University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Hagar

The Singing Maiden, with Other Stories and Rhymes,

collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
PART I.
 II. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

I. PART I.

The sun was going down, as I drove the cattle home;
They loitered by the brook, which was covered o'er with foam;
The heavy rains which fell, and blackened all the grain,
Had swollen wide the stream, and left it with a stain.
I had a heavy heart, my thoughts were far astray:
I saw the work of months quite ruined in a day.
I had hoped for Jenny's love, if all went well with me—
Sweet Jenny was not meant a poor man's wife to be:
Those dainty, slender hands were never meant for toil;
I'd work my finger-ends off, to keep her's free from soil.
Yet one thing I would know, that her love was all my own;
No Percy White should come, with his soft beguiling tone.

195

His lands are rich and broad; but is his heart right true?
Let Jenny trust him once, that trust she'll dearly rue
The night was coming on, as I left the brook behind;
I forgot 'twas milking time—I was troubled in my mind:
The chores were all to do; it was dark up in the mows,
And the hay was all to pitch, and who would milk the cows?
“Our Lucy has gone home—she sadly needs a rest.
Of all the girls I've had, our Lucy is the best.”
'Twas thus my mother spoke, and ended with a smile,—
“You can do the milking, John, just for a little while.”
Now in the barn-door old, stood a dainty maiden fair,
With eyes of blue, so brave and true, and smoothly parted hair.
“Why Lucy, is that you?” I cried; “how came it you are here?
'Tis strange, where e'er your wanted, there you're sure to be.
I'm so belated, you're the one whom most I longed to see.”
“I could not 'bide at home,” she said, and raised her eyes of blue,
And met my own so steadily, “there was so much to do.”
With that she knelt at Bess's side, and sang a simple song,

196

That seemed to chime in with the streams, which tinkled fast and long.
I hung my head with shame, while I grieved o'er what might be,
And lingered by the way, my work was done for me;
The stables littered o'er, the hay piled on the floor.
Strange, how much a hand can do which is so very small!
I could cover with my own, the finger-tips and all.
But she works with heart and hand, and has a willing mind;
Such women in this world are very hard to find.
And now the chores were done, yet there was no rest for me;
My thoughts went to my love, as the streams run to the sea.
Like a rose to me she seemed—a rose of deepest red—
Her bloom and fragrance rare on all she loved to shed.
I knew it was no sin, and I could only mourn,
That whoso plucks the rose, must always take the thorn.
I could not rest at home, 'twas torture to be still,
So I took the meadow path, and wandered to the mill.
While I stood upon the bridge, and watched the wheel go round,
Percy White came down the hill, and passed me with a bound,
On his swift and matchless horse—his hair loose in the wind;
He rode like one who leaves all earthly cares behind.

197

“So rides the man that's loved, as you may not hope to be.”
A something whispered thus, and inly tortured me.
“So rides the winning man, rich in the world's esteem:
He goes to meet your love, and you idly stand and dream.
Be brave, and follow him! to break with Truth dry bread,
Is better than the feast that is by Falsehood spread.”
A something urged me on,—I followed where it led—
When I went home that night, my hopes and dreams were dead.