At night-fall, coming through the wood.
We reached a hill-top’s gloomy brow,
Where one unpainted cottage stood,
Neglected, dark, and low.
No lamp announced a living soul;
The chimney’s blue, reluctant thread
Alone betrayed a burning coal
Of life where all seemed dead.
Until, observing curiously,
And gazing back as on we went,
One little pale face we could see
Close to the window bent.
When late we reached the village street.
Cheerful and twinkling here and there,
The house-dog ran to lick our feet—
Sweet was the household air!
Yet in my mind I saw all night
That child’s face watching by the pane,
And passed once more that weary way,
And lingered there again.
At dawn I rose, and walking forth,
Met one who toiled upon the road,
Morning or evening nothing loath
With talk to ease time’s load.
He knew the young man once, he said,
Who brought his wife home to that farm ;
Now all his decency is dead,
And devils round him swarm.
For he would drink when morning came,
And drink before the noon was past,
And afternoons were all the same,
Long as his means would last.
Master of numerous herds was he;
All gone, his endless thirst to feed.
His wife—ah! weary days had she,
And bitter grew her need.
Now she will have no trouble more ;
Her griefs have all been laid to sleep ;
But devils round his chamber floor
Their endless dances keep.
He hardly lifts his heavy head ;
He lies in wretchedness all day ;
And when the night comes, it is said,
Begins the devils’ play.
“Were there no children?” I inquired,
And shuddered as I spoke the words,
While two young maidens, health-inspired,
Went singing by like birds.
Ah, yes! Alas! one little girl.
I wonder where the child is now ?
He, drowned in such a dreadful whirl,
Can not much further go.
The morning sun was brave and gay,
And birds were filling earth with song.
While still my heart repassed that way,
That rocky hill of wrong.
Still sits the child beside the pane,
And gazes on the clouded sky ;
Her solitude is mine again,
And mine her agony.
A.F.
