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chapter 21

Cold, cold, my little jewel--thy little life is gone
Oh let my tears revive thee, so warm that trickles down
My tears that gush so warm, oh they freeze before they fall
Ah wretched, wretched mother! thou'st now bereft of all! Lytleton

was unable longer to support herself, she
sunk on the ground, and leaned her aching head against a tree, that grew
on the side of the avenue. Folding her poor babe closer to her
bosom, and drawing round it her tattered cloak, she leaned her
head upon its little face, endevouring to warm it with her
breath--for it was cold, bitter cold, and her tears almost froze
as they flowed over her pale and icy cheeks, and fell on those of the
infant who lay stiffened on her bosom--"Patience--a little longer,
patience," sighed the unhappy out-cast," and all will soon be over; thou 'art gone my
babe, --my tears--my sighs cannot revive thee, --soon, soon
may I too be at peace!--Oh my father, oh my mother could
you now behold your child, how wide would you open your
doors, how tenderly receive the wanderer, and cheer and comfort her.
William! dearest William! where art thou? then wouldst shield
me in there arms from this bitter