The parson's daughter once was good,

And gentle as the dove,

and fair,

-and many came

To win the damsel's love.

High o'er the hamlet, from the hill,
Beyond the winding stream,
The windows of a stately house
In sheen of evening gleam,

There dwelt, in riot, rout, and roar,
A lord so frank and free,
That oft, with inward joy of heart,
The maid beheld his glee.

Whether he met the dawning day,
In hunting trim so fine,
Or tapers, sparkling from his hall,
Beshone the midnight wine.

He sent the maid his picture, girt
With diamond, pearl, and gold;
And silken paper, sweet with musk,
This gentle message told :

'Let go thy sweethearts, one and all;
Shalt thou be basely woo'd,
That worthy art to gain the heart
Of youths of noble blood?

'The tale I would to thee bewray,

In secret must be said:

At midnight hour I'll seek thy bower;
Fair lass, be not afraid.

'And when the amorous nightingale

Sings sweetly to his mate,

I'll pipe my quail-call from the field:
Be kind, nor make me wait.'

In

cap and mantle clad he came,

At night, with lonely tread ; Unseen, and silent as a mist,

And hush'd the dogs with bread.

And when the amorous nightingale
Sung sweetly to his mate,
She heard his quail-call in the field,
And, ah! ne'er made him wait.

The words he whisper'd were so soft,
They won her ear and heart;

How soon will she, who loves, believe!
How deep a lover's art!

No lure, no soothing guise, he spar'd,

To banish virtuous shame;

He call'd on holy God above,

As witness to his flame.

He clasp'd her to his breast, and swore

To be for ever true:

O yield thee to my wishful arms,

Thy choice thou shalt not rue.'

And while she strove, he drew her on,
And led her to the bower

So still, so dim-and round about

Sweet smelt the beans in flower.

There beat her heart, and heaved her breast,

And pleaded every sense;

And there the glowing breath of lust

Did blast her innocence.

But when the fragrant beans began
Their fallow blooms to shed,
Her sparkling eyes their lustre lost;
Her cheek, its roses fled;

And when she saw the pods increase,
The ruddier cherries stain,

She felt her silken robe grow tight,
Her waist new weight sustain.

And when the mowers went afield,
The yellow corn to ted,

She felt her burden stir within,

And shook with tender dread.

And when the winds of autumn hist
Along the stubble field;

Then could the damsel's piteous plight
No longer be conceal'd.

Her sire, a harsh and angry man,

With furious voice revil'd:

'Hence from my sight! I'll none of thee—

I harbour not thy child.'

And fast, amid her fluttering hair,

With clenched fist he gripes,

And seiz❜d a leathern thong, and lash'd

Her side with sounding stripes.

Her lily skin, so soft and white,

He ribb'd with bloody wales;

And thrust her out, though black the night,
Though sleet and storm assails.

Up the harsh rock, on flinty paths,

The maiden had to roam;

2 A

On tottering feet she grop'd her way,
And sought her lover's home."

"A mother thou hast made of me,
Before thou mad'st a wife:
For this, upon my tender breast,

These livid stripes are rife :

Behold;' and then with bitter sobs,

She sank upon the floor

'Make good the evil thou has wrought;

My injur❜d name restore.'

'Poor soul,-I'll have thee hous'd and nurs'd; Thy terrors I lament.

Stay here; we'll have some further talk-
The old one shall repent-

'I have no time to rest and wait;
That saves not my good name,-
If thou with honest soul hast sworn,
O leave me not to shame;

'What's fit and fair I'll do for thee;

Shalt yet retain my love

Shalt wed my huntsman, and we'll then
Our former transports prove."

Thy wicked soul, hard-hearted man,
May pangs in hell await!

Sure, if not suited for thy bride,
I was not for thy mate.

'Go, seek a spouse of nobler blood,
Nor God's just judgments dread-
So shall, ere long, some base-born wretch
Defile thy marriage-bed.-

Then, traitor, feel how wretched they
In hopeless shame immerst;

Then smite thy forehead on the wall,
While horrid curses burst.

Roll thy dry eyes in wild despair

Unsooth'd thy grinning wo; Through thy pale temples fire the ball, And sink to fiends below.'

Collected, then, she started up,

And, through the hissing sleet,

Through thorn and briar, through flood and mire, She fled with bleeding feet.

"Where now,' she cried, my gracious God!

What refuge have I left?'

And reach'd the garden of her home,

Of hope in man bereft.

On hand and foot she feebly crawl'd

Beneath the bower unblest;

Where withering leaves, and gathering snow,

Prepar'd her only rest.

There rending pains and darting throes

Assail'd her shuddering frame;