 | Stories that might be true |  |
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THE MOWER-MAIDEN.
“Good morning, Bessie! What! astir so early with the day!
Love hath not made thee, best of girls, an idler on thy way;
Well! mow this meadow in three days, and then I may not chuse
My only son to such a girl still longer to refuse.”
Love hath not made thee, best of girls, an idler on thy way;
Well! mow this meadow in three days, and then I may not chuse
My only son to such a girl still longer to refuse.”
So spoke the wealthy Farmer, as he went his morning round,
With busy, self-important mien; Ah, Bessie! at the sound
How throbs that loving heart of thine! new life, new strength it sends
Through all her limbs—beneath her scythe the waving meadow bends.
With busy, self-important mien; Ah, Bessie! at the sound
How throbs that loving heart of thine! new life, new strength it sends
Through all her limbs—beneath her scythe the waving meadow bends.
The mid-day glows, the Mowers now with heat and toil opprest,
Have sought with thirsty lip the well, the cooling shade for rest;
And from the sultry fields awhile, all save the bees are gone,
Yet Bessie rests not, but with them in rivalry works on.
Have sought with thirsty lip the well, the cooling shade for rest;
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Yet Bessie rests not, but with them in rivalry works on.
The vesper bells have chimed, and fast shuts in the evening gray,
“Now, well enough,” the neighbours cry, “good Bessie, for to-day.”
The mowers leave the fields, the herds draw home at set of sun,
But Bessie whets her scythe and works as if she'd just begun.
“Now, well enough,” the neighbours cry, “good Bessie, for to-day.”
The mowers leave the fields, the herds draw home at set of sun,
But Bessie whets her scythe and works as if she'd just begun.
The dew shines soft on earth, in Heaven the moon with many a star,
The hay smells fresh, the nightingale trills loudly from afar,
Yet Bessie feels no wish to pause a listening ear to lend,
She only hears with steady stroke the rustling scythe descend.
The hay smells fresh, the nightingale trills loudly from afar,
Yet Bessie feels no wish to pause a listening ear to lend,
She only hears with steady stroke the rustling scythe descend.
And so from eve till morn, from morn till eve, as at the first
She feeds on love, on happy hope she quenches still her thirst,
The third time rises up the sun, and now are Bessie's hands
At rest, as weeping joyful tears upon the field she stands.
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The third time rises up the sun, and now are Bessie's hands
At rest, as weeping joyful tears upon the field she stands.
“Good morning, Bessie! what see I! oh, active, stirring girl!
And is the meadow really mown? that shall be cared for well;
But for my son—in earnest thou didst never take my jest?
Ah! fond and simple then it seems must be the loving breast!”
And is the meadow really mown? that shall be cared for well;
But for my son—in earnest thou didst never take my jest?
Ah! fond and simple then it seems must be the loving breast!”
He speaks and goes upon his way, but Bessie has grown pale,
A deathly chill has struck her heart, her knees beneath her fail;
Her senses swim, her speech is gone, her consciousness gives way,
And there poor Bessie has sunk down upon her new-mown hay;
A deathly chill has struck her heart, her knees beneath her fail;
Her senses swim, her speech is gone, her consciousness gives way,
And there poor Bessie has sunk down upon her new-mown hay;
And so through stunned and silent years beside the bee that yields
For her its honey, Bessie still lives on amid the fields,
A life that is not Life—Oh, make, and make it quickly there
A grave for her, the Mower-Maid, among the meadows fair.
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A life that is not Life—Oh, make, and make it quickly there
A grave for her, the Mower-Maid, among the meadows fair.
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