top of Art.

Call'd to me from the years to come, and such

A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.

And all that night I heard the watchman peal

an hour

hours.

play'd;

We spoke of other things; we coursed about

The subject most at heart, more near and

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell

Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,

And vows, where there was never need of vows,

And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars;

Or while the balmy glooming, crescentlit,

Spread the light haze along the rivershores,

And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent

On that veil'd picture - veil'd, for what it holds

May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul;

Make thine heart ready with thine eyes:

DORA.

WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because

He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, My son :

I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die : And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora: she is well To look to thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died

In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;

For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,

For many years." But William answer'd short:

"I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old

man

Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:

"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus !

But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think,

And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,

And never more darken my doors again.' But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,

And broke away. The more he look'd at

her

But Dora stored what little she could save,

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

"I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these

five years

So full a harvest let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart

is glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her

him,

But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers

reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took

The child once more, and sat upon the mound;

And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat

To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again : "Do with me as you will, but take the child

And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone!"

And Allan said, "I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you
dared

To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;

But go you hence, and never see me more. So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud

And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell

At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the

field,

lay,

The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd

The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all

The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge,

With all its casements bedded, and its walls

And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,

Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,

And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made,

Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat

And talk'd old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall:

Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was

This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm,

The fourfield system, and the price of grain;

And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split,

And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud;