Fear from a knot of primroses to rise; And mute she sits, affecting to repair The discomposed meanders of her hair. Need I his arts unfold? The accomplish'd guile That glosses poisonous words with gilded smile? The tear suborned, the tongue complete to please; Eyes ecstasied, idolatry of knees? These and his oaths I pass. Enough to tell, The virgin listen'd, and believ'd, and fell. And now from home maternal long decoy'd She dwells with him midst pleasures unenjoy'd; Till the sad tidings that her parent dear To grief had died a victim reach her ear. Pale with despair, 'At least, at least,' she cries, 'Stretch'd on her ashes, let me close these eyes. Short shelter need the village now bestow, Ere by her sacred grave they lay me low.' Then, without nurture or repose, she hastes Her journey homeward over rocks and wastes; Till, as her steps a hill familiar gain, Bursts on her filling eyes her native plain. She pants, expands her arms, 'Ah, peaceful scene!' Exclaiming: 'Ah, dear valley, lovely green, Still ye remain the same; your hawthorn still, All your white cottages, the little mill; Its osiered brook, that prattles thro' the meads, The plat where oft I danced to piping reeds. All, all remain unalter'd. 'Tis but thine To suffer change, weak, wicked Caroline!' The setting sun now purples hill and lake, And lengthen'd shadows shadows overtake. A parting carol larks and throstles sing, The swains aside their heated sickles fling. Now dairies all arrang'd, the nymphs renew The straggling tress, and tighten'd aprons blue; And fix some hasty floweret, as they run In a blithe tumult to the pipe begun. And now, while dance and frolic shake the vale, Sudden the panting girl, dishevell'd, pale, Stands in the midst. All pausing gather round, And gaze amaz'd. The tabors cease to sound. 'Yes, ye may well,' the faltering suppliant cries, 'Well may ye frown with those repulsive eyes. Yet pity one not vicious but deceiv'd, Who vows of marriage, ere she fell, believ'd. Without a mother, sire, or fostering home, Save, save me, leave me not forlorn to roam. Not now the gifts ye once so fondly gave, Not now the verse and rural wreath I crave; Not now to lead your festive sports along, Queen of the dance, and despot of the song; One shed is all, oh, just one wretched shed, To lay my weary limbs and aching head. Then will I bless your bounty, then inure My frame to toil, and earn a pittance poor. Then, while ye mix in mirth, will I, forlorn, Beside my murder'd parent sit and mourn.' She paus'd, expecting answer. None replied. 'And have ye children, have ye hearts?' she cried. 'Save me now, mothers, as from future harms Ye hope to save the babies in your arms! See, to you, maids, I bend on abject knee;