In yonder vale,—famed for its genial mould,
Its pastoral beauties, and rare grains of gold,[159]—
There, ’neath the shelter of a peasant’s cot,
A pair of rosied cheeks was the fair lot
Of young Jane Hollybrand; who had to toil,
To cook potatoes; cauliflowers to boil;
To scrub and clean the inside[160] oaken floor;
To watch and feed the chickens at the door;
To see the drowsy pig cried not in vain;
To cheer in summer-time, or winter’s reign,
Her loving father. On returning home
From his day’s work, she’d say:—“Come, father, come.”
And, with an angel’s voice, so clear, so sweet—
“The supper’s ready, father, take your seat.”
Alas! her mother, Death had stol’n away
Just when ’twas needed most that she should stay
For her child’s good. The poor man’s heart was rent:
The twilight hour was regularly spent
In reading godly books, wherein he sought
The Holy One, for help: then was he taught
That sacred saying—life is but a span!
And then he’d sigh, and well he might, poor man.
Twelve years of sweet conjugal happiness,
Had made their little home a paradise,—
’Til that grim monster stretch’d his deathy hand,
And marr’d the pleasures of George Hollybrand.
Great must, indeed, have been the father’s grief;
But gaining faith—through pray’r, he found relief.
He taught his darling with a father’s care
To spell, to read, to write; to be aware
Of certain youths; who, from the village, found,
Their way unto the cottage-hallow’d ground.
[159] Corn.
[160] Inner room.