University of Virginia Library

The chill of eve is stayed from closing yet
By the roseate golden streaks
Still pressing back the leaden dusk;
Day, like an eye that's loth to sleep,
Closes but by slow degrees.

Andrew stands by the bolted door
Of a cottage lone and dark;
His finger bent as if to knock,—
Yet he pauses ere it falls,
And hesitating draws his breath.
A cat sits on the thatch-roof top
With its tail wrapt round its feet:
On the deep-set lattice from within
Flickers the sinking fire.
The door is opened; by the hearth
Down he sits. He came not there
To seek her who so oft had led
His footsteps night and morn—
At morn before the plover was seen.
No! she will not be there again,
To hear her father's whining prayers,
Or see her mother's wrinkles deepen,
While her broken-spirited sister fears
To sing as she prepares the meals.
Still he sat—few words were said,
Though oft he fain would speak:
“Have you heard of Maryanne?”
Her mother cried at last
As with frail hand his stalwart arm
She seized, but he was mute;
And when he spoke his words fell dead,
Like an echo of her constant thoughts.
Her hand slid from his arm, she leant
Quietly over the fire;
Anon a tear was heard
To hiss on the burning coals,
As spired away the feeble smoke
Through the roof's dark chimney-gap
(A sacrifice of suffering),
To the stars that sparkled high.