When George, returning home from work one day,
Saw at a distance by some ricks of hay
In the “eight-acre” field, close by the gate,
The well-known die,[171]—he paus’d: “as sure as fate,”
He said, “that’s my dear child!—what can it be?”
And hasten’d forward; when she cheerfully,
Ran forth to meet him, say’ng “dear father look!”
At the same time she from her bosom took
A tiny parcel, which contain’d the ring;
Unfolding it, and tip-toe whispering—
“For this I gave one little lock of hair,
And I must keep it with the greatest care
For Arnold’s sake; and, then besides all this,
He gave me such a loving, loving kiss,
And said—‘When far and far away, that he
Should kiss that pretty curl and think ’twas me:—
The ring,’ he said, ‘was gold—of precious worth,
That he had priz’d it more than all the earth!’”
George seem’d amaz’d; and speechless for awhile,
Sat brooding o’er it[172] on the gateway-stile:
A thousand things came flitting in his brain:
He thought, as thousands would, of her being slain
In childhood’s sweet simplicity!
And pray’d to God to solve the mystery.
Thus he at once his cause to Heaven resign’d:
And Heaven as soon consoled his harass’d mind;
For scarcely were his pray’rs (in silence said)
Gone forth on high, (whilst ’round his daughter play’d,)
When Jane this brief appeal t’her father made—
“Pray tell me, father, why you seem so sad;
Oh! was it wrong to take it from the lad?
Forgive me, father, if I’ve done amiss:
He only press’d my hand and gave a kiss!”
Then George was comforted, and sped along,
Humming a kind of bass to Janie’s song;
But still he labour’d on in deep suspense—
Assur’d of this—that it would give offence
To all the folks[173] at Westonbury Hall;
And thus it proved, for dreadful was the fall.—
Ambitious they were, of rank and name
Nought ever shock’d the lady’s tender frame
So much as this sad news. She found no rest;
Fell in a violent rage and smote her breast;
Flew to her writing-desk, dipp’d pen in ink,
(Appear’d as tho’ she thought it sin to think—
Ironic’lly exclaiming, ah! ah! ah!)
And wrote a lengthy note to Arnold’s “pa.”
Her fondest hopes, she said, were frustrated,
Which for so many years concentrated
In him. * * * God never bless’d them with a son;
So she, it seems, had calculated on
A son-in-law, in Arnold; but alas!
This hope had fled. (Not like the blade of grass,
Which in the summer-time for lack of rain
Decays and dies, whilst there comes up again
One equally as rare when clouds recruit,
And shed their globulès down to its root.
Nor like the corn-crops yellowing in July,
Slain by the reaper ’neath an August sky,
For there again shoots up, of equal worth,
Some other esculent to gladden earth.
No!—Arnold’s living; yet for ever dead;
His name is spoken, but with constant dread:
No longer shall he lift the wine-cup there,—
Ne’er more be welcom’d as the “lordly heir.”)
[171] One of her poor mother’s dresses.
[172] His daughter’s statement.
[173] The Prews.