Eclogue 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 [1] 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.