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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
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 woo'd and wed
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His niece and said: “My girl, I love you well; 40
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! 45
And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd 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 look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 55 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
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 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 Hè spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: “ Where were you yesterday? 85 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,
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bow'd
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
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 God, that help'd 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 answer'd 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 kiss'd
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch: they peep'd, 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 stretch'd 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
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. 140 O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd 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: 145
God bless him!' he said, ' and may he never know
The troubles I have gone thro’!! Then he turn'd
His face and passid – unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 150
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 kill'd
my son. I have kill'd him but I loved him my dear son. May God forgive me! I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children.”
Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kissd him many times 160 And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William.
So those four abode Within one house together; and as years
165 Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
Than all the valleys of Ioniano hills.
The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
The long brook falling thro' the cloy'n ravine
In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Behind the valley topmost Gargaruso
Stands up and takes the morning: but in front
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel,
The crown of Troas.
Hither came at noon