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Well, then, I led her trembling to the hall :
And then - O, mercy! what a look was her's!
When 'stead of nature's kindness, our last hope,
A troop of menials drove us from the door
With shouts and laughter, as audacious vagrants!
We took our way in silence; neither dared
Give utterance to the anguish of our souls,

Or plan our conduct thence-What choice was left!
Forlorn, indignant, houseless, and distracted,
We pass'd we knew not whither; for our senses
Were frozen by the chill of human hearts.
We never stopp'd, till at your cottage door
My wife sighed softly, she could move no farther.
Caleb. Well she could not; for you had never pass'd
The waste beyond it which we now survey,
Endless, without a tree, or fisher's hut,
Or living thing, except the plaintive lapwing,
Disporting querulous around her swamp-
But see, the moonlight steals upon our talk;
Your wife sits lonely at her wheel, beside
The willowy ford, and thinks each little cloud,
That darkling flits across the placid stream,
Her well beloved, Lord Rayland's hard-used son-
If he hath heart of man, he must relent.

Luke. He shall relent: I can no longer strive
To see unmoved that slender graceful form
Bending to all the lowly offices

Of the poor station to which I have brought her.
The tear in secret, lest to-day's supply

Should be denied to-morrow; her cheek pale

With over-watchfulness; her white hand blister'd
With labour, such as she had lately wept
To hear of in another-Yes, friend Caleb,
He shall relent-I'll cross him on the grave
Of my dead mother. I will watch his prayers,
And, when he calls for pardon, start before him,
And let my frantic visage howl despair!
Well, well-no more just now-I see my hardships
Have damp'd a brow which quail'd not to its own.
I have detain'd you long--and, as I think,
You have appointment to the rich abode
Of him who lords it o'er this barren wild,
And all who starve on it.

Caleb.

I'll go-but think—

Your wife is fearful when your stay is long

My way lies through the moor; your's down the

stream.

Luke. I shall be soon at home.

Caleb.

Your boat in motion.

Luke. There is time enough.

But let me see

Caleb. Now, if 'twere not for that devoted wife, Who looks alone to you for happiness,

I would not trust you 'mid these pools to-night.
Your looks are pale, and not as heretofore,
And your heart's vigour has waned day by day,
Till your strange ponderings fright me.

Luke.

O, no wonder !

I have such power to do the world a mischief!
Perhaps I ponder if your master's call

Portends a harder tenure of these rare

Wild goose domains, where thieves must needs be

honest.

Caleb. 'Tis well they lack encouragement, or else Yon long bleak road would yield a prize to-night Were worth the risk. A groom, superbly borne, And shining with embroider'd coronets, Passed lately to the house of Willowmead,

And said his lord to-night would lodge him there. There are some one or two of our worn brethren Who would not sleep upon the news.

Luke, (pausing and speaking with disorder). Why— what

What should they do?

Caleb.

Both you and me.

What, but to name, would fright

Luke, (vaguely). Ay—very true—good night. Caleb. Good night. At daybreak we'll renew our labours.

Luke, (alone. With increasing agitation). “He said his lord to-night would lodge him there."

The road is very lonely ;—and what then?

Though all the world were slumbering, what need

The traveller fear from Rayland's eldest born?

Let Rayland answer it.

What he begat in sin he

The double guilt—

took no heed

Should live in honesty. I'll roam awhile

About the moonlight waste in search of something
To sway the shuddering balance between guilt
And wretchedness. Some hidden spirit seems

To guide my feet upon the stranger's path,
And the still wave already shows my form,
Like the black spectre of a murderer!

I'd pray,

but dare not for my mind appals me!

PART II.

SCENE before LUKE's Cottage. Nearly daybreak.

Mary, (entering in a hurried manner). No, no-it is not he. I have pursued

A thousand shadows of the fleeting heavens
Instead of him. Why wilt thou stay, dear Luke?
I am alone, and have no hope but thee! (listens).
He never yet did pass the night from me
But he did come to bless and bid me comfort.
Now it is morning when he leaves his home,
And almost morning ere he turns to it.
This fearful waste has many a deep morass
And flooded pit, from which the labourer
Hath borne his reeking fuel; and the river
A thousand horrid, sucking, silent whirlpools,
O God! if toiling for his wretched burthen-
His faithful, fervent, but no less his burthen—
Thine eye should cease to guard him, where would be
On earth a being so desolate as I! (listens).
I hear him not. I will return to where
I found his boat beside the bank; and there

I'll watch the stars as they go out. It was
So cold, this morning air, I could not bear it,
But now methinks I can. Perhaps it was
The fearful speed of that rash traveller,
Who rode so blindly o'er his perilous path

And flung the clay against my cheek, that shot

A chillness through me. (listens) 'Tis a step I hear!
But surely not my Luke's-it is too slow
And loitering. He comes more impatiently!—

(ENTER LUKE.)

Dear-dearest-most unkind, where hast thou been?
I've had a dreadful night—but now no more on't—
I have the truant at my heart again.

But say, what kept thee, Luke? 'Twas surely much
That made thee leave me for so long?

Luke.

"Twas much,

Indeed. But do not question now, my Mary.

What, hast thou watch'd all night?

Mary.

How could I sleep?

I have sat guardian o'er thy evening meal

Till my thoughts strayed, and then the mournful

embers

Sank with my sinking heart. And then I plaited

Rushes and yellow flags in fantasies

For Caleb's laughing urchins, when they come

To nestle round the fisher's " Lady wife;"
And then-what signifies what followed? Come:
For thou art wet and hungry. I will make
Our hearth blaze up with joy for thy return.

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