Original Poetry

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 7, Issue 381, 31 May 1866, Page 1

Original Poetry

• THE WOODMAN’S DATJGHTEE.

gKNEW a little girl, a lovely child. A rare sweet gem. deep hidden in the wild. A woodman’s daughter she, her humble home In a still nook where tew e'er chanced to roam. The woodman’s humble little cottage stood Just on the outsklrt of a darksome wood; A limpid brooklet ran with tnlmio roar Short distance from the ivy-mantled door. No playmate had this little maiden—none; And so she’d wander most the day alone In the dim hush or on the fem-olad hill. Or sing away the hours beside the rili; And sweet it was to hear the woodman’s child Binging her simple songs so sweet and wild. The birds would gather on the tiees around. Allured thither by the dulcet sound Of her young voice as she so sweetly sung. As on the grass she sat the trees among; A store of fresh-cull’d wild dowers by her side Weaving a wreath might grace some rustic brida. The bee would linger as it passed by With load of bee-bread on each tiny thigh; Passing from flower to flower, yet lingering near. As if on purpose her sweet song to bear. Sweet bud of innocence! how sad to think That thou ere long the cup of grief must drink, • » * • • Ten years have passed and many a change has bean. Since last 1 stood upon the village green, tinoe last I visitod my fav’rite spot In the lone dell where stood the woodman’s cot. One autumn evening found me sauac’riug there. Where 1 had seen the girl so wondrous fair; The trees now wore their garb of russet hue, And wither’d leaves the green sward thick did strew. The sun shone bright, and sweet the laverock sang As up among the clouds he seem’d to hang; Faintly the cow-bells in the distance rang. And sportive iambs in merry gambols sprang. Beside the stream that rippl’d through the dale, Beneath a willow, sat a maiden pale. Sad was her face; her locks of glossy brown O’er her white shoulders unoonflned hung down. Beside her lay a lamb of slender form, Whose fleecy sides had never felt a storm; Nestled 'mongst rushes growing tall and green. The little white-wooll’d lamb was scarcely seen. The maiden’s busy hands were nimbly plied In platting flowers of various colors dyed, The while she sang in strains so sweet, the’ low. It made my heart with strong emotions glow. “ Love me, my love, as I love you, “ Trust me, my love, as 1 trust you, “ You will not deceive me, “ You never will leave me, " For what you’ve promis’d I’m sure you’ll do, " And me, my love, you'll aye And true." And then “ Come, pet, and hold your pretty neck, “ And I with flowers your woolly coat w ill deck And saying thus, she took the tender thing, And round its head entwin’d the floral string. " Sweet maid," 1 spoke, “ X pray you tell your name,” “ They call me Rose, because I’ve blush’d with shame; “ My true love's gone a voyage across the sea. And my sweet babe sleeps underneath this tree. " Love me, my love, as 1 love you— - • * My pretty pet your flowers you musn’t chew.” •Twas Eose, indeed, hut ah! how sadly’changed! A woman grown, but with her mind deranged. Scarce had she spoken when beside me stood Her grey-hair'd sire, from lab’ringm the wood; 1 told my name, when, with a sadden’d look, And moist’uing eye, my prod'er’d hand he took. And slow we wended to the cottage floor, i With ivy green auo jassmine mantled o'er > As 1 had seen it full ten years before. ) Step in, dear sir, you’re welcome to a seat "At my poor board, if you can deign to eat; My fare is frugal, for my lot is mean, “But sweet’s the must when appetite is keen.” • • e a a

The moon atone brightly o’er the silent dell. Her face reflected iu the moss-clad well, A lonely owl upon a wither'd beech Broke the night silence by its eldritch screech. With sadden’d heart my steps I homeward turn’d, Eevolviug in my mind the mournful tale I'd learn’d. Young Damon fair but false had won the love Of this sweet woodland Bose, this turtledove. By moving tales with cunning falsehoods rife, He robb’d the maiden of her more than life. Then left her thus to mourn in mef and shamt The loss of virtue and of her good name. A mother soon without a mother's joy, A week she nurs’d, then lost her baby boy. A harmless idiot now, in fearful dream 1 Bhe sings and weeps and wanders by the stream, > And has of Benson scarce the faintest gleam. J Bhe scarce believes her baby to be dead; —■ Thinks Damon will return as he had said. Bo strong her trust in bis delusive tales That faith iu his return o’er all prevails. Perfidious wretch! may vengeance soon o’ertakohim. Way peace of mind for evermore forsake him, May frightful dreams disturb bis sleep at night. And waaen’d conscience all his pleasures blight j Aud yet,-were his all plagues beneath the sun 'lwould not repair the mischief he hath done. West Esngitikei, 1860. 0. 11. H.