\ I [[ 1 CM I I.I) IUAD FOR MOTHERS & FATHERS. / 5 e 17*7 ~ The Lost Child A BALLAD OF ENGLISH LIFE. FOR MOTHERS AND FATHERS. BY MRS./SEWELL, Author of " Mother's Last Words," " Our Father's Care," &c. Third Edition. Thirtieth Thousand. L OJ? (D O}T : JARROLD & SONS, 12, PATERNOSTER ROW. Price 2d. ; or in enamelled wrapper, yi. HOUSEHOLD TRACTS FOR THE PEOPLE. THREE MILLIONS of these Popular Tracts are now in circu- lation in Great Britain and the Colonies, and the demand is increasing. They are adapted for gifts or loan; are eagerly listened to at Public Headings at Lecture Halls and School-Booms ; and are worthy the attention of all who seek to promote the moral, sanitary, and religious improvement of the people. Price Twopence each. For Girls. The Happy Life. Daughters from Home. The Dangerous Way. For Boys. The Starting in Life. How to "Get On "in Life. By MBS. SEWELL. Mother's Last Words. Our Father's Care. The Lost Child. Children at Home. Children at School. The Happy Schoolfellows. For Mothers. Cottage Homes. The Mother's Trials and Triumphs. Sick Child's Cry: Household Verses. The Good Mother. For Parents. How do you Manage the Young Ones ? How to Make the Most of Thines. Peace in the Household. Household Management. Whose Fault is it ? Never Despair : Household Verses. Something Homely. Household Troubles. For Working Men. When to Say "Kb." Working-Men's Hindrances. The Day of Rest. For Young Men. Young Men in Great Cities. How to Take Care of Number One. How to Rise in the World. Life's Battles. Men who have Fallen. Company. For Young Men & "Women. Are You Thinking of Getting Married ? Going a-Courting, Sweethearting, Love, and Such Like. Marriage Bells. For Children. Household Rhymes. Work and Play : Household Verses. Dear Children. For Servants. My First Place. Kind Words for the Kitchen. For Sailors. A Short Yarn. For Everybody. S traightf orwardness . Scandal, Gossip, Tittle-Tattle, &c. Temptation. The Gain of a Well-trained Mind. A Tale of the Irish Famine. A Picture from the World's History. Perils in the Mine. A Tale of a Dark Alley. Sunday Excursions. What shall I do with my Money? Kind Turns. Margery, the Martyr. Home ! Sweet Home ! Lost Days. On Health. The Worth of Fresh Air. The Use of Pure Water. The Value of Good Food. The Influence of Wholesome Drink. The Advantage of Warm Clothing. How do People Hasten Death? The Secret of a Healthy Home. How to Nurse the Sick. The Black Ditch. London : Jarrold & Sons, 12, Paternoster Row. THE LOST CHILD. AMONG its clustered apple-trees, A small farm-house sequestered stood, Before it, ran a pleasant lane, Behind it rose an ancient wood ; Where, in the spring, the mossy ground, Was gay with every early flower, And there, a little child would stray, And play amongst them hour by hour. And oh ! she was a bonny thing, As parents' love might ever see ; And she made all the earthly joy Of Margaret and Thomas Lee. The father went forth to his toil, She watched him from the lilac trees, And her "good-bye" would follow him, Like music on the morning breeze. She swung upon the garden gate, And sang her little songs with glee ; And never bird in bush or bower Sang half so sweet as Annie Lee. The wallflower and the southern-wood Beside the garden pathway grew, And daffodils with sleepy heads Stood glistening in the morning dew. The cock crowed on the farmyard gate, And flapped his wings upon his breast ; The pigeons basked upon the roof, In quiet sunshine fully blest. 21186RO THE LOST CHILD. The little ducks upon the pond, Dived in the rippling wave below, And tender breezes touched the reeds, And lightly swayed them to and fro, 'Twas spring-time over all the land, The sunshine lay upon the wheat, Upon the springing meadow grass, Upon the hedgerows, dewy sweet. The child has left the garden gate, And wanders slowly down the lane ; And, talking to herself, she says, " I wonder what's become of Jane !" A cottager was little Jane, Playmate and friend to Annie Lee, And often in the lane they met, And ran to school in company. And now across the meadow paths The merry little maidens pass, And pluck the purple cuckoo flowers That grow amongst the shining grass. With talk, that knew nor stop nor stay, With glee, that knew no touch of care, They often sent their liquid laugh Floating before them on the air. The master's pet was little Anne, For she was apt and good to rule ; And sometimes he would say "he hoped She'd be a credit to the school." And as she stood with face up-turned, Her soft cheek glowing rosy red, The smiling visitor would lay A gentle hand upon her head. And duly as the Sabbath came, The day of peace and holy rest, She tripped away to Sunday school. In Sunday garments gaily drest. LITTLE ANNIE. And little Annie loved the school, She loved to hear the church bells ring, She loved to win the teacher's smile, And stand amongst the girls to sing. She loved to hear the organ peal, And listen to the Holy Word, And hear the aged preacher tell About the servants of the Lord. She thought how safe the lambs must be, Who near the Heavenly Shepherd stay ; She meant to be His little lamb, And never, never from Him stray. And in the evening, when at home, She said the text, and sung the hymn ; The father's heart with joy was full, The mother's eyes with tears were dim. The sunshine lay upon their path, And hope spanned all the years to come, The little farm would keep them well, And Annie would not leave their home. Pass on, pass on, ye sunny hours, Bring year by year a bounteous store, Bring peaceful nights and happy days, And plenty to the farmer's door. Bring to his home the wealth of love, From anxious care and sorrow free, And day by day unfold the charms Of that fair child, sweet Annie Lee. The silver moon went circling round, And showers and sunshine blest the earth, And Time's strong river rolled along Through changing scenes of grief and mirth, And bore away those sunny years. But still the two young maidens pass, At morning and at eventide, Across the shining meadow grass. THE LOST CHILD. The cuckoo flowers are in bloom, And cowslips' breath is on the air, And they will often stop and twine The blossoms in each other's hair. " Do you remember, Jane, the day, When I had made that lovely crown Of ivy and forget-me-not, How I was praised by Mr. Brown ? "He put it on my head, you know, And then stood still and looked at me ' Upon my word, a lovely face ! And what a pair of eyes ! ' said he. "And Miss St. Clare, she said, 'Oh, hush! You should not make young lasses vain.' ' She's but a child,' he said, and laughed, And then he stared at me again." " Yes, I remember it," said Jane, " Because you blushed and grew so red ; And when you had the flowers on, You hardly lifted up your head." " Because I felt ashamed, you know ; But still, it's very pleasant, Jane, When gentlefolks admire you so : I don't know why they call you vain. "What shall you wear at Whitsuntide? You know I'm going to the fair To see the dancing and the shows My father says he'll take me there. "He's gone to-day to Westerleigh ; I know he'll bring me something nice- He is so good my father is You never have to ask him twice. " I love them both, and they love me ; You see, I am their only one ; I never mean to leave them, Jane; They say they'd be so dull alone. THE RACES. " And, Jenny ! when the races come, They'll let me go and see the fun ; My father says 'tis very grand To see the racing horses run. "And mother says that I shall have A muslin frock, and all the rest ; And she will pinch a little bit, That I may go there nicely drest. " I wish that you were going too ! Why won't your mother let you go?" " My mother says at fairs and shows, Girls learn what they should never know. " She says your mother's spoiling you, And will repent some future day, And wish she'd kept you under rule, And taught you early to obey. " Directly I have left the school, She means that I should take a place, And not be losing any time, Or get myself into disgrace." " Ah yes ! my mother talks so too ; But, Jenny, I can coax her round ; My father would not part with me If you would give him twenty pound. " Sometimes, if mother scolds a bit, He says, 'There, there, don't chide her, wife ; It is her time for pleasure now We've but one spring-time in our life.' " And then he pats my cheek, and says, ' Young shoulders cannot bear the weight Of wise old heads but stop awhile, And Annie will be wiser yet.' "And so of course I shall, you know. But look here, Jane, at this briar rose It is the colour, shade for shade, Of that new dress of Mrs. Stowe's. THE LOST CHILD. " Let's go home by the cricket ground ; They will be playing there to-day ; When school is over we can run 'Tis but a step out of our way." " No, Annie you must go alone, My mother will be wanting tea." " Oh, Jane ! your mother is so strict My mother always waits for me. " Beside, we are not children now In six months I shall be fourteen ; At sixteen, Lucy Millington Kept company with Harry Green. " Hark ! there's the school-bell let us run Who could have thought it was so late ! J And bounding on, the two young girls Passed quickly through the school-house gate. The silver moon went circling round, And showers and sunshine blest the earth, And Time's strong river rolled along Through changing scenes of grief and mirth. And months and years it bore away; And Annie is a child no more ; She's sitting with her sewing work Beside the little farmhouse door. The lilac trees are full in bloom, In olden time so tall and straight ; And cheerful looks the little bower Above the swinging garden gate. The ducks are diving in the pond, Disporting in the evening glow, And all the old and homely things Look just the same as long ago. But Annie Lee is not the same As that sweet child of years gone by; A richer bloom is on her cheek, A brighter light within her eye. SATURDAY EVENING. A simple song once learned at school, She hums, and stops, and hums again ; Her thoughts meanwhile have flown away, Unconscious of her childish strain. Her mother sits beside her now, Upon her high-backed elbow chair, The lines have deepened on her brow, And threads of grey are in her hair. But still her active step is firm, And still she speaks in blithest tone, And wears the wonted happy smile Of Saturday, when work is done: When every hint of soil has fled From floor and ceiling, shelf and stair, And not the subtlest spider's web, Can find a private nook to spare. The two together, silent sat, In tranquil evening's pleasant hour, And slanting sunlight filled the room, And crept beneath the lilac bower. Anne dropt her work upon her knee, And spoke in accents of despair ; " I have no heart to mend this frock, It really is too old to wear. " Besides, it's so old-fashioned now ! I've quite outgrown it, you can see; It seems a hundred years ago, That day, you brought it home for me. " I want a handsome summer dress ; I've thought, how I would have it made ; Like Miss Macdonald's do you know I begged the pattern from her maid. "'Twas made in Paris Rosalie Mam'selle they call her at the hall, Said, ' In a fashionable dress, She'd like to see me at a ball.' 10 THE LOST CHILD. " She says, that I am buried here, In such a dismal country place ; I should not like to tell you all She said about my hair and face." " Don't talk to me about mam'selles This foreign girl will turn your head ; Besides, you should remember, Anne, That we are poor and country bred." "Yes yes, I know but every one This spring is buying something new ; Bell has a feather, white as snow ! And I should like to have one too. "There's even little Betsy Jones Has trimmed her polka round with lace ; And Charlotte has a crimson shawl, About the colour of her face ! "Rose Bryant has the prettiest dress I ever saw in all my life ; But as for mine it might have been Made in the ark, for Noah's wife." Anne looked up in her mother's face, And laid her hand upon her knee : "Now, don't you think a light blue dress Would be the very thing for me? "Just fancy, mother how 'twould look My cheeks, you see, are pink and fair, My eyes are blue, a violet blue, And golden brown they call my hair. " It would be lovely ! Susan Grant Has bought a dress a brilliant green ! And Leonard Gale admired her so, And said, he took her for the queen. " We loitered round the churchyard gate ; And he was standing chatting there ; And I am sure he must have seen That I had nothing fit to wear. LEONARD GALE. 1 1 "He's working at the water mill, And lodges with old widow Price ; Jane heard him say, 'A pretty wife, Would make his home a paradise.'" "What makes you talk of Leonard Gale, A dissolute and drunken man ! For heaven's sake, don't think of him, He is not worthy of you, Anne. "And you know, child, as well as I, That money now is hard to find ; Our crops don't promise well this spring, And with our rent, we've slipped behind. "About the dress well, we shall see But really you don't want it, Anne And I should have to go on trust, And vex your father too, poor man ! " Anne pouted out her pretty lips, While deeper colour dyed her cheek ; And laughing half, and crying half, She pettishly began to speak. " Well, Mother ! go on trust for once, You need not let my father know ; The ducks will soon be fit to sell, And they will pay for what you owe. " And then ! the tales of Leonard Gale, I'm almost sure are only spite ; You've often said the people here Will hardly leave an angel white. " Not that I care for him a bit, My heart is safe, my hand is free, And I shall keep them safely too, To give the one who pleases me. " But now that we're so badly off, And pinching, pinching without end, I think I'll take a servant's place, I should have wages then to spend. 12 THE LOST CHILD. "You'll not want me, I'm sure of that; You'll get on better when I'm gone; You will not have so much expense, And I don't think you'll feel alone. " If help is wanted, you can hire ; You'll get on well, I have no doubt; You know that, when I lend a hand, You often say I put you out. "And I dislike the daiiy work, And all the fuss about the cheese; The nasty pigs I hate them all, But you delight in things like these." The mother's needle stopped midway; Tears rushed unbidden to her eyes ; Anne's sudden wish to leave her home, Filled her with sorrow and surprise. Anne marked it not she spoke again, Her thoughts at play with wedded life; " Mother, you've often said yourself, A servant makes the cleverest wife. " I'm just eighteen one day perhaps I may be married no one knows And if I took a servant's place, I might provide myself some clothes. u I can't think, mother, how it is, We've come to be so dismal here; I don't believe a dozen folks Pass by the house in half a year. " It's far more pleasant by the mill, There one can take a pleasant walk, Or step into a neighbour's house, And have a little merry talk." "Well, Anne, this place suits me the best, And many a time I've heard you say, You would not leave the dear old home, For any town, however gay." THE MOTHER'S CAUTION. 13 " Ah, mother ! I was then a child, And children change their minds, you know ; And father says it's natural Young folks should like a little show. " I should not wish to leave my home If you would fret and break your heart j Or if you could not find a girl To help you well, and do my part. "But listen now The Miss De Veres, Close by the mill, in Yarrow Dell, At Michaelmas will want a maid; I fancy I could suit them well. "You know it is a quiet place, The two old ladies both so kind ; The one, a little lame and deaf, The other dear old lady blind." Anne laughed "Do, mother, let me go, 'Tis not above two miles away, And I shall see you at the church, And come here on a holiday. "And I shall love you just the same- Nay more, than if I fretted here ; Do let me go I know you will, You like to please me, mother dear." "Well, Anne, I see you're tired of home That place is near us at the Dale You can but try but, my dear child ! For heaven's sake shun Leonard Gale." " Oh ! trust to me." The mother sighed, The sunshine glided from the room, The evening shadows fell apace, And darkened round the farmer's home. Chill on the cottage hearth they lay, As anxious love sat brooding there, On perils that might well befall, A maid so heedless and so fair. 14 THE LOST CHILD. Ah ! had that love in early years, Trained little Annie's pliant will, The shadows round the cottage hearth, Had never been so dark and chill But like the fly with golden wing, That flutters on the breath of May, Without restraint, she fluttered on, And so the summer passed away. SECOND PART. The Miss De Veres of Yarrow Dell Were charmed with Annie's pretty speech ; For she would be so glad to learn, And they would be so pleased to teach. And Annie Lee has bid farewell, And she has left her father's door, Has passed beyond the garden gate, And left behind the lilac bower. The yellow leaves lay on the pond, The rustling reeds were bent and dry, And with a melancholy wail The autumn wind went sweeping by. The last frail rose that climbed the porch, Whirled slow away upon the breeze, And showers of wan and withered leaves Dropped sadly from the fading trees. Chill fell the evening, damp and chill, Dark closing to a dreary day ; Beside the fire the old folks sat, But not a word they had to say. The girlish chat, the merry laugh, That ever made the silence flee, The music of the cottage hearth, Had passed away with Annie Lee. SELF-REPROACH. 1 5 The father looked into the fire, As though some curious thing he spied ; Then turned the log, and looked again, And then unconsciously he sighed. The mother knitted silently, She dare not trust her voice to speak ; But often brushed away a tear, That needs must trickle down her cheek. At last the old man raised his head, " I somehow thought she would not go ; What could the girl in reason want, It puzzles my poor head to know ! "You should have kept her stricter, wife, Nor let her fancies fly so high." "Why, Tom, you know you always liked To please the child as well as I." " She'll never make a wife like you ; But that's your fault as I may say, You always did the work yourself, And let her dress and have her way. " But there it can't be mended now, And finding fault will do no good, We both were old enough to know The more she had, the more she would. "You never know a woman's mind Whatever could she find amiss ! For sure the girl is good at heart, No kinder girl than Annie is. "And though I say it, Margaret, A prettier face you'll seldom see ; The squire himself, he praised the girl ; ' She's quite a belle,' says he to me." " You've been too proud of Annie, Tom, You never liked to check or blame; As I look back on years gone by, I see where I've been much to blame. l6 THE LOST CHILD. "I think if I had kept the rule, And taught her early to obey, She would, I'm sure she would have been A better child to us to-day. " I'm sorry she's so near the mill, God grant it bring us no disgrace; She begged so very hard to go, And set her heart upon the place. "But, Thomas, sorely do I fear That she's in love with Leonard Gale ; She laughed, and said it was not so, But I could read another tale. "And more than half the reason why She left with such a ready will, Was just for this that Yarrow Dell Is close beside the water mill." The old man groaned and turned the log ; "Then heaven defend her, Margaret; A blacker man than Leonard Gale, In all my life I never met." "And those good dames," rejoined the wife, Half deaf and blind, what should they see ! They'll not be up to half the tricks Of little coaxing Annie Lee." Full sore at heart the old folks laid Them down upon their humble bed; And fear and care in thorny ways The wandering thoughts of slumber led. But little Annie so bewailed, She laid her gaily down to rest ; While vanity and springing love Made pastime in her youthful breast. And ere the morning breeze had stirred The sleeping mist upon the hill, Her ear had caught the silver sound Of falling waters at the mill MURMURED WHISPERS. 17 Then with a double life inspired, The work before her fingers flew, And Hope went lightly dancing on, Sprinkling the path with honeydew. The two old ladies much approved The fair young maiden's pretty ways ; And all her simple arts to please, Obtained a recompence of praise. They thought she was so very good, And oft to friends her praise they sung; And smiling friends in secret thought Their faith was built on one too young. And not a whisper reached the dell, Of some one seen at evening's close, When fires were bright and curtains drawn, And ancient ladies loved repose : Of some one seen beyond the porch, Within the shadow waiting there Of some one stealing from the door, With blushing cheeks and golden hair : Of murmured whispers, all too low To say what might their meaning be ; But 'twas averred that whispering pair Were Leonard Gale and Annie Lee. But secretly the story spread, And no one told the tale they knew; 'Twould tell itself in time, they said, And still in favor Annie grew. And many a gift the ladies gave Meet presents for a maiden fair To recompence her industry, And show how well content they were. The mother's heart fresh courage took; She heard her daughter's praises sung, And thought the child a miracle, For one so lovely and so young. 1 8 THE LOST CHILD. The father held his head erect, And viewed her with a father's pride ; "He always knew she'd turn out well" The village neighbours smiled and sighed. The spring and summer glided by No mischief-making tale was told; The ladies thought their little maid Was richly worth her weight in gold. But still, as evening hushed the wood, And darkness crept o'er mill and moor, That figure in the shadow stood, That damsel stole out from the door. And sometimes on a mossy bank, Hid in the trees of Yarrow Dell, When all the house was hushed and still, The lovers met their tale to tell. It was one Sabbath afternoon. When autumn days were still and warm, That Annie begged the service o'er To take her tea down at the farm. Ah ! little did those ladies think, As she went tripping on her way, That neither at the church or farm Would she be seen that Sabbath day. Oh, Annie Lee ! 'tis Sabbath day, The sweet church bells are ringing clear " Come in, come in," they seem to say, But Annie Lee, she will not hear. She stopped beside the churchyard gate, She heard the music sweet and slow ; " I can't go in he waits for me - It is but once they'll never know." Oh, stop awhile, sweet Annie Lee ! Oh, stop awhile, and think once more ! The spoiler lies in wait for thee Cut Annie Lee has passed the door. POOR ANNIE ! Oh, turn away ! oh, turn and weep ! Oh, weep for her full sad and sore ; From that sad day that Sabbath day, She was sweet Annie Lee no more. The busy world went on the same, Men rose to work and went to rest, But now a load of guilt and shame, Lay evermore in Annie's breast. And as the evening shadows fell, And darkness crept o'er mill and moor, No figure in the shadow stood, No lover waited at the door. Long time, she said, " I am his wife, He'll marry me I'm sure he will." Then evil tidings reached her ear, That Leonard Gale had left the mill. Too conscious of her faltering tongue To ask for news, she waited on ; And soon another rumour came, That Leonard was dismissed, and gone. The flowers then faded from the earth, The sunshine faded from the sky ; But she must nerve herself to bear Her secret anguish cheerfully. She must keep back the rising tear, She must press down the swelling heart, And feign a light and easy mind, And play the poor deceiver's part. And she succeeded at the first, When no observance on her lay ; But oh ! that weight of guilt and grief Was wearing her poor heart away. At night, when weary workers slept, Her pillow with her tears was wet ; She will not think she dare not think, She will forget she can't forget. 20 THE LOST CHILD. The ancient ladies marked the change That grew upon her week by week ; The failing lightness of her step, The fading colour of her cheek. Then she would strive to smile again, And speak as in the days gone by, And answer lightly to the charge Of tearful traces in her eye. But oh ! when she was all alone, She sat like one of 'wildered brain, And started only if a fly Came buzzing on the window pane. She would not speak ; she dare not tell The truth she hoped no eye might see ; But all her secret cry was this " What will, what will become of me ! " Oh, father ! when you stroked my head, And called me your good little maid, Would that my grave had then been dug, And little Annie in it laid. " Oh, mother ! when you pinched yourself, And took the hardest, heaviest part, You never thought your thankless child Would break your too indulgent heart. "What can I do? what shall I do?" Thus ran her thoughts from hour to hour Oh ! could she be a child once more Beneath her pretty lilac bower ! Thus sadly flew the weary days, The weary months flew swiftly by, Whilst in her trembling heart she bore Her load of guilt and misery. Then came the night the dreaded night The ladies had retired to rest ; The hour had come the dreaded hour The time of trouble, unconfessed. THE HEART-STRICKEN FATHER. 21 There is a woman in the wood ! With trembling, frantic hands she tears The swelling moss from off a bank, To hide a burden that she bears. She flings herself upon the ground, Cold, shuddering in the moonlight pale, And with a smothered groan she cries, " Oh, cruel, cruel Leonard Gale ! " The watch dog howls, the dry leaves hiss, Like guilty voices whispering low ; And waving shadows in the wind, Like flitting ghosts glide to and fro. An infant's cry rings in her ears, From every leaf she hears the sound ; She hears it wailing through the wood, She hears it springing from the ground. Like a poor ghost she flees away And at the cockcrow where is she? When morning cometh, who may say, What has become of Annie Lee? Vain search was made in every place, On every side the tale was told, And some were grieved, but none surprised, It was the end they had foretold. And now the stillest spoke the most; They always thought her vain and wild ; And some supposed she'd drowned herself, And some supposed she'd killed her child. A few short weeks it was the talk, An interest hung about the spot ; A few short weeks it died away, And Annie Lee was quite forgot. The tidings that his child was gone, Soon reached the home of Thomas Lee, And fell, as falls the lightning stroke Upon the sturdy forest tree. 22 THE LOST CHILD. "It was the spite of slanderous tongues," Was all the poor old man could say ; " It was the villain Leonard Gale Who lured his little bird away. "He'd find her, if beneath the sun, His pretty lamb had still a place ; Should he sit there, and hear his child Branded with such a foul disgrace !" He sought her far, he sought her near, No trace nor tidings could he find; Then hope died out in dull despair, And darkness settled on his mind. He went about his farm and fields, And worked as he had done before ; But he was stricken to the heart, And lifted up his head no more. It drew on towards the Christmas time, The air was foul with sleet and rain, And Thomas Lee took to his bed, From which he never rose again. A lingering fever burnt within, Seldom he spoke and often sighed ; And day by day he wore away, Till on the Christmas morn he died. But ere he went, he called his wife, And took her hand between his own ; * Don't leave the house, she may come back, And must not find both of us gone. "And never lock the door at night, But keep a welcome for her here, And let her little bed be made, Where she has slept so many a year. "And take her in, don't chide her, wife We all have much to be forgiven ; And may the Lord in mercy grant I see my Annie's face in heaven." THE LONELY WIDOW. 23 Deep lay the snow around the pond, And wild the wintry wind did rave, When Thomas Lee was carried forth, And buried in his lonely grave. And where was she who should have stood And wept beside her father's bier? And where was she who should have dried, Her widowed mother's falling tear? Dark gathered in that winter's night, The childless widow sat alone, And through the branches of the trees, The wind most mournfully did moan. Continuous fell the drifting snow, And choked the little garden path; And erewhile down the chimney fell, And hissed upon the cheerless hearth. The clock unheeded struck the hours, The night wore on in dumb distress, While colder grew the weary pain, Of dull, heart-aching loneliness. At last she spoke unto herself In broken words, and often sighed ; The old clock's cold unwearied stroke, The howling wind alone replied. "He could not bear it my poor Tom ! His heart gave way before the blow For she was dearer than his life, And her dishonour laid him low. "All night he never closed his eyes, All day his thoughts ran on and on; And when he thought I was asleep, He'd chide himself and lay and moan. " Sometimes he called her by her name ; Sometimes he spoke as though she heard ; "Twas all my fault, my little lamb, The blame was mine, my pretty bird. 24 THE LOST CHILD. "'Oh! when you sat upon my knee, And looked at me with your sweet eyes, You heeded every word I said, As though they came down from the skies. " ' Oh, she was good ! she might have been A little angel but for me ; I trained her for this wicked world, Oh ! miserable Thomas Lee ! "'How was it, that I never thought Whereto it led, until too late ; My poor lost child ! my little bird ! Thy father led thee to thy fate. " ' Annie, come back ! dear Annie, come ! And hear my last repenting word ; Oh, shall I never see thee more ! Have mercy, Lord ! have pity, Lord !' "And so he sighed his soul away; And I sit here and sigh alone ; My husband rests beneath the snow, But where is my poor Annie gone? "Where does she hide her head to-night. This night so bleak so wintry wild Oh, do come home ! dear Annie, come ! I've no heart left to chide thee, child ! "Thy father did not sin alone, And not alone was he to blame ; I was the mother of poor Anne, And mine the blame, and mine the shame. " I did not guide her little feet, When she was easy to be led, I did not pray for my poor child, I fed her vanity instead. " I did not keep my trust, O Lord ! I let her wander far from Thee ; But seek her yet, oh, seek her yet ! And pardon her, and pardon me. NO HOME ! 25 " I would I could undo the past, I would I could my fault repair ; But that is gone, and what remains Is grief and penitence and prayer." And thus the widowed mother mourned, And thus from month to month she sighed, And trusted still the Lord would grant The prayer she could not be denied. THIRD PART. There is a woman in the street, Like one of a distracted mind; She hurries on in eager search Of him she never more will find. Her cheek is flushed, her eye is dim, With floods of tears she cannot dry, And timidly she meets the gaze Of strangers as they pass her by. The night draws on, she has no home, Her home and friends are left behind; With weary foot and aching heart, What lodging place may Annie find? Tis past ! that dark despairing night, And comes the dark despairing day, And comes again the dreary night, And comes the dreary, dreary day. There is a woman in the street, Her face is fair, her look is free ; She sings a wild and careless song That woman is young Annie Lee. 26 THE LOST CHILD. When good men sleep a quiet sleep, And fair young cheeks their pillows press, There is a clamour in the street, Of drunkenness and wantonness. And women's voices may be heard, To rise upon the midnight air, With hollow cough and hollow laugh, And Annie Lee is laughing there. The dark and desperate night is past, And comes the dark and desperate day, And darker grows the hateful night, And darker, darker grows the day. There is a woman in the street ! She staggers through the gin-shop door, A fever burns within her veins, She calls for drink, and calls for more. There is no beauty on her cheek, Her hollow eyes are red and wild, Her form is wasted with disease, The mother would not know her child. She sinks upon her squalid bed, And longs for death afraid to die, Whilst memory with relentless hand, Points, one by one, to scenes gone by. Brings back the merry olden time, The garden gate, the lilac bower ; The dear old folks who loved her so, The sunny morn, the twilight hour. The chiming of the sweet church bells, The Sabbath day her faithless friend, The hour she left her father's door, And then the end and then the end. THE RETURNING PRODIGAL. 27 And if her eyelids close in sleep, Her dreams in wilder circuit fly, And bring her back to Yarrow Dell, And wake her with an infant's cry. The lonely, hopeless night is past, And comes the lonely, hopeless day, And ever darker grows the night, And never, never comes the day. There is a woman in the street ! She crouches on a stone to rest ; Her shawl is fluttering in the wind, Her arms are crossed upon her breast. The keen March wind swept down the street, And froze her life-blood as it past ; " My God ! my God ! " she feebly cried, " Let not this moment be my last. " Let me not perish in the street ; Kind Lord in heaven, pity me ! Is there no shelter in the world Where a poor dying wretch may be ! "Where I may creep away and hide, And die alone and be forgot ; And they who loved me oh, so well ! Will only know that, I am not." A sudden thought flashed through her brain, She looked up in the frosty sky " I will arise and get me home, And at my father's door I'll die." She rose up in that solemn hour; Two nights and days she struggled on ; And as she passed the school-house door, She heard the church clock striking One. 28 THE LOST CHILD. She took the old familiar path That o'er the silent meadows lay ; Her foot knew every winding turn, And needed not the light of day. There stood the towering poplar tree, And there the oak with ivy crest, Where in her childhood, year by year, The tawny owl had built her nest. A moment on the wooden bridge She paused, and heaved a bitter sigh, As sweet and low the little brook, With its old music tinkled by. How oft upon that narrow plank Had she and Jane, in childish play, Cast flowers upon the merry brook, And laughed to see them sail away. Where are they now those meadow flowers ! Stranded on some lone reedy shore The little brook flows ever on, And brings the flowers back never more. She reached the well-known garden gate, She passed beneath the lilac bower, She stole along the narrow path, She stood before her father's door. The shimmer of the still moonlight Upon the glittering window fell, And rested on the little porch, The place remembered all so well She listened with a throbbing heart The house within was still as death : " They're dead ! " she groaned ; " I've killed them both ! " And gasping, hardly drew her breath. She laid her finger on the latch, As she so oft had done before, The door gave way upon her touch, She stood upon the homely floor. MOTHER'S VOICE AGAIN ! 29 Some embers smouldering on the hearth Shot forth erewhile a flickering flame : There stood her mother's high-backed chair, The old oak table just the same. She sat down on her little stool, And bowed her head and freely wept ; Then stealthily, with noiseless foot, Up to the chamber door she crept " Oh, God be praised ! they sleep, they rest, They rest in peace, they sweetly sleep ; I'll hide me in my little room, And till the morning watch and weep." She turned into the little room, Where her sweet youth had taken rest, And found the chamber all prepared, As waiting an expected guest " My little bed, where I have lain When I was innocent and free; My little bed, oh ! rest again The weary limbs of Annie Lee." She slept that pale and haggard face, * Marred with disease, and worn with woe. Can this be that young joyous girl Who slumbered here not long ago? She slept how long, she could not tell, And where, she little cared to know, Till suddenly awaked, she heard Her mother's step and voice below. " My mother ! may I see her face ? Dear mother ! will she look on me ? Her poor undone and dying child Will she take home poor Annie Lee?" Her foot is on the lowest stair "Mother!" she said she could no more; The poor returning prodigal Lay pale and senseless on the floor. 30 THE LOST CHILD. They bore her to her little room, The lost one found rejoiced o'er, With tender care, that fain would rear The poor down-trodden, faded flower. But such a thing was not to be, The stem was broken at the root, And never more would spring again, Nor bear on earth its pleasant fruit. When many days had passed away, Anne told her mother how she fell; She told her of the midnight grave, Beneath the moss in Yarrow Dell. She strove to tell, but found no words To picture forth that blackest time, When desperation and despair Drove her still deeper down in crime. Her terror in the lone dark night, Her loathing of the bright clear day, The dread that curdled round her heart, The thoughts she could not drive away. And " Oh ! " she said, " God cast me off, A wretched murderer ! and I fell, Down, down, still down, still lower down, Until I reached the edge of hell. u Then, in a restless dream one night, My father stood beside my bed, And said, ' Go home there's pardon yet, And I am resting with the dead.' " I knew I should not find him here, I knew that I had broke his heart; Oh, mother ! when I think of that, I fear my reason will depart. " I knew he sought me far and near, I could not dare not see his face. It would have killed me even then, For him to look on my disgrace. HOPE FOR THE LOST ! 31 " My dear, dear father ! oh how good, How very good he was to me ! And it was / who broke his heart, 'Twas / who murdered Thomas Lee. "But tell me not about my sin, It girds me like an iron chain; Remorse is gnawing at my heart, And fever rages in my brain. " Oh, mother ! when I was a child, They talked about the ' Sinner's Friend ; They used to say His love was free, Without a limit or an end. " They used to tell of God's dear Son, Who died, that sin might be forgiven, And through His sorrow made a way For poor lost sinners into heaven. "Tell me of Him, for I am lost, Unless His mercy reach to me; Oh ! is there mercy still with God For such a wretch as Annie Lee? " Hush ! hark ! I hear an infant cry Oh, will it never die away ! My God ! my God ! forgive, forgive ! Oh, mother, pray ! dear mother, pray ! " They prayed they told of Jesus Christ, Who came with all the Father's love, To save the lowest and the lost, And fit them for the realms above. They told her it was God Himself, Who gave His royal ransome free, And stooped as low as hell to save The sinful soul of Annie Lee. Week followed week March glided by, And April came with sun and showers, And once again the meadow grass Was purpled with the cuckoo flowers. 32 THE LOST CHILD. Again the primrose in the lane Its dewy, dainty fragrance flung, And overhead the woodpecker Was laughing while the linnet sung. But to that sadly shaded room, The sweet spring-time came back no more ; The night was drawing on apace, The foot of Death was at the door. And there was agony of soul, Despairing prayers and floods of tears, And stern remorse, and self-reproach, And all the future, dark with fears. So passed the meiry month of May, When birds sing sweetly ere the dawn ; But Annie Lee a-dying lay, With heavy breathing deeply drawn. She heard the old clock through the night, Say solemnly " Prepare prepare ;" She heard her mother's trembling voice, Pleading for her with fervent prayer. At last just at the close, she said, " Mother, I think it's growing bright Give me your blessing once again, For I shall go away to-night. " I shall not see the morning break But, oh ! I hope I am forgiven But pray still pray that my poor soul, For Christ's dear sake, may enter heaven." Above the little garden gate, The lilac trees were full in bloom, When Annie Lee was borne away, And laid within her early tomb. Jarrold and Sons, Printers, Norwich. 000 125 154 5