Book 2 — THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE[182:1]

Foster-Mother. I never saw the man whom you describe. Maria. 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother. Foster-Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, 5 As often as I think of those dear times When you two little ones would stand at eve On each side of my chair, and make me learn All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you— 10 'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been! Maria. O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon [183]Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye 15 She gazes idly!—But that entrance, Mother! Foster-Mother. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! Maria. No one. Foster-Mother. My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 20 With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel? Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 25 As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And rear'd 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, 30 But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself: And all the autumn 'twas his only play To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. 35 A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood, A grey-haired man—he lov'd this little boy, The boy lov'd 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. 40 So he became a very learnéd youth. But Oh! poor wretch!—he read, and read, and read, Till his brain turn'd—and ere his twentieth year, He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he prayed, he never lov'd to pray 45 With 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. [184]And once, as by the north side of the Chapel They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse, 50 The earth heav'd under them with such a groan, That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd; A fever seiz'd him, and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talk 55 Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd And cast into that hole. My husband's father Sobb'd 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, 60 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 now 65 His love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I describ'd: And the young man escap'd. Maria. 'Tis a sweet tale: Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.— 70 And what became of him? Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard With those bold voyagers, who made discovery Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain, He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 75 Soon after they arriv'd in that new world, In spite of his dissuasion, seiz'd a boat, And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight Up a great river, great as any sea, And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis suppos'd, 80 He liv'd and died among the savage men.

Ter. 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

So he became a very learned man. But O poor youth