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The heir of Rookwood.
And sheltered in its folds, an infant lay,
Faint but yet breathing.
When some days had passed
And no one claimed her, nigh the chapel grounds
We laid the mother, guessing at the wrongs
That had bewildered her. To me, the child,
As 'twere a toy, was given when I asked.
Faint but yet breathing.
When some days had passed
And no one claimed her, nigh the chapel grounds
We laid the mother, guessing at the wrongs
That had bewildered her. To me, the child,
As 'twere a toy, was given when I asked.
'Twas a strange whim, but on my birth-day morn,
And to my favourite shores, some fate had brought
What seemed a gift, and I, accepting it,
Thought to please Heaven. A nature to be trained
Which way I would, or twined round any prop—
Even my own rude self—a page whereon
To write the latent poem of my life.
These thoughts were merely audible, as the notes
Of birds that stir betimes upon the nest.
And to my favourite shores, some fate had brought
What seemed a gift, and I, accepting it,
Thought to please Heaven. A nature to be trained
Which way I would, or twined round any prop—
Even my own rude self—a page whereon
To write the latent poem of my life.
These thoughts were merely audible, as the notes
Of birds that stir betimes upon the nest.
Wild stories were afloat—'twas said that she
Who slept in the green vale had cast a spell
Over the heir of Rookwood; that her babe
Was elf or water-sprite; and whispering gossips
Who slept in the green vale had cast a spell
Over the heir of Rookwood; that her babe
Was elf or water-sprite; and whispering gossips
