THE FOSTER MOTHER'S TALE.

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

The following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken from the tragedy in the year 1797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads.

Enter TERESA and SELMA.

Ter. 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly, As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

Sel. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, That joined your names with mine! O my sweet Lady,

As often as I think of those dear times,

When you two little ones would stand, at eve,
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you
had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase; then bid me sing to you-

'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been!

Ter. But that entrance, Selma?

Sel. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!
Ter. No one.

Sel.

My husband's father told it me,

Poor old Sesina-angels rest his soul;

He was a woodman, and could fell and saw

With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined

With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles.

home,

Well, he brought him

And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost,
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,

A pretty boy, but most unteachable—

And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead,

But knew the names of birds, and mocked their

notes,

And whistled, as he were a bird himself.

And all the autumn 'twas his only play

To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,
A gray-haired man, he loved this little boy:
The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught
him,

He soon could write with the pen; and from that time

Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.

So he became a rare and learned youth:

But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read
Till his brain turned; and ere his twentieth year
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.

But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together chained in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely fright-
ened;

A fever seized him, and he made confession

Of all the heretical and lawless talk

Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized,

And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobbed like a child-it almost broke his heart:
And once as he was working near this dungeon
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described,
And the young man escaped.

'Tis a sweet tale:

Ter.
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?

Sel.

He went on shipboard

With those bold voyagers who made discovery

Of golden lands.

Sesina's younger brother Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth, Soon after they arrived in that New World, In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, And all alone set sail by silent moonlight Up a great river, great as any sea,

And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed, He lived and died among the savage men.

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE

OF THE BIRTH OF A SON.

SEPT. 20, 1796.

OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mixed with such feelings as perplex the soul Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.* O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear,) I think that I should struggle to believe

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

* Ἦν που ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχὴ πρὶν ἐν τῷδε τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ εἴδει γενέσθαι. - Plat. in Phadon.