It tells of Him who for our sake
Died on the cross,—Our Saviour's History.
How beauteously hath sorrow shed
Its mildness round her aged head!
How beauteously her sorrow lies

In the solemn light of her faded eyes!
And lo! a faint and feeble trace
Of hope yet lingers on her face,
That she may yet embrace again
Her child, returning from the Main;
For the brooding dove shall leave her nest,
Sooner than hope a mother's breast.

Her long-lost child may still survive! That thought hath kept her wasted heart alive :

And often, to herself unknown,
Hath mingled with the midnight-sigh,
When she breathed, in a voice of agony,
Now every hope is gone!

"Twas this that gave her strength to look On the mossy banks of the singing brook, Where Mary oft had play'd;

And duly, at one stated hour,
To go in calmness to the bower
Built in her favourite glade.

"Twas this that made her, every morn,
As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn
With water from the spring;
And gently tend each flow'ret's stalk,
For she call'd to mind who loved to walk
Through their fragrant blossoming.
Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear
From the hymn of the lark that caroll'd clear,
Through the heart of the silent sky.
Oh! such was my Mary's joyful strain!
And such she may haply sing again
Before her Mother die.

Thus hath she lived for seven long years,
With gleams of comfort through her tears;
Thus hath that beauty to her face been given
And thus, though silver gray her hair,
And pale her cheek, yet is she fair
As any Child of Heaven!

Yet, though she thus in calmness sit,
Full many a dim and ghastly fit
Across her brain hath roll'd:
Oft hath she swoon'd away from pain;
And when her senses came again,
Her heart was icy-cold.

Hard hath it been for her to bear
The dreadful silence of the air
At night, around her bed;
When her waking thoughts through the
darkness grew
Hideous as dreams, and for truth she knew
That her dear child was dead.
Things loved before seem alter'd quite,
The sun himself yields no delight,
She hears not the neighbouring waterfall,
Or, if she hear, the tones recall
The thought of her, who once did sing
So sweetly to its murmuring.

No summer-gale, no winter-blast,
By day or night o'er her cottage pass'd,
If her restless soul did wake,

That brought not a Ship before her eyes;
Yea! often dying shrieks and cries
Sail'd o'er Llanberris Lake,

Though, far as the charm'd eye could view,
Upon the quiet earth it lay,

Like the Moon amid the heavenly way,
As bright and silent too.

Hath she no friend whose heart may share
With her the burthen of despair,
And by her earnest, soothing voice,
Bring back the image of departed joys
So vividly, that reconciled

To the drear silence of her cot,
At times she scarcely miss her child?
Or, the wild raving of the sea forgot,
Hear nought amid the calm profound,
Save Mary's voice, a soft and silver sound?
No! seldom human footsteps come
Unto her childless widow'd home;

No friend like this e'er sits beside her fire:
For still doth selfish happiness
Keep far away from real distress,
Loath to approach, and eager to retire.
The vales are wide, the torrents deep,
Dark are the nights, the mountains steep.
And many a cause, without a name,
Will from our spirits hide the blame,
When, thinking of ourselves, we cease
To think upon another's peace;
Though one short hour to sorrow given,
Would chear the gloom, and win the ap
plause of Heaven.
Yet, when by chance they meet her on the
hill,

Or lonely wandering by the sullen rill,
By its wild voice to dim seclusion led,
The shepherds linger on their way,
And unto God in silence pray,
To bless her hoary head.

In churchyard on the Sabbath-day
They all make room for her, even they
Whose tears are falling down in showers
Upon the fading funeral flowers

Which they have planted o'er their children's

clay.

And though her faded cheeks be dry,
Her breast unmoved by groan or sigh,
More piteous is one single smile
Of hers, than many a tear;
For she is wishing all the while
That her head were lying here,
Since her dear daughter is no more,
Drown'd in the sea, or buried on the shore.

A sudden thought her brain hath cross'd; And in that thought all woes are lost, Though sad and wild it be :

Why must she still, from year to year,
In lonely anguish linger here?

Let her go, ere she die, unto the coast.

And dwell beside the sea;

The sea that tore her child away,
When glad would she have been to stay.
An awful comfort to her soul

To hear the sleepless Ocean roll!
To dream, that on his boundless breast,
Somewhere her long-wept child might rest;
On some far island wreck'd, yet blest
Even as the sunny wave.

Or, if indeed her child is drown'd,
For ever let her drink the sound

That day and night still murmurs round
Her Mary's distant grave.

-She will not stay another hour;
Her feeble limbs with youthful power
Now feel endow'd; she hath ta'en farewell
Of her native stream, and hill and dell;
And with a solemn tone

Upon the bower implores a blessing,
Where often she had sate caressing
Her who, she deems, is now a saint in Heaven.
Upon her hearth the fire is dead,
The smoke in air hath vanished;
The last long lingering look is given,
The shuddering start, the inward groan,-
And the Pilgrim on her way hath gone.

Behold her on the lone sea-shore, Listening unto the hollow roar That with eternal thunder, far and wide, Clothes the black-heaving Main! she stands Upon the cold and moisten'd sands, Nor in that deep trance sces the quicklyflowing tide.

She feels it is a dreadful noise,

That in her bowed soul destroys

How calmly on the sand alighting,
To dress her silken plumes delighting!
See! how these tiny vessels glide
With all sails set, in mimic pride,
As they were ships of war.
All leave the idle port to-day,
And with oar and sheet the sunny bay
Is glancing bright and faṛ.

She sees the joy, but feels it not:
If e'er her child should be forgot
For one short moment of oblivious sleep,
It seems a wrong to one so kind,
Whose mother, left on earth behind,
Hath nought to do but weep.
For, wandering in her solitude,
Tears seem to her the natural food
Of widow'd childless age;

And bitter though these tears must be,
Which falling there is none to see,
Her anguish they assuage.

A calm succeeds the storm of grief,
A settled calm, that brings relief,

And half partakes of pleasure, soft and mild;
For the spirit, that is sore distrest,
At length, when wearied into rest,
Will slumber like a child.

And then, in spite of all her woe,
The bliss, that charm'd her long ago,
Her child, she feels, is living still,
Bursts on her like the day.
By God and angels kept from ill

On some isle far away.

It is not doom'd that she must mourn
For ever;-One may yet return
Who soon will dry her tears:

life;

But surely she hath lost her child,
For how could one so weak and mild
Endure the Ocean's strife,

Who, at this moment of dismay,
Howls like a monster o'er his prey!
But the tide is rippling at her feet,

And the murmuring sound, so wildly sweet,
Dispels these torturing dreams:
Oh! once again the sea behold,
O'er all its wavy fields of gold,
The playful sun-light gleams.
These little harmless waves so fair,
Speak not of sorrow or despair;
How soft the zephyr's breath!
It sings like joy's own chosen sound;
While life and pleasure dance around,
Why must thou muse on death?

Here even the timid child might come,
To dip her small feet in the foam;
And, laughing as she view'd

The billows racing to the shore,

Lament when their short course was o'er,
Pursuing and pursued.

How calmly floats the white sea-mew
Amid the billows' verdant hue!
How calmly mounts into the air,

As if the breezes blew her there!

Though spent in anguish and alone,
How short the time appears!
She looks upon the billowy Main,
And the parting-day returns again;
Each breaking wave she knows;
And when she listens to the tide,
So like the past it flows.
Her child seems standing by her side;

She starts to hear the city-bell;
So toll'd it when they wept farewell!
She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud
The city domes and turrets shroud;
The same keen flash of ruddy fire
Is burning on the lofty spire;
The grove of masts is standing there
Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair;
The same the stir, the tumult, and the hum,
As from the city to the shore they come.

Day after day, along the beach she roams, And evening finds her there, when to their homes

All living things have gone.
No terrors hath the surge or storm
For her;-on glides the aged form,
Still restless and alone.

Familiar unto every eye
She long hath been: her low deep sigh
Hath touch'd with pity many a thoughtless
breast:

And prayers, unheard by her, are given,
That in its mercy watchful Heaven
Would send the aged rest.

As on the smooth and harden'd sand,
In many a gay and rosy band,
Gathering rare shells, delighted children
stray,

With pitying gaze they pass along,
And hush at once the shout and song,
When they chance to cross her way.
The strangers, as they idly pace
Along the beach, if her they meet,
No more regard the sea: her face
Attracts them by its solemn grace,
So mournful, yet so sweet.
The boisterous sailor passes by
With softer step, and o'er his eye

A haze will pass most like unto a tear;
For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted,
Long, long ago, that mother parted
With her lost. daughter here.

Such kindness soothes her soul, I ween,
As through the harbour's busy scene,
She passes weak and slow.

A comfort sad it brings to see
That others pity her, though free
Themselves from care or woe.

The playful voice of streams and rills,
The echo of the cavern'd hills,
The murmur of the trees,

The bleat of sheep, the song of bird,
Within her soul no more are heard;
There sound for aye the seas.
Seldom she hears the ceaseless din
That stirs the busy port. Within

A murmur dwells, that drowns all other sound:

And oft, when dreaming of her child,
Her tearful eyes are wandering wild,
Yet nought behold around.

But hear and see she must this day;
Her sickening spirit must obey
The flashing and the roar

That burst from fort, and ship, and tower,
While clouds of gloomy splendour lower
O'er city, sea, and shore.

The pier-head, with a restless crowd,
Seems all alive; there voices loud
Oft raise the thundrous cheer,
While, from on board the ship of war,
The music-bands both near and far
Are playing, faint or clear.
The bells ring quick a joyous peal,
Till the very spires appear to feel
The joy that stirs throughout their tapering
height;

Ten thousand flags and pendants fly
Abroad, like meteors in the sky,
So beautiful and bright.

And, while the storm of pleasure raves

Through each tumultuous street, Still strikes the ear one darling tune, Sung hoarse, or warbled sweet; Well doth it suit the first of June, Britannia rule the Waves!

What Ship is she that rises slow
Above the horizon?-White as snow,
And cover'd as she sails

By the bright sunshine, fondly woo'd
In her calm beauty, and pursued
By all the ocean-gales?

Well doth she know this glorious morn,
And by her subject waves is borne.
As in triumphal pride:

And now the gazing crowd descry,
Distinctly floating on the sky,
Her pendants long and wide,

The outward forts she now hath pass'd;
Loftier and loftier towers her mast;
You almost hear the sound

Of the billows rushing past her sides,
As giant-like she calmly glides
Through the dwindled ships around.
Saluting thunders rend the Main!
Short silence!-and they roar again,
And veil her in a cloud:

Then up leap all her fearless crew,
And cheer till shore, and city too,
With echoes answer loud.

In peace and friendship doth she come,
Rejoicing to approach her home,
After absence long and far:

Yet with like calmness would she go,
Exulting to behold the foe,
And break the line of war.

While all the noble Ship admire,
Why doth One from the crowd retire,
Nor bless the stranger bright?

So look'd the Ship that bore away
Her weeping child! She dares not stay.
Death-sickening at the sight.

Like a ghost, she wanders up and down
Throughout the still deserted town,
Wondering, if in that noisy throng,
Amid the shout, the dance, the song,
One wretched heart there may not be,
That hates its own mad revelry!
One mother, who hath lost her child,
Yet in her grief is reconciled
To such unmeaning sounds as these ;
Yet this may be the mere disease
Of grief with her: for why destroy
The few short hours of human joy,
Though Reason own them not? Shout on,
she cries,
Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother's
sighs

Must not your bliss profane.

Yet blind must be that mother's heart
Who loves thee, beauteous as thou art,
Thou Glory of the Main!

turn!

There surely she in solitude may mourn,
Tormented not by such distracting noise.
But there seems no peace for her this day,
For a crowd advances on her way,

As if no spot were sacred from their joys.
-Fly not that crowd! for Heaven is there!
It breathes around thee in the air,
Even now, when unto dim despair
Thy heart was sinking fast:

A cruel lot hath long been thine ;

But now let thy face with rapture shine,
For bliss awaiteth thee divine,
And all thy woes are past.

Dark words she hears among the crowd,
Of a ship that hath on board
Three Christian souls, who on the coast
Of some wild land were wreck'd long years
ago,

When all but they were in a tempest lost,
And now by Heaven are rescued from their

woe,

And to their country wondrously restored.
The name, the blessed name, she hears,
Of that beloved Youth,

Whom once she call'd her son; but fears
To listen more, for it appears
Too heavenly for the truth.
And they are speaking of a child,
Who looks more beautifully wild
Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale;
Wondrous her foreign garb, they say,
Adorn'd with starry plumage gay,
While round her head tall feathers play,
And dance with every gale.

Breathless upon the beach she stands,
And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands,
And scarcely dares to turn her eye
On yon gay barge fast rushing by.
The dashing oar disturbs her brain
With hope, that sickens into pain.
The boat appears so wondrous fair,
Her daughter must be sitting there!
And as her gilded prow is dancing
Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing
Beneath the sunny gleams,

Her heart must own, so sweet a sight,
So form'd to yield a strange delight,
She ne'er felt even in dreams.

Silent the music of the oar!
The eager sailors leap on shore,
And look, and gaze around,"

If 'mid the crowd they may descry
A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye,
Or hear one family-sound.

-No sailor, he, so fondly pressing
You fair child in his arms,

Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing,
And bidding her with many a blessing
To hush her vain alarms.

How fair that creature by his side,
Who smiles with languid glee,
Slow-kindling from a mother's pride!

The mother of that fairy-child :
These tresses dark, these eyes so wild,
That face with spirit beautified,
She owes them all to thee.

Silent and still the sailors stand,
To see the meeting strange that now befell.
Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell,
And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt
hand,

To hide the tears that grace their cheeks
so well.
They lift the aged Matron from her swoon,
And not one idle foot is stirring there;
For unto pity melts the sailor soon,
And chief when helpless woman needs his

care.

She wakes at last, and with a placid smile, Such as a saint might on her death-bed give, Speechless she gazes on her child awhile, Content to die since that dear one doth live. And much they fear that she indeed will die! So cold and pale her cheek, so dim her eye;— And when her voice returns, so like the breath

It sounds, the low and tremulous tones of death.

Mark her distracted daughter seize
Her clay-cold hands, and on her knces
Implore that God would spare her hoary
head;

For sure, through these last lingering years,
By one so good enough of tears
Hath long ere now been shed.
The fairy-child is weeping too ;
For though her happy heart can slightly

know

What she hath never felt, the pang of woe,
Yet to the holy power of Nature true,
From her big heart the tears of pity flow,
As infant-morning sheds the purest dew.
Nought doth Fitz-Owen speak: he takes
His reverend mother on his filial breast,
Nor fears that, when her worn-out soul finds
rest

In the new sleep of undisturbed love,
The gracious God who sees them from above,
Will save the parent for her children's sakes.

Nor vain his pious hope: the strife Of rapture ends, and she returns to life, With added beauty smiling in the lines By age and sorrow left upon her face. Her eye, even now bedimm'd with anguish, shines

With brightening glory, and a holy sense
In her husht soul of heavenly Providence,
Breathes o'er her bending frame a loftier
grace.

-Her Mary tells in simple phrase,
Of wildest perils past in former days,
Of shipwreck scarce remember'd by herself;
Then will she speak of that delightful isle,