English Eclogues IV - The Sailor's Mother WOMAN.
Sir
for
the
love
of
God
some
small
relief
To
a
poor
woman!
TRAVELLER.
Whither
are
you
bound?
'Tis
a
late
hour
to
travel
o'er
these
downs,
No
house
for
miles
around
us,
and
the
way
Dreary
and
wild.
The
evening
wind
already
Makes
one's
teeth
chatter,
and
the
very
Sun,
Setting
so
pale
behind
those
thin
white
clouds,
Looks
cold.
'Twill
be
a
bitter
night!
WOMAN.
Aye
Sir
'Tis
cutting
keen!
I
smart
at
every
breath,
Heaven
knows
how
I
shall
reach
my
journey's
end,
For
the
way
is
long
before
me,
and
my
feet,
God
help
me!
sore
with
travelling.
I
would
gladly,
If
it
pleased
God,
lie
down
at
once
and
die.
TRAVELLER.
Nay
nay
cheer
up!
a
little
food
and
rest
Will
comfort
you;
and
then
your
journey's
end
Will
make
amends
for
all.
You
shake
your
head,
And
weep.
Is
it
some
evil
business
then
That
leads
you
from
your
home?
WOMAN.
Sir
I
am
going
To
see
my
son
at
Plymouth,
sadly
hurt
In
the
late
action,
and
in
the
hospital
Dying,
I
fear
me,
now.
TRAVELLER.
Perhaps
your
fears
Make
evil
worse.
Even
if
a
limb
be
lost
There
may
be
still
enough
for
comfort
left
An
arm
or
leg
shot
off,
there's
yet
the
heart
To
keep
life
warm,
and
he
may
live
to
talk
With
pleasure
of
the
glorious
fight
that
maim'd
him,
Proud
of
his
loss.
Old
England's
gratitude
Makes
the
maim'd
sailor
happy.
WOMAN.
'Tis
not
that--
An
arm
or
leg--I
could
have
borne
with
that.
'Twas
not
a
ball,
it
was
some
cursed
thing
That
bursts
and
burns
that
hurt
him.
Something
Sir
They
do
not
use
on
board
our
English
ships
It
is
so
wicked!
TRAVELLER.
Rascals!
a
mean
art
Of
cruel
cowardice,
yet
all
in
vain!
WOMAN.
Yes
Sir!
and
they
should
show
no
mercy
to
them
For
making
use
of
such
unchristian
arms.
I
had
a
letter
from
the
hospital,
He
got
some
friend
to
write
it,
and
he
tells
me
That
my
poor
boy
has
lost
his
precious
eyes,
Burnt
out.
Alas!
that
I
should
ever
live
To
see
this
wretched
day!--they
tell
me
Sir
There
is
no
cure
for
wounds
like
his.
Indeed
'Tis
a
hard
journey
that
I
go
upon
To
such
a
dismal
end!
TRAVELLER.
He
yet
may
live.
But
if
the
worst
should
chance,
why
you
must
bear
The
will
of
heaven
with
patience.
Were
it
not
Some
comfort
to
reflect
your
son
has
fallen
Fighting
his
country's
cause?
and
for
yourself
You
will
not
in
unpitied
poverty
Be
left
to
mourn
his
loss.
Your
grateful
country
Amid
the
triumph
of
her
victory
Remember
those
who
paid
its
price
of
blood,
And
with
a
noble
charity
relieves
The
widow
and
the
orphan.
WOMAN.
God
reward
them!
God
bless
them,
it
will
help
me
in
my
age
But
Sir!
it
will
not
pay
me
for
my
child!
TRAVELLER.
Was
he
your
only
child?
WOMAN.
My
only
one,
The
stay
and
comfort
of
my
widowhood,
A
dear
good
boy!--when
first
he
went
to
sea
I
felt
what
it
would
come
to,--something
told
me
I
should
be
childless
soon.
But
tell
me
Sir
If
it
be
true
that
for
a
hurt
like
his
There
is
no
cure?
please
God
to
spare
his
life
Tho'
he
be
blind,
yet
I
should
be
so
thankful!
I
can
remember
there
was
a
blind
man
Lived
in
our
village,
one
from
his
youth
up
Quite
dark,
and
yet
he
was
a
merry
man,
And
he
had
none
to
tend
on
him
so
well
As
I
would
tend
my
boy!
TRAVELLER.
Of
this
be
sure
His
hurts
are
look'd
to
well,
and
the
best
help
The
place
affords,
as
rightly
is
his
due,
Ever
at
hand.
How
happened
it
he
left
you?
Was
a
seafaring
life
his
early
choice?
WOMAN.
No
Sir!
poor
fellow--he
was
wise
enough
To
be
content
at
home,
and
'twas
a
home
As
comfortable
Sir
I
even
tho'
I
say
it,
As
any
in
the
country.
He
was
left
A
little
boy
when
his
poor
father
died,
Just
old
enough
to
totter
by
himself
And
call
his
mother's
name.
We
two
were
all,
And
as
we
were
not
left
quite
destitute
We
bore
up
well.
In
the
summer
time
I
worked
Sometimes
a-field.
Then
I
was
famed
for
knitting,
And
in
long
winter
nights
my
spinning
wheel
Seldom
stood
still.
We
had
kind
neighbours
too
And
never
felt
distress.
So
he
grew
up
A
comely
lad
and
wonderous
well
disposed;
I
taught
him
well;
there
was
not
in
the
parish
A
child
who
said
his
prayers
more
regular,
Or
answered
readier
thro'
his
catechism.
If
I
had
foreseen
this!
but
'tis
a
blessing
We
do'nt
know
what
we're
born
to!
TRAVELLER.
But
how
came
it
He
chose
to
be
a
Sailor?
WOMAN.
You
shall
hear
Sir;
As
he
grew
up
he
used
to
watch
the
birds
In
the
corn,
child's
work
you
know,
and
easily
done.
'Tis
an
idle
sort
of
task,
so
he
built
up
A
little
hut
of
wicker-work
and
clay
Under
the
hedge,
to
shelter
him
in
rain.
And
then
he
took
for
very
idleness
To
making
traps
to
catch
the
plunderers,
All
sorts
of
cunning
traps
that
boys
can
make--
Propping
a
stone
to
fall
and
shut
them
in,
Or
crush
them
with
its
weight,
or
else
a
springe
Swung
on
a
bough.
He
made
them
cleverly--
And
I,
poor
foolish
woman!
I
was
pleased
To
see
the
boy
so
handy.
You
may
guess
What
followed
Sir
from
this
unlucky
skill.
He
did
what
he
should
not
when
he
was
older:
I
warn'd
him
oft
enough;
but
he
was
caught
In
wiring
hares
at
last,
and
had
his
choice
The
prison
or
the
ship.
TRAVELLER.
The
choice
at
least
Was
kindly
left
him,
and
for
broken
laws
This
was
methinks
no
heavy
punishment.
WOMAN.
So
I
was
told
Sir.
And
I
tried
to
think
so,
But
'twas
a
sad
blow
to
me!
I
was
used
To
sleep
at
nights
soundly
and
undisturb'd--
Now
if
the
wind
blew
rough,
it
made
me
start
And
think
of
my
poor
boy
tossing
about
Upon
the
roaring
seas.
And
then
I
seem'd
To
feel
that
it
was
hard
to
take
him
from
me
For
such
a
little
fault.
But
he
was
wrong
Oh
very
wrong--a
murrain
on
his
traps!
See
what
they've
brought
him
too!
TRAVELLER.
Well!
well!
take
comfort
He
will
be
taken
care
of
if
he
lives;
And
should
you
lose
your
child,
this
is
a
country
Where
the
brave
sailor
never
leaves
a
parent
To
weep
for
him
in
want.
WOMAN.
Sir
I
shall
want
No
succour
long.
In
the
common
course
of
years
I
soon
must
be
at
rest,
and
'tis
a
comfort
When
grief
is
hard
upon
me
to
reflect
It
only
leads
me
to
that
rest
the
sooner.
