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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 spard,

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.

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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 revild: · 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;

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- i

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;

• But at the holy altar be

Our union sanctified;
Before the people and the priest

Receive me for thy bride.'

• Unequal matches must not blot

The honours of my line ;
Art thou of wealth or rank for me,

To harbour thee as mine?

"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 helt await! Sure, if not suited for thy bride,

I was not for thy máte.

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 crawld

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;

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Erst when the act of blood was done,

Her soul its guilt abhorr'd: :
• My Jesus! what has been my deed ?

Have mercy on me, Lord !

With bloody nails, beside the pond,

Its shallow grave she tore; “There rest in God, there shame and want

Thou can'st not suffer more; : " .

'Me vengeance waits. My poor, poor child,

Thy wound shall bleed afresh,
When ravens from the gallows tear

Thy mother's mould'ring Alesh'—

Hard by the bower her gibbet stands,

Her skull is still to show ; .
It seems to eye the barren grave,

Three spans in length below.

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That is the spot where grows no grass;

Where falls no rain nor dew, -
Whence steals along the pond of toads

A hovering fire so blue.

And nightly when the ravens come,

Her ghost is seen to glide;
Pursues and tries to quench the flame,

And pines the pool beside.

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