University of Virginia Library

There was a man, who, many years ago,
Lived in a village, that along the braes
Stretched far in one long row, whose window-gleam
Flashed to the river as the sun went down.
Son of a line of frugal sons of toil,
An only son—he had a cottage heired,
With full a rood of garden-ground behind.
Before it there were flowers, and lilac-trees;
Before it still the lilac blooms in June;
And in the shadow of the tall trimmed hedge,
Secure and safe, a wooden-lidded well
His homely thirst with wholesome water quenched.

He was a cottar of the noblest kind,
A man who thought and wrote and had his dreams—
A poet almost—for the beautiful
In all things round him he was searching still,
And finding it where no one else could find.
He had a love for mosses, ferns, and flowers,
That bordered on idolatry. And yet
He was no florist. With a gentle scorn
He ridiculed the gardener's patient zeal.
“True,” he would say, “you almost make your flowers,
But they are often only colours bright
And barren beauty. You should come with me,
And see the wild red rosebud in the hedge;
Come, see the daisy opening in the dawn;
The starwort and the speedwell side by side;
And own you are no florist after all”—
Till there were some who said, “He's wild-flower mad!”

So from the time when snowdrops ventured out
To hear the lark and merle till winter came
And where the haw-bloom breathed, the purple fruit
Hung spotted with the frost, with homely flowers
His house was beautiful. Nor flowerless then;
For even in winter he was sure to find
A tintless daisy on some sheltered lea,
Or golden bells half opened on the furze:
For every stroll produced a blossom prize.
And when at night he brought his sweet spoil home,
A troop of children oft would gather round,
And wonder where he found them — dreaming not
As lovely could be gathered at their doors,
And waited for their coming in the woods.

Such was the outdoor pastime of this man.
At home he had a draught-board which he loved,
The checkered little country where he oft
Had led a mimic host to victory.
And at the back wall of his kitchen hung,
On ropes, well-poised, three stained and varnished shelves,
Where lay, uncrowded, all his store of books.
At work, a faithful servant and content:
None heard him idly murmuring at his lot,
For he was wise enough to know that some
Are born to serve, as some are to command;
And that although a servant holds the plough,
The master only has the master's care.

He took a wife, and after many years
Of weary longing came a child to her—
A daughter. There was feasting and much joy,
And when they asked him what her name should be,
He said, “Her name is Lily: for our flower
Shall be as graceful as the lily is,
As beautiful as it, as pure as it.”
And so they called her Lily.

She was all
Her mother wished for, but, alas! too brief
The joy of gazing on her darling's face,
And watching till she saw her first smile dawn,
And, after, till she knew her Lily was
The sweetest and the blithest child on earth!
Too brief the pleasure of a mother's care,
Because a plague that o'er the country passed,
The churchyards reddening, paused at Jacob's door,
And entering chose a victim. Then the light
Of joy for ever from his hearth was driven,
Because the victim chosen was his wife.

This was the first great darkness that had fallen
On Jacob's soul. All former sorrows now
Seemed but the shadow of a passing cloud,
This was the sun's eclipse. In happy times
His fancy, prophet-like, would tell of dire
Misfortunes coming to his house, but still
There seemed a way to bear or baffle them.
But of misfortune, in this fearful form,
He had not dreamed, and therefore, unprepared
To bear the sudden blow, he moved distraught
Among the few brave neighbours who had dared
The pest, and ventured in to give him aid.
And when the coming end was visible,
And they were pitying him, he smiled, and said,
“We are but three. There is another house
Where only two are left of seven. Who knows
But I and Lily may be taken too?”
How sudden was her passing! Strong to-day,
And at death's door to-morrow. Ere the last
There came a painless hour, that let her see
The yawning limit of terrestrial things,
And dimly the celestial limitless.
She little said, but all her thoughts, it seemed,
Were of the darling she was forced to leave.
“Oh, Jacob, have no other care but her:
Be cheerful with her; bend your wit to hers,
And hers will rise to yours. Oh, never sit,
Though it be sorrow's self that urges you,
Within a circle where she must not come.
Make her your friend, companion of your strolls,
And there may be a little world of two,
As sunny as our little world of three.
And oh, be careful of the friends she makes,
For she will be the fairest in the vale,
And some may hear of her, and look on her,
And smile to think her mother is away,
And, wickedly, will revel in the thought
That such a flower should be so poorly fenced.
So, Jacob, guard our daughter; and, O Thou
Who made her pure, watch o'er her purity.”
So spake she, then lay silent, and no sign
Of pain or sorrow through the last long night
To those about her showed; but when the east
Began to brighten, then she made a sign
To have the window opened, and they heard
The morning song of many a happy bird,—
A strange, mysterious, mingling of the joy
Without, and of the voiceless grief within.
Her finger raising, slow, she faintly asked
If they heard nothing. “Nothing,” Jacob said;
“'Tis nothing but the singing of the birds.”
But in his heart he said, “The end is near;
She hears already with immortal ears.”
“I hear the birds,” she said, “but 'tis not them.”
Then with a look she drew her husband near,
And kissed him once, then asked if Lily slept.
They brought her sleeping. Gazing on her face,—
“Poor lass,” she said, “poor lass! Wee sinless lamb!
Oh, what will be between us when she wakes?”
Again she raised her finger, and again
The matin of the woodland floated in.
The fingers slowly fell, the eyelids dropped,
And all was over save the grief she left.