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, 6 Tears should not

Be shed upon an Infant's face,

It was unlucky' — no, no, no ;
No truth is in them who say so!

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

I should behold his face again!

-

and then

"Tis gone

like dreams that we forget;

There was a smile or two—yet — yet

I can remember them, I see

The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear Baby! I must lay thee down ;

Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast Thou, bright ones of thy own;

I cannot keep thee in my arms,
By those bewildering glances crost
In which the light of his is lost.

Oh how I love thee! we will stay
Together here this one half day.

My Sister's Child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came;
She with her Mother crossed the sea;
The Babe and Mother near me dwell:
My Darling, she is not to me

What thou art! though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any Child more dear!

I've none, my pretty Innocent!

I weep I know they do thee wrong,

These tears - and

my poor

idle tongue.

Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek

How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that soft, warm face,
My heart again is in its place!

While thou art mine, my little Love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee:

Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my Darling's name ;

Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,

Thy features seem to me the same;
His little Sister thou shalt be:

And, when once more my home I see,

I'll tell him many tales of Thee."

XXVII.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

The following tale was written as an Episode, in a work from which its length may perhaps exclude it. The facts are true; no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed.

O HAPPY time of youthful lovers, (thus
My story may begin) O balmy time,

In which a love-knot on a lady's brow

Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
To such inheritance of blessed fancy
(Fancy that sports more desperately with minds
Than ever fortune hath been known to do)
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years
Whose progress had a little overstepped
His stripling prime. A town of small repute,
Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne,
Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid
Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit

With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,

Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,

From which her graces and her honours sprung:
And hence the father of the enamoured Youth,
With haughty indignation, spurned the thought
Of such alliance. From their cradles up,
With but a step between their several homes,
Twins had they been in pleasure; after strife
And petty quarrels, had grown fond again ;
Each other's advocate, each other's stay;
And strangers to content if long apart,
Or more divided than a sportive pair

Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering Within the eddy of a common blast,

Or hidden only by the concave depth

Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight.

Thus, not without concurrence of an age Unknown to memory, was an earnest given, By ready nature, for a life of love,

.

For endless constancy, and placid truth;
But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay
Reserved, had fate permitted, for support

Of their maturer years,

Was under fascination;

his

-

present mind

he beheld