THE STOLEN CHILD.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth⁠—

And Age as fair a light displays,

When beautiful Love and spotless Truth

Have guided all her ways!

“But Sin is a hideous thing to see,

His eyes are dulled before his prime,

And each year leaveth the mark of three,

For he hurries the hand of Time!”

Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death,

By a way-side beggar-crone,

Who wrestled with the reluctant breath

On a pillow of broken stone!

’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp,

And clutch the air in her sinewy palms

As if forcing from a miser’s grasp

The miserable alms!

But a sight to bring the tear-drops down

Was the little maiden pale and thin

Who stood by her side in a tattered gown

Which let the sharp air in!

Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain,

And shivered like autumn’s leaf,

Trembling with very hunger and pain,

And weeping with fear, not grief!

“What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried,

“What makes you tremble and stare?

Why do you look so angry-eyed

As you strike the empty air?

“I fear you mother! Your angry brow!

Your wild and piercing eye!

Oh, do not, do not hurt me now,

There is no one to see me cry!

“Oh, mother, why do you beat me so?

And why do we walk all day,

And rest at night, if it rain or snow,

In cold, wet beds of hay?

“Oh, why do the village children play

And seem so very glad?

And why are they dressed so clean and gay

While I am so meanly clad?

“Do not their parents beat them too,

To make them moan and cry?

Or are their mothers weaker than you,

And the children stronger than I?

“I’ve seen the parents kiss and hold

Their little ones on the knee!

I, mother, am well nigh ten years old,

You never did so with me!

“Why am not I as pretty and good

As the little girls in the town?

Are mine the meaner flesh and blood

Because I am burnt so brown?

“And why do they go with happy looks

Up where the chapel stands,

Some with their little shining books

And flowers in their hands?

“Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there!

For often as we go by

Their voices come through the happy air

As if from the open sky!

“Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain,

And learn their beautiful words;

I am sure they do not sing for pain

No more than the little birds!

“You know how once we followed them out

To the forest green and gay;

How they danced and sang a song about

The beautiful flowers of May!

“Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, free

From hunger, pain and strife;

As a lady once told me I should be

If I lived on honest life!

“Then I wondered if we were to die that night,

If we should be angels fair!

But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white,

Why, why do you shiver and stare?

“Oh, mother, mother! you have often said

You’d kill me yet in some lonely place

If I did not steal—and did not shed

More tear-streams down my face!

“And when in the prison cell we lay,

Because you took the purse,

I remember how I heard you say

A very dreadful curse!

“How then you threatened to take my life

Because I lied not more!

And I remember still the knife

You said you had used before!

“I fear you, mother! more and more!

You groan and give such fearful starts,

Ah, spare me now! and at every door

I’ll cry till I break all hearts!

“But, mother, see, arise, arise!

A carriage comes up the vale;

They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries,

Now that you look so pale!”

Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came,

And she stood as with hunger wild;

While suddenly burst from the coach a dame

Crying “my child! my child!”

The crone half rose from her dying place,

With her mouth and eyes all wide!

And she knew the injured mother’s face,

Then fell on her own and died!

PART II.

One day in the summer garden fair

The mother and daughter strayed;

With trembling tongue and timid air

Thus spake the little maid.

“Oh, must I call you mother, indeed?

And are you really so?

And may a useless way-side weed

In a beautiful garden grow?

“Yes, you have told me all the tale,

How I was stolen away,

And how you grew all thin and pale,

Grieving for many a day!

“Day after day my heart repeats

The story o’er and o’er!

And when you say you love me, it beats

As it never did before!

“Oh, what are all these flowers that load

The bushes with red and white?

There are many growing beside the road,

But none so large and bright!

“Along the fence the alder grows,

To shade the dusty way,

And by the brook the briar blows

Where the cat-bird sings all day!

“Down by the meadows long and wet,

The willow-walks are made;

And now and then a violet

Grows in the willow’s shade.

“The dandelion and mullin bloom

By the glossy buttercups’ bed;

And the thistle looks like a soldier’s plume

With its beautiful tip of red!

“The blackberries grow by the stony wall,

You may pick them as you pass;

The strawberries, too, but so scattered and small

You must hunt them in the grass!

“All these along the highway shine;

And as I see from here

The turnpike’s long and winding line,

My heart sends up a tear!

“For they were the only things to cheer

The long and weary mile!

The only things for many a year

That ever wore a smile!

“Oh, mother, in our idle hours

We’ll wander down the glen,

And I’ll show you some of the simple flowers

That smiled upon me then!

“Come, let us walk by the road and search,

There where the poplars stand;

That I may carry some flowers to church

To-morrow in my hand!

“Then, where the old woman is doomed to lie

In the mound so new and bare,

I’ll slip aside, as we go by,

And quietly lay them there.

“So that if she is up in Heaven,

Singing the angels’ psalms,

She may know that all has been forgiven

By these beautiful bright alms!

“The good man told us, the other day,

We must forgive our foes!

And I forgive her; though she, you say,

Was the mother of my woes!

“I love to hear the church organ blow

When the people rise from their places!

And the children stand in a shining row

And sing with happy faces!

“Their sweet hymns make my heart rejoice

Like a blue-bird in the spring;

But when I try to raise my voice

I weep; for I cannot sing!

“Their strain has a sweet and delicate tone;

But mine has none of such;

It seems more like the wind’s low moan

Of which I have heard so much!

“Then, since my voice will not join with theirs,

In my heart I try to pray,

And I whisper o’er those little prayers

You taught me how to say!

“Say, mother, why did the preacher place

His dripping hand on the little child?

And did you not mark its rosy face

How angel-like it smiled?

“When I was so very, very small,

Did you carry me up the aisle,

And when I felt the waters fall,

Say, did I weep or smile?

“And then again in the afternoon

They brought another there,

The while the organ’s solemn tune,

Hung heavy on the air.

“But this one in its coffin lay,

While its mother sobbed aloud;

And its little hands were cold as clay,

And its face was white as its shroud.

“Then they slowly lowered it into the ground,

While the pebbles down after it slid;

And, mother, I still can hear the sound

Of the gravel upon the lid!

“Asleep or awake I hear it fall,

And it’s grown to a pleasant noise;

It seems like a loving angel’s call—

And I must obey the voice!”

Thus spoke the child—And the Sabbath calm

Brought the loud organ’s sorrowful sound,

And the great bell tolled its solemn psalm

As they laid her in the ground!