of waste and ruin-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them-here are many:
Look at it-the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the primrose, sister Anne !
Pull as many as you can.
-Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil

Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!
Primroses, the Spring may love them,--
Summer knows but little of them :
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

(79)

God has given a kindlier power
To the favored strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower:

And for that promise spare the flower! 1802.

V.

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
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay
couched :

Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-
flowers,

Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-colored images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.
1811.

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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 im,- and what shall you find in
place?

Nothing but siience 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.

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.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood: then laughed amain,-
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!
Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near;
"Nay, patience! patience, little boy
Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,

And long, long vales to travel through ;-
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits: what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast:
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct joy
Of kitten, bird or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.
Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bowcr;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,-
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.
We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And all "since Mother went away!'"

To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

- But, see, the evening star comes forth! To bed the children must depart;

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