THE FOSTER-MOTHER's TALE. A Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse. But that entrance, Mother! FOSTER-MOTHER. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! MARIA. No one. FOSTER-MOTHER. My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul ! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle beards, and such small locks of wool A pretty boy, but most unteachable— And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself; And all the autumn 'twas his only play To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them The boy loved him—and, when the Friar taught him, So he became a very learned youth. But Oh! poor wretch-he read, and read, and read, 'Till his brain turned-and ere his twentieth year, He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he prayed, he never loved to pray But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, Of all the heretical and lawless talk Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized And once as he was working near the cell How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah, And wander up and down at liberty. Leoni doted on the youth, and now His love grew desperate; and defying death, MARIA. "Tis a sweet tale. And what became of him? FOSTER-MOTHER. He went on ship-board With those bold voyagers, who made discovery And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed, |