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47
LANCASTER.
They found her with her mother’s head
Raised childlike on her arm,
And carefully her cloak was wrapt
To keep the dead one warm.
The cottage now is desolate
Upon that lonely moor;
No firelight through the lattice gleams,
No rose climbs up the door.
By day and night Rebecca's steps
Upon the wild moors roam;
Still bears the wind one piteous cry—
"Oh, mother dear, come home!"
In the neighbourhood of Lancaster, are the dangerous sands alluded to in the above poem. They are fordable at low water; but darkness, fogs, or unexpected tides, have led to many melancholy accidents. Vide "Views and Illustrations in Lancashire."
