Long, and long was he unheard of: To his Brother then he came, Made confession, ask'd forgiveness, Ask'd it by a Brother's name, 100 And by all the saints in heaven; And of Eustace was forgiv'n: Then in a Convent went to hide His melancholy head, and there he died. But Sir Eustace, whom good Angels Had preserv'd from Murderers' hands, And from Pagan chains had rescued, Liv'd with honour on his lands. Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs: And through ages, Heirs of Heirs, 110 A long posterity renown'd, Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound. THE AFFLICTION of MARGARET ---- OF ---- * * * * * Where art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead? Oh find me prosperous or undone! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same That I may rest; and neither blame, Nor sorrow may attend thy name? Seven years, alas, to have received No tidings of an only child; To have despair'd, and have believ'd, 10 And be for evermore beguil'd; Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! I catch at them, and then I miss; Was ever darkness like to this? He was among the prime in worth, An object beauteous to behold; Well born, well bred; I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: If things ensued that wanted grace, As hath been said, they were not base; 20 And never blush was on my face. Ah! little doth the Young One dream, When full of play and childish cares, What power hath even his wildest scream, Heard by his Mother unawares! He knows it not, he cannot guess: Years to a Mother bring distress; But do not make her love the less. Neglect me! no I suffer'd long From that ill thought; and being blind, 30 Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong; Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed:" and that is true; I've wet my path with tears like dew, Weeping for him when no one knew. My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honour and of gain, Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; Think not of me with grief and pain: I now can see with better eyes; 40 And worldly grandeur I despise, And fortune with her gifts and lies Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings, And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight; They mount, how short a voyage brings The Wanderers back to their delight! Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee. Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50 Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men; Or thou upon a Desart thrown Inheritest the Lion's Den; Or hast been summoned to the Deep, Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep.