THE DESOLATE COTTAGE.
There stands a cottage on the Owlbar Moor,
Just where its heathery blackness melts away
To England's mellower green. Fast by its side
Nestled the wheat-stack, firmly bound and shaped
Even like another roof-tree, witnessing
Fair harvest and good husbandry. Some sheep
Roam'd eastward o'er the common, nibbling close
The scanty blade, while towards the setting sun
A hillock stretch'd, o'ershadow'd by a growth
Of newly-planted trees. 'Twould seem the abode
Of rural plenty and content. Yet here
A desolate sorrow dwelt, such as doth wring
Plain honest hearts, when what had long been twined
With every fibre is dissected out.
Beneath the shelter of those lowly eaves
An only daughter made the parents glad
With her unfolding beauties. Day by day
She gather'd sweetness on her lonely stem,
The lily of the moorlands. They, with thoughts
Upon their humble tasks, how best to save
Their little gain, or make that little more,
Scarce knew that she was beautiful, yet felt
Strange thrall upon their spirits when she spoke
So musical, or from some storied page
Beguiled their evening hour.
