To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy; So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud And all the things that had been. She bow'd down Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood But if he will not take thee back again, So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 'O Father!-if you let me call you so― I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me— I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: "God bless him!" he said, "and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!" Then he turn'd But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before.' So Mary said, and Dora hid her face And all at once the old man burst in sobs : 'I have been to blame-to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him-but I loved him-my dear son. Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundred-fold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child So those four abode Within one house together; and as years AUDLEY COURT. "THE Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court.' I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea. With all my heart,' Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd AUDLEY COURT. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall: Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, The four-field system, and the price of grain; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang 'Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into some bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life. VOL. I. 289 |