II.

Turn we to a lowly dwelling-- One amongst a million dwellings-- Where a mother silent rocketh To-and-fro with down-let eyelids, Gazing on her sleeping infant, While the just-expiring embers Smoulder through the gloomy darkness. On the shelf a rushlight flickers With a dull and sickly glimmer, Turning night to ghostly, deathly, Pallid wretchedness and sadness, Just revealing the dim outline Of a pale and tearful mother, With a babe upon her bosom. "Thus am I," she muttered, wailing, "Left to linger lorn and lonely In the morning of my being. If 'twere not for thee, my sweet babe, Lily of my life's dark waters-- Silver link that holds my sad heart To the earth--I fain would lay me Down, and sleep death's calm and sweet sleep. Oh! how sweetly calm it must be. In the green and silent graveyard, With the moonlight and the daisies! If 'twere not for thee, my loved one, I could lay me down and kiss Death With the gladness I now kiss thee. Oh! how cold thy tiny lips are! Like a Spring-time blossom frozen. Nestle, dear one, in my bosom!" And the mother presst the sleeper Closer--closer, to her white breast: Forward, backward--gently rocking; While the rushlight flickered ghastly. Hark! a footstep nears the dwelling; And the door is flung wide open, Banging backward 'gainst the table; And a human being enters, Flusht with liquor, drencht with water! For the rain came down in torrents, And the wind blew cold and gusty. "Well, Blanche!" spake the thoughtless husband, Not unkindly. "Weeping always." "Yes, Charles, I could ne'er have slumbered Had I gone to bed," she answered. Then she rose to shut the night out, But the stubborn wind resisted, And, for spite, dasht through the crevice Of the window. "Foolish girl, then, Thus to wait for me!" he muttered. When a shriek--so wild, so piercing-- Weirdly wild--intensely piercing-- Struck him like a sharp stiletto. Then another--and another! Purging clear his turbid senses. "Blanche!" he cried; and sprang towards her Just in time to save her falling; And her child fell from her bosom, Like a snow-fall from the house-top To the earth. "Blanche! Blanche!" he gaspt out; "Tell me what it is that pains thee." But her face was still as marble. Then he kissed her cheeks--her forehead-- Then her lips, and called out wildly: "Blanche, my own neglected darling, Look, look up, and say thou livest, Speak, if but to curse thy husband-- Curse thy wretched, heartless husband." Then her eyelids slowly opened, And she gazed up in his white face, White as paper as her own was! "Charles!" she sighed, "I have been dreaming: Is my child dead?" "No!" he answered, "See, 'tis sleeping!" "Dead!" the mother Murmured faintly, "Sleeping--sleeping!" In a chair he gently placed her: Then he stooped to take the child up, Kisst and placed it on her bosom. Frantic then the mother hugged it; Gazed a moment; then with laughter Wild, she made the room re-echo-- "They would take my bonny baby-- Rob me of my dainty darling, Would they? Ha! ha! ha!" she shouted. And she turned her large blue eyes up With a strange and fitful gazing, Laughing till the tears chased madly Down her cheeks of pallid whiteness. "Dear, dear Blanche!" her husband murmured, Stretching out his hand towards her; But she started wildly forward, Crouched down in the furthest corner, And, with face tear-dabbled over, And her hair in long, lank tresses, With a voice so low and plaintive 'Twould have won a brute to lameness, Faintly sobbed she: "Do not take it! Do not take it!--do not take it!" And she hugged her infant closer, Sobbing sadly, "Do not take it!" "Blanche! dear Blanche!" her husband faltered, With a voice low, husht, and chokeful, "I--I am thy worthless husband!" Then he walkt a step towards her; But the girl with 'wildered features Drew her thin hand o'er her forehead, And in wandering accents muttered: "Husband? Husband? No, not husband! I am still a laughing maiden; Yet methought I had been married, And bore such a sweet, sweet baby-- Such a fair and bonny baby! Baby--baby--hush; the wild winds Sing so plaintive. Hush--h!" And then she Laid the child upon the cold floor, And, with hair in wild disorder, Laughing, crying, sobbing, talking, O'er it hung, like March a-shivering O'er the birth of infant April. Lightly then her husband toucht her On the shoulder; but she look'd not-- Spake not--moved not. Slowly rose she From her kneeling, crouching posture; And she stood a hopeless dreamer, With the child a corpse beside her!