And ’twas her only comfoft now to think Upon the grave. “Poor girl!” her mother said, “Thou hast suffered much!” “aye mother! there is none “Can tell what I have suffered!” she replied, “But I shall soon be where the weary rest.” And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God To take her to his mercy. [14] It is proper to remark that the story related in this Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the circumstances in a village in Hampshire. The indifference of the child was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a faithful narrative by adding any thing. 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 Which bursts[15] 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!