The seasons passed by and a few brief years Brought bountiful crops to these mountaineers; And their children that played round the great hollyhocks Wore the sunniest curls and the cleanest of frocks; And old-fashioned sunflowers smiled at their door Midst beautiful pinks and pansies galore; And the mountain redbirds flashed and flew Around the rude cabin of Josh and Sue. Ah, little you know, ye daughters of Jove, The sweetness of poverty wedded to love; Untrammeled by fashion, unsated by sin, With the feeling that life and the dewdrop are kin. Ah, little you know who dwell among men The freedom and freshness of mountain and glen, Where the Diva of Nature gives her grand matinee In the opera of Love from a rich elder spray! Yet the earth holds few spots where the winds never blow, And summer's not followed by the bleak winter snow: But the harvest will fail both the rich and the poor In the deep fertile valley, on the thin healthy moor, Thus Susan grew ill and Joshua found His corn crop was short, his wheat was unsound, That drouth and disease had stricken his home With a hand that poverty couldn't overcome. Ah, little you care who dwell high above For the hardships of poverty wedded to love; Whose awful temptations you never can know, When the unfeeling winds of adversity blow; When the loved one is lying all helpless abed, And children are crying and begging for bread. Yes, little you dream, ye rich sons of Jove Of the trials of love in a rough mountain cove. Josh Bell battled bravely, and fought sin and wrong And the mighty temptation with a heart true and strong; But Susan grew weaker, till bright bloomed the rose That ever the blanched cheek of consumption shows. "I must save her," he cried, "Oh, God, let the cost Be my life; if she dies, I am lost, I am lost!" And Joshua Bell smote his breast with a blow That only the frenzy of a lover can know. At a deep hour of night when the hoot of the owl Made the dark glen as lonesome as haunt of a cowl, Josh Bell left his cabin for a cave in the hill, And began the erection of a small mountain still. For weeks here he labored at midnight alone, With a firm resolution and a heart like a stone: Then his own golden corn he had gathered in sheaf, He now husked in darkness and stole like a thief. Ah, Joshua Bell, the world does not know The depth of thy grief, the weight of thy woe,-- The conflict of conscience and love in thy breast, The struggle of duty and shame unconfessed. Thy act is a crime in the eyes of the law, No matter the motive, it weighs not a straw; No matter the liquid distilled be as dew That drips from the stem and chalice of rue.