I.
She
was
an
aged
woman;
and
the
years
Which
she
had
numbered
on
her
toilsome
way
Had
bowed
her
natural
powers
to
decay.
She
was
an
aged
woman;
yet
the
ray
Which
faintly
glimmered
through
her
starting
tears,
Pressed
into
light
by
silent
misery,
Hath
soul's
imperishable
energy.
She
was
a
cripple,
and
incapable
To
add
one
mite
to
gold-fed
luxury:
And
therefore
did
her
spirit
dimly
feel
That
poverty,
the
crime
of
tainting
stain,
Would
merge
her
in
its
depths,
never
to
rise
again.
II.
One
only
son's
love
had
supported
her.
She
long
had
struggled
with
infirmity,
Lingering
to
human
life-scenes;
for
to
die,
When
fate
has
spared
to
rend
some
mental
tie,
Would
many
wish,
and
surely
fewer
dare.
But,
when
the
tyrant's
bloodhounds
forced
the
child
For
his
cursed
power
unhallowed
arms
to
wield--
Bend
to
another's
will--become
a
thing
More
senseless
than
the
sword
of
battlefield--
Then
did
she
feel
keen
sorrow's
keenest
sting;
And
many
years
had
passed
ere
comfort
they
would
bring.
III.
For
seven
years
did
this
poor
woman
live
In
unparticipated
solitude.
Thou
mightst
have
seen
her
in
the
forest
rude
Picking
the
scattered
remnants
of
its
wood.
If
human,
thou
mightst
then
have
learned
to
grieve.
The
gleanings
of
precarious
charity
Her
scantiness
of
food
did
scarce
supply.
The
proofs
of
an
unspeaking
sorrow
dwelt
Within
her
ghastly
hollowness
of
eye:
Each
arrow
of
the
season's
change
she
felt.
Yet
still
she
groans,
ere
yet
her
race
were
run,
One
only
hope:
it
was—once
more
to
see
her
son.
IV.
It
was
an
eve
of
June,
when
every
star
Spoke
peace
from
Heaven
to
those
on
earth
that
live.
She
rested
on
the
moor.
'Twas
such
an
eve
When
first
her
soul
began
indeed
to
grieve:
Then
he
was
here;
now
he
is
very
far.
The
sweetness
of
the
balmy
evening
A
sorrow
o'er
her
aged
soul
did
fling,
Yet
not
devoid
of
rapture’s
mingled
tear:
A
balm
was
in
the
poison
of
the
sting.
This
aged
sufferer
for
many
a
year
Had
never
felt
such
comfort.
She
suppressed
A
sigh--and
turning
round,
clasped
William
to
her
breast!
V.
And,
though
his
form
was
wasted
by
the
woe
Which
tyrants
on
their
victims
love
to
wreak,
Though
his
sunk
eyeballs
and
his
faded
cheek
Of
slavery's
violence
and
scorn
did
speak,
Yet
did
the
aged
woman's
bosom
glow.
The
vital
fire
seemed
re-illumed
within
By
this
sweet
unexpected
welcoming.
Oh,
consummation
of
the
fondest
hope
That
ever
soared
on
Fancy's
wildest
wing!
Oh,
tenderness
that
foundst
so
sweet
a
scope!
Prince
who
dost
pride
thee
on
thy
mighty
sway,
When
THOU
canst
feel
such
love,
thou
shalt
be
great
as
they!
VI.
Her
son,
compelled,
the
country's
foes
had
fought,
Had
bled
in
battle;
and
the
stern
control
Which
ruled
his
sinews
and
coerced
his
soul
Utterly
poisoned
life's
unmingled
bowl,
And
unsubduable
evils
on
him
brought.
He
was
the
shadow
of
the
lusty
child
Who,
when
the
time
of
summer
season
smiled,
Did
earn
for
her
a
meal
of
honesty,
And
with
affectionate
discourse
beguiled
The
keen
attacks
of
pain
and
poverty;
Till
Power,
as
envying
her
this
only
joy,
From
her
maternal
bosom
tore
the
unhappy
boy.
VII.
And
now
cold
charity's
unwelcome
dole
Was
insufficient
to
support
the
pair;
And
they
would
perish
rather
than
would
bear
The
law's
stern
slavery,
and
the
insolent
stare
With
which
law
loves
to
rend
the
poor
man's
soul--
The
bitter
scorn,
the
spirit-sinking
noise
Of
heartless
mirth
which
women,
men,
and
boys
Wake
in
this
scene
of
legal
misery.
