Compunction weeps our guilt away, The sinner's safety is his pain; Such pangs for our offences pay, And these severer griefs are gain. VAGRANT. The son came back--he found us wed; Then dreadful was the oath he swore;-- 10 His way through Blackburn Forest led;-- His father we beheld no more. Of all our daring clan not one Would on the doubtful subject dwell; For all esteem'd the injured son, And fear'd the tale which he could tell. But I had mightier cause for fear; For slow and mournful round my bed I saw a dreadful form appear-- It came when I and Aaron wed. 20 (Yes! we were wed, I know my crime,-- We slept beneath the [elmen] tree; But I was grieving all the time, And Aaron frown'd my tears to see. For he not yet had felt the pain That rankles in a wounded breast; He waked to sin, then slept again, Forsook his God, yet took his rest.-- But I was forced to feign delight, And joy in mirth and music sought; 30 And mem'ry now recalls the night, With such surprise and horror fraught, That reason felt a moment's flight, And left a mind to madness wrought.) When waking, on my heaving breast I felt a hand as cold as death; A sudden fear my voice suppress'd, A chilling terror stopp'd my breath.-- I seem'd--no words can utter how! For there my father-husband stood-- 40 And thus he said:--"Will God allow, "The great avenger, just and good, A wife to break her marriage vow, A son to shed his father's blood?" I trembled at the dismal sounds, But vainly strove a word to say; So, pointing to his bleeding wounds, The threat'ning spectre stalk'd away[30]. I brought a lovely daughter forth, His father's child, in Aaron's bed; 50 He took her from me in his wrath;-- "Where is my child?"--"Thy child is dead." 'Twas false--we wander'd far and wide, Through town and country, field and fen, Till Aaron, fighting, fell and died, And I became a wife again. I then was young:--my husband sold My fancied charms for wicked price; He gave me oft, for sinful gold, The slave, but not the friend, of vice-- 60 Behold me, Heaven! my pains behold, And let them for my sins suffice! The wretch, who lent me thus for gain, Despised me when my youth was fled; Then came disease, and brought me pain-- Come, death, and bear me to the dead! For, though I grieve, my grief is vain, And fruitless all the tears I shed. True, I was not to virtue train'd; Yet well I knew my deeds were ill; 70 By each offence my heart was pain'd-- I wept, but I offended still; My better thoughts my life disdain'd, But yet the viler led my will.