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She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love and maiden shame;
And, like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her Bosom heav'd-she stepp'd aside ;
As conscious of my Look, she stepp'd
Then suddenly with timorous eye

She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head look'd up,

And gaz’d upon my face.

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful Art
That I might rather feel than see

The Swelling of her Heart.

I calm'd her fears; and she was calır, And told her love with virgin Pride. And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride!

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The MAD MOTHER.

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,
Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the green-wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among;
And it was in the English tongue,

“Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing :
Then, lovely baby, do not fear !
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be,
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

A fire was once within my brain ;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces one, two, three,
Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.
But then there came a sight of joy ;
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see !
For he was here, and only he.

Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest ;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers press’d.
The breeze I see is in the tree;
It comes to cool my babe and me.

Oh! love me, love me, little boy !
Thou art thy mother's only joy ;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul ;
Then happy lie, for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.

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