The Foster-Mother’s Tale, a Dramatic Fragment

I never saw the man whom you describe.

’Tis strange! he spake of you familiarlyAs mine and Albert’s common Foster-mother.

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 timesWhen you two little ones would stand at eveOn each side of my chair, and make me learnAll you had learnt in the day; and how to talkIn gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you--’Tis more like heaven to come than what has been.

O my dear Mother! this strange man has left meTroubled with wilder fancies, than the moonBreeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,Till lost in inward vision, with wet eyeShe gazes idly!--But that entrance, Mother!

Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

No one.

My husband’s father told it me,Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul!He was a woodman, and could fell and sawWith lusty arm. You know that huge round beamWhich props the hanging wall of the old chapel?Beneath that tree, while yet it was a treeHe found a baby wrapt in mosses, linedWith thistle-beards, and such small locks of woolAs hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost.And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,A pretty boy, but most unteachable--And never learnt 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 playTo get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant themWith earth and water, on the stumps of trees.A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,A grey-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 very learned youth.But Oh! 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 prayWith holy men, nor in a holy place--But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him.And once, as by the north side of the ChapelThey stood together, chained in deep discourse,The earth heaved under them with such a groan,That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallenRight on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;A fever seized him, and he made confessionOf all the heretical and lawless talkWhich brought this judgment: so the youth was seizedAnd cast into that hole. My husband’s fatherSobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart:And once as he was working in the cellar,He heard a voice distinctly; ’twas the youth’s,Who sung a doleful song about green fields,How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,To hunt for food, and be a naked man,And wander up and down at liberty.He always doted on the youth, and nowHis love grew desperate; and defying death,He made that cunning entrance I described:And the young man escaped.

’Tis a sweet tale:Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.--And what became of him?

He went on ship-boardWith those bold voyagers, who made discoveryOf golden lands. Leoni’s younger brotherWent likewise, and when he returned to Spain,He told Leoni, 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 moonlightUp 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.

--Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree standsFar from all human dwelling: what if hereNo sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,That break against the shore, shall lull thy mindBy one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

--Who he wasThat piled these stones, and with the mossy sodFirst covered o’er, and taught this aged tree,Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,I well remember.--He was one who own’dNo common soul. In youth, by genius nurs’d,And big with lofty views, he to the worldWent forth, pure in his heart, against the taintOf dissolute tongues, ’gainst jealousy, and hate,And scorn, against all enemies prepared,All but neglect: and so, his spirit dampedAt once, with rash disdain he turned away,And with the food of pride sustained his soulIn solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughsHad charms for him; and here he loved to sit,His only visitants a straggling sheep,The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;And on these barren rocks, with juniper,And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er,Fixing his downward eye, he many an hourA morbid pleasure nourished, tracing hereAn emblem of his own unfruitful life:And lifting up his head, he then would gazeOn the more distant scene; how lovely ’tisThou seest, and he would gaze till it becameFar lovelier, and his heart could not sustainThe beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,Warm from the labours of benevolence,The world, and man himself, appeared a sceneOf kindred loveliness: then he would sighWith mournful joy, to think that others feltWhat he must never feel: and so, lost man!On visionary views would fancy feed,Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep valeHe died, this seat his only monument.

If thou be one whose heart the holy formsOf young imagination have kept pure,Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,Is littleness; that he, who feels contemptFor any living thing, hath facultiesWhich he has never used; that thought with himIs in its infancy. The man, whose eyeIs ever on himself, doth look on one,The least of nature’s works, one who might moveThe wise man to that scorn which wisdom holdsUnlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,True dignity abides with him aloneWho, in the silent hour of inward thought,Can still suspect, and still revere himself,In lowliness of heart.