The Babes In The Wood.

Come, list to my story,     More sorry, by far,     To her who must tell it,     And you who will hear it,     Than all others are!     'Tis the darling of each, who     Has spirit so mild     As to grieve for the Human--     The sad man or woman,     Or desolate child!     Of eyes, my dear children,     Yours are not the first,     Through whose teary lashes,     In soft, pitying splashes,     The warm drops have burst     At hearing it. Many,     For hundreds of years,     Have in the same fashion     Their heartfelt compassion     Shown thus--with their tears!     A dying father in his arms     Two children did enfold.     The eldest one, a little boy,     Was only three years old;     Even less than that had served to tint     The baby's head with gold.     The mother, too, lay ill to death,     No human power might save,     And to her darlings, that same hour,     Her farewell blessing gave.     Father and mother--one in life--     Were laid in the same grave.     But, ere the latest breath was drawn,     The father's brother came--     Nearest of kin, upon whose love     The orphaned ones had claim--     And he made oath to cherish them     As his own blood and name.     The will devised three hundred pounds     A year unto the son,     Three hundred, on her marriage-day,     To Jane, the little one.     Thus it was from the uncle's greed     That trouble first begun.     For if, by chance, they both should die,     He was to have their gold;     He felt no love for either child--     His heart was hard and cold.     And, while he promised fair, he planned     A scheme both bad and bold.     A twelvemonth did his darksome mind     Plot for the dreadful deed.     Two brutal ruffians he hired     To help him in his need;     And yet, so secret were his ways,     None knew to intercede.     He formed a wily, plausive tale,     And told it everywhere,     How the two children were to go,     Under the best of care--     Two friends of his--for holiday     To London, for the fair.     The horses stood before the gate,     The ruffians twain astride;     And gay with scarlet girth and rein     They started, side by side.     O, blithe the babies' spirits were,     That they could have a ride!     For every pretty sight they saw,     For every sound they heard,     The boy had noisy laugh or shout,     The girl had winsome word--     He questioned, never satisfied,     She chattered like a bird.     Meanwhile each ruffian surly sat,     In dark and restless mood;     Little the prattlers, in their joy,     Such silence understood,     As on through the warm early day     They rode towards the wood.     They reached the leafy wilderness,     And then the way grew wild;     But ever with new glee the babes     The gathering gloom beguiled.     Until, at last, quite cheered and won,     One of the ruffians smiled.     Love had o'ercome within his breast     His wicked avarice.     "I will not kill the little things,"     He said, "for any price!"     Then passed hot words between the two,     But only once or twice,     For blows fell, and the kindly one     Dropped to the earth and died;     The children sank upon the ground,     Trembling and terrified,     And clung together, wondering,     And moaned, and sobbed, and cried.     Then he who lived led them away,     Both shivering with dread;     They begged for food; he paused a space;     "Stay here awhile," he said,     "And I will go into the town     At once, and fetch you bread."     He went. In their sweet innocence     They trusted to his word;     Meanwhile, the sparkling morning sun     With a grey cloud was blurred;     And long, in vain, they waited there,     Nor cried again, nor stirred!     How can I write the mournful end--     And tell how, up and down,     At last, by hunger driven, they stray     Over the mosses brown--     She clutching at his little coat,     He clinging to her gown?     More than one day--more than one night,     Comes on them there alone!     They search for blackberries, so weak     And starving they are grown,     Now through a thicket of wild brier,     Now 'gainst a hindering stone!     Then they lie down to die, poor babes!     The cruel ground receives     Their little bodies as a bed;     Long time the south wind grieves     Above them; and a hovering bough     A pall of shadow weaves;     And robin-red-breasts pity them,     And cover them with leaves!