I'll pipe my quail-call from the field: In and mantle clad he came, cap At night, with lonely tread; Unseen, and silent as a mist, And hush'd the dogs with bread. And when the amorous nightingale The words he whisper'd were so soft, No lure, no soothing guise, he spar'd, 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, 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 And when she saw the pods increase, And when the mowers went afield, She felt her burden stir within, And when the winds of autumn hist 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 theeI 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, Up the harsh rock, on flinty paths, The maiden had to roam; 2 A On tottering feet she grop'd her way, "A mother thou hast made of me, '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 ; Stay here; we'll have some further talk- 'I have no time to rest and wait; 'But at the holy altar be Our union sanctified; Before the people and the priest Unequal matches must not blot Art thou of wealth or rank for me, 'What's fit and fair I'll do for thee; Shalt wed my huntsman, and we'll then Thy wicked soul, hard-hearted man, Sure, if not suited for thy bride, Go, seek a spouse of nobler blood, Then, traitor, feel how wretched they 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; And from her womb a lovely boy, Forth from her hair a silver pin Erst when the act of blood was done, With bloody nails, beside the pond, 'There rest in God,-there shame and want Thou can'st not suffer more; · Me vengeance waits. My poor, poor child, Hard by the bower her gibbet stands, It seems to eye the barren grave, That is the spot where grows no grass; And nightly when the ravens come, Pursues and tries to quench the flame, |