The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 364, April 4, 1829

He came—admired the pure and peaceful scene,
And offer'd money for our humble cot.
Oh! justly burn'd my father's cheek, I ween,
"His sires by honest toil the dwelling got;
Their home was not for sale." It matters not
How, after that, Lord Arthur won my love.
He smiled contemptuous on my humble lot,
Yet left no means untried my heart to move,
And call'd to witness his the glorious heavens above.

Oh! dimmed are now the eyes he used to praise,
Sad is the laughing brow where hope was beaming,
The cheek that blushed at his impassioned gaze
Wan as the waters where the moon is gleaming;
For many a tear of sorrow hath been streaming
Down the changed face, which knew no care before;
And my sad heart, awakened from its dreaming,
Recalls those days of joy, untimely o'er,
And mourns remembered bliss, which can return no more.

It was upon a gentle summer's eve,
When Nature lay all silently at rest—
When none but I could find a cause to grieve,
I sought in vain to soothe my troubled breast,
And wander'd forth alone, for well I guess'd
That Arthur would be lingering in the bower
Which oft with summer garlands I had drest;
Where blamelessly I spent full many an hour
Ere yet I felt or love's or sin's remorseless power.

No joyful step to welcome me was there;
For slumber had her transient blessing sent
To him I loved—the still and balmy air,
The blue and quiet sky, repose had lent,
Deep as her own—above that form I bent,
The rich and clustering curls I gently raised,
And, trembling, kissed his brow—I turned and went—
Softly I stole away, nor, lingering, gazed;
Fearful and wondering still, at my own deed amazed.

Her first pangs of sorrow at quitting home:

"Oh, Arthur! stay"—he turned, and all was o'er—
My sorrow, my repentance—all was vain—
I dreamt the dream of life and love once more,
To wake to sad reality of pain.
He spoke, but to my ear no sound was plain,
Until the little wicket-gate we passed—
That sound of home I never heard again,
And then "drive on—drive faster—yet more fast."
I raised my weeping head—Oh! I had looked my last.

One of those precious moments in which remorse overtakes the victims of crime, is thus finely drawn:

Months passed: one evening, as of early days,
When first my bosom thrilled his voice to hear,
And thought upon the gentle words of praise
Which forced my lips to smile, and chased my fear:
I sang—a sob, deep, single, struck my ear;
Wondering, I gazed on Arthur, bending low—
His features were concealed, but many a tea,
Quick gushing forth, continued fast to flow,
Stood where they fell, then sank like dew-drops on the snow.

Oh yes! however cold in after years,
At least it cost thee sorrow then to leave me;
And for those few sincere, remorseful tears,
I do forgive (though thou couldst thus deceive me)
The years of peace of which thou didst bereave me.
Yes—as I saw those gushing life-drops come
Back to the heart which yet delayed to grieve me,
Thy love returned a moment to its home,
Far, far away from me for ever then to roam.

He deserts her:

Still hope was left me, and each tedious hour
Was counted as it brought his coming near;
And joyfully I watched each fading flower;
Each tree, whose shadowy boughs grew red and sear;
And hailed sad Autumn, favourite of the year.
At length my time of sorrow came—'twas over,
A beauteous boy was brought me, doubly dear,
For all the Tears that promise caused to hover
Round him—'twas past—I claimed a husband in my lover.

On her return to her paternal cottage:

"My father' oh, my father!" vain the cry—
I had no father now; no need to say
"Thou art alone!." I felt my misery—
My father, yet return,—return! the day
When sorrow had availed is passed away:
Tears cannot raise the dead, grief cannot call
Back to the earthy corse the spirit's ray—
Vainly eternal tears of blood might fall;
One short year since, he lived—my hopes now perished all!

The tale then concludes: