And who the wanderer that hath shelter won Beneath the roof of Fortune's favour'd son? Ill stars predoom'd her, and she stole to birth Fresh from the Heaven,--Law's outcast on the earth; The child of Love betraying and betray'd, The blossom open'd in the Upas shade;-- So ran the rumour; if the rumour lied, The humble mother wept, but not denied: Ne'er had the infant's slumber known a rest On childhood's native shield--a father's breast. Dead or neglectful, 'twas to her the same; } But, oh, how dear!--yea, dearer for the shame, } All that God hallows in a mother's name! } Here, one proud refuge from a world's disdain, Here the lost empress half resumes her reign;-- Here the deep-fallen Eve sees Eden's skies Smile on the desert from the cherub's eyes. Sweet to each human heart the right to love; But 'tis the deluge consecrates the dove; And haply scorn yet more the child endears, Cradled in misery, and baptized with tears. Each then the all on earth unto the other,-- The sinless infant and the erring mother: The one soon lost the smile which childhood wears, Chill'd by the gloom it marvels at--but shares; The other, by that purest love made pure, Learn'd to redeem, by labouring to endure; Who can divine what hidden music lies In the frail reed, till winds awake its sighs? Hard was their life, and lonely was their hearth; There, kindness brought no holiday of mirth; No kindred visited, no playmate came;-- Joy, the proud worldling, shunn'd the child of shame! Yet in the lesson which, at stolen whiles, 'Twixt care and care, the respite-hour beguiles, The mother's mind the polish'd trace betrays } Of early culture and serener days; } And gentle birth still moulds the delicate phrase. } By converse, more than books (for books too poor), Learn'd Lucy more than books themselves insure; For if, in truth, the mother's heart had err'd, Pure now the life, and holy was the word: The fallen state no grov'ling change had wrought; Meek if the bearing, lofty was the thought; So much of noble in the lore instill'd, You felt the soul had ne'er the error will'd;-- That fraud alone had duped its wings astray From their true instinct tow'rds empyreal day. Thus life itself, if sadd'ning, still refined, And through the heart the culture reach'd the mind. As to the moon the tides attracted move, So flow'd the intellect beneath the love.-- To nurse the sickness, to assuage the care, To charm the sigh into the happier prayer; Forestall the unutter'd wish with ready guess; Wise in the exquisite tact of tenderness! These Lucy's study;--and, in grateful looks, Seraphs write lessons more divine than books.