XII

The broad white brow of the Isle—that bay with the colour'd sand—

Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the land;

All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into spray

At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd—'my child'—for I still could pray—

'May her life be as blissfully calm, be never gloom'd by the curse

Of a sin, not hers!'

Was it well with the child?

I wrote to the nurse

Who had borne my flower on her hireling heart; and an answer came

Not from the nurse—nor yet to the wife—to her maiden name!

I shook as I open'd the letter—I knew that hand too well—

And from it a scrap, clipt out of the 'deaths' in a paper, fell.

'Ten long sweet summer days' of fever, and want of care!

And gone—that day of the storm—O Mother, she came to me there.