The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

LXV.

"Barred every comfort labor could procure,
Suffering what no endurance could assuage,
I was compelled to seek my father's door,
Though loth to be a burden on his age.
But sickness stopped me in an early stage
Of my sad journey; and within the wain

They placed me, there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I

may remain:

For I shall never see my father's door again.

LXVI.

"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burden

some;

But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek

May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb:
Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak
Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.
Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea
Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek,
My husband served in sad captivity

On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.

LXVII.

"A sailor's wife, I knew a widow's cares,

Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed;
Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers
Our Heavenly Father granted each day's bread;
Till one was found by stroke of violence dead,

Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie;
A dire suspicion drove us from our shed;
In vain to find a friendly face we try,

Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

LXVIII.

"For evil tongues made oath how on that day
My husband lurked about the neighborhood;
Now he had fled, and whither none could say,
And he had done the deed in the dark wood-
Near his own home!-but he was mild and good;
Never on earth was gentler creature seen;
He'd not have robbed the raven of its food.
My husband's lovingkindness stood between
Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however
keen."

LXIX.

Alas! the thing she told with laboring breath
The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness
His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of
death,

He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless
With her last words, unable to suppress

His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;
And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,
He cried, "Do pity me! That thou shouldst live
I neither ask nor wish; forgive me, but forgive!"

LXX.

To tell the change that Voice within her wrought
Nature by sign or sound made no essay;
A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,

And every mortal pang dissolved away.
Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;
Yet still, while over her the husband bent,
A look was in her face which seemed to say,
"Be blest by sight of thee from heaven was sent
Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content."

She slept in peace,

stopped;

LXXI.

his pulses throbbed and

Breathless he gazed upon her face, then took
Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped
When on his own he cast a rueful look.

His ears were never silent; sleep forsook
His burning eyelids, stretched and stiff as lead;
All night from time to time under him shook
The floor, as he lay shuddering on his bed;
And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were
dead!"

LXXII.

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot;

And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care, Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,

Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air

A burden, now with fortitude sustained,

He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

LXXIII.

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared

For act and suffering, to the city straight

He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, “now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate."

Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:

"O welcome sentence which will end, though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

His fate was pitied.

(Reader, forgive the

LXXIV.

Him in iron case

intolerable thought).

They hung not: no one on his form or face
Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought
By lawless curiosity or chance,

When into storms the evening sky is wrought,
Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance,
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

1793-4.

SCENE, Borders of England and Scotland.

TIME, the Reign of Henry III.

READERS already acquainted with my Poems will recognize, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper, however, to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.

February 28, 1842.

ACT I.

SCENE, road in a wood.

WALLACE and LACY.

Lacy. The Troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich spoil, ere they recross the Border.