Toward his lean face, flings the mother
Her Bible, in wrath and grief.
"Out! God-forsaken beggar,
Thou wilt be a common thief!"
They hear a tap on the window,
And behold a beckoning hand.
There in his sable vestments
They see the dead father stand.
XXXI.
To-night is wretched weather,
It snows, and storms, and rains;
Out in the pitch-black darkness
I gaze through the window-panes.
There flickers a lonely candle,
Slow winding down the street;
And a beldame, with her lantern,
Goes hobbling on in the sleet.
I think 'tis for eggs and butter
That she braves this weather wild,
To bake a cake for her daughter,
Her grown-up ailing child.
Who lies at home in her arm-chair,
And sleepily blinks at the light.
Over her beautiful forehead
Her golden curls wave bright.
XXXII.
They think my heart is breaking,
In sorrow's bitter yoke,
I too begin to think it,
As well as other folk.
Thou large-eyed little darling,
Do I not always say
I love thee past all telling—
Love gnaws my heart away?