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 wished this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answered 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 answered madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law."

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pa.s.sed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.

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 looked with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obeyed my uncle until now, And I have sinned, 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 way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped, 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 pa.s.sed 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 answered 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 bowed upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bowed down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bowed down And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To G.o.d, that helped her in her widowhood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more."

Then answered Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself; And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back.

But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us."

So the women kissed Each other, and set out, and reached the farm.

The door was off the latch; they peeped, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.

Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her; And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora; take her back; she loves you well.

O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I asked him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus; 'G.o.d bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turned His face and pa.s.sed--unhappy that I am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have killed my son.

I have killed him--but I loved him--my dear son.

May G.o.d forgive me!--I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kissed him many times.

And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child, Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHARLES LAMB.]

HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together.

A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit.

I know not by what name beside I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was trained in Nature's school, Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor! gone before To that unknown and silent sh.o.r.e, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning?

CHARLES LAMB.

BONNIE LESLEY.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she ga'ed o'er the border?

She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee."

The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie; That we may brag, we hae a la.s.s There's nane again sae bonnie.

ROBERT BURNS.

ANNIE LAURIE.

Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true,-- Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snawdrift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on,-- That e'er the sun shone on; And dark blue is her e'e; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; Like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet,-- Her voice is low and sweet; And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee.

WILLIAM DOUGLAS.