Seven days she lurked in brake and field,
Seven nights her course renewed,
Sustained by what her scrip might yield,
Or berries of the wood;

At length, in darkness travelling on,
When lowly doors were shut,
The haven of her hope she won,
Her Foster-mother's hut.

"To put your love to dangerous proof
I come," said she, "from far;
For I have left my Father's roof,
In terror of the Czar."

No answer did the Matron give,
No second look she cast,
But hung upon the Fugitive,
Embracing and embraced.

She led the Lady to a seat
Beside the glimmering fire,
Bathed duteously her wayworn feet,
Prevented each desire :-

The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed,
And on that simple bed,

Where she in childhood had reposed,

When she, whose couch had been the sod,
Whose curtain, pine or thorn,

Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God,
Who comforts the forlorn;

While over her the Matron bent
Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole
Feeling from limbs with travel spent,
And trouble from the soul.

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn,
And soon again was dight

In those unworthy vestments worn
Through long and perilous flight ;
And "O beloved Nurse," she said,
"My thanks with silent tears
Have unto Heaven and You been paid:
Now listen to my fears!

"Have you forgot"—and here she smiled

"The babbling flatteries

You lavished on me when a child
Disporting round your knees?

I was your lambkin, and your bird,
Your star, your gem, your flower;
Light words, that were more lightly heard
In many a cloudless hour!

"The blossom you so fondly praised

Is come to bitter fruit;

A mighty One upon me gazed;

I spurned his lawless suit,

And must be hidden from his wrath:

You, Foster-father dear,

Will guide me in my forward path;

"I cannot bring to utter woe

Your proved fidelity."

"Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so! For you we both would die."

"Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned And cheek embrowned by art; Yet, being inwardly unstained,

With courage will depart."

"But whither would you, could you, flee ? poor Man's counsel take;

A

The Holy Virgin gives to me

A thought for your dear sake;
Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace,
And soon shall you be led
Forth to a safe abiding-place,
Where never foot doth tread."

PART II.

THE dwelling of this faithful pair
In a straggling village stood,
For One who breathed unquiet air
A dangerous neighbourhood;
But wide around lay forest ground
With thickets rough and blind;
And pine-trees made a heavy shade
Impervious to the wind.

And there, sequestered from the sight,
Was spread a treacherous swamp,
On which the noonday sun shed light
As from a lonely lamp;

And midway in the unsafe morass,
A single Island rose

Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass
Adorned, and shady boughs.

The Woodman knew, for such the craft
This Russian vassal plied,

That never fowler's gun, nor shaft
Of archer, there was tried;

A sanctuary seemed the spot

From all intrusion free;

And there he planned an artful Cot

For perfect secrecy.

With earnest pains unchecked by dread
Of Power's far-stretching hand,
The bold good Man his labour sped
At nature's pure command;
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren,
While, in a hollow nook,

She moulds her sight-eluding den
Above a murmuring brook.

His task accomplished to his mind,

The twain ere break of day

Creep forth, and through the forest wind

Their solitary way;

Few words they speak, nor dare to slack Their pace from mile to mile,

Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, And reached the lonely Isle.

The sun above the pine-trees showed

A bright and cheerful face; And Ina looked for her abode,

The promised hiding-place;

She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled; No threshold could be seen,

Nor roof, nor window ;-all seemed wild As it had ever been.

Advancing, you might guess an hour,
The front with such nice care
Is masked, 'if house it be or bower,'
But in they entered are;

As shaggy as were wall and roof
With branches intertwined,
So smooth was all within, air-proof,
And delicately lined:

And hearth was there, and maple dish,

And cups in seemly rows,

And couch-all ready to a wish

For nurture or repose;

And Heaven doth to her virtue grant

That here she may abide

In solitude, with every want

By cautious love supplied.