To South Australia, vainly to explore. The ship had come to Adelaide, no doubt; Watching the papers he had made it out, But of themselves, in country or in town, Nothing discovered, travelling up and down. Only an entry of uncertain sound, In an imperfect register he found. His son, he thought, but could not prove it true; The surname of the girl it chanced he never knew. But this uneasy feeling gathered strength As years advanced, and it became at length His secret torture and his secret joy To think about his lost Australian boy. Somewhere in wild colonial lands has grown A child that is his true and very own. This strong parental passion fills his mind, To all the dubious chances makes him blind. Still he will seek, and still he hopes to find. Again will go. Said I, ‘O let him stay, And in a London drawing-room some day— Rings on her fingers, brilliants in her hair, The lady of the latest millionaire— She’ll come, and with a gathering slow surprise On Lady Mary’s husband turn her eyes: The soft brown eyes that in a former day From his discretion lured him all astray. At home, six bouncing girls, who more or less Are learning English of a governess, Six boisterous boys, as like as pear to pear; Only the eldest has a different air.’ ‘You jest,’ he said, ‘indeed it happened so.’ From a great party just about to go, He saw, he knew, and ere she saw him, said Swift to his wife, as for the door he made, ‘My Highland bride! to escape a scene I go, Stay, find her out—great God!—and let me know.’ The Lady Mary turned to scrutinise The lovely brow, the beautiful brown eyes, One moment, then performed her perfect part, And did her spiriting with simplest art, Was introduced, her former friends had known, Say, might she call to-morrow afternoon At three? O yes! At three she made her call, And told her who she was and told her all. Her lady manners all she laid aside; Like women the two women kissed and cried. Half overwhelmed sat Christian by her side, While she, ‘You know he never knew the day When you would sail, but he believed you’d stay Because he wrote—you never knew, you say,— Wrote that in three days’ time, they need not fear, He’d come and then would marry you, my dear. You never knew? And he had planned to live At Glasgow, lessons had arranged to give. Alas, then to Australia he went out, All through the land to find you sought about, And found a trace, which though it left a doubt. Sufficed to make it still his grief, his joy, To think he had a child, a living boy, Whom you, my love——’ ‘His child is six foot high, I’ve kept him as the apple of my eye,’ Cried she, ‘he’s riding, or you’d see him here. O joy, that he at last should see his father dear! As soon as he comes in I’ll tell him all, And on his father he shall go and call.’