University of Virginia Library

There stands a cottage on the Owlbar Moor,
Just where its heathery blackness melts away
To England's mellower green. Fast by its side
Nestled the wheat-stack, firmly bound and shaped
Even like another roof-tree, witnessing
Fair harvest and good husbandry. Some sheep
Roam'd eastward o'er the common, nibbling close
The scanty blade, while towards the setting sun
A hillock stretch'd, o'ershadow'd by a growth
Of newly-planted trees. 'Twould seem the abode
Of rural plenty and content. Yet here
A desolate sorrow dwelt, such as doth wring
Plain honest hearts, when what had long been twined
With every fibre is dissected out.

Beneath the shelter of those lowly eaves
An only daughter made the parents glad
With her unfolding beauties. Day by day
She gather'd sweetness on her lonely stem,
The lily of the moorlands. They, with thoughts
Upon their humble tasks, how best to save
Their little gain, or make that little more,
Scarce knew that she was beautiful, yet felt
Strange thrall upon their spirits when she spoke
So musical, or from some storied page
Beguiled their evening hour.
And when the sire
Descanted long, as farmers sometimes will,
About the promise of his crops, and how
The neighbours envied that his corn should be
Higher than theirs, and how the man that hoped
Surely to thrive must leave his bed betimes,
Or of her golden cheese the mother told,
She with a filial and serene regard
Would seem to listen, her young heart away
Mid other things. For in her lonely room
She had companions that they knew not of—
Books that reveal the sources of the soul,
Deep meditations, high imaginings—
And ofttimes, when the cottage lamp was out,
She sat communing with them, while the moon
Look'd through her narrow casement fitfully.
Hence grew her brow so spiritual, and her cheek
Pale with the purity of thought, that gleam'd
Around her from above.
The buxom youth,
Nursed at the ploughshare, wondering eyed her cha
Or of her aspen gracefulness of form
Spoke slightingly. Yet when they saw the fields
Her father till'd, well clad with ripening grain,
And knew he had no other heir beside,
They with unwonted wealth of Sunday clothes,
And huge red nosegays flaunting in their hands,
Were fain to woo her. And they marvell'd much
How the sweet fairy, with such quiet air
Of mild indifference, and with truthful words
Kind, yet determinate, withdrew herself
To chosen solitude, intent to keep
A maiden's freedom.
But in lonely walks,
What time the early violets richly blent
Their trembling colours with the vernal green,
A student boy, who dwelt among the hills,
Taught her of love. There rose an ancient tree,
The glory of their rustic garden's bound,
Around whose rough circumference of trunk
A garden seat was wreathed; and there they sat,
Watching gray-vested twilight, as she bore
Such gifts of tender and half-utter'd thought
As lovers prize. When the thin-blossom'd furze
Gave out its autumn-sweetness, and the walls
Of that low cot with the red-berried ash
Kindled in pride, they parted; he to toil
Amid his college tasks, and she to weep.
—The precious scrolls, that with his ardent heart
So faithfully were tinged, unceasing sought
Her hand, and o'er their varied lines to pore
Amid his absence, was her chief delight.

—At length they came not. She with sleepless eye,
And lip that every morn more bloodless grew,
Demanded them in vain. And then the tongue
Of a hoarse gossip told her he was dead—
Drowned in the deep, and dead.
Her young heart died
Away at these dread sounds. Her upraised eye
Grew large and wild, and never closed again.
“Hark! Hark! He calleth! I must hence away!”
She murmur'd oft, but faint and fainter still.
Nor other word she spake. And so she died.
—And now that cottage on the Owlbar Moor
Hath no sweet visitant of earthly hope
To cheer its toiling inmates. Habit-led,
They sow and reap, and spread the humble board,
But steep their bread in tears.
God grant them grace
To take his chastisement, like those who gain
A more enduring substance from the blast
That leaveth house and heart so desolate.