Part 11 (1/2)

Thick rests the white settled mist on the deep rugged clifts of the sh.o.r.e; And the grey rocks look dimly between, like the high distant isles in a calm.

But grim low'r the walks of Arthula; the light of the morn is behind them.

LATHMOR.

Dark low'rs the tow'r of Arthula: the time of its glory is past.

The valiant have ceas'd from its hall; and the son of the stranger is there.

The works of the mighty remain, but they are the vapour of morning.

A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT.

Now in thy dazzling half-op'd eye, Thy curled nose, and lip awry, Thy up-hoist arms, and noddling head, And little chin with crystal spread, Poor helpless thing! what do I see, That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come, Which can but rub thy toothless gum: Small understanding boast thy face, Thy shapeless limbs nor step, nor grace: A few short words thy feats may tell, And yet I love thee well.

When sudden wakes the bitter shriek, And redder swells thy little cheek; When rattled keys thy woe beguile, And thro' the wet eye gleams the smile, Still for thy weakly self is spent Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress, Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'er the less; Nor e'en with sympathy be smitten, Tho' all are sad but thee and kitten; Yet little varlet that thou art, Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy rosy cheek so soft and warm; Thy pinky hand, and dimpled arm; Thy silken locks that scantly peep, With gold-tip'd ends, where circle deep Around thy neck in harmless grace So soft and sleekly hold their place, Might harder hearts with kindness fill, And gain our right good will.

Each pa.s.sing clown bestows his blessing, Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kissing: E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense, when thou art by; And yet I think whoe'er they be, They love thee not like me.

Perhaps when time shall add a few Short years to thee, thou'lt love me too.

Then wilt thou thro' life's weary way Become my sure and cheering stay: Wilt care, for me, and be my hold, When I am weak and old.

Thou'lt listen to my lengthen'd tale, And pity me when I am frail-- But see, the sweepy spinning fly Upon the window takes thine eye.

Go to thy little senseless play-- Thou doest not heed my lay.

A CHILD TO HIS SICK GRANDFATHER.

Grand-dad, they say your old and frail, Your stocked legs begin to fail: Your k.n.o.bbed stick (that was my horse) Can scarce support your bended corse; While back to wall, you lean so sad, I'm vex'd to see you, dad.

You us'd to smile, and stroke my head, And tell me how good children did; But now I wot not how it be, You take me seldom on your knee; Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad To sit beside you, dad.

How lank and thin your beard hangs down!

Scant are the white hairs on your crown: How wan and hollow are your cheeks!

Your brow is rough with crossing breaks; But yet, for all his strength is fled, I love my own old dad.