Cast in a softer mould my being see;
  Recall the voice that sooth’d my helpless moan,
    The thoughts that sprang for scarcely aught save me;
  That shaped and formed me; gave me to the day,
    Bade in her breast absorbing love arise;
  O’er me a ceaseless tender care display,
    For weak all else to thee maternal ties! 
  This debt of love but One may claim; no other
  Such self-devotion boasts, save thee, my Mother!

* * * * *

CALEB STUKELY.

PART XIII.

  THE FUGITIVE.

The tongue has nothing to say when the soul hath spoken all!  What need of words in the passionate and early intercourse of love!  There is no oral language that can satisfy or meet the requisitions of the stricken heart.  Speech, the worldling and the false—­oftener the dark veil than the bright mirror of man’s thoughts—­is banished from the spot consecrated to purity, unselfishness, and truth.  The lovely and beloved Ellen learnt, before a syllable escaped my lips, the secret which those lips would never have disclosed.  Her innocent and conscious cheek acknowledged instantly her quick perception, and with maiden modesty she turned aside—­not angrily, but timorous as a bird, upon whose leafy covert the heavy fowler’s foot has trod too harshly and too suddenly.  I thought of nothing then but the pain I had inflicted, and was sensible of no feeling but that of shame and sorrow for my fault.  We walked on in silence.  Our road brought us to the point in the village at which I had met Miss Fairman and her father, when, for the first time, we became companions in our evening walk.  We retraced the path which then we took, and the hallowed spot grew lovelier as we followed it.  I could not choose but tell how deeply and indelibly the scene of beauty had become imprinted on my heart.

“To you, Miss Fairman,” I began, “and to others who were born and nurtured in this valley, this is a common sight.  To me it is a land of enchantment, and the impression that it brings must affect my future being.  I am sure, whatever may be my lot, that I shall be a happier man for what I now behold.”

“It is well,” said my companion, “that you did not make the acquaintance of our hills during the bleak winter, when their charms were hidden in the snow, and they had nothing better to offer their worshipper than rain and sleet and nipping winds.  They would have lost your praise then.”

“Do you think so?  Imprisoned as I have been, and kept a stranger to the noblest works of Providence, my enjoyment is excessive, and I dare scarcely trust myself to feel it as I would.  I could gaze on yonder sweet hillock, with its wild-flowers and its own blue patch of sky, until I wept.”

“Yes, this is a lovely scene in truth!” exclaimed Miss Fairman pensively.