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That tremble round a nightingale-in sighs
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance,
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,
And vows, where there was never need of vows,
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars;
Or while the balmy glooming crescent-lit,
Spread the light haze along the river-shores,
And in the hollows; or as once we met
Unheedful, though beneath a whispering rain
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep.

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day.

This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time Is come to raise the veil.

Behold her there,

As I beheld her ere she knew my heart,
My first, last love; the idol of my youth,
The darling of my manhood, and, alas !
Now the most blessed memory of mine age.

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And often thought "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day

When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son,

I married late; but I would wish to see

My grandchild on my knees before I die :

And I have set my

heart

upon a match.

VOL. II.

3

Now therefore look to Dora; she is well

To look to thrifty too beyond her age.

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She is my brother's daughter: he and I

Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred

His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,

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For many years." But William answer'd short, "I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus !
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't.
Consider take a month to think, and give
An answer to my wish; or by the Lord

That made me, you shall pack, and nevermore
Darken my doors again." And William heard,
And answer'd something 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 labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said, "My girl, I love

you

well;

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!

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

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,

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