Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/124

110 And gain his absolution. Some leagues more Would bring him to the vast Campagna land, When by a roadside well he paused to rest. T was noon, and reapers in the field hard by Lay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass. But from their midst one came towards the well, Not trudging like a man forespent with toil, But frisking like a child in holiday, With light, free steps. The pilgrim watched him come, And found him scarcely older than a child, A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand, And a guitar upon his shoulder slung. A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade, But doffing this, to catch whatever breeze Might stir among the branches, he disclosed A charming head of rippled, auburn hair, A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girl’s, With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine’s. Above his head he slipped the instrument, And laid it with his hat upon the turf, Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool, And drew it dripping upward, ere he saw The watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought) The precious draught. &quot; Your pardon, holy sir, Drink first,&quot; he cried, &quot; before I take the jar Unto my father in the reaping-field.&quot; Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad, The pilgrim answered,—&quot; Thanks, my thirst is quenched