And all the world doth reverence his name
As one most just in dealing with his kind,
And strict in all the duties of his faith-
Yet, it is said, this lord of Rayland Hall,
As many years ago as I am old,

Was less austere, and something given to sports,
Such as high blood and lavish means are used to.
He saw his father's mansion for a season;
Then, heedless, sought delights beyond the sea.
Alas! my mother was too young and fair!
She had no other faults-She never told

My father's name, lest the gray-headed lord
Should kindle at his favorite's misdeed.

And I and my poor Mary had the heavens,
And them alone, to shelter us. My birth,
But newly known to me, directed where

I should demand a home, and the fond arms
Which twined about me for support, inspired
Becoming confidence to urge my claim.
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 language of our souls,

Where none but she had pled in vain for help.
Yet she was silent. Yes, she pressed the pallet
Of sickness and of misery, yet still
Betray'd him not. The midnight passed away-
Morn came-and all who fear'd another pang
Might rend the secret from her were at rest,
And so was she.

Caleb.

Come, 'tis a piteous taleWe'll choose some other time.

Luke.
I'm in the mood
Just now.
A friend who tended on my mother,
In charity, a gentle-hearted widow,
Took the poor urchin who was left behind,
And rear'd me in her thrifty home. For her
I learnt th' adventurous craft of those who live
By flood and forest; for, whate'er my state,
My father's blood, his high imperious blood,
Had made me all unfit for meaner toil;
Although I then was ignorant why my spirit
Ran counter to an honest industry.

At last, the old lord died. The new one came.
Some score of years had taught him to feel shame
For his youth's license-but atonement none.
He had a wife, and other sons born fairly-
What should he with the lawless nursling of
A simple broken-hearted peasant girl?
Day after day the lonely woman pass d
To Rayland Hall, and turned again in tears.
She never breathed her errand till the hour
She died-and then she told me how some chance
Had made her mistress of my mother's secret,
And how for years she had besought in vain
Lord Rayland to receive his own.
Caleb.

This story Puts me the more to shame that my poor means Could yield no better aid.

By Fortune's malice,

Luke. My heart had borrowed somewhat of my sire, And panted at the glow of virgin beauty. We differ'd only in the soil we hunted; For mine was far above me, and the maid A fitting mate for Rayland's lawful hope"Twere long to tell thee how I woo'd, how won her; Or how her house rejected her with scorn, As a fair blossom blighted past recal:My heart was light; it rested on success, And we lived joyously—I think I said The widow died. Her cottage and her mite Devolved on those who long had look'd for them,

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 sofily-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 labor, 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.

Your boat in motion. Luke.

But let me see

There is time enough

I wonder, Caleb, 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 embroidered coronets,
Passed lately to the house of Willowmead,
And said his lord to night would lodge him there,

Luke, (alone.) And I to answer! She did not suspect:

She thought I was too honest. My wild brain!
How stands my present fortune with the past?
Till now I sicken'd at the sight of home,
For dread of some new tale of poverty
That must be told. Well-that is past and gone-
And do I now return more happily
With that which must be secret?

Was it harder

To bear confiding wretchedness than guilt

In horrid solitude. O, Mary, dear,

No more shall we two, heart to heart, lie down, And, with our mingling fondness. steal away

And not prepared to spare me the commands
For which I staid.

Luke, (with suppressed eagerness.) And who was he?-The guest?

Caleb. I did not ask. Those powder'd underlings Ill sorted with their weather-worn companion. At midnight came the stranger in hot haste, So splash'd, and mired, and wofully disorder'd, You would have sworn some witch had hunted him Through all the bogs of Willowmead.

Luke. He had a story?

Caleb.

What then?

pain,

Was it not joy to share them? Never more

With their past freedom shall my words pour out
Their tide of tenderness. O, never more,
Lest I betray to what that love did lead me,
And feel thee wither in my breast with horror.
Thy tender confidence, thy modest pride,
In thy poor hunter of the desert moor
So much belied! The smiling, soft, content
With which thou hast partaken of the morsel,
More sweet because provided by my hands,
For ever dash'd. Thy innocent young prayers
That those to whom thy fate might make thee mother
Should be their father's image-all recall'd.
This is not all-there still hath been a hope,
Some possibility of brighter days,

But now 'tis past-the work of this dread night
Hath placed eternity 'twixt me and joy ;
And every beam that might have lit me onward
Must blast me with a view more hideous
Of the black barrier. And is there, then,
No more behind? No close attending phantom
Of a rude rabble and detected felon ?
No widow'd maniac hooted through the streets
With sobs and shrieks, or horrid merriment
That weaves the melody in which it dies?
Oh, I have leagued me with a fiend whose grasp

I thought the rich ne'er talked about the wretched
Without some slanderous tale to prove their vileness.
Caleb. There was much question how you pass'd
your life;

And when you came; and, farther still, from whence.
But this was trusted to me, and remain'd
As if I had not known it. Long I staid
To answer each minute particular
That could at distance bear upon you; whilst
At every pause the friends look'd up, to mark
Each other's looks mysteriously. At last

I was dismissed with cautions to go home
In silence; which I hither came to break,

Thou wilt know

Luke. Full soon, perhaps (aside). It was not premature, That dream of a discover'd criminal, Dragg'd to the gallows amid savage mirth And widow'd madness! (aloud). Patience, my good

friend;

I ponder o'er thy news. (aside) They will be here With murderous haste. What, drag me from my wife?

From her who went exulting in my worth,
With thoughts of measureless delights to come?
Tell her that he whom she hath loved so well
And bought so dearly, is too vile to live?
And she, my Mary, have no word to answer?
'Tis fixed. My own beloved, since part we must,
We'll part less shamefully. (aloud) Whate'er he

wants

Mary. Be cautious, Luke; I do not love this dark
And sluggish river, which divides its banks
With such unequal treachery of depth,
And horrid silence. Often as I've crossed
The old worm-eaten bridge of tottering planks,
Which we just see against the deep blue distance,
I've thought of thee, and thy adventurous toil;
And then how stilly it would hush the cry,
And hide the secret, unresisting corse!
Oh, it is fearful; and, (but it is fancy)

All things seem fearful here. E'en thou, dear Luke,
Look'st gloomily and speechless. Pray thee, talk-
I cannot bear this silence, only broken

By the dull plash, and the dead, heavy plunge

Of water vermin, in the oozing slime.

Luke. Thou'rt new to it—but I have breath'd too

I have promised thee, My tender, gentle, most beloved Mary.

Mary. Come, thou art sad-Look, how the first faint ray

Of morn hath startled the old querulous owl
Amidst his dull and devious wanderings!
He hath made straight towards the village barn,
'Plaining as if he groan'd at his long journey
Across the marsh, which, seen between the twigs
And leaning trunks of these deserted willows,
Seems boundless in its flat and hazy empire.
And see, the heron, with his broad blue sails,
Wheels downward, to succeed the bird of wisdom-
O, long-neck'd felon! That hoarse shout of his
Is meant to tell thee thou'rt no fisherman.
Thou'lt soon be back to try thy skill with him?
Thou said'st to-morrow-Wilt thou break thy pro-

mise?

(Sings.)

"He bade me adieu, and he vow'd to be here
When swallows came down to the green;
But the leaves of the autumn are scatter'd and sere,
And home he hath never been."

Oh, and is that the tale! then hear what follows

(Sings)

"So under the wave, and under the wave, Beneath the old willow tree."

Mind-mind-dear Luke, your pole will scarcely

touch

The bottom!-You were almost overbalanced.

(Sings.)

"With the weeds for my pall, in a deep, deep grave My hiding place shall be!"

Why didst thou start?

Luke. I almost ran upon The subject of your song-wild Martha's willow, E'en whilst you sang of it.