Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/258



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.